CHAPTER I
In Which the Reader Is Introduced to a Man of Humanity
Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in February, twogentlemen were sitting alone over their wine, in a well-furnisheddining parlor, in the town of P----, in Kentucky. There were noservants present, and the gentlemen, with chairs closely approaching,seemed to be discussing some subject with great earnestness.
For convenience sake, we have said, hitherto, two _gentlemen_.One of the parties, however, when critically examined, did notseem, strictly speaking, to come under the species. He was a short,thick-set man, with coarse, commonplace features, and that swaggeringair of pretension which marks a low man who is trying to elbow hisway upward in the world. He was much over-dressed, in a gaudy vestof many colors, a blue neckerchief, bedropped gayly with yellowspots, and arranged with a flaunting tie, quite in keeping withthe general air of the man. His hands, large and coarse, wereplentifully bedecked with rings; and he wore a heavy gold watch-chain,with a bundle of seals of portentous size, and a great variety ofcolors, attached to it,--which, in the ardor of conversation, hewas in the habit of flourishing and jingling with evident satisfaction. His conversation was in free and easy defiance of Murray's Grammar,[1]and was garnished at convenient intervals with various profaneexpressions, which not even the desire to be graphic in our accountshall induce us to transcribe.
1 English Grammar (1795), by Lindley Murray (1745-1826),the most authoritative American grammarian of his day.
His companion, Mr. Shelby, had the appearance of a gentleman;and the arrrangements of the house, and the general air of thehousekeeping, indicated easy, and even opulent circumstances. As webefore stated, the two were in the midst of an earnest conversation.
"That is the way I should arrange the matter," said Mr. Shelby.
"I can't make trade that way--I positively can't, Mr. Shelby,"said the other, holding up a glass of wine between hiseye and the light.
"Why, the fact is, Haley, Tom is an uncommon fellow; he iscertainly worth that sum anywhere,--steady, honest, capable, managesmy whole farm like a clock."
"You mean honest, as niggers go," said Haley, helpinghimself to a glass of brandy.
"No; I mean, really, Tom is a good, steady, sensible, pious fellow. He got religion at a camp-meeting, four years ago; and I believehe really _did_ get it. I've trusted him, since then, witheverything I have,--money, house, horses,--and let him come and goround the country; and I always found him true and square in everything."
"Some folks don't believe there is pious niggers Shelby,"said Haley, with a candid flourish of his hand, "but _I do_. Ihad a fellow, now, in this yer last lot I took to Orleans--'t wasas good as a meetin, now, really, to hear that critter pray; andhe was quite gentle and quiet like. He fetched me a good sum, too,for I bought him cheap of a man that was 'bliged to sell out; soI realized six hundred on him. Yes, I consider religion a valeyablething in a nigger, when it's the genuine article, and no mistake."
"Well, Tom's got the real article, if ever a fellow had,"rejoined the other. "Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnatialone, to do business for me, and bring home five hundred dollars. `Tom,' says I to him, `I trust you, because I think you're aChristian--I know you wouldn't cheat.' Tom comes back, sure enough;I knew he would. Some low fellows, they say, said to him--Tom,why don't you make tracks for Canada?' `Ah, master trusted me, andI couldn't,'--they told me about it. I am sorry to part with Tom,I must say. You ought to let him cover the whole balance of thedebt; and you would, Haley, if you had any conscience."
"Well, I've got just as much conscience as any man inbusiness can afford to keep,--just a little, you know, to swearby, as 't were," said the trader, jocularly; "and, then, I'm readyto do anything in reason to 'blige friends; but this yer, you see,is a leetle too hard on a fellow--a leetle too hard." The tradersighed contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy.
"Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?" said Mr. Shelby,after an uneasy interval of silence.
"Well, haven't you a boy or gal that you could throw inwith Tom?"
"Hum!--none that I could well spare; to tell the truth,it's only hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don't like parting with any of my hands, that's a fact."
Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between fourand five years of age, entered the room. There was somethingin his appearance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His blackhair, fine as floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his round,dimpled face, while a pair of large dark eyes, full of fire andsoftness, looked out from beneath the rich, long lashes, as hepeered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet andyellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to advantagethe dark and rich style of his beauty; and a certain comic air ofassurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had been notunused to being petted and noticed by his master.
"Hulloa, Jim Crow!" said Mr. Shelby, whistling, and snappinga bunch of raisins towards him, "pick that up, now!"
The child scampered, with all his little strength, afterthe prize, while his master laughed.
"Come here, Jim Crow," said he. The child came up, andthe master patted the curly head, and chucked him under the chin.
"Now, Jim, show this gentleman how you can dance and sing."The boy commenced one of those wild, grotesque songs common amongthe negroes, in a rich, clear voice, accompanying his singing withmany comic evolutions of the hands, feet, and whole body, all inperfect time to the music.
"Bravo!" said Haley, throwing him a quarter of an orange.
"Now, Jim, walk like old Uncle Cudjoe, when he has therheumatism," said his master.
Instantly the flexible limbs of the child assumed theappearance of deformity and distortion, as, with his back humpedup, and his master's stick in his hand, he hobbled about the room,his childish face drawn into a doleful pucker, and spitting fromright to left, in imitation of an old man.
Both gentlemen laughed uproariously.
"Now, Jim," said his master, "show us how old Elder Robbinsleads the psalm." The boy drew his chubby face down to a formidablelength, and commenced toning a psalm tune through his nose, withimperturbable gravity.
"Hurrah! bravo! what a young 'un!" said Haley; "that chap'sa case, I'll promise. Tell you what," said he, suddenly clappinghis hand on Mr. Shelby's shoulder, "fling in that chap, and I'llsettle the business--I will. Come, now, if that ain't doing thething up about the rightest!"
At this moment, the door was pushed gently open, and a youngquadroon woman, apparently about twenty-five, entered the room.
There needed only a glance from the child to her, to identifyher as its mother. There was the same rich, full, dark eye, withits long lashes; the same ripples of silky black hair. The brownof her complexion gave way on the cheek to a perceptible flush,which deepened as she saw the gaze of the strange man fixed uponher in bold and undisguised admiration. Her dress was of theneatest possible fit, and set off to advantage her finely mouldedshape;--a delicately formed hand and a trim foot and ankle wereitems of appearance that did not escape the quick eye of the trader,well used to run up at a glance the points of a fine female article.
"Well, Eliza?" said her master, as she stopped and lookedhesitatingly at him.
"I was looking for Harry, please, sir;" and the boy boundedtoward her, showing his spoils, which he had gathered in the skirtof his robe.
"Well, take him away then," said Mr. Shelby; and hastilyshe withdrew, carrying the child on her arm.
"By Jupiter," said the trader, turning to him in admiration,"there's an article, now! You might make your fortune on that argal in Orleans, any day. I've seen over a thousand, in my day,paid down for gals not a bit handsomer."
"I don't want to make my fortune on her," said Mr. Shelby, dryly;and, seeking to turn the conversation, he uncorked a bottle offresh wine, and asked his companion's opinion of it.
"Capital, sir,--first chop!" said the trader; then turning,and slapping his hand familiarly on Shelby's shoulder, he added--
"Come, how will you trade about the gal?--what shall I sayfor her--what'll you take?"
"Mr. Haley, she is not to be sold," said Shelby. "My wifewould not part with her for her weight in gold."
"Ay, ay! women always say such things, cause they ha'nt nosort of calculation. Just show 'em how many watches, feathers,and trinkets, one's weight in gold would buy, and that alters thecase, _I_ reckon."
"I tell you, Haley, this must not be spoken of; I say no,and I mean no," said Shelby, decidedly.
"Well, you'll let me have the boy, though," said the trader;"you must own I've come down pretty handsomely for him."
"What on earth can you want with the child?" said Shelby.
"Why, I've got a friend that's going into this yer branchof the business--wants to buy up handsome boys to raise for themarket. Fancy articles entirely--sell for waiters, and so on, torich 'uns, that can pay for handsome 'uns. It sets off one of yergreat places--a real handsome boy to open door, wait, and tend. They fetch a good sum; and this little devil is such a comical,musical concern, he's just the article!'
"I would rather not sell him," said Mr. Shelby, thoughtfully;"the fact is, sir, I'm a humane man, and I hate to take the boyfrom his mother, sir."
"O, you do?--La! yes--something of that ar natur. Iunderstand, perfectly. It is mighty onpleasant getting on withwomen, sometimes, I al'ays hates these yer screechin,' screamin'times. They are _mighty_ onpleasant; but, as I manages business,I generally avoids 'em, sir. Now, what if you get the girl offfor a day, or a week, or so; then the thing's done quietly,--allover before she comes home. Your wife might get her some ear-rings,or a new gown, or some such truck, to make up with her."
"I'm afraid not."
"Lor bless ye, yes! These critters ain't like white folks,you know; they gets over things, only manage right. Now, theysay," said Haley, assuming a candid and confidential air,"that this kind o' trade is hardening to the feelings; but I neverfound it so. Fact is, I never could do things up the way somefellers manage the business. I've seen 'em as would pull a woman'schild out of her arms, and set him up to sell, and she screechin'like mad all the time;--very bad policy--damages the article--makes'em quite unfit for service sometimes. I knew a real handsome galonce, in Orleans, as was entirely ruined by this sort o' handling. The fellow that was trading for her didn't want her baby; and shewas one of your real high sort, when her blood was up. I tell you,she squeezed up her child in her arms, and talked, and went on realawful. It kinder makes my blood run cold to think of 't; and whenthey carried off the child, and locked her up, she jest went ravin'mad, and died in a week. Clear waste, sir, of a thousand dollars,just for want of management,--there's where 't is. It's alwaysbest to do the humane thing, sir; that's been _my_ experience."And the trader leaned back in his chair, and folded his arm, withan air of virtuous decision, apparently considering himself asecond Wilberforce.
The subject appeared to interest the gentleman deeply; forwhile Mr. Shelby was thoughtfully peeling an orange, Haley brokeout afresh, with becoming diffidence, but as if actually driven bythe force of truth to say a few words more.
"It don't look well, now, for a feller to be praisin' himself;but I say it jest because it's the truth. I believe I'mreckoned to bring in about the finest droves of niggers that isbrought in,--at least, I've been told so; if I have once, I reckonI have a hundred times,--all in good case,--fat and likely, and Ilose as few as any man in the business. And I lays it all to mymanagement, sir; and humanity, sir, I may say, is the great pillarof _my_ management."
Mr. Shelby did not know what to say, and so he said, "Indeed!"
"Now, I've been laughed at for my notions, sir, and I'vebeen talked to. They an't pop'lar, and they an't common; but Istuck to 'em, sir; I've stuck to 'em, and realized well on 'em;yes, sir, they have paid their passage, I may say," and the traderlaughed at his joke.
There was something so piquant and original in theseelucidations of humanity, that Mr. Shelby could not help laughingin company. Perhaps you laugh too, dear reader; but you knowhumanity comes out in a variety of strange forms now-a-days, andthere is no end to the odd things that humane people will say and do.
Mr. Shelby's laugh encouraged the trader to proceed.
"It's strange, now, but I never could beat this into people's heads. Now, there was Tom Loker, my old partner, down in Natchez; he wasa clever fellow, Tom was, only the very devil with niggers,--onprinciple 't was, you see, for a better hearted feller never brokebread; 't was his _system_, sir. I used to talk to Tom. `Why,Tom,' I used to say, `when your gals takes on and cry, what's theuse o' crackin on' em over the head, and knockin' on 'em round? It's ridiculous,' says I, `and don't do no sort o' good. Why, Idon't see no harm in their cryin',' says I; `it's natur,' says I,`and if natur can't blow off one way, it will another. Besides, Tom,'says I, `it jest spiles your gals; they get sickly, and downin the mouth; and sometimes they gets ugly,--particular yallow galsdo,--and it's the devil and all gettin' on 'em broke in. Now,' says I,`why can't you kinder coax 'em up, and speak 'em fair? Depend on it,Tom, a little humanity, thrown in along, goes a heap further thanall your jawin' and crackin'; and it pays better,' says I, `depend on 't.' But Tom couldn't get the hang on 't; and he spiled so many for me,that I had to break off with him, though he was a good-hearted fellow,and as fair a business hand as is goin'"
"And do you find your ways of managing do the businessbetter than Tom's?" said Mr. Shelby.
"Why, yes, sir, I may say so. You see, when I any wayscan, I takes a leetle care about the onpleasant parts, like sellingyoung uns and that,--get the gals out of the way--out of sight, outof mind, you know,--and when it's clean done, and can't be helped,they naturally gets used to it. 'Tan't, you know, as if it waswhite folks, that's brought,up in the way of 'spectin' to keeptheir children and wives, and all that. Niggers, you know, that'sfetched up properly, ha'n't no kind of 'spectations of no kind; soall these things comes easier."
"I'm afraid mine are not properly brought up, then," saidMr. Shelby.
"S'pose not; you Kentucky folks spile your niggers. Youmean well by 'em, but 'tan't no real kindness, arter all. Now, anigger, you see, what's got to be hacked and tumbled round theworld, and sold to Tom, and Dick, and the Lord knows who, 'tan'tno kindness to be givin' on him notions and expectations, andbringin' on him up too well, for the rough and tumble comes allthe harder on him arter. Now, I venture to say, your niggers wouldbe quite chop-fallen in a place where some of your plantationniggers would be singing and whooping like all possessed. Everyman, you know, Mr. Shelby, naturally thinks well of his own ways;and I think I treat niggers just about as well as it's ever worthwhile to treat 'em."
"It's a happy thing to be satisfied," said Mr. Shelby, with aslight shrug, and some perceptible feelings of a disagreeable nature.
"Well," said Haley, after they had both silently pickedtheir nuts for a season, "what do you say?"
"I'll think the matter over, and talk with my wife," saidMr. Shelby. "Meantime, Haley, if you want the matter carried onin the quiet way you speak of, you'd best not let your business inthis neighborhood be known. It will get out among my boys, and itwill not be a particularly quiet business getting away any of myfellows, if they know it, I'll promise you."
"O! certainly, by all means, mum! of course. But I'll tell you. I'm in a devil of a hurry, and shall want to know, as soon aspossible, what I may depend on," said he, rising and putting onhis overcoat.
"Well, call up this evening, between six and seven, and youshall have my answer," said Mr. Shelby, and the trader bowedhimself out of the apartment.
"I'd like to have been able to kick the fellow down the steps,"said he to himself, as he saw the door fairly closed, "with hisimpudent assurance; but he knows how much he has me at advantage. If anybody had ever said to me that I should sell Tom down southto one of those rascally traders, I should have said, `Is thyservant a dog, that he should do this thing?' And now it must come,for aught I see. And Eliza's child, too! I know that I shall havesome fuss with wife about that; and, for that matter, about Tom, too. So much for being in debt,--heigho! The fellow sees his advantage,and means to push it."
Perhaps the mildest form of the system of slavery is to beseen in the State of Kentucky. The general prevalence ofagricultural pursuits of a quiet and gradual nature, not requiringthose periodic seasons of hurry and pressure that are called forin the business of more southern districts, makes the task of thenegro a more healthful and reasonable one; while the master, contentwith a more gradual style of acquisition, has not those temptationsto hardheartedness which always overcome frail human nature whenthe prospect of sudden and rapid gain is weighed in the balance,with no heavier counterpoise than the interests of the helplessand unprotected.
Whoever visits some estates there, and witnesses thegood-humored indulgence of some masters and mistresses, and theaffectionate loyalty of some slaves, might be tempted to dreamthe oft-fabled poetic legend of a patriarchal institution, andall that; but over and above the scene there broods a portentousshadow--the shadow of _law_. So long as the law considers allthese human beings, with beating hearts and living affections,only as so many _things_ belonging to a master,--so long as thefailure, or misfortune, or imprudence, or death of the kindestowner, may cause them any day to exchange a life of kindprotection and indulgence for one of hopeless misery and toil,--solong it is impossible to make anything beautiful or desirable inthe best regulated administration of slavery.
Mr. Shelby was a fair average kind of man, good-naturedand kindly, and disposed to easy indulgence of those around him,and there had never been a lack of anything which might contributeto the physical comfort of the negroes on his estate. He had,however, speculated largely and quite loosely; had involved himselfdeeply, and his notes to a large amount had come into the hands ofHaley; and this small piece of information is the key to thepreceding conversation.
Now, it had so happened that, in approaching the door, Elizahad caught enough of the conversation to know that a traderwas making offers to her master for somebody.
She would gladly have stopped at the door to listen, as shecame out; but her mistress just then calling, she was obligedto hasten away.
Still she thought she heard the trader make an offer forher boy;--could she be mistaken? Her heart swelled and throbbed,and she involuntarily strained him so tight that the little fellowlooked up into her face in astonishment.
"Eliza, girl, what ails you today?" said her mistress, whenEliza had upset the wash-pitcher, knocked down the workstand, andfinally was abstractedly offering her mistress a long nightgown inplace of the silk dress she had ordered her to bring from the wardrobe.
Eliza started. "O, missis!" she said, raising her eyes; then,bursting into tears, she sat down in a chair, and began sobbing.
"Why, Eliza child, what ails you?" said her mistress.
"O! missis, missis," said Eliza, "there's been a tradertalking with master in the parlor! I heard him."
"Well, silly child, suppose there has."
"O, missis, _do_ you suppose mas'r would sell my Harry?"And the poor creature threw herself into a chair, and sobbedconvulsively.
"Sell him! No, you foolish girl! You know your master neverdeals with those southern traders, and never means to sell any ofhis servants, as long as they behave well. Why, you silly child,who do you think would want to buy your Harry? Do you think allthe world are set on him as you are, you goosie? Come, cheer up,and hook my dress. There now, put my back hair up in that prettybraid you learnt the other day, and don't go listening at doorsany more."
"Well, but, missis, _you_ never would give your consent--to--to--"
"Nonsense, child! to be sure, I shouldn't. What do youtalk so for? I would as soon have one of my own children sold. But really, Eliza, you are getting altogether too proud of thatlittle fellow. A man can't put his nose into the door, but youthink he must be coming to buy him."
Reassured by her mistress' confident tone, Eliza proceedednimbly and adroitly with her toilet, laughing at her own fears, asshe proceeded.
Mrs. Shelby was a woman of high class, both intellectuallyand morally. To that natural magnanimity and generosity of mindwhich one often marks as characteristic of the women of Kentucky,she added high moral and religious sensibility and principle,carried out with great energy and ability into practical results. Her husband, who made no professions to any particular religiouscharacter, nevertheless reverenced and respected the consistencyof hers, and stood, perhaps, a little in awe of her opinion. Certain it was that he gave her unlimited scope in all herbenevolent efforts for the comfort, instruction, and improvementof her servants, though he never took any decided part in themhimself. In fact, if not exactly a believer in the doctrine ofthe efficiency of the extra good works of saints, he really seemedsomehow or other to fancy that his wife had piety and benevolenceenough for two--to indulge a shadowy expectation of getting intoheaven through her superabundance of qualities to which he made noparticular pretension.
The heaviest load on his mind, after his conversation withthe trader, lay in the foreseen necessity of breaking to his wifethe arrangement contemplated,--meeting the importunities andopposition which he knew he should have reason to encounter.
Mrs. Shelby, being entirely ignorant of her husband'sembarrassments, and knowing only the general kindliness of histemper, had been quite sincere in the entire incredulity with whichshe had met Eliza's suspicions. In fact, she dismissed the matterfrom her mind, without a second thought; and being occupied inpreparations for an evening visit, it passed out of her thoughtsentirely.
CHAPTER II
The Mother
Eliza had been brought up by her mistress, from girlhood,as a petted and indulged favorite.
The traveller in the south must often have remarked thatpeculiar air of refinement, that softness of voice and manner,which seems in many cases to be a particular gift to the quadroonand mulatto women. These natural graces in the quadroon are oftenunited with beauty of the most dazzling kind, and in almost everycase with a personal appearance prepossessing and agreeable. Eliza, such as we have described her, is not a fancy sketch, buttaken from remembrance, as we saw her, years ago, in Kentucky. Safe under the protecting care of her mistress, Eliza had reachedmaturity without those temptations which make beauty so fatal aninheritance to a slave. She had been married to a bright and talentedyoung mulatto man, who was a slave on a neighboring estate, and borethe name of George Harris.
This young man had been hired out by his master to work ina bagging factory, where his adroitness and ingenuity caused himto be considered the first hand in the place. He had invented amachine for the cleaning of the hemp, which, considering theeducation and circumstances of the inventor, displayed quite asmuch mechanical genius as Whitney's cotton-gin.[1]
[1] A machine of this description was really the inventionof a young colored man in Kentucky. [Mrs. Stowe's note.]
He was possessed of a handsome person and pleasing manners,and was a general favorite in the factory. Nevertheless, as thisyoung man was in the eye of the law not a man, but a thing, allthese superior qualifications were subject to the control of avulgar, narrow-minded, tyrannical master. This same gentleman,having heard of the fame of George's invention, took a ride overto the factory, to see what this intelligent chattel had been about. He was received with great enthusiasm by the employer, whocongratulated him on possessing so valuable a slave.
He was waited upon over the factory, shown the machineryby George, who, in high spirits, talked so fluently, held himselfso erect, looked so handsome and manly, that his master began tofeel an uneasy consciousness of inferiority. What business hadhis slave to be marching round the country, inventing machines,and holding up his head among gentlemen? He'd soon put a stopto it. He'd take him back, and put him to hoeing and digging, and"see if he'd step about so smart." Accordingly, the manufacturerand all hands concerned were astounded when he suddenly demandedGeorge's wages, and announced his intention of taking him home.
"But, Mr. Harris," remonstrated the manufacturer, "isn'tthis rather sudden?"
"What if it is?--isn't the man _mine_?"
"We would be willing, sir, to increase the rate of compensation."
"No object at all, sir. I don't need to hire any of myhands out, unless I've a mind to."
"But, sir, he seems peculiarly adapted to this business."
"Dare say he may be; never was much adapted to anythingthat I set him about, I'll be bound."
"But only think of his inventing this machine," interposedone of the workmen, rather unluckily.
"O yes! a machine for saving work, is it? He'd invent that,I'll be bound; let a nigger alone for that, any time. They are all labor-saving machines themselves, every one of 'em. No, he shall tramp!"
George had stood like one transfixed, at hearing his doomthus suddenly pronounced by a power that he knew was irresistible. He folded his arms, tightly pressed in his lips, but a whole volcanoof bitter feelings burned in his bosom, and sent streams of firethrough his veins. He breathed short, and his large dark eyesflashed like live coals; and he might have broken out into somedangerous ebullition, had not the kindly manufacturer touched himon the arm, and said, in a low tone,
"Give way, George; go with him for the present. We'll tryto help you, yet."
The tyrant observed the whisper, and conjectured its import,though he could not hear what was said; and he inwardly strengthenedhimself in his determination to keep the power he possessed overhis victim.
George was taken home, and put to the meanest drudgery ofthe farm. He had been able to repress every disrespectful word;but the flashing eye, the gloomy and troubled brow, were part ofa natural language that could not be repressed,--indubitable signs,which showed too plainly that the man could not become a thing.
It was during the happy period of his employment in thefactory that George had seen and married his wife. During thatperiod,--being much trusted and favored by his employer,--he hadfree liberty to come and go at discretion. The marriage was highlyapproved of by Mrs. Shelby, who, with a little womanly complacencyin match-making, felt pleased to unite her handsome favorite withone of her own class who seemed in every way suited to her; and sothey were married in her mistress' great parlor, and her mistressherself adorned the bride's beautiful hair with orange-blossoms,and threw over it the bridal veil, which certainly could scarcehave rested on a fairer head; and there was no lack of white gloves,and cake and wine,--of admiring guests to praise the bride's beauty,and her mistress' indulgence and liberality. For a year or two Elizasaw her husband frequently, and there was nothing to interrupttheir happiness, except the loss of two infant children, to whomshe was passionately attached, and whom she mourned with a griefso intense as to call for gentle remonstrance from her mistress,who sought, with maternal anxiety, to direct her naturally passionatefeelings within the bounds of reason and religion.
After the birth of little Harry, however, she had graduallybecome tranquillized and settled; and every bleeding tie andthrobbing nerve, once more entwined with that little life, seemedto become sound and healthful, and Eliza was a happy woman up tothe time that her husband was rudely torn from his kind employer,and brought under the iron sway of his legal owner.
The manufacturer, true to his word, visited Mr. Harris aweek or two after George had been taken away, when, as he hoped,the heat of the occasion had passed away, and tried every possibleinducement to lead him to restore him to his former employment.
"You needn't trouble yourself to talk any longer," saidhe, doggedly; "I know my own business, sir."
"I did not presume to interfere with it, sir. I onlythought that you might think it for your interest to let your manto us on the terms proposed."
"O, I understand the matter well enough. I saw your winkingand whispering, the day I took him out of the factory; but youdon't come it over me that way. It's a free country, sir; theman's _mine_, and I do what I please with him,--that's it!"
And so fell George's last hope;--nothing before him but alife of toil and drudgery, rendered more bitter by everylittle smarting vexation and indignity which tyrannicalingenuity could devise.
A very humane jurist once said, The worst use you can puta man to is to hang him. No; there is another use that a man canbe put to that is WORSE!
CHAPTER III
The Husband and Father
Mrs. Shelby had gone on her visit, and Eliza stood in theverandah, rather dejectedly looking after the retreating carriage,when a hand was laid on her shoulder. She turned, and a brightsmile lighted up her fine eyes.
"George, is it you? How you frightened me! Well; I am soglad you 's come! Missis is gone to spend the afternoon; so comeinto my little room, and we'll have the time all to ourselves."
Saying this, she drew him into a neat little apartmentopening on the verandah, where she generally sat at her sewing,within call of her mistress.
"How glad I am!--why don't you smile?--and look at Harry--howhe grows." The boy stood shyly regarding his father through hiscurls, holding close to the skirts of his mother's dress. "Isn't he beautiful?" said Eliza, lifting his long curls andkissing him.
"I wish he'd never been born!" said George, bitterly. "I wishI'd never been born myself!"
Surprised and frightened, Eliza sat down, leaned her headon her husband's shoulder, and burst into tears.
"There now, Eliza, it's too bad for me to make you feel so,poor girl!" said he, fondly; "it's too bad: O, how I wish younever had seen me--you might have been happy!"
"George! George! how can you talk so? What dreadful thing hashappened, or is going to happen? I'm sure we've been very happy,till lately."
"So we have, dear," said George. Then drawing his child on hisknee, he gazed intently on his glorious dark eyes, and passedhis hands through his long curls.
"Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I eversaw, and the best one I ever wish to see; but, oh, I wish I'dnever seen you, nor you me!"
"O, George, how can you!"
"Yes, Eliza, it's all misery, misery, misery! My life isbitter as wormwood; the very life is burning out of me. I'm apoor, miserable, forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down withme, that's all. What's the use of our trying to do anything, tryingto know anything, trying to be anything? What's the use of living? I wish I was dead!"
"O, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know howyou feel about losing your place in the factory, and you have ahard master; but pray be patient, and perhaps something--"
"Patient!" said he, interrupting her; "haven't I been patient? Did I say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthlyreason, from the place where everybody was kind to me? I'd paidhim truly every cent of my earnings,--and they all say I worked well."
"Well, it _is_ dreadful," said Eliza; "but, after all, heis your master, you know."
"My master! and who made him my master? That's what I thinkof--what right has he to me? I'm a man as much as he is. I'm abetter man than he is. I know more about business than he does;I am a better manager than he is; I can read better than he can;I can write a better hand,--and I've learned it all myself, and nothanks to him,--I've learned it in spite of him; and now what righthas he to make a dray-horse of me?--to take me from things I cando, and do better than he can, and put me to work that any horsecan do? He tries to do it; he says he'll bring me down and humbleme, and he puts me to just the hardest, meanest and dirtiest work,on purpose!"
"O, George! George! you frighten me! Why, I never heardyou talk so; I'm afraid you'll do something dreadful. I don'twonder at your feelings, at all; but oh, do be careful--do, do--formy sake--for Harry's!"
"I have been careful, and I have been patient, but it'sgrowing worse and worse; flesh and blood can't bear it anylonger;--every chance he can get to insult and torment me, he takes. I thought I could do my work well, and keep on quiet, and have sometime to read and learn out of work hours; but the more he see Ican do, the more he loads on. He says that though I don't sayanything, he sees I've got the devil in me, and he means to bringit out; and one of these days it will come out in a way that hewon't like, or I'm mistaken!"
"O dear! what shall we do?" said Eliza, mournfully.
"It was only yesterday," said George, "as I was busy loadingstones into a cart, that young Mas'r Tom stood there, slashing hiswhip so near the horse that the creature was frightened. I askedhim to stop, as pleasant as I could,--he just kept right on. I begged him again, and then he turned on me, and began striking me. I held his hand, and then he screamed and kicked and ran to hisfather, and told him that I was fighting him. He came in a rage,and said he'd teach me who was my master; and he tied me to a tree,and cut switches for young master, and told him that he might whipme till he was tired;--and he did do it! If I don't make him rememberit, some time!" and the brow of the young man grew dark, and hiseyes burned with an expression that made his young wife tremble. "Who made this man my master? That's what I want to know!" he said.
"Well," said Eliza, mournfully, "I always thought that Imust obey my master and mistress, or I couldn't be a Christian."
"There is some sense in it, in your case; they have broughtyou up like a child, fed you, clothed you, indulged you, andtaught you, so that you have a good education; that is somereason why they should claim you. But I have been kicked andcuffed and sworn at, and at the best only let alone; and whatdo I owe? I've paid for all my keeping a hundred times over. I _won't_ bear it. No, I _won't_!" he said, clenching his handwith a fierce frown.
Eliza trembled, and was silent. She had never seen her husbandin this mood before; and her gentle system of ethics seemedto bend like a reed in the surges of such passions.
"You know poor little Carlo, that you gave me," added George;"the creature has been about all the comfort that I've had. He has slept with me nights, and followed me around days, and kindo' looked at me as if he understood how I felt. Well, the otherday I was just feeding him with a few old scraps I picked up bythe kitchen door, and Mas'r came along, and said I was feeding himup at his expense, and that he couldn't afford to have every niggerkeeping his dog, and ordered me to tie a stone to his neck andthrow him in the pond."
"O, George, you didn't do it!"
"Do it? not I!--but he did. Mas'r and Tom pelted the poordrowning creature with stones. Poor thing! he looked at me somournful, as if he wondered why I didn't save him. I had to takea flogging because I wouldn't do it myself. I don't care. Mas'rwill find out that I'm one that whipping won't tame. My day willcome yet, if he don't look out."
"What are you going to do? O, George, don't do anything wicked;if you only trust in God, and try to do right, he'll deliver you."
"I an't a Christian like you, Eliza; my heart's full ofbitterness; I can't trust in God. Why does he let things be so?"
"O, George, we must have faith. Mistress says that when allthings go wrong to us, we must believe that God is doingthe very best."
"That's easy to say for people that are sitting on their sofasand riding in their carriages; but let 'em be where I am, Iguess it would come some harder. I wish I could be good; but myheart burns, and can't be reconciled, anyhow. You couldn't in myplace,--you can't now, if I tell you all I've got to say. You don'tknow the whole yet."
"What can be coming now?"
"Well, lately Mas'r has been saying that he was a fool tolet me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all histribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him,and that I've got proud notions from you; and he says he won't letme come here any more, and that I shall take a wife and settle downon his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things;but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, andsettle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river."
"Why--but you were married to _me_, by the minister, asmuch as if you'd been a white man!" said Eliza, simply.
"Don't you know a slave can't be married? There is no lawin this country for that; I can't hold you for my wife, if hechooses to part us. That's why I wish I'd never seen you,--why Iwish I'd never been born; it would have been better for us both,--itwould have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to him yet!"
"O, but master is so kind!"
"Yes, but who knows?--he may die--and then he may be soldto nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome,and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will piercethrough your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child isor has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep."
The words smote heavily on Eliza's heart; the vision of thetrader came before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck hera deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She lookednervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the graveconversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantlyup and down on Mr. Shelby's walking-stick. She would have spokento tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.
"No, no,--he has enough to bear, poor fellow!" she thought. "No, I won't tell him; besides, it an't true; Missis neverdeceives us."
"So, Eliza, my girl," said the husband, mournfully, "bearup, now; and good-by, for I'm going."
"Going, George! Going where?"
"To Canada," said he, straightening himself up; and when I'mthere, I'll buy you; that's all the hope that's left us. You havea kind master, that won't refuse to sell you. I'll buy you andthe boy;--God helping me, I will!"
"O, dreadful! if you should be taken?"
"I won't be taken, Eliza; I'll _die_ first! I'll be free,or I'll die!"
"You won't kill yourself!"
"No need of that. They will kill me, fast enough; theynever will get me down the river alive!"
"O, George, for my sake, do be careful! Don't do anythingwicked; don't lay hands on yourself, or anybody else! You aretempted too much--too much; but don't--go you must--but go carefully,prudently; pray God to help you."
"Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan. Mas'r took it into hishead to send me right by here, with a note to Mr. Symmes, thatlives a mile past. I believe he expected I should come here totell you what I have. It would please him, if he thought it wouldaggravate `Shelby's folks,' as he calls 'em. I'm going home quiteresigned, you understand, as if all was over. I've got somepreparations made,--and there are those that will help me; and, inthe course of a week or so, I shall be among the missing, some day. Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will hear _you_."
"O, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him; thenyou won't do anything wicked."
"Well, now, _good-by_," said George, holding Eliza's hands,and gazing into her eyes, without moving. They stood silent; thenthere were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping,--such partingas those may make whose hope to meet again is as the spider'sweb,--and the husband and wife were parted.
CHAPTER IV
An Evening in Uncle Tom's Cabin
The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, closeadjoining to "the house," as the negro _par excellence_ designateshis master's dwelling. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where,every summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety of fruitsand vegetables, flourished under careful tending. The whole frontof it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a native multiflorarose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a vestige ofthe rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various brilliantannuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-o'clocks, found anindulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were thedelight and pride of Aunt Chloe's heart.
Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the houseis over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as headcook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the business ofclearing away and washing dishes, and come out into her own snugterritories, to "get her ole man's supper"; therefore, doubt notthat it is her you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interestover certain frizzling items in a stew-pan, and anon with graveconsideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence steamforth indubitable intimations of "something good." A round, black,shining face is hers, so glossy as to suggest the idea that shemight have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her owntea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction andcontentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearingon it, however, if we must confess it, a little of that tinge ofself-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighborhood,as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.
A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre ofher soul. Not a chicken or turkey or duck in the barn-yard butlooked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidentlyto be reflecting on their latter end; and certain it was that shewas always meditating on trussing, stuffing and roasting, to adegree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting fowlliving. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers,muffins, and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublimemystery to all less practised compounders; and she would shake herfat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would narratethe fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers had madeto attain to her elevation.
The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinnersand suppers "in style," awoke all the energies of her soul;and no sight was more welcome to her than a pile of travellingtrunks launched on the verandah, for then she foresaw fresh effortsand fresh triumphs.
Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into thebake-pan; in which congenial operation we shall leave her till wefinish our picture of the cottage.
In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with asnowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting, ofsome considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe tookher stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life; and itand the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, weretreated with distinguished consideration, and made, so far aspossible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations oflittle folks. In fact, that corner was the _drawing-room_ ofthe establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much humblerpretensions, and evidently designed for _use_. The wall over thefireplace was adorned with some very brilliant scriptural prints,and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and colored in a mannerwhich would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he happenedto meet with its like.
On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headedboys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining cheeks, were busyin superintending the first walking operations of the baby, which,as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet,balancing a moment, and then tumbling down,--each successive failurebeing violently cheered, as something decidedly clever.
A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was drawn out infront of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups andsaucers of a decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms ofan approaching meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby's best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our story, wemust daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, broad-chested,powerfully-made man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose trulyAfrican features were characterized by an expression of grave andsteady good sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. There was something about his whole air self-respecting and dignified,yet united with a confiding and humble simplicity.
He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him,on which he was carefully and slowly endeavoring to accomplish acopy of some letters, in which operation he was overlooked byyoung Mas'r George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appearedfully to realize the dignity of his position as instructor.
"Not that way, Uncle Tom,--not that way," said he, briskly,as Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his _g_ thewrong side out; "that makes a _q_, you see."
"La sakes, now, does it?" said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful,admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled _q_'s and_g_'s innumerable for his edification; and then, taking the pencilin his big, heavy fingers, he patiently recommenced.
"How easy white folks al'us does things!" said Aunt Chloe,pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon onher fork, and regarding young Master George with pride. "The wayhe can write, now! and read, too! and then to come out here eveningsand read his lessons to us,--it's mighty interestin'!"
"But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry," said George. "Isn't that cake in the skillet almost done?"
"Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting thelid and peeping in,--"browning beautiful--a real lovely brown. Ah! let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake,t' other day, jes to _larn_ her, she said. `O, go way, Missis,'said I; `it really hurts my feelin's, now, to see good vittlesspilt dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side--no shape at all; nomore than my shoe; go way!"
And with this final expression of contempt for Sally'sgreenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, anddisclosed to view a neatly-baked pound-cake, of which no cityconfectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently thecentral point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustleabout earnestly in the supper department.
"Here you, Mose and Pete! get out de way, you niggers! Get away,Mericky, honey,--mammy'll give her baby some fin, by and by. Now, Mas'r George, you jest take off dem books, and set downnow with my old man, and I'll take up de sausages, and have defirst griddle full of cakes on your plates in less dan no time."
"They wanted me to come to supper in the house," saidGeorge; "but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe."
"So you did--so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heaping thesmoking batter-cakes on his plate; "you know'd your old aunty'dkeep the best for you. O, let you alone for dat! Go way!" And, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger,designed to be immensely facetious, and turned again to her griddlewith great briskness.
"Now for the cake," said Mas'r George, when the activityof the griddle department had somewhat subsided; and, with that,the youngster flourished a large knife over the article in question.
"La bless you, Mas'r George!" said Aunt Chloe, withearnestness, catching his arm, "you wouldn't be for cuttin' it widdat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down--spile all de pretty riseof it. Here, I've got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather! Now eat away--youwon't get anything to beat dat ar."
"Tom Lincon says," said George, speaking with his mouth full,"that their Jinny is a better cook than you."
"Dem Lincons an't much count, no way!" said Aunt Chloe,contemptuously; "I mean, set along side _our_ folks. They 's'spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin'up anything in style, they don't begin to have a notion on 't. Set Mas'r Lincon, now, alongside Mas'r Shelby! Good Lor! and MissisLincon,--can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis,--sokinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don't tell me nothin' ofdem Lincons!"--and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped shedid know something of the world.
"Well, though, I've heard you say," said George, "thatJinny was a pretty fair cook."
"So I did," said Aunt Chloe,--"I may say dat. Good, plain,common cookin', Jinny'll do;--make a good pone o' bread,--bileher taters _far_,--her corn cakes isn't extra, not extra now,Jinny's corn cakes isn't, but then they's far,--but, Lor, cometo de higher branches, and what _can_ she do? Why, she makespies--sartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she makeyour real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all uplike a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to bemarried, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny andI is good friends, ye know. I never said nothin'; but go 'long,Mas'r George! Why, I shouldn't sleep a wink for a week, if I hada batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey wan't no 'count 't all."
"I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice," said George.
"Thought so!--didn't she? Thar she was, showing em, asinnocent--ye see, it's jest here, Jinny _don't know_. Lor, thefamily an't nothing! She can't be spected to know! 'Ta'nt no faulto' hem. Ah, Mas'r George, you doesn't know half 'your privilegesin yer family and bringin' up!" Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolledup her eyes with emotion.
"I'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand I my pie and puddingprivileges," said George. "Ask Tom Lincon if I don't crow overhim, every time I meet him."
Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a heartyguffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young Mas'r's, laughingtill the tears rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and varyingthe exercise with playfully slapping and poking Mas'r Georgey, andtelling him to go way, and that he was a case--that he was fit tokill her, and that he sartin would kill her, one of these days;and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, going off intoa laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George reallybegan to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, andthat it became him to be careful how he talked "as funny as he could."
"And so ye telled Tom, did ye? O, Lor! what young uns will be up ter! Ye crowed over Tom? O, Lor! Mas'r George, if ye wouldn't make ahornbug laugh!"
"Yes," said George, "I says to him, `Tom, you ought to seesome of Aunt Chloe's pies; they're the right sort,' says I."
"Pity, now, Tom couldn't," said Aunt Chloe, on whosebenevolent heart the idea of Tom's benighted condition seemed tomake a strong impression. "Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner,some o' these times, Mas'r George," she added; "it would look quitepretty of ye. Ye know, Mas'r George, ye oughtenter feel 'bovenobody, on 'count yer privileges, 'cause all our privileges is gi'nto us; we ought al'ays to 'member that," said Aunt Chloe, lookingquite serious.
"Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week," said George;"and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we'll make him stare. Won't we make him eat so he won't get over it for a fortnight?"
"Yes, yes--sartin," said Aunt Chloe, delighted;
"you'll see. Lor! to think of some of our dinners! Yer minddat ar great chicken pie I made when we guv de dinner toGeneral Knox? I and Missis, we come pretty near quarrelling aboutdat ar crust. What does get into ladies sometimes, I don't know;but, sometimes, when a body has de heaviest kind o' 'sponsibilityon 'em, as ye may say, and is all kinder _`seris'_ and taken up,dey takes dat ar time to be hangin' round and kinder interferin'! Now, Missis, she wanted me to do dis way, and she wanted me to dodat way; and, finally, I got kinder sarcy, and, says I, `Now,Missis, do jist look at dem beautiful white hands o' yourn withlong fingers, and all a sparkling with rings, like my white lilieswhen de dew 's on 'em; and look at my great black stumpin hands. Now, don't ye think dat de Lord must have meant _me_ to make depie-crust, and you to stay in de parlor? Dar! I was jist so sarcy,Mas'r George."
"And what did mother say?" said George.
"Say?--why, she kinder larfed in her eyes--dem great handsomeeyes o' hern; and, says she, `Well, Aunt Chloe, I think you areabout in the right on 't,' says she; and she went off in de parlor. She oughter cracked me over de head for bein' so sarcy; but dar'swhar 't is--I can't do nothin' with ladies in de kitchen!"
"Well, you made out well with that dinner,--I remembereverybody said so," said George.
"Didn't I? And wan't I behind de dinin'-room door dat beryday? and didn't I see de General pass his plate three times forsome more dat bery pie?--and, says he, `You must have an uncommoncook, Mrs. Shelby.' Lor! I was fit to split myself.
"And de Gineral, he knows what cookin' is," said Aunt Chloe,drawing herself up with an air. "Bery nice man, de Gineral! He comes of one of de bery _fustest_ families in Old Virginny! He knows what's what, now, as well as I do--de Gineral. Ye see,there's _pints_ in all pies, Mas'r George; but tan't everybodyknows what they is, or as orter be. But the Gineral, he knows; Iknew by his 'marks he made. Yes, he knows what de pints is!"
By this time, Master George had arrived at that pass to whicheven a boy can come (under uncommon circumstances, when he reallycould not eat another morsel), and, therefore, he was at leisureto notice the pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes whichwere regarding their operations hungrily from the opposite corner.
"Here, you Mose, Pete," he said, breaking off liberal bits,and throwing it at them; "you want some, don't you? Come, AuntChloe, bake them some cakes."
And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-corner,while Aunte Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took herbaby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and herown, and distributing to Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefereating theirs as they rolled about on the floor under the table,tickling each other, and occasionally pulling the baby's toes.
"O! go long, will ye?" said the mother, giving now and thena kick, in a kind of general way, under the table, when the movementbecame too obstreperous. "Can't ye be decent when white folkscomes to see ye? Stop dat ar, now, will ye? Better mind yerselves,or I'll take ye down a button-hole lower, when Mas'r George is gone!
What meaning was couched under this terrible threat, it isdifficult to say; but certain it is that its awful indistinctnessseemed to produce very little impression on the youngsinners addressed.
"La, now!" said Uncle Tom, "they are so full of tickle allthe while, they can't behave theirselves."
Here the boys emerged from under the table, and, with handsand faces well plastered with molasses, began a vigorous kissingof the baby.
"Get along wid ye!" said the mother, pushing away theirwoolly heads. "Ye'll all stick together, and never get clar, ifye do dat fashion. Go long to de spring and wash yerselves!" shesaid, seconding her exhortations by a slap, which resounded veryformidably, but which seemed only to knock out so much more laughfrom the young ones, as they tumbled precipitately over each otherout of doors, where they fairly screamed with merriment.
"Did ye ever see such aggravating young uns?" said AuntChloe, rather complacently, as, producing an old towel, kept forsuch emergencies, she poured a little water out of the crackedtea-pot on it, and began rubbing off the molasses from the baby'sface and hands; and, having polished her till she shone, she sether down in Tom's lap, while she busied herself in clearing awaysupper. The baby employed the intervals in pulling Tom's nose,scratching his face, and burying her fat hands in his woolly hair,which last operation seemed to afford her special content.
"Aint she a peart young un?" said Tom, holding her fromhim to take a full-length view; then, getting up, he set her onhis broad shoulder, and began capering and dancing with her, whileMas'r George snapped at her with his pocket-handkerchief, and Moseand Pete, now returned again, roared after her like bears, till AuntChloe declared that they "fairly took her head off" with their noise. As, according to her own statement, this surgical operationwas a matter of daily occurrence in the cabin, the declaration nowhit abated the merriment, till every one had roared and tumbledand danced themselves down to a state of composure.
"Well, now, I hopes you're done," said Aunt Chloe, who had beenbusy in pulling out a rude box of a trundle-bed; "and now, youMose and you Pete, get into thar; for we's goin' to have the meetin'."
"O mother, we don't wanter. We wants to sit up tomeetin',--meetin's is so curis. We likes 'em."
"La, Aunt Chloe, shove it under, and let 'em sit up," saidMas'r George, decisively, giving a push to the rude machine.
Aunt Chloe, having thus saved appearances, seemed highlydelighted to push the thing under, saying, as she did so, "Well,mebbe 't will do 'em some good."
The house now resolved itself into a committee of the whole,to consider the accommodations and arrangements for the meeting.
"What we's to do for cheers, now, _I_ declar I don't know,"said Aunt Chloe. As the meeting had been held at Uncle Tom'sweekly, for an indefinite length of time, without any more "cheers,"there seemed some encouragement to hope that a way would be discoveredat present.
"Old Uncle Peter sung both de legs out of dat oldest cheer,last week," suggested Mose.
"You go long! I'll boun' you pulled 'em out; some o' yourshines," said Aunt Chloe.
"Well, it'll stand, if it only keeps jam up agin de wall!"said Mose.
"Den Uncle Peter mus'n't sit in it, cause he al'ays hitcheswhen he gets a singing. He hitched pretty nigh across de room, t'other night," said Pete.
"Good Lor! get him in it, then," said Mose, "and den he'd begin,`Come saints --and sinners, hear me tell,' and den down he'dgo,"--and Mose imitated precisely the nasal tones of the old man,tumbling on the floor, to illustrate the supposed catastrophe.
"Come now, be decent, can't ye?" said Aunt Chloe; "an'tyer shamed?"
Mas'r George, however, joined the offender in the laugh, anddeclared decidedly that Mose was a "buster." So the maternaladmonition seemed rather to fail of effect.
"Well, ole man," said Aunt Chloe, "you'll have to tote inthem ar bar'ls."
"Mother's bar'ls is like dat ar widder's, Mas'r George wasreading 'bout, in de good book,--dey never fails," said Mose, asideto Peter.
"I'm sure one on 'em caved in last week," said Pete, "andlet 'em all down in de middle of de singin'; dat ar was failin',warnt it?"
During this aside between Mose and Pete, two empty caskshad been rolled into the cabin, and being secured from rolling, bystones on each side, boards were laid across them, which arrangement,together with the turning down of certain tubs and pails, and thedisposing of the rickety chairs, at last completed the preparation.
"Mas'r George is such a beautiful reader, now, I know he'llstay to read for us," said Aunt Chloe; "'pears like 't will be somuch more interestin'."
George very readily consented, for your boy is always readyfor anything that makes him of importance.
The room was soon filled with a motley assemblage, from theold gray-headed patriarch of eighty, to the young girl and ladof fifteen. A little harmless gossip ensued on various themes,such as where old Aunt Sally got her new red headkerchief, and how"Missis was a going to give Lizzy that spotted muslin gown, whenshe'd got her new berage made up;" and how Mas'r Shelby was thinkingof buying a new sorrel colt, that was going to prove an additionto the glories of the place. A few of the worshippers belonged tofamilies hard by, who had got permission to attend, and who broughtin various choice scraps of information, about the sayings anddoings at the house and on the place, which circulated as freelyas the same sort of small change does in higher circles.
After a while the singing commenced, to the evident delightof all present. Not even all the disadvantage of nasal intonationcould prevent the effect of the naturally fine voices, in airs atonce wild and spirited. The words were sometimes the well-knownand common hymns sung in the churches about, and sometimes of awilder, more indefinite character, picked up at camp-meetings.
The chorus of one of them, which ran as follows, was sungwith great energy and unction:
_"Die on the field of battle, Die on the field of battle, Glory in my soul."_
Another special favorite had oft repeated the words--
_"O, I'm going to glory,--won't you come along with me? Don't you see the angels beck'ning, and a calling me away? Don't you see the golden city and the everlasting day?"_
There were others, which made incessant mention of "Jordan'sbanks," and "Canaan's fields," and the "New Jerusalem;" for thenegro mind, impassioned and imaginative, always attaches itselfto hymns and expressions of a vivid and pictorial nature; and,as they sung, some laughed, and some cried, and some clapped hands,or shook hands rejoicingly with each other, as if they had fairlygained the other side of the river.
Various exhortations, or relations of experience, followed, andintermingled with the singing. One old gray-headed woman, longpast work, but much revered as a sort of chronicle of the past,rose, and leaning on her staff, said--"Well, chil'en! Well, I'mmighty glad to hear ye all and see ye all once more, 'cause Idon't know when I'll be gone to glory; but I've done got ready,chil'en; 'pears like I'd got my little bundle all tied up, and mybonnet on, jest a waitin' for the stage to come along and take mehome; sometimes, in the night, I think I hear the wheels a rattlin',and I'm lookin' out all the time; now, you jest be ready too, forI tell ye all, chil'en," she said striking her staff hard on thefloor, "dat ar _glory_ is a mighty thing! It's a mighty thing,chil'en,--you don'no nothing about it,--it's _wonderful_." And theold creature sat down, with streaming tears, as wholly overcome,while the whole circle struck up--
_"O Canaan, bright Canaan I'm bound for the land of Canaan."_
Mas'r George, by request, read the last chapters of Revelation,often interrupted by such exclamations as "The _sakes_ now!" "Only hear that!" "Jest think on 't!" "Is all that a comin'sure enough?"
George, who was a bright boy, and well trained in religiousthings by his mother, finding himself an object of general admiration,threw in expositions of his own, from time to time, with a commendableseriousness and gravity, for which he was admired by the young andblessed by the old; and it was agreed, on all hands, that "a ministercouldn't lay it off better than he did; that "'t was reely 'mazin'!"
Uncle Tom was a sort of patriarch in religious matters, inthe neighborhood. Having, naturally, an organization in which the_morale_ was strongly predominant, together with a greater breadthand cultivation of mind than obtained among his companions, he waslooked up to with great respect, as a sort of minister among them;and the simple, hearty, sincere style of his exhortations mighthave edified even better educated persons. But it was in prayerthat he especially excelled. Nothing could exceed the touchingsimplicity, the childlike earnestness, of his prayer, enriched withthe language of Scripture, which seemed so entirely to have wroughtitself into his being, as to have become a part of himself, and todrop from his lips unconsciously; in the language of a pious oldnegro, he "prayed right up." And so much did his prayer always workon the devotional feelings of his audiences, that there seemedoften a danger that it would be lost altogether in the abundanceof the responses which broke out everywhere around him.
While this scene was passing in the cabin of the man, onequite otherwise passed in the halls of the master.
The trader and Mr. Shelby were seated together in the dining roomafore-named, at a table covered with papers and writing utensils.
Mr. Shelby was busy in counting some bundles of bills, which,as they were counted, he pushed over to the trader, whocounted them likewise.
"All fair," said the trader; "and now for signing these yer."
Mr. Shelby hastily drew the bills of sale towards him, andsigned them, like a man that hurries over some disagreeable business,and then pushed them over with the money. Haley produced, from awell-worn valise, a parchment, which, after looking over it amoment, he handed to Mr. Shelby, who took it with a gesture ofsuppressed eagerness.
"Wal, now, the thing's _done_!" said the trader, getting up.
"It's _done_!" said Mr. Shelby, in a musing tone; and,fetching a long breath, he repeated, _"It's done!"_
"Yer don't seem to feel much pleased with it, 'pears to me,"said the trader.
"Haley," said Mr. Shelby, "I hope you'll remember that youpromised, on your honor, you wouldn't sell Tom, without knowingwhat sort of hands he's going into."
"Why, you've just done it sir," said the trader.
"Circumstances, you well know, _obliged_ me," said Shelby, haughtily.
"Wal, you know, they may 'blige _me_, too," said the trader. "Howsomever, I'll do the very best I can in gettin' Tom a goodberth; as to my treatin' on him bad, you needn't be a grain afeard. If there's anything that I thank the Lord for, it is that I'm nevernoways cruel."
After the expositions which the trader had previously givenof his humane principles, Mr. Shelby did not feel particularlyreassured by these declarations; but, as they were the best comfortthe case admitted of, he allowed the trader to depart in silence,and betook himself to a solitary cigar.
CHAPTER V
Showing the Feelings of Living Property on Changing Owners
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby had retired to their apartment forthe night. He was lounging in a large easy-chair, looking oversome letters that had come in the afternoon mail, and she wasstanding before her mirror, brushing out the complicated braidsand curls in which Eliza had arranged her hair; for, noticing herpale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused her attendance thatnight, and ordered her to bed. The employment, naturally enough,suggested her conversation with the girl in the morning; and turningto her husband, she said, carelessly,
"By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that youlugged in to our dinner-table today?"
"Haley is his name," said Shelby, turning himself rather uneasilyin his chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.
"Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?"
"Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with,last time I was at Natchez," said Mr. Shelby.
"And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, andcall and dine here, ay?"
"Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him," said Shelby.
"Is he a negro-trader?" said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certainembarrassment in her husband's manner.
"Why, my dear, what put that into your head?" said Shelby,looking up.
"Nothing,--only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a greatworry, crying and taking on, and said you were talking witha trader, and that she heard him make an offer for her boy--theridiculous little goose!"
"She did, hey?" said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, whichhe seemed for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceivingthat he was holding it bottom upwards.
"It will have to come out," said he, mentally; "as wellnow as ever."
"I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushingher hair, "that she was a little fool for her pains, and that younever had anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course, Iknew you never meant to sell any of our people,--least of all, tosuch a fellow."
"Well, Emily," said her husband, "so I have always felt andsaid; but the fact is that my business lies so that I cannotget on without. I shall have to sell some of my hands."
"To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious."
"I'm sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. "I've agreedto sell Tom."
"What! our Tom?--that good, faithful creature!--been yourfaithful servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby!--and you have promisedhim his freedom, too,--you and I have spoken to him a hundred timesof it. Well, I can believe anything now,--I can believe _now_ thatyou could sell little Harry, poor Eliza's only child!" said Mrs. Shelby, in a tone between grief and indignation.
"Well, since you must know all, it is so. I have agreed to sellTom and Harry both; and I don't know why I am to be rated,as if I were a monster, for doing what every one does every day."
"But why, of all others, choose these?" said Mrs. Shelby. "Why sell them, of all on the place, if you must sell at all?"
"Because they will bring the highest sum of any,--that's why. I could choose another, if you say so. The fellow made mea high bid on Eliza, if that would suit you any better,"said Mr. Shelby.
"The wretch!" said Mrs. Shelby, vehemently.
"Well, I didn't listen to it, a moment,--out of regard toyour feelings, I wouldn't;--so give me some credit."
"My dear," said Mrs. Shelby, recollecting herself, "forgive me. I have been hasty. I was surprised, and entirely unprepared forthis;--but surely you will allow me to intercede for these poorcreatures. Tom is a noble-hearted, faithful fellow, if he is black. I do believe, Mr. Shelby, that if he were put to it, he would laydown his life for you."
"I know it,--I dare say;--but what's the use of all this?--Ican't help myself."
"Why not make a pecuniary sacrifice? I'm willing to bearmy part of the inconvenience. O, Mr. Shelby, I have tried--triedmost faithfully, as a Christian woman should--to do my duty tothese poor, simple, dependent creatures. I have cared for them,instructed them, watched over them, and know all their little caresand joys, for years; and how can I ever hold up my head again amongthem, if, for the sake of a little paltry gain, we sell such afaithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor Tom, and tear fromhim in a moment all we have taught him to love and value? I havetaught them the duties of the family, of parent and child, andhusband and wife; and how can I bear to have this open acknowledgmentthat we care for no tie, no duty, no relation, however sacred,compared with money? I have talked with Eliza about her boy--herduty to him as a Christian mother, to watch over him, pray for him,and bring him up in a Christian way; and now what can I say, ifyou tear him away, and sell him, soul and body, to a profane,unprincipled man, just to save a little money? I have told herthat one soul is worth more than all the money in the world; andhow will she believe me when she sees us turn round and sell herchild?--sell him, perhaps, to certain ruin of body and soul!"
"I'm sorry you feel so about it,--indeed I am," said Mr. Shelby; "and I respect your feelings, too, though I don't pretendto share them to their full extent; but I tell you now, solemnly,it's of no use--I can't help myself. I didn't mean to tell youthis Emily; but, in plain words, there is no choice between sellingthese two and selling everything. Either they must go, or _all_must. Haley has come into possession of a mortgage, which, if Idon't clear off with him directly, will take everything before it. I've raked, and scraped, and borrowed, and all but begged,--andthe price of these two was needed to make up the balance, and Ihad to give them up. Haley fancied the child; he agreed to settlethe matter that way, and no other. I was in his power, and _had_to do it. If you feel so to have them sold, would it be any betterto have _all_ sold?"
Mrs. Shelby stood like one stricken. Finally, turning to hertoilet, she rested her face in her hands, and gave a sort of groan.
"This is God's curse on slavery!--a bitter, bitter, mostaccursed thing!--a curse to the master and a curse to the slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything good out of such adeadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws like ours,--Ialways felt it was,--I always thought so when I was a girl,--Ithought so still more after I joined the church; but I thought Icould gild it over,--I thought, by kindness, and care, and instruction,I could make the condition of mine better than freedom--fool thatI was!"
"Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite."
"Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery, they_might_ talk! We don't need them to tell us; you know I neverthought that slavery was right--never felt willing to own slaves."
"Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men," saidMr. Shelby. "You remember Mr. B.'s sermon, the other Sunday?"
"I don't want to hear such sermons; I never wish to hearMr. B. in our church again. Ministers can't help the evil,perhaps,--can't cure it, any more than we can,--but defend it!--italways went against my common sense. And I think you didn't thinkmuch of that sermon, either."
"Well," said Shelby, "I must say these ministers sometimescarry matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare todo. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at various things,and get used to a deal that isn't the exact thing. But we don'tquite fancy, when women and ministers come out broad and square,and go beyond us in matters of either modesty or morals, that's afact. But now, my dear, I trust you see the necessity of the thing,and you see that I have done the very best that circumstances wouldallow."
"O yes, yes!" said Mrs. Shelby, hurriedly and abstractedlyfingering her gold watch,--"I haven't any jewelry of any amount,"she added, thoughtfully; "but would not this watch do something?--itwas an expensive one, when it was bought. If I could only at leastsave Eliza's child, I would sacrifice anything I have."
"I'm sorry, very sorry, Emily," said Mr. Shelby, "I'm sorrythis takes hold of you so; but it will do no good. The fact is,Emily, the thing's done; the bills of sale are already signed, andin Haley's hands; and you must be thankful it is no worse. That manhas had it in his power to ruin us all,--and now he is fairly off. If you knew the man as I do, you'd think that we had had anarrow escape."
"Is he so hard, then?"
"Why, not a cruel man, exactly, but a man of leather,--a man aliveto nothing but trade and profit,--cool, and unhesitating, andunrelenting, as death and the grave. He'd sell his own mother ata good per centage--not wishing the old woman any harm, either."
"And this wretch owns that good, faithful Tom, and Eliza's child!"
"Well, my dear, the fact is that this goes rather hard with me;it's a thing I hate to think of. Haley wants to drive matters,and take possession tomorrow. I'm going to get out my horse brightand early, and be off. I can't see Tom, that's a fact; and youhad better arrange a drive somewhere, and carry Eliza off. Let thething be done when she is out of sight."
"No, no," said Mrs. Shelby; "I'll be in no sense accompliceor help in this cruel business. I'll go and see poor old Tom, Godhelp him, in his distress! They shall see, at any rate, that theirmistress can feel for and with them. As to Eliza, I dare not thinkabout it. The Lord forgive us! What have we done, that this cruelnecessity should come on us?"
There was one listener to this conversation whom Mr. andMrs. Shelby little suspected.
Communicating with their apartment was a large closet, openingby a door into the outer passage. When Mrs. Shelby had dismissedEliza for the night, her feverish and excited mind had suggestedthe idea of this closet; and she had hidden herself there, and,with her ear pressed close against the crack of the door, hadlost not a word of the conversation.
When the voices died into silence, she rose and creptstealthily away. Pale, shivering, with rigid features and compressedlips, she looked an entirely altered being from the soft and timidcreature she had been hitherto. She moved cautiously along theentry, paused one moment at her mistress' door, and raised herhands in mute appeal to Heaven, and then turned and glidedinto her own room. It was a quiet, neat apartment, on the samefloor with her mistress. There was a pleasant sunny window, whereshe had often sat singing at her sewing; there a little case ofbooks, and various little fancy articles, ranged by them, the giftsof Christmas holidays; there was her simple wardrobe in the closetand in the drawers:--here was, in short, her home; and, on thewhole, a happy one it had been to her. But there, on the bed, layher slumbering boy, his long curls falling negligently around hisunconscious face, his rosy mouth half open, his little fat handsthrown out over the bedclothes, and a smile spread like a sunbeamover his whole face.
"Poor boy! poor fellow!" said Eliza; "they have sold you!but your mother will save you yet!"
No tear dropped over that pillow; in such straits as these,the heart has no tears to give,--it drops only blood, bleedingitself away in silence. She took a piece of paper and a pencil,and wrote, hastily,
"O, Missis! dear Missis! don't think me ungrateful,--don't thinkhard of me, any way,--I heard all you and master said tonight. I am going to try to save my boy--you will not blame me! God blessand reward you for all your kindness!"
Hastily folding and directing this, she went to a drawerand made up a little package of clothing for her boy, which shetied with a handkerchief firmly round her waist; and, so fond isa mother's remembrance, that, even in the terrors of that hour,she did not forget to put in the little package one or two of hisfavorite toys, reserving a gayly painted parrot to amuse him, whenshe should be called on to awaken him. It was some trouble toarouse the little sleeper; but, after some effort, he sat up, andwas playing with his bird, while his mother was putting on herbonnet and shawl.
"Where are you going, mother?" said he, as she drew nearthe bed, with his little coat and cap.
His mother drew near, and looked so earnestly into his eyes,that he at once divined that something unusual was the matter.
"Hush, Harry," she said; "mustn't speak loud, or they willhear us. A wicked man was coming to take little Harry away fromhis mother, and carry him 'way off in the dark; but mother won'tlet him--she's going to put on her little boy's cap and coat, andrun off with him, so the ugly man can't catch him."
Saying these words, she had tied and buttoned on the child'ssimple outfit, and, taking him in her arms, she whispered to himto be very still; and, opening a door in her room which led intothe outer verandah, she glided noiselessly out.
It was a sparkling, frosty, starlight night, and the motherwrapped the shawl close round her child, as, perfectly quiet withvague terror, he clung round her neck.
Old Bruno, a great Newfoundland, who slept at the end ofthe porch, rose, with a low growl, as she came near. She gentlyspoke his name, and the animal, an old pet and playmate of hers,instantly, wagging his tail, prepared to follow her, though apparentlyrevolving much, in this simple dog's head, what such an indiscreetmidnight promenade might mean. Some dim ideas of imprudence orimpropriety in the measure seemed to embarrass him considerably;for he often stopped, as Eliza glided forward, and looked wistfully,first at her and then at the house, and then, as if reassured byreflection, he pattered along after her again. A few minutesbrought them to the window of Uncle Tom's cottage, and Elizastopping, tapped lightly on the window-pane.
The prayer-meeting at Uncle Tom's had, in the order ofhymn-singing, been protracted to a very late hour; and, as UncleTom had indulged himself in a few lengthy solos afterwards, theconsequence was, that, although it was now between twelve andone o'clock, he and his worthy helpmeet were not yet asleep.
"Good Lord! what's that?" said Aunt Chloe, starting up andhastily drawing the curtain. "My sakes alive, if it an't Lizy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick!--there's old Bruno, too, apawin round; what on airth! I'm gwine to open the door."
And suiting the action to the word, the door flew open, andthe light of the tallow candle, which Tom had hastily lighted,fell on the haggard face and dark, wild eyes of the fugitive.
"Lord bless you!--I'm skeered to look at ye, Lizy! Are yetuck sick, or what's come over ye?"
"I'm running away--Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe--carrying offmy child--Master sold him!"
"Sold him?" echoed both, lifting up their hands in dismay.
"Yes, sold him!" said Eliza, firmly; "I crept into the closetby Mistress' door tonight, and I heard Master tell Missis thathe had sold my Harry, and you, Uncle Tom, both, to a trader;and that he was going off this morning on his horse, and that theman was to take possession today."
Tom had stood, during this speech, with his hands raised, andhis eyes dilated, like a man in a dream. Slowly and gradually,as its meaning came over him, he collapsed, rather than seatedhimself, on his old chair, and sunk his head down upon his knees.
"The good Lord have pity on us!" said Aunt Chloe. "O! it don'tseem as if it was true! What has he done, that Mas'r shouldsell _him_?"
"He hasn't done anything,--it isn't for that. Master don'twant to sell, and Missis she's always good. I heard her plead andbeg for us; but he told her 't was no use; that he was in thisman's debt, and that this man had got the power over him; and thatif he didn't pay him off clear, it would end in his having to sellthe place and all the people, and move off. Yes, I heard him saythere was no choice between selling these two and selling all, theman was driving him so hard. Master said he was sorry; but oh,Missis--you ought to have heard her talk! If she an't a Christianand an angel, there never was one. I'm a wicked girl to leave herso; but, then, I can't help it. She said, herself, one soul wasworth more than the world; and this boy has a soul, and if I lethim be carried off, who knows what'll become of it? It must beright: but, if it an't right, the Lord forgive me, for I can't helpdoing it!"
"Well, old man!" said Aunt Chloe, "why don't you go, too? Will you wait to be toted down river, where they kill niggers withhard work and starving? I'd a heap rather die than go there, anyday! There's time for ye,--be off with Lizy,--you've got a pass tocome and go any time. Come, bustle up, and I'll get your thingstogether."
Tom slowly raised his head, and looked sorrowfully butquietly around, and said,
"No, no--I an't going. Let Eliza go--it's her right! I wouldn'tbe the one to say no--'tan't in _natur_ for her to stay; butyou heard what she said! If I must be sold, or all the peopleon the place, and everything go to rack, why, let me be sold. I s'pose I can b'ar it as well as any on 'em," he added, whilesomething like a sob and a sigh shook his broad, rough chestconvulsively. "Mas'r always found me on the spot--he always will. I never have broke trust, nor used my pass no ways contrary to myword, and I never will. It's better for me alone to go, than tobreak up the place and sell all. Mas'r an't to blame, Chloe, andhe'll take care of you and the poor--"
Here he turned to the rough trundle bed full of little woollyheads, and broke fairly down. He leaned over the back of thechair, and covered his face with his large hands. Sobs, heavy,hoarse and loud, shook the chair, and great tears fell through hisfingers on the floor; just such tears, sir, as you dropped intothe coffin where lay your first-born son; such tears, woman, asyou shed when you heard the cries of your dying babe. For, sir,he was a man,--and you are but another man. And, woman, thoughdressed in silk and jewels, you are but a woman, and, in life'sgreat straits and mighty griefs, ye feel but one sorrow!
"And now," said Eliza, as she stood in the door, "I saw myhusband only this afternoon, and I little knew then what was tocome. They have pushed him to the very last standing place, andhe told me, today, that he was going to run away. Do try, if youcan, to get word to him. Tell him how I went, and why I went; andtell him I'm going to try and find Canada. You must give my loveto him, and tell him, if I never see him again," she turned away,and stood with her back to them for a moment, and then added, ina husky voice, "tell him to be as good as he can, and try and meetme in the kingdom of heaven."
"Call Bruno in there," she added. "Shut the door on him,poor beast! He mustn't go with me!"
A few last words and tears, a few simple adieus and blessings,and clasping her wondering and affrighted child in her arms, sheglided noiselessly away.
CHAPTER VI
Discovery
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby, after their protracted discussion of thenight before, did not readily sink to repose, and, in consequence,slept somewhat later than usual, the ensuing morning.
"I wonder what keeps Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, after givingher bell repeated pulls, to no purpose.
Mr. Shelby was standing before his dressing-glass, sharpeninghis razor; and just then the door opened, and a colored boy entered,with his shaving-water.
"Andy," said his mistress, "step to Eliza's door, and tellher I have rung for her three times. Poor thing!" she added, toherself, with a sigh.
Andy soon returned, with eyes very wide in astonishment.
"Lor, Missis! Lizy's drawers is all open, and her things alllying every which way; and I believe she's just done clared out!"
The truth flashed upon Mr. Shelby and his wife at the same moment. He exclaimed,
"Then she suspected it, and she's off!"
"The Lord be thanked!" said Mrs. Shelby. "I trust she is."
"Wife, you talk like a fool! Really, it will be somethingpretty awkward for me, if she is. Haley saw that I hesitated aboutselling this child, and he'll think I connived at it, to get him outof the way. It touches my honor!" And Mr. Shelby left the room hastily.
There was great running and ejaculating, and opening andshutting of doors, and appearance of faces in all shades of colorin different places, for about a quarter of an hour. One persononly, who might have shed some light on the matter, was entirelysilent, and that was the head cook, Aunt Chloe. Silently, and witha heavy cloud settled down over her once joyous face, she proceededmaking out her breakfast biscuits, as if she heard and saw nothingof the excitement around her.
Very soon, about a dozen young imps were roosting, like somany crows, on the verandah railings, each one determined to bethe first one to apprize the strange Mas'r of his ill luck.
"He'll be rael mad, I'll be bound," said Andy.
"_Won't_ he swar!" said little black Jake.
"Yes, for he _does_ swar," said woolly-headed Mandy. "I hearnhim yesterday, at dinner. I hearn all about it then, 'causeI got into the closet where Missis keeps the great jugs, and Ihearn every word." And Mandy, who had never in her life thought ofthe meaning of a word she had heard, more than a black cat, nowtook airs of superior wisdom, and strutted about, forgetting tostate that, though actually coiled up among the jugs at the timespecified, she had been fast asleep all the time.
When, at last, Haley appeared, booted and spurred, he wassaluted with the bad tidings on every hand. The young imps on theverandah were not disappointed in their hope of hearing him "swar,"which he did with a fluency and fervency which delighted them allamazingly, as they ducked and dodged hither and thither, to be outof the reach of his riding-whip; and, all whooping off together,they tumbled, in a pile of immeasurable giggle, on the witheredturf under the verandah, where they kicked up their heels and shoutedto their full satisfaction.
"If I had the little devils!" muttered Haley, between his teeth.
"But you ha'nt got 'em, though!" said Andy, with a triumphantflourish, and making a string of indescribable mouths at theunfortunate trader's back, when he was fairly beyond hearing.
"I say now, Shelby, this yer 's a most extro'rnary business!"said Haley, as he abruptly entered the parlor. "It seems that gal's off, with her young un."
"Mr. Haley, Mrs. Shelby is present," said Mr. Shelby.
"I beg pardon, ma'am," said Haley, bowing slightly, witha still lowering brow; "but still I say, as I said before, thisyer's a sing'lar report. Is it true, sir?"
"Sir," said Mr. Shelby, "if you wish to communicate withme, you must observe something of the decorum of a gentleman. Andy, take Mr. Haley's hat and riding-whip. Take a seat, sir. Yes, sir; I regret to say that the young woman, excited by overhearing,or having reported to her, something of this business, has takenher child in the night, and made off."
"I did expect fair dealing in this matter, I confess," said Haley.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Shelby, turning sharply round upon him,"what am I to understand by that remark? If any man calls myhonor in question, I have but one answer for him."
The trader cowered at this, and in a somewhat lower tonesaid that "it was plaguy hard on a fellow, that had made a fairbargain, to be gulled that way."
"Mr. Haley," said Mr. Shelby, "if I did not think you hadsome cause for disappointment, I should not have borne from youthe rude and unceremonious style of your entrance into my parlorthis morning. I say thus much, however, since appearances callfor it, that I shall allow of no insinuations cast upon me, as ifI were at all partner to any unfairness in this matter. Moreover,I shall feel bound to give you every assistance, in the use ofhorses, servants, &c., in the recovery of your property. So, inshort, Haley," said he, suddenly dropping from the tone of dignifiedcoolness to his ordinary one of easy frankness, "the best way foryou is to keep good-natured and eat some breakfast, and we willthen see what is to be done."
Mrs. Shelby now rose, and said her engagements would preventher being at the breakfast-table that morning; and, deputing a veryrespectable mulatto woman to attend to the gentlemen's coffee atthe side-board, she left the room.
"Old lady don't like your humble servant, over and above,"said Haley, with an uneasy effort to be very familiar.
"I am not accustomed to hear my wife spoken of with suchfreedom," said Mr. Shelby, dryly.
"Beg pardon; of course, only a joke, you know," said Haley,forcing a laugh.
"Some jokes are less agreeable than others," rejoined Shelby.
"Devilish free, now I've signed those papers, cuss him!"muttered Haley to himself; "quite grand, since yesterday!"
Never did fall of any prime minister at court occasion widersurges of sensation than the report of Tom's fate among hiscompeers on the place. It was the topic in every mouth, everywhere;and nothing was done in the house or in the field, but to discussits probable results. Eliza's flight--an unprecedented event onthe place--was also a great accessory in stimulating the generalexcitement.
Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being aboutthree shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place, wasrevolving the matter profoundly in all its phases and bearings,with a comprehensiveness of vision and a strict lookout to his ownpersonal well-being, that would have done credit to any whitepatriot in Washington.
"It's an ill wind dat blow nowhar,--dat ar a fact," said Sam,sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons,and adroitly substituting a long nail in place of a missingsuspender-button, with which effort of mechanical genius he seemedhighly delighted.
"Yes, it's an ill wind blows nowhar," he repeated. "Now, dar,Tom's down--wal, course der's room for some nigger to beup--and why not dis nigger?--dat's de idee. Tom, a ridin' roundde country--boots blacked--pass in his pocket--all grand asCuffee--but who he? Now, why shouldn't Sam?--dat's what I wantto know."
"Halloo, Sam--O Sam! Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill andJerry," said Andy, cutting short Sam's soliloquy.
"High! what's afoot now, young un?"
"Why, you don't know, I s'pose, that Lizy's cut stick, andclared out, with her young un?"
"You teach your granny!" said Sam, with infinite contempt;"knowed it a heap sight sooner than you did; this nigger an't sogreen, now!"
Well, anyhow, Mas'r wants Bill and Jerry geared right up;and you and I 's to go with Mas'r Haley, to look arter her."
"Good, now! dat's de time o' day!" said Sam. "It's Samdat's called for in dese yer times. He's de nigger. See if Idon't cotch her, now; Mas'r'll see what Sam can do!"
"Ah! but, Sam," said Andy, "you'd better think twice; forMissis don't want her cotched, and she'll be in yer wool."
"High!" said Sam, opening his eyes. "How you know dat?"
"Heard her say so, my own self, dis blessed mornin', whenI bring in Mas'r's shaving-water. She sent me to see why Lizydidn't come to dress her; and when I telled her she was off,she jest ris up, and ses she, `The Lord be praised;' and Mas'r,he seemed rael mad, and ses he, `Wife, you talk like a fool.' But Lor! she'll bring him to! I knows well enough how that'llbe,--it's allers best to stand Missis' side the fence, nowI tell yer."
Black Sam, upon this, scratched his woolly pate, which, ifit did not contain very profound wisdom, still contained a greatdeal of a particular species much in demand among politicians ofall complexions and countries, and vulgarly denominated "knowingwhich side the bread is buttered;" so, stopping with graveconsideration, he again gave a hitch to his pantaloons, which washis regularly organized method of assisting his mental perplexities.
"Der an't no saying'--never--'bout no kind o' thing in _dis_yer world," he said, at last. Sam spoke like a philosopher,emphasizing _this_--as if he had had a large experience in differentsorts of worlds, and therefore had come to his conclusions advisedly.
"Now, sartin I'd a said that Missis would a scoured thevarsal world after Lizy," added Sam, thoughtfully.
"So she would," said Andy; "but can't ye see through a ladder,ye black nigger? Missis don't want dis yer Mas'r Haley to getLizy's boy; dat's de go!"
"High!" said Sam, with an indescribable intonation, knownonly to those who have heard it among the negroes.
"And I'll tell yer more 'n all," said Andy; "I specs you'dbetter be making tracks for dem hosses,--mighty sudden, too,---forI hearn Missis 'quirin' arter yer,--so you've stood foolin' longenough."
Sam, upon this, began to bestir himself in real earnest,and after a while appeared, bearing down gloriously towards thehouse, with Bill and Jerry in a full canter, and adroitly throwinghimself off before they had any idea of stopping, he brought themup alongside of the horse-post like a tornado. Haley's horse,which was a skittish young colt, winced, and bounced, andpulled hard at his halter.
"Ho, ho!" said Sam, "skeery, ar ye?" and his black visagelighted up with a curious, mischievous gleam. "I'll fix ye now!"said he.
There was a large beech-tree overshadowing the place, andthe small, sharp, triangular beech-nuts lay scattered thickly onthe ground. With one of these in his fingers, Sam approached thecolt, stroked and patted, and seemed apparently busy in soothinghis agitation. On pretence of adjusting the saddle, he adroitlyslipped under it the sharp little nut, in such a manner that theleast weight brought upon the saddle would annoy the nervoussensibilities of the animal, without leaving any perceptible grazeor wound.
"Dar!" he said, rolling his eyes with an approving grin;"me fix 'em!"
At this moment Mrs. Shelby appeared on the balcony, beckoningto him. Sam approached with as good a determination to pay courtas did ever suitor after a vacant place at St. James' or Washington.
"Why have you been loitering so, Sam? I sent Andy to tellyou to hurry."
"Lord bless you, Missis!" said Sam, "horses won't be cotchedall in a mimit; they'd done clared out way down to the south pasture,and the Lord knows whar!"
"Sam, how often must I tell you not to say `Lord bless you,and the Lord knows,' and such things? It's wicked."
"O, Lord bless my soul! I done forgot, Missis! I won't saynothing of de sort no more."
"Why, Sam, you just _have_ said it again."
"Did I? O, Lord! I mean--I didn't go fur to say it."
"You must be _careful_, Sam."
"Just let me get my breath, Missis, and I'll start fair. I'll be bery careful."
"Well, Sam, you are to go with Mr. Haley, to show him theroad, and help him. Be careful of the horses, Sam; you knowJerry was a little lame last week; _don't ride them too fast_."
Mrs. Shelby spoke the last words with a low voice, andstrong emphasis.
"Let dis child alone for dat!" said Sam, rolling up his eyeswith a volume of meaning. "Lord knows! High! Didn't saydat!" said he, suddenly catching his breath, with a ludicrousflourish of apprehension, which made his mistress laugh, spiteof herself. "Yes, Missis, I'll look out for de hosses!"
"Now, Andy," said Sam, returning to his stand under thebeech-trees, "you see I wouldn't be 't all surprised if dat argen'lman's crittur should gib a fling, by and by, when he comes tobe a gettin' up. You know, Andy, critturs _will_ do such things;"and therewith Sam poked Andy in the side, in a highly suggestive manner.
"High!" said Andy, with an air of instant appreciation.
"Yes, you see, Andy, Missis wants to make time,--dat ar'sclar to der most or'nary 'bserver. I jis make a little for her. Now, you see, get all dese yer hosses loose, caperin' permiscusround dis yer lot and down to de wood dar, and I spec Mas'r won'tbe off in a hurry."
Andy grinned.
"Yer see," said Sam, "yer see, Andy, if any such thing shouldhappen as that Mas'r Haley's horse _should_ begin to actcontrary, and cut up, you and I jist lets go of our'n to help him,and _we'll help him_--oh yes!" And Sam and Andy laid their headsback on their shoulders, and broke into a low, immoderate laugh,snapping their fingers and flourishing their heels with exquisitedelight.
At this instant, Haley appeared on the verandah. Somewhatmollified by certain cups of very good coffee, he came out smilingand talking, in tolerably restored humor. Sam and Andy, clawingfor certain fragmentary palm-leaves, which they were in the habitof considering as hats, flew to the horseposts, to be ready to"help Mas'r."
Sam's palm-leaf had been ingeniously disentangled from allpretensions to braid, as respects its brim; and the slivers startingapart, and standing upright, gave it a blazing air of freedom anddefiance, quite equal to that of any Fejee chief; while the wholebrim of Andy's being departed bodily, he rapped the crown on hishead with a dexterous thump, and looked about well pleased, as ifto say, "Who says I haven't got a hat?"
"Well, boys," said Haley, "look alive now; we must lose no time."
"Not a bit of him, Mas'r!" said Sam, putting Haley's reinin his hand, and holding his stirrup, while Andy was untying theother two horses.
The instant Haley touched the saddle, the mettlesome creaturebounded from the earth with a sudden spring, that threw his mastersprawling, some feet off, on the soft, dry turf. Sam, with franticejaculations, made a dive at the reins, but only succeeded inbrushing the blazing palm-leaf afore-named into the horse's eyes,which by no means tended to allay the confusion of his nerves. So, with great vehemence, he overturned Sam, and, giving two orthree contemptuous snorts, flourished his heels vigorously in theair, and was soon prancing away towards the lower end of the lawn,followed by Bill and Jerry, whom Andy had not failed to let loose,according to contract, speeding them off with various direfulejaculations. And now ensued a miscellaneous scene of confusion. Sam and Andy ran and shouted,--dogs barked here and there,--andMike, Mose, Mandy, Fanny, and all the smaller specimens on theplace, both male and female, raced, clapped hands, whooped, andshouted, with outrageous officiousness and untiring zeal.
Haley's horse, which was a white one, and very fleet and spirited,appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene with great gusto;and having for his coursing ground a lawn of nearly half a milein extent, gently sloping down on every side into indefinite woodland,he appeared to take infinite delight in seeing how near he could allowhis pursuers to approach him, and then, when within a hand's breadth,whisk off with a start and a snort, like a mischievous beast as he wasand career far down into some alley of the wood-lot. Nothing wasfurther from Sam's mind than to have any one of the troop taken untilsuch season as should seem to him most befitting,--and the exertionsthat he made were certainly most heroic. Like the sword of CoeurDe Lion, which always blazed in the front and thickest of the battle,Sam's palm-leaf was to be seen everywhere when there was the leastdanger that a horse could be caught; there he would bear down fulltilt, shouting, "Now for it! cotch him! cotch him!" in a way thatwould set everything to indiscriminate rout in a moment.
Haley ran up and down, and cursed and swore and stampedmiscellaneously. Mr. Shelby in vain tried to shout directions fromthe balcony, and Mrs. Shelby from her chamber window alternatelylaughed and wondered,--not without some inkling of what lay at thebottom of all this confusion.
At last, about twelve o'clock, Sam appeared triumphant,mounted on Jerry, with Haley's horse by his side, reeking withsweat, but with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, showing thatthe spirit of freedom had not yet entirely subsided.
"He's cotched!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "If 't hadn't been forme, they might a bust themselves, all on 'em; but I cotched him!"
"You!" growled Haley, in no amiable mood. "If it hadn'tbeen for you, this never would have happened."
"Lord bless us, Mas'r," said Sam, in a tone of the deepestconcern, "and me that has been racin' and chasin' till the sweatjest pours off me!"
"Well, well!" said Haley, "you've lost me near three hours,with your cursed nonsense. Now let's be off, and have nomore fooling."
"Why, Mas'r," said Sam, in a deprecating tone, "I believeyou mean to kill us all clar, horses and all. Here we are all justready to drop down, and the critters all in a reek of sweat. Why,Mas'r won't think of startin' on now till arter dinner. Mas'rs'hoss wants rubben down; see how he splashed hisself; and Jerrylimps too; don't think Missis would be willin' to have us startdis yer way, no how. Lord bless you, Mas'r, we can ketch up, ifwe do stop. Lizy never was no great of a walker."
Mrs. Shelby, who, greatly to her amusement, had overheardthis conversation from the verandah, now resolved to do her part. She came forward, and, courteously expressing her concern forHaley's accident, pressed him to stay to dinner, saying that thecook should bring it on the table immediately.
Thus, all things considered, Haley, with rather an equivocalgrace, proceeded to the parlor, while Sam, rolling his eyes afterhim with unutterable meaning, proceeded gravely with the horses tothe stable-yard.
"Did yer see him, Andy? _did_ yer see him? and Sam, whenhe had got fairly beyond the shelter of the barn, and fastened thehorse to a post. "O, Lor, if it warn't as good as a meetin', now,to see him a dancin' and kickin' and swarin' at us. Didn't I hearhim? Swar away, ole fellow (says I to myself ); will yer have yerhoss now, or wait till you cotch him? (says I). Lor, Andy, I thinkI can see him now." And Sam and Andy leaned up against the barnand laughed to their hearts' content.
"Yer oughter seen how mad he looked, when I brought thehoss up. Lord, he'd a killed me, if he durs' to; and there I wasa standin' as innercent and as humble."
"Lor, I seed you," said Andy; "an't you an old hoss, Sam?"
"Rather specks I am," said Sam; "did yer see Missis upstars at the winder? I seed her laughin'."
"I'm sure, I was racin' so, I didn't see nothing," said Andy.
"Well, yer see," said Sam, proceeding gravely to wash downHaley's pony, "I 'se 'quired what yer may call a habit _o'bobservation_, Andy. It's a very 'portant habit, Andy; and I'commend yer to be cultivatin' it, now yer young. Hist up thathind foot, Andy. Yer see, Andy, it's _bobservation_ makes all dedifference in niggers. Didn't I see which way the wind blew disyer mornin'? Didn't I see what Missis wanted, though she neverlet on? Dat ar's bobservation, Andy. I 'spects it's what you maycall a faculty. Faculties is different in different peoples, butcultivation of 'em goes a great way."
"I guess if I hadn't helped your bobservation dis mornin',yer wouldn't have seen your way so smart," said Andy.
"Andy," said Sam, "you's a promisin' child, der an't no mannero' doubt. I thinks lots of yer, Andy; and I don't feel no waysashamed to take idees from you. We oughtenter overlook nobody,Andy, cause the smartest on us gets tripped up sometimes. And so,Andy, let's go up to the house now. I'll be boun' Missis'll giveus an uncommon good bite, dis yer time."
CHAPTER VII
The Mother's Struggle
It is impossible to conceive of a human creature more whollydesolate and forlorn than Eliza, when she turned her footstepsfrom Uncle Tom's cabin.
Her husband's suffering and dangers, and the danger of herchild, all blended in her mind, with a confused and stunning senseof the risk she was running, in leaving the only home she had everknown, and cutting loose from the protection of a friend whom sheloved and revered. Then there was the parting from every familiarobject,--the place where she had grown up, the trees under whichshe had played, the groves where she had walked many an evening inhappier days, by the side of her young husband,--everything, as itlay in the clear, frosty starlight, seemed to speak reproachfullyto her, and ask her whither could she go from a home like that?
But stronger than all was maternal love, wrought into a paroxysmof frenzy by the near approach of a fearful danger. Her boy wasold enough to have walked by her side, and, in an indifferentcase, she would only have led him by the hand; but now the barethought of putting him out of her arms made her shudder, and shestrained him to her bosom with a convulsive grasp, as she wentrapidly forward.
The frosty ground creaked beneath her feet, and she trembledat the sound; every quaking leaf and fluttering shadow sent theblood backward to her heart, and quickened her footsteps. She wondered within herself at the strength that seemed to become upon her; for she felt the weight of her boy as if it hadbeen a feather, and every flutter of fear seemed to increase thesupernatural power that bore her on, while from her pale lipsburst forth, in frequent ejaculations, the prayer to a Friendabove--"Lord, help! Lord, save me!"
If it were _your_ Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were goingto be torn from you by a brutal trader, tomorrow morning,--ifyou had seen the man, and heard that the papers were signed anddelivered, and you had only from twelve o'clock till morning tomake good your escape,--how fast could _you_ walk? How many milescould you make in those few brief hours, with the darling at yourbosom,--the little sleepy head on your shoulder,--the small, softarms trustingly holding on to your neck?
For the child slept. At first, the novelty and alarm kepthim waking; but his mother so hurriedly repressed every breath orsound, and so assured him that if he were only still she wouldcertainly save him, that he clung quietly round her neck, onlyasking, as he found himself sinking to sleep,
"Mother, I don't need to keep awake, do I?"
"No, my darling; sleep, if you want to."
"But, mother, if I do get asleep, you won't let him get me?"
"No! so may God help me!" said his mother, with a palercheek, and a brighter light in her large dark eyes.
"You're _sure_, an't you, mother?"
"Yes, _sure_!" said the mother, in a voice that startledherself; for it seemed to her to come from a spirit within, thatwas no part of her; and the boy dropped his litle weary head onher shoulder, and was soon asleep. How the touch of those warmarms, the gentle breathings that came in her neck, seemed to addfire and spirit to her movements! It seemed to her as if strengthpoured into her in electric streams, from every gentle touch andmovement of the sleeping, confiding child. Sublime is the dominionof the mind over the body, that, for a time, can make flesh andnerve impregnable, and string the sinews like steel, so that theweak become so mighty.
The boundaries of the farm, the grove, the wood-lot, passedby her dizzily, as she walked on; and still she went, leaving onefamiliar object after another, slacking not, pausing not, tillreddening daylight found her many a long mile from all traces ofany familiar objects upon the open highway.
She had often been, with her mistress, to visit some connections,in the little village of T----, not far from the Ohio river,and knew the road well. To go thither, to escape across theOhio river, were the first hurried outlines of her plan ofescape; beyond that, she could only hope in God.
When horses and vehicles began to move along the highway,with that alert perception peculiar to a state of excitement, andwhich seems to be a sort of inspiration, she became aware that herheadlong pace and distracted air might bring on her remark andsuspicion. She therefore put the boy on the ground, and, adjustingher dress and bonnet, she walked on at as rapid a pace as shethought consistent with the preservation of appearances. In herlittle bundle she had provided a store of cakes and apples, whichshe used as expedients for quickening the speed of the child,rolling the apple some yards before them, when the boy would runwith all his might after it; and this ruse, often repeated, carriedthem over many a half-mile.
After a while, they came to a thick patch of woodland,through which murmured a clear brook. As the child complained ofhunger and thirst, she climbed over the fence with him; and, sittingdown behind a large rock which concealed them from the road, shegave him a breakfast out of her little package. The boywondered and grieved that she could not eat; and when, putting hisarms round her neck, he tried to wedge some of his cake into hermouth, it seemed to her that the rising in her throat would choke her.
"No, no, Harry darling! mother can't eat till you are safe! We must go on--on--till we come to the river!" And she hurriedagain into the road, and again constrained herself to walk regularlyand composedly forward.
She was many miles past any neighborhood where she waspersonally known. If she should chance to meet any who knew her,she reflected that the well-known kindness of the family would beof itself a blind to suspicion, as making it an unlikely suppositionthat she could be a fugitive. As she was also so white as not tobe known as of colored lineage, without a critical survey, and herchild was white also, it was much easier for her to pass onunsuspected.
On this presumption, she stopped at noon at a neat farmhouse,to rest herself, and buy some dinner for her child and self; for,as the danger decreased with the distance, the supernatural tensionof the nervous system lessened, and she found herself both wearyand hungry.
The good woman, kindly and gossipping, seemed rather pleasedthan otherwise with having somebody come in to talk with; andaccepted, without examination, Eliza's statement, that she "wasgoing on a little piece, to spend a week with her friends,"--allwhich she hoped in her heart might prove strictly true.
An hour before sunset, she entered the village of T----,by the Ohio river, weary and foot-sore, but still strong in heart. Her first glance was at the river, which lay, like Jordan, betweenher and the Canaan of liberty on the other side.
It was now early spring, and the river was swollen andturbulent; great cakes of floating ice were swinging heavily toand fro in the turbid waters. Owing to the peculiar form ofthe shore on the Kentucky side, the land bending far out intothe water, the ice had been lodged and detained in greatquantities, and the narrow channel which swept round the bendwas full of ice, piled one cake over another, thus forming atemporary barrier to the descending ice, which lodged, and formeda great, undulating raft, filling up the whole river, and extendingalmost to the Kentucky shore.
Eliza stood, for a moment, contemplating this unfavorableaspect of things, which she saw at once must prevent the usualferry-boat from running, and then turned into a small publichouse on the bank, to make a few inquiries.
The hostess, who was busy in various fizzing and stewingoperations over the fire, preparatory to the evening meal, stopped,with a fork in her hand, as Eliza's sweet and plaintive voicearrested her.
"What is it?" she said.
"Isn't there any ferry or boat, that takes people over toB----, now?" she said.
"No, indeed!" said the woman; "the boats has stopped running."
Eliza's look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman,and she said, inquiringly,
"May be you're wanting to get over?--anybody sick? Ye seemmighty anxious?"
"I've got a child that's very dangerous," said Eliza. "I neverheard of it till last night, and I've walked quite a piece today,in hopes to get to the ferry."
"Well, now, that's onlucky," said the woman, whose motherlysympathies were much aroused; I'm re'lly consarned for ye. Solomon!" she called, from the window, towards a small back building. A man, in leather apron and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.
"I say, Sol," said the woman, "is that ar man going to totethem bar'ls over tonight?"
"He said he should try, if 't was any way prudent," saidthe man.
"There's a man a piece down here, that's going over with sometruck this evening, if he durs' to; he'll be in here to suppertonight, so you'd better set down and wait. That's a sweet littlefellow," added the woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
"Poor fellow! he isn't used to walking, and I've hurriedhim on so," said Eliza.
"Well, take him into this room," said the woman, openinginto a small bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laidthe weary boy upon it, and held his hands in hers till he was fastasleep. For her there was no rest. As a fire in her bones, thethought of the pursuer urged her on; and she gazed with longingeyes on the sullen, surging waters that lay between her and liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, tofollow the course of her pursuers.
Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurriedon table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often beenseen before, that it required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the order was fairly given out in Haley's hearing,and carried to Aunt Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenilemessengers, that dignitary only gave certain very gruff snorts,and tosses of her head, and went on with every operation in anunusually leisurely and circumstantial manner.
For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign amongthe servants generally that Missis would not be particularlydisobliged by delay; and it was wonderful what a number of counteraccidents occurred constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight contrived to upset the gravy; and then gravyhad to be got up _de novo_, with due care and formality, Aunt Chloewatching and stirring with dogged precision, answering shortly, toall suggestions of haste, that she "warn't a going to have rawgravy on the table, to help nobody's catchings." One tumbleddown with the water, and had to go to the spring for more; andanother precipitated the butter into the path of events; andthere was from time to time giggling news brought into the kitchenthat "Mas'r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn't sit inhis cheer no ways, but was a walkin' and stalkin' to the windersand through the porch."
"Sarves him right!" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. He'll getwus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his ways. _His_ master'll be sending for him, and then see how he'll look!"
"He'll go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake.
"He desarves it!" said Aunt Chloe, grimly; "he's broke a many,many, many hearts,--I tell ye all!" she said, stopping, witha fork uplifted in her hands; "it's like what Mas'r George readsin Ravelations,--souls a callin' under the altar! and a callin' onthe Lord for vengeance on sich!--and by and by the Lord he'll hear'em--so he will!"
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listenedto with open mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, thewhole kitchen was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen toher remarks.
"Sich'll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won't ther?"said Andy.
"I'd be glad to see it, I'll be boun'," said little Jake.
"Chil'en!" said a voice, that made them all start. It wasUncle Tom, who had come in, and stood listening to the conversationat the door.
"Chil'en!" he said, "I'm afeard you don't know what ye're sayin'. Forever is a _dre'ful_ word, chil'en; it's awful to think on 't. You oughtenter wish that ar to any human crittur."
"We wouldn't to anybody but the soul-drivers," said Andy;"nobody can help wishing it to them, they 's so awful wicked."
"Don't natur herself kinder cry out on 'em?" said Aunt Chloe. "Don't dey tear der suckin' baby right off his mother's breast,and sell him, and der little children as is crying andholding on by her clothes,--don't dey pull 'em off and sells 'em? Don't dey tear wife and husband apart?" said Aunt Chloe, beginningto cry, "when it's jest takin' the very life on 'em?--and all thewhile does they feel one bit, don't dey drink and smoke, and takeit oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil don't get them, what's hegood for?" And Aunt Chloe covered her face with her checked apron,and began to sob in good earnest.
"Pray for them that 'spitefully use you, the good booksays," says Tom.
"Pray for 'em!" said Aunt Chloe; "Lor, it's too tough! I can't pray for 'em."
"It's natur, Chloe, and natur 's strong," said Tom, "but theLord's grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awfulstate a poor crittur's soul 's in that'll do them ar things,--yououghter thank God that you an't _like_ him, Chloe. I'm sure I'drather be sold, ten thousand times over, than to have all that arpoor crittur's got to answer for."
"So 'd I, a heap," said Jake. "Lor, _shouldn't_ we cotchit, Andy?"
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
"I'm glad Mas'r didn't go off this morning, as he looked to,"said Tom; "that ar hurt me more than sellin', it did. Mebbe itmight have been natural for him, but 't would have come desp'thard on me, as has known him from a baby; but I've seen Mas'r,and I begin ter feel sort o' reconciled to the Lord's will now. Mas'r couldn't help hisself; he did right, but I'm feared thingswill be kinder goin' to rack, when I'm gone Mas'r can't be spectedto be a pryin' round everywhar, as I've done, a keepin' up allthe ends. The boys all means well, but they 's powerful car'less. That ar troubles me."
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.
"Tom," said his master, kindly, "I want you to notice thatI give this gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if youare not on the spot when he wants you; he's going today to lookafter his other business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like, boy."
"Thank you, Mas'r," said Tom.
"And mind yourself," said the trader, "and don't come it overyour master with any o' yer nigger tricks; for I'll take everycent out of him, if you an't thar. If he'd hear to me, he wouldn'ttrust any on ye--slippery as eels!"
"Mas'r," said Tom,--and he stood very straight,--"I was jisteight years old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and youwasn't a year old. `Thar,' says she, `Tom, that's to be _your_young Mas'r; take good care on him,' says she. And now I jist askyou, Mas'r, have I ever broke word to you, or gone contrary to you,'specially since I was a Christian?"
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
"My good boy," said he, "the Lord knows you say but the truth;and if I was able to help it, all the world shouldn't buy you."
"And sure as I am a Christian woman," said Mrs. Shelby,"you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any bring together means. Sir," she said to Haley, "take good account of who you sell himto, and let me know."
"Lor, yes, for that matter," said the trader, "I may bringhim up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back."
"I'll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,"said Mrs. Shelby.
"Of course," said the trader, "all 's equal with me; li'vestrade 'em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want is alivin', you know, ma'am; that's all any on us wants, I, s'pose."
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by thefamiliar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolutenecessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The morehopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater becameMrs. Shelby's dread of his succeeding in recapturing Eliza andher child, and of course the greater her motive for detaining himby every female artifice. She therefore graciously smiled, assented,chatted familiarly, and did all she could to make time passimperceptibly.
At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamperof the morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance ofzealous and ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he wasboasting, in flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminentsuccess of the operation, now that he had "farly come to it."
"Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs," said Haley,thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount.
"Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly; "thar's Bruno--he'sa roarer! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger of us keeps a pupof some natur or uther."
"Poh!" said Haley,--and he said something else, too, withregard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered,
"I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way."
"But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know hedon't) for trackin' out niggers."
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look ofearnest and desperate simplicity.
"Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they'sthe kind, though they han't never had no practice. They 's _far_dogs, though, at most anything, if you'd get 'em started. Here, Bruno," he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland,who came pitching tumultuously toward them.
"You go hang!" said Haley, getting up. "Come, tumble up now."
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickleAndy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh,greatly to Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him with hisriding-whip.
"I 's 'stonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity. "This yer's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn't be a makin' game. This yer an't no way to help Mas'r."
"I shall take the straight road to the river," said Haley,decidedly, after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. "I know the way of all of 'em,--they makes tracks for the underground."
"Sartin," said Sam, "dat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de thingright in de middle. Now, der's two roads to de river,--dedirt road and der pike,--which Mas'r mean to take?"
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing thisnew geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by avehement reiteration.
"Cause," said Sam, "I'd rather be 'clined to 'magine thatLizy 'd take de dirt road, bein' it's the least travelled."
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, andnaturally inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather broughtup by this view of the case.
"If yer warn't both on yer such cussed liars, now!" hesaid, contemplatively as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spokenappeared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind,and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of failing off hishorse, while Sam's face was immovably composed into the mostdoleful gravity.
"Course," said Sam, "Mas'r can do as he'd ruther, go de straightroad, if Mas'r thinks best,--it's all one to us. Now, when Istudy 'pon it, I think de straight road de best, _deridedly_."
"She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley, thinkingaloud, and not minding Sam's remark.
"Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam; "gals is pecular; they neverdoes nothin' ye thinks they will; mose gen'lly the contrary. Gals is nat'lly made contrary; and so, if you thinks they've goneone road, it is sartin you'd better go t' other, and then you'llbe sure to find 'em. Now, my private 'pinion is, Lizy took derroad; so I think we'd better take de straight one."
This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem todispose Haley particularly to the straight road, and he announceddecidedly that he should go the other, and asked Sam when theyshould come to it.
"A little piece ahead," said Sam, giving a wink to Andy withthe eye which was on Andy's side of the head; and he added,gravely, "but I've studded on de matter, and I'm quite clar weought not to go dat ar way. I nebber been over it no way. It's despit lonesome, and we might lose our way,--whar we'd cometo, de Lord only knows."
"Nevertheless," said Haley, "I shall go that way."
"Now I think on 't, I think I hearn 'em tell that dat ar roadwas all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't it, Andy?"
Andy wasn't certain; he'd only "hearn tell" about that road,but never been over it. In short, he was strictly noncommittal.
Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilitiesbetween lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it layin favor of the dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the thing hethought he perceived was involuntary on Sam's part at first, andhis confused attempts to dissuade him he set down to a desperatelying on second thoughts, as being unwilling to implicate Liza.
When, therefore, Sam indicated the road, Haley plungedbriskly into it, followed by Sam and Andy.
Now, the road, in fact, was an old one, that had formerlybeen a thoroughfare to the river, but abandoned for many yearsafter the laying of the new pike. It was open for about an hour'sride, and after that it was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well,--indeed, the road had been solong closed up, that Andy had never heard of it. He therefore rodealong with an air of dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferatingoccasionally that 't was "desp't rough, and bad for Jerry's foot."
"Now, I jest give yer warning," said Haley, "I know yer; yerwon't get me to turn off this road, with all yer fussin'--soyou shet up!"
"Mas'r will go his own way!" said Sam, with rueful submission,at the same time winking most Portentously to Andy, whose delightwas now very near the explosive point.
Sam was in wonderful spirits,--professed to keep a very brisklookout,--at one time exclaiming that he saw "a gal's bonnet"on the top of some distant eminence, or calling to Andy "if thatthar wasn't `Lizy' down in the hollow;" always making theseexclamations in some rough or craggy part of the road, where thesudden quickening of speed was a special inconvenience to allparties concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of constantcommotion.
After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party madea precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belongingto a large farming establishment. Not a soul was in sight, allthe hands being employed in the fields; but, as the barn stoodconspicuously and plainly square across the road, it was evidentthat their journey in that direction had reached a decided finale.
"Wan't dat ar what I telled Mas'r?" said Sam, with an air ofinjured innocence. "How does strange gentleman spect to knowmore about a country dan de natives born and raised?"
"You rascal!" said Haley, "you knew all about this."
"Didn't I tell yer I _knowd_, and yer wouldn't believe me? I telled Mas'r 't was all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn'tspect we could get through,--Andy heard me."
It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had topocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and allthree faced to the right about, and took up their line of marchfor the highway.
In consequence of all the various delays, it was aboutthree-quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child tosleep in the village tavern that the party came riding into thesame place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking out inanother direction, when Sam's quick eye caught a glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam contrivedto have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristicejaculation, which startled her at once; she drew suddenly back;the whole train swept by the window, round to the front door.
A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one momentto Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caughther child, and sprang down the steps towards it. The tradercaught a full glimpse of her just as she was disappearingdown the bank; and throwing himself from his horse, and callingloudly on Sam and Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch theground, and a moment brought her to the water's edge. Right onbehind they came; and, nerved with strength such as God gives onlyto the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, she vaultedsheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft ofice beyond. It was a desperate leap--impossible to anything butmadness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy, instinctively criedout, and lifted up their hands, as she did it.
The huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitchedand creaked as her weight came on it, but she staid there nota moment. With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped toanother and still another cake; stumbling--leaping--slipping--springing upwards again! Her shoes are gone--her stockings cutfrom her feet--while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing,felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side,and a man helping her up the bank.
"Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar!" said the man, withan oath.
Eliza recognized the voice and face for a man who owned afarm not far from her old home.
"O, Mr. Symmes!--save me--do save me--do hide me!" said Elia.
"Why, what's this?" said the man. "Why, if 'tan't Shelby's gal!"
"My child!--this boy!--he'd sold him! There is his Mas'r,"said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore. "O, Mr. Symmes, you'vegot a little boy!"
"So I have," said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drewher up the steep bank. "Besides, you're a right brave gal. I likegrit, wherever I see it."
When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused.
"I'd be glad to do something for ye," said he; "but thenthere's nowhar I could take ye. The best I can do is to tell yeto go _thar_," said he, pointing to a large white house which stoodby itself, off the main street of the village. "Go thar; they'rekind folks. Thar's no kind o' danger but they'll help you,--they'reup to all that sort o' thing."
"The Lord bless you!" said Eliza, earnestly.
"No 'casion, no 'casion in the world," said the man. "What I'vedone's of no 'count."
"And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell any one!"
"Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for? In coursenot," said the man. "Come, now, go along like a likely,sensible gal, as you are. You've arnt your liberty, and youshall have it, for all me."
The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmlyand swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her.
"Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighborlything in the world; but what's a feller to do? If he catches oneof my gals in the same fix, he's welcome to pay back. Somehow Inever could see no kind o' critter a strivin' and pantin', andtrying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arter 'em and go agin 'em. Besides, I don't see no kind of 'casion for me to be hunter andcatcher for other folks, neither."
So spoke this poor, heathenish Kentuckian, who had not beeninstructed in his constitutional relations, and consequently wasbetrayed into acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, ifhe had been better situated and more enlightened, he would not havebeen left to do.
Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene,till Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank,inquiring look on Sam and Andy.
"That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business," said Sam.
"The gal 's got seven devils in her, I believe!" said Haley. "How like a wildcat she jumped!"
"Wal, now," said Sam, scratching his head, "I hope Mas'r'll'scuse us trying dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough fordat ar, no way!" and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle.
"_You_ laugh!" said the trader, with a growl.
"Lord bless you, Mas'r, I couldn't help it now," said Sam,giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. "She lookedso curi's, a leapin' and springin'--ice a crackin'--and only tohear her,--plump! ker chunk! ker splash! Spring! Lord! how shegoes it!" and Sam and Andy laughed till the tears rolled downtheir cheeks.
"I'll make ye laugh t' other side yer mouths!" said thetrader, laying about their heads with his riding-whip.
Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were ontheir horses before he was up.
"Good-evening, Mas'r!" said Sam, with much gravity. "I berrymuch spect Missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley won'twant us no longer. Missis wouldn't hear of our ridin' the crittersover Lizy's bridge tonight;" and, with a facetious poke into Andy'sribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at full speed,--theirshouts of laughter coming faintly on the wind.
CHAPTER VIII
Eliza's Escape
Eliza made her desperate retreat across the river just inthe dusk of twilight. The gray mist of evening, rising slowly fromthe river, enveloped her as she disappeared up the bank, and theswollen current and floundering masses of ice presented a hopelessbarrier between her and her pursuer. Haley therefore slowly anddiscontentedly returned to the little tavern, to ponder furtherwhat was to be done. The woman opened to him the door of a littleparlor, covered with a rag carpet, where stood a table with a veryshining black oil-cloth, sundry lank, high-backed wood chairs, withsome plaster images in resplendent colors on the mantel-shelf,above a very dimly-smoking grate; a long hard-wood settle extendedits uneasy length by the chimney, and here Haley sat him down tomeditate on the instability of human hopes and happiness in general.
"What did I want with the little cuss, now," he said tohimself, "that I should have got myself treed like a coon, as Iam, this yer way?" and Haley relieved himself by repeating over anot very select litany of imprecations on himself, which, thoughthere was the best possible reason to consider them as true, weshall, as a matter of taste, omit.
He was startled by the loud and dissonant voice of a man who wasapparently dismounting at the door. He hurried to the window.
"By the land! if this yer an't the nearest, now, to whatI've heard folks call Providence," said Haley. "I do b'lievethat ar's Tom Loker."
Haley hastened out. Standing by the bar, in the corner of theroom, was a brawny, muscular man, full six feet in height, andbroad in proportion. He was dressed in a coat of buffalo-skin,made with the hair outward, which gave him a shaggy and fierceappearance, perfectly in keeping with the whole air of his physiognomy. In the head and face every organ and lineament expressive of brutaland unhesitating violence was in a state of the highest possibledevelopment. Indeed, could our readers fancy a bull-dog come untoman's estate, and walking about in a hat and coat, they would haveno unapt idea of the general style and effect of his physique. He was accompanied by a travelling companion, in many respects anexact contrast to himself. He was short and slender, lithe andcatlike in his motions, and had a peering, mousing expression abouthis keen black eyes, with which every feature of his face seemedsharpened into sympathy; his thin, long nose, ran out as if it waseager to bore into the nature of things in general; his sleek,thin, black hair was stuck eagerly forward, and all his motionsand evolutions expressed a dry, cautious acuteness. The great manpoured out a big tumbler half full of raw spirits, and gulped itdown without a word. The little man stood tiptoe, and putting hishead first to one side and then the other, and snuffing consideratelyin the directions of the various bottles, ordered at last a mintjulep, in a thin and quivering voice, and with an air of greatcircumspection. When poured out, he took it and looked at it witha sharp, complacent air, like,a man who thinks he has done aboutthe right thing, and hit the nail on the head, and proceeded todispose of it in short and well-advised sips.
"Wal, now, who'd a thought this yer luck 'ad come to me? Why, Loker, how are ye?" said Haley, coming forward, andextending his hand to the big man.
"The devil!" was the civil reply. "What brought you here, Haley?"
The mousing man, who bore the name of Marks, instantly stoppedhis sipping, and, poking his head forward, looked shrewdlyon the new acquaintance, as a cat sometimes looks at a moving dryleaf, or some other possible object of pursuit.
"I say, Tom, this yer's the luckiest thing in the world. I'm in a devil of a hobble, and you must help me out."
"Ugh? aw! like enough!" grunted his complacent acquaintance. "A body may be pretty sure of that, when _you're_ glad to see 'em;something to be made off of 'em. What's the blow now?"
"You've got a friend here?" said Haley, looking doubtfullyat Marks; "partner, perhaps?"
"Yes, I have. Here, Marks! here's that ar feller that Iwas in with in Natchez."
"Shall be pleased with his acquaintance," said Marks,thrusting out a long, thin hand, like a raven's claw. "Mr. Haley,I believe?"
"The same, sir," said Haley. "And now, gentlemen, seein'as we've met so happily, I think I'll stand up to a small matterof a treat in this here parlor. So, now, old coon," said he tothe man at the bar, "get us hot water, and sugar, and cigars, andplenty of the _real stuff_ and we'll have a blow-out."
Behold, then, the candles lighted, the fire stimulated to theburning point in the grate, and our three worthies seated rounda table, well spread with all the accessories to good fellowshipenumerated before.
Haley began a pathetic recital of his peculiar troubles. Loker shut up his mouth, and listened to him with gruff andsurly attention. Marks, who was anxiously and with muchfidgeting compounding a tumbler of punch to his own peculiartaste, occasionally looked up from his employment, and, pokinghis sharp nose and chin almost into Haley's face, gave the mostearnest heed to the whole narrative. The conclusion of itappeared to amuse him extremely, for he shook his shouldersand sides in silence, and perked up his thin lips with an airof great internal enjoyment.
"So, then, ye'r fairly sewed up, an't ye?" he said; "he!he! he! It's neatly done, too."
"This yer young-un business makes lots of trouble in thetrade," said Haley, dolefully.
"If we could get a breed of gals that didn't care, now,for their young uns," said Marks; "tell ye, I think 't would be'bout the greatest mod'rn improvement I knows on,"--and Markspatronized his joke by a quiet introductory sniggle.
"Jes so," said Haley; "I never couldn't see into it; younguns is heaps of trouble to 'em; one would think, now, they'd beglad to get clar on 'em; but they arn't. And the more trouble ayoung un is, and the more good for nothing, as a gen'l thing, thetighter they sticks to 'em."
"Wal, Mr. Haley," said Marks, "'est pass the hot water. Yes, sir, you say 'est what I feel and all'us have. Now, I boughta gal once, when I was in the trade,--a tight, likely wench shewas, too, and quite considerable smart,--and she had a young unthat was mis'able sickly; it had a crooked back, or something orother; and I jest gin 't away to a man that thought he'd take hischance raising on 't, being it didn't cost nothin';--never thought,yer know, of the gal's taking' on about it,--but, Lord, yer oughterseen how she went on. Why, re'lly, she did seem to me to valleythe child more 'cause _'t was_ sickly and cross, and plagued her;and she warn't making b'lieve, neither,--cried about it, she did,and lopped round, as if she'd lost every friend she had. It re'llywas droll to think on 't. Lord, there ain't no end to women's notions."
"Wal, jest so with me," said Haley. "Last summer, down onRed river, I got a gal traded off on me, with a likely lookin'child enough, and his eyes looked as bright as yourn; but, come tolook, I found him stone blind. Fact--he was stone blind. Wal, yesee, I thought there warn't no harm in my jest passing him along,and not sayin' nothin'; and I'd got him nicely swapped off for akeg o' whiskey; but come to get him away from the gal, she was jestlike a tiger. So 't was before we started, and I hadn't got mygang chained up; so what should she do but ups on a cotton-bale,like a cat, ketches a knife from one of the deck hands, and, I tellye, she made all fly for a minit, till she saw 't wan't no use;and she jest turns round, and pitches head first, young un and all,into the river,--went down plump, and never ris."
"Bah!" said Tom Loker, who had listened to these stories withill-repressed disgust,--"shif'less, both on ye! _my_ galsdon't cut up no such shines, I tell ye!"
"Indeed! how do you help it?" said Marks, briskly.
"Help it? why, I buys a gal, and if she's got a young unto be sold, I jest walks up and puts my fist to her face, and says,`Look here, now, if you give me one word out of your head, I'llsmash yer face in. I won't hear one word--not the beginning ofa word.' I says to 'em, `This yer young un's mine, and not yourn,and you've no kind o' business with it. I'm going to sell it,first chance; mind, you don't cut up none o' yer shines about it,or I'll make ye wish ye'd never been born.' I tell ye, they seesit an't no play, when I gets hold. I makes 'em as whist as fishes;and if one on 'em begins and gives a yelp, why,--" and Mr. Lokerbrought down his fist with a thump that fully explained the hiatus.
"That ar's what ye may call _emphasis_," said Marks, pokingHaley in the side, and going into another small giggle. "An't Tompeculiar? he! he! I say, Tom, I s'pect you make 'em _understand_,for all niggers' heads is woolly. They don't never have no doubto' your meaning, Tom. If you an't the devil, Tom, you 's histwin brother, I'll say that for ye!"
Tom received the compliment with becoming modesty, and beganto look as affable as was consistent, as John Bunyan says,"with his doggish nature."
Haley, who had been imbibing very freely of the staple ofthe evening, began to feel a sensible elevation and enlargement ofhis moral faculties,--a phenomenon not unusual with gentlemen ofa serious and reflective turn, under similar circumstances.
"Wal, now, Tom," he said, "ye re'lly is too bad, as I al'ayshave told ye; ye know, Tom, you and I used to talk over these yermatters down in Natchez, and I used to prove to ye that we madefull as much, and was as well off for this yer world, by treatin'on 'em well, besides keepin' a better chance for comin' in thekingdom at last, when wust comes to wust, and thar an't nothingelse left to get, ye know."
"Boh!" said Tom, "_don't_ I know?--don't make me too sickwith any yer stuff,--my stomach is a leetle riled now;" and Tomdrank half a glass of raw brandy.
"I say," said Haley, and leaning back in his chair andgesturing impressively, "I'll say this now, I al'ays meant to drivemy trade so as to make money on 't _fust and foremost_, as much asany man; but, then, trade an't everything, and money an't everything,'cause we 's all got souls. I don't care, now, who hears me sayit,--and I think a cussed sight on it,--so I may as well come outwith it. I b'lieve in religion, and one of these days, when I'vegot matters tight and snug, I calculates to tend to my soul andthem ar matters; and so what's the use of doin' any more wickednessthan 's re'lly necessary?--it don't seem to me it's 't all prudent."
"Tend to yer soul!" repeated Tom, contemptuously; "take abright lookout to find a soul in you,--save yourself any care onthat score. If the devil sifts you through a hair sieve, he won'tfind one."
"Why, Tom, you're cross," said Haley; "why can't ye takeit pleasant, now, when a feller's talking for your good?"
"Stop that ar jaw o' yourn, there," said Tom, gruffly. "I canstand most any talk o' yourn but your pious talk,--that kills meright up. After all, what's the odds between me and you? 'Tan't thatyou care one bit more, or have a bit more feelin'--it's clean,sheer, dog meanness, wanting to cheat the devil and save your ownskin; don't I see through it? And your `gettin' religion,' as youcall it, arter all, is too p'isin mean for any crittur;--run up abill with the devil all your life, and then sneak out when pay timecomes! Bob!"
"Come, come, gentlemen, I say; this isn't business," said Marks. "There's different ways, you know, of looking at all subjects. Mr. Haley is a very nice man, no doubt, and has his ownconscience; and, Tom, you have your ways, and very good ones, too,Tom; but quarrelling, you know, won't answer no kind of purpose. Let's go to business. Now, Mr. Haley, what is it?--you want us toundertake to catch this yer gal?"
"The gal's no matter of mine,--she's Shelby's; it's onlythe boy. I was a fool for buying the monkey!"
"You're generally a fool!" said Tom, gruffly.
"Come, now, Loker, none of your huffs," said Marks, lickinghis lips; "you see, Mr. Haley 's a puttin' us in a way of a goodjob, I reckon; just hold still--these yer arrangements is my forte. This yer gal, Mr. Haley, how is she? what is she?"
"Wal! white and handsome--well brought up. I'd a gin Shelbyeight hundred or a thousand, and then made well on her."
"White and handsome--well brought up!" said Marks, his sharpeyes, nose and mouth, all alive with enterprise. "Look here,now, Loker, a beautiful opening. We'll do a business here on ourown account;--we does the catchin'; the boy, of course, goes toMr. Haley,--we takes the gal to Orleans to speculate on. An't itbeautiful?"
Tom, whose great heavy mouth had stood ajar during thiscommunication, now suddenly snapped it together, as a big dog closeson a piece of meat, and seemed to be digesting the idea at his leisure.
"Ye see," said Marks to Haley, stirring his punch as hedid so, "ye see, we has justices convenient at all p'ints alongshore, that does up any little jobs in our line quite reasonable. Tom, he does the knockin' down and that ar; and I come in alldressed up--shining boots--everything first chop, when the swearin''s to be done. You oughter see, now," said Marks, in a glow ofprofessional pride, "how I can tone it off. One day, I'm Mr. Twickem, from New Orleans; 'nother day, I'm just come from myplantation on Pearl river, where I works seven hundred niggers;then, again, I come out a distant relation of Henry Clay, or someold cock in Kentuck. Talents is different, you know. Now, Tom'sroarer when there's any thumping or fighting to be done; but atlying he an't good, Tom an't,--ye see it don't come natural to him;but, Lord, if thar's a feller in the country that can swear toanything and everything, and put in all the circumstances andflourishes with a long face, and carry 't through better 'n I can,why, I'd like to see him, that's all! I b'lieve my heart, I couldget along and snake through, even if justices were more particularthan they is. Sometimes I rather wish they was more particular;'t would be a heap more relishin' if they was,--more fun, yer know."
Tom Loker, who, as we have made it appear, was a man ofslow thoughts and movements, here interrupted Marks by bringinghis heavy fist down on the table, so as to make all ring again,_"It'll do!"_ he said.
"Lord bless ye, Tom, ye needn't break all the glasses!"said Marks; "save your fist for time o' need."
"But, gentlemen, an't I to come in for a share of theprofits?" said Haley.
"An't it enough we catch the boy for ye?" said Loker. "What do ye want?"
"Wal," said Haley, "if I gives you the job, it's worthsomething,--say ten per cent. on the profits, expenses paid."
"Now," said Loker, with a tremendous oath, and striking thetable with his heavy fist, "don't I know _you_, Dan Haley? Don't you think to come it over me! Suppose Marks and I have takenup the catchin' trade, jest to 'commodate gentlemen like you, andget nothin' for ourselves?--Not by a long chalk! we'll have thegal out and out, and you keep quiet, or, ye see, we'll haveboth,--what's to hinder? Han't you show'd us the game? It's asfree to us as you, I hope. If you or Shelby wants to chase us,look where the partridges was last year; if you find them or us,you're quite welcome."
"O, wal, certainly, jest let it go at that," said Haley,alarmed; "you catch the boy for the job;--you allers did trade_far_ with me, Tom, and was up to yer word."
"Ye know that," said Tom; "I don't pretend none of yoursnivelling ways, but I won't lie in my 'counts with thedevil himself. What I ses I'll do, I will do,--you know_that_, Dan Haley."
"Jes so, jes so,--I said so, Tom," said Haley; "and if you'donly promise to have the boy for me in a week, at any pointyou'll name, that's all I want."
"But it an't all I want, by a long jump," said Tom. "Ye don'tthink I did business with you, down in Natchez, for nothing,Haley; I've learned to hold an eel, when I catch him. You've gotto fork over fifty dollars, flat down, or this child don't starta peg. I know yer."
"Why, when you have a job in hand that may bring a cleanprofit of somewhere about a thousand or sixteen hundred, why, Tom,you're onreasonable," said Haley.
"Yes, and hasn't we business booked for five weeks tocome,--all we can do? And suppose we leaves all, and goes tobush-whacking round arter yer young uns, and finally doesn'tcatch the gal,--and gals allers is the devil _to_ catch,--what'sthen? would you pay us a cent--would you? I think I see you adoin' it--ugh! No, no; flap down your fifty. If we get the job,and it pays, I'll hand it back; if we don't, it's for ourtrouble,--that's _far_, an't it, Marks?"
"Certainly, certainly," said Marks, with a conciliatory tone;"it's only a retaining fee, you see,--he! he! he!--we lawyers,you know. Wal, we must all keep good-natured,--keep easy, yer know. Tom'll have the boy for yer, anywhere ye'll name; won't ye, Tom?"
"If I find the young un, I'll bring him on to Cincinnati,and leave him at Granny Belcher's, on the landing," said Loker.
Marks had got from his pocket a greasy pocket-book, and takinga long paper from thence, he sat down, and fixing his keen blackeyes on it, began mumbling over its contents: "Barnes--ShelbyCounty--boy Jim, three hundred dollars for him, dead or alive.
"Edwards--Dick and Lucy--man and wife, six hundred dollars;wench Polly and two children--six hundred for her or her head.
"I'm jest a runnin' over our business, to see if we can take upthis yer handily. Loker," he said, after a pause, "we mustset Adams and Springer on the track of these yer; they've beenbooked some time."
"They'll charge too much," said Tom.
"I'll manage that ar; they 's young in the business, and mustspect to work cheap," said Marks, as he continued to read. "Ther's three on 'em easy cases, 'cause all you've got to do is toshoot 'em, or swear they is shot; they couldn't, of course, chargemuch for that. Them other cases," he said, folding the paper,"will bear puttin' off a spell. So now let's come to the particulars. Now, Mr. Haley, you saw this yer gal when she landed?"
"To be sure,--plain as I see you."
"And a man helpin' on her up the bank?" said Loker.
"To be sure, I did."
"Most likely," said Marks, "she's took in somewhere; butwhere, 's a question. Tom, what do you say?"
"We must cross the river tonight, no mistake," said Tom.
"But there's no boat about," said Marks. "The ice isrunning awfully, Tom; an't it dangerous?"
"Don'no nothing 'bout that,--only it's got to be done,"said Tom, decidedly.
"Dear me," said Marks, fidgeting, "it'll be--I say," he said,walking to the window, "it's dark as a wolf's mouth, and, Tom--"
"The long and short is, you're scared, Marks; but I can't helpthat,--you've got to go. Suppose you want to lie by a day ortwo, till the gal 's been carried on the underground line up toSandusky or so, before you start."
"O, no; I an't a grain afraid," said Marks, "only--"
"Only what?" said Tom.
"Well, about the boat. Yer see there an't any boat."
"I heard the woman say there was one coming along thisevening, and that a man was going to cross over in it. Neck ornothing, we must go with him," said Tom.
"I s'pose you've got good dogs," said Haley.
"First rate," said Marks. "But what's the use? you han'tgot nothin' o' hers to smell on."
"Yes, I have," said Haley, triumphantly. "Here's her shawlshe left on the bed in her hurry; she left her bonnet, too."
"That ar's lucky," said Loker; "fork over."
"Though the dogs might damage the gal, if they come on herunawars," said Haley.
"That ar's a consideration," said Marks. "Our dogs torea feller half to pieces, once, down in Mobile, 'fore we could get'em off."
"Well, ye see, for this sort that's to be sold for theirlooks, that ar won't answer, ye see," said Haley.
"I do see," said Marks. "Besides, if she's got took in,'tan't no go, neither. Dogs is no 'count in these yer up stateswhere these critters gets carried; of course, ye can't get ontheir track. They only does down in plantations, where niggers,when they runs, has to do their own running, and don't get no help."
"Well," said Loker, who had just stepped out to the bar to makesome inquiries, "they say the man's come with the boat; so, Marks--"
That worthy cast a rueful look at the comfortable quartershe was leaving, but slowly rose to obey. After exchanging a fewwords of further arrangement, Haley, with visible reluctance, handedover the fifty dollars to Tom, and the worthy trio separated forthe night.
If any of our refined and Christian readers object to thesociety into which this scene introduces them, let us beg them tobegin and conquer their prejudices in time. The catching business,we beg to remind them, is rising to the dignity of a lawful andpatriotic profession. If all the broad land between the Mississippiand the Pacific becomes one great market for bodies and souls, andhuman property retains the locomotive tendencies of this nineteenthcentury, the trader and catcher may yet be among our aristocracy.
While this scene was going on at the tavern, Sam and Andy,in a state of high felicitation, pursued their way home.
Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed hisexultation by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, bydivers odd motions and contortions of his whole system. Sometimeshe would sit backward, with his face to the horse's tail and sides,and then, with a whoop and a somerset, come right side up in hisplace again, and, drawing on a grave face, begin to lectureAndy in high-sounding tones for laughing and playing the fool. Anon, slapping his sides with his arms, he would burst forth inpeals of laughter, that made the old woods ring as they passed. With all these evolutions, he contrived to keep the horses up tothe top of their speed, until, between ten and eleven, their heelsresounded on the gravel at the end of the balcony. Mrs. Shelbyflew to the railings.
"Is that you, Sam? Where are they?"
"Mas'r Haley 's a-restin' at the tavern; he's dreffulfatigued, Missis."
"And Eliza, Sam?"
"Wal, she's clar 'cross Jordan. As a body may say, in theland o' Canaan."
"Why, Sam, what _do_ you mean?" said Mrs. Shelby, breathless,and almost faint, as the possible meaning of these words cameover her.
"Wal, Missis, de Lord he persarves his own. Lizy's done goneover the river into 'Hio, as 'markably as if de Lord took herover in a charrit of fire and two hosses."
Sam's vein of piety was always uncommonly fervent in hismistress' presence; and he made great capital of scriptural figuresand images.
"Come up here, Sam," said Mr. Shelby, who had followed on to theverandah, "and tell your mistress what she wants. Come, come,Emily," said he, passing his arm round her, "you are coldand all in a shiver; you allow yourself to feel too much."
"Feel too much! Am not I a woman,--a mother? Are we notboth responsible to God for this poor girl? My God! lay not thissin to our charge."
"What sin, Emily? You see yourself that we have only donewhat we were obliged to."
"There's an awful feeling of guilt about it, though," saidMrs. Shelby. "I can't reason it away."
"Here, Andy, you nigger, be alive!" called Sam, under theverandah; "take these yer hosses to der barn; don't ye hearMas'r a callin'?" and Sam soon appeared, palm-leaf in hand,at the parlor door.
"Now, Sam, tell us distinctly how the matter was," saidMr. Shelby. "Where is Eliza, if you know?"
"Wal, Mas'r, I saw her, with my own eyes, a crossin' onthe floatin' ice. She crossed most 'markably; it wasn't no lessnor a miracle; and I saw a man help her up the 'Hio side, and thenshe was lost in the dusk."
"Sam, I think this rather apocryphal,--this miracle. Crossing on floating ice isn't so easily done," said Mr. Shelby.
"Easy! couldn't nobody a done it, without de Lord. Why, now,"said Sam, "'t was jist dis yer way. Mas'r Haley, and me,and Andy, we comes up to de little tavern by the river, and I ridesa leetle ahead,--(I's so zealous to be a cotchin' Lizy, that Icouldn't hold in, no way),--and when I comes by the tavern winder,sure enough there she was, right in plain sight, and dey diggin'on behind. Wal, I loses off my hat, and sings out nuff to raisethe dead. Course Lizy she hars, and she dodges back, when Mas'rHaley he goes past the door; and then, I tell ye, she clared outde side door; she went down de river bank;--Mas'r Haley he seedher, and yelled out, and him, and me, and Andy, we took arter. Down she come to the river, and thar was the current running tenfeet wide by the shore, and over t' other side ice a sawin' and ajiggling up and down, kinder as 't were a great island. We comeright behind her, and I thought my soul he'd got her sure enough,--whenshe gin sich a screech as I never hearn, and thar she was, clarover t' other side of the current, on the ice, and then on shewent, a screeching and a jumpin',--the ice went crack! c'wallop!cracking! chunk! and she a boundin' like a buck! Lord, the springthat ar gal's got in her an't common, I'm o' 'pinion."
Mrs. Shelby sat perfectly silent, pale with excitement,while Sam told his story.
"God be praised, she isn't dead!" she said; "but where isthe poor child now?"
"De Lord will pervide," said Sam, rolling up his eyes piously. "As I've been a sayin', dis yer 's a providence and no mistake,as Missis has allers been a instructin' on us. Thar's allersinstruments ris up to do de Lord's will. Now, if 't hadn'tbeen for me today, she'd a been took a dozen times. Warn't it Istarted off de hosses, dis yer morning' and kept 'em chasin' tillnigh dinner time? And didn't I car Mas'r Haley night five milesout of de road, dis evening, or else he'd a come up with Lizy aseasy as a dog arter a coon. These yer 's all providences."
"They are a kind of providences that you'll have to bepretty sparing of, Master Sam. I allow no such practices withgentlemen on my place," said Mr. Shelby, with as much sternnessas he could command, under the circumstances.
Now, there is no more use in making believe be angry witha negro than with a child; both instinctively see the true stateof the case, through all attempts to affect the contrary; and Samwas in no wise disheartened by this rebuke, though he assumed anair of doleful gravity, and stood with the corners of his mouthlowered in most penitential style.
"Mas'r quite right,--quite; it was ugly on me,--there's nodisputin' that ar; and of course Mas'r and Missis wouldn't encourageno such works. I'm sensible of dat ar; but a poor nigger like me's 'mazin' tempted to act ugly sometimes, when fellers will cut upsuch shines as dat ar Mas'r Haley; he an't no gen'l'man no way;anybody's been raised as I've been can't help a seein' dat ar."
"Well, Sam," said Mrs. Shelby, "as you appear to have aproper sense of your errors, you may go now and tell Aunt Chloeshe may get you some of that cold ham that was left of dinner today. You and Andy must be hungry."
"Missis is a heap too good for us," said Sam, making hisbow with alacrity, and departing.
It will be perceived, as has been before intimated, thatMaster Sam had a native talent that might, undoubtedly, have raisedhim to eminence in political life,--a talent of making capital outof everything that turned up, to be invested for his own especialpraise and glory; and having done up his piety and humility, as hetrusted, to the satisfaction of the parlor, he clapped his palm-leafon his head, with a sort of rakish, free-and-easy air, and proceededto the dominions of Aunt Chloe, with the intention of flourishinglargely in the kitchen.
"I'll speechify these yer niggers," said Sam to himself,"now I've got a chance. Lord, I'll reel it off to make 'em stare!"
It must be observed that one of Sam's especial delightshad been to ride in attendance on his master to all kinds ofpolitical gatherings, where, roosted on some rail fence, or perchedaloft in some tree, he would sit watching the orators, with thegreatest apparent gusto, and then, descending among the variousbrethren of his own color, assembled on the same errand, he wouldedify and delight them with the most ludicrous burlesques andimitations, all delivered with the most imperturbable earnestnessand solemnity; and though the auditors immediately about him weregenerally of his own color, it not unfrequently happened that theywere fringed pretty deeply with those of a fairer complexion, wholistened, laughing and winking, to Sam's great self-congratulation. In fact, Sam considered oratory as his vocation, and never let slipan opportunity of magnifying his office.
Now, between Sam and Aunt Chloe there had existed, from ancienttimes, a sort of chronic feud, or rather a decided coolness;but, as Sam was meditating something in the provision department,as the necessary and obvious foundation of his operations, hedetermined, on the present occasion, to be eminently conciliatory;for he well knew that although "Missis' orders" would undoubtedlybe followed to the letter, yet he should gain a considerable dealby enlisting the spirit also. He therefore appeared before AuntChloe with a touchingly subdued, resigned expression, like one whohas suffered immeasurable hardships in behalf of a persecutedfellow-creature,--enlarged upon the fact that Missis had directedhim to come to Aunt Chloe for whatever might be wanting to make upthe balance in his solids and fluids,--and thus unequivocallyacknowledged her right and supremacy in the cooking department,and all thereto pertaining.
The thing took accordingly. No poor, simple, virtuous body wasever cajoled by the attentions of an electioneering politicianwith more ease than Aunt Chloe was won over by Master Sam's suavities;and if he had been the prodigal son himself, he could not have beenoverwhelmed with more maternal bountifulness; and he soon foundhimself seated, happy and glorious, over a large tin pan, containinga sort of _olla podrida_ of all that had appeared on the table fortwo or three days past. Savory morsels of ham, golden blocks ofcorn-cake, fragments of pie of every conceivable mathematicalfigure, chicken wings, gizzards, and drumsticks, all appeared inpicturesque confusion; and Sam, as monarch of all he surveyed, satwith his palm-leaf cocked rejoicingly to one side, and patronizingAndy at his right hand.
The kitchen was full of all his compeers, who had hurried andcrowded in, from the various cabins, to hear the terminationof the day's exploits. Now was Sam's hour of glory. The story ofthe day was rehearsed, with all kinds of ornament and varnishingwhich might be necessary to heighten its effect; for Sam, like someof our fashionable dilettanti, never allowed a story to lose anyof its gilding by passing through his hands. Roars of laughterattended the narration, and were taken up and prolonged by all thesmaller fry, who were lying, in any quantity, about on the floor,or perched in every corner. In the height of the uproar andlaughter, Sam, however, preserved an immovable gravity, only fromtime to time rolling his eyes up, and giving his auditors diversinexpressibly droll glances, without departing from the sententiouselevation of his oratory.
"Yer see, fellow-countrymen," said Sam, elevating a turkey'sleg, with energy, "yer see, now what dis yer chile 's up ter, forfendin' yer all,--yes, all on yer. For him as tries to get one o'our people is as good as tryin' to get all; yer see the principle's de same,--dat ar's clar. And any one o' these yer drivers thatcomes smelling round arter any our people, why, he's got _me_ inhis way; _I'm_ the feller he's got to set in with,--I'm the fellerfor yer all to come to, bredren,--I'll stand up for yer rights,--I'llfend 'em to the last breath!"
"Why, but Sam, yer telled me, only this mornin', that you'dhelp this yer Mas'r to cotch Lizy; seems to me yer talk don't hangtogether," said Andy.
"I tell you now, Andy," said Sam, with awful superiority,"don't yer be a talkin' 'bout what yer don't know nothin' on; boyslike you, Andy, means well, but they can't be spected to collusitatethe great principles of action."
Andy looked rebuked, particularly by the hard word collusitate,which most of the youngerly members of the company seemed to consideras a settler in the case, while Sam proceeded.
"Dat ar was _conscience_, Andy; when I thought of gwinearter Lizy, I railly spected Mas'r was sot dat way. When I foundMissis was sot the contrar, dat ar was conscience _more yet_,--causefellers allers gets more by stickin' to Missis' side,--so yer seeI 's persistent either way, and sticks up to conscience, and holdson to principles. Yes, _principles_," said Sam, giving an enthusiastictoss to a chicken's neck,--"what's principles good for, if we isn'tpersistent, I wanter know? Thar, Andy, you may have dat ar bone,--tan'tpicked quite clean."
Sam's audience hanging on his words with open mouth, hecould not but proceed.
"Dis yer matter 'bout persistence, feller-niggers," said Sam,with the air of one entering into an abstruse subject, "disyer 'sistency 's a thing what an't seed into very clar, by mostanybody. Now, yer see, when a feller stands up for a thing oneday and night, de contrar de next, folks ses (and nat'rallyenough dey ses), why he an't persistent,--hand me dat ar bit o'corn-cake, Andy. But let's look inter it. I hope the gen'lmenand der fair sex will scuse my usin' an or'nary sort o' 'parison. Here! I'm a trying to get top o' der hay. Wal, I puts up my larderdis yer side; 'tan't no go;--den, cause I don't try dere no more,but puts my larder right de contrar side, an't I persistent? I'm persistent in wantin' to get up which ary side my larder is;don't you see, all on yer?"
"It's the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows!"muttered Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive; the merrimentof the evening being to her somewhat after the Scripturecomparison,--like "vinegar upon nitre."
"Yes, indeed!" said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory,for a closing effort. "Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of deother sex in general, I has principles,--I'm proud to 'oon 'em,--they's perquisite to dese yer times, and ter _all_ times. I hasprinciples, and I sticks to 'em like forty,--jest anything that Ithinks is principle, I goes in to 't;--I wouldn't mind if dey burntme 'live,--I'd walk right up to de stake, I would, and say, hereI comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fur my country,fur de gen'l interests of society."
"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "one o' yer principles will have to beto get to bed some time tonight, and not be a keepin' everybodyup till mornin'; now, every one of you young uns that don't wantto be cracked, had better be scase, mighty sudden."
"Niggers! all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf withbenignity, "I give yer my blessin'; go to bed now, and be good boys."
And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.
CHAPTER IX
In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man
The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpetof a cosey parlor, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups andwell-brightened tea-pot, as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots,preparatory to inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers,which his wife had been working for him while away on his senatorialtour. Mrs. Bird, looking the very picture of delight, wassuperintending the arrangements of the table, ever and anon minglingadmonitory remarks to a number of frolicsome juveniles, who wereeffervescing in all those modes of untold gambol and mischief thathave astonished mothers ever since the flood.
"Tom, let the door-knob alone,--there's a man! Mary! Mary!don't pull the cat's tail,--poor pussy! Jim, you mustn't climb onthat table,--no, no!--You don't know, my dear, what a surprise itis to us all, to see you here tonight!" said she, at last, whenshe found a space to say something to her husband.
"Yes, yes, I thought I'd just make a run down, spend the night,and have a little comfort at home. I'm tired to death, andmy head aches!"
Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stoodin the half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach toit, but her husband interposed.
"No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your good hot tea, andsome of our good home living, is what I want. It's a tiresomebusiness, this legislating!"
And the senator smiled, as if he rather liked the idea ofconsidering himself a sacrifice to his country.
"Well," said his wife, after the business of the tea-table wasgetting rather slack, "and what have they been doing in the Senate?"
Now, it was a very unusual thing for gentle little Mrs. Birdever to trouble her head with what was going on in the houseof the state, very wisely considering that she had enough to do tomind her own. Mr. Bird, therefore, opened his eyes in surprise,and said,
"Not very much of importance."
"Well; but is it true that they have been passing a lawforbidding people to give meat and drink to those poor coloredfolks that come along? I heard they were talking of some such law,but I didn't think any Christian legislature would pass it!"
"Why, Mary, you are getting to be a politician, all at once."
"No, nonsense! I wouldn't give a fip for all your politics,generally, but I think this is something downright cruel andunchristian. I hope, my dear, no such law has been passed."
"There has been a law passed forbidding people to help offthe slaves that come over from Kentucky, my dear; so much of thatthing has been done by these reckless Abolitionists, that ourbrethren in Kentucky are very strongly excited, and it seemsnecessary, and no more than Christian and kind, that somethingshould be done by our state to quiet the excitement."
"And what is the law? It don't forbid us to shelter those poorcreatures a night, does it, and to give 'em something comfortableto eat, and a few old clothes, and send them quietly about theirbusiness?"
"Why, yes, my dear; that would be aiding and abetting, you know."
Mrs. Bird was a timid, blushing little woman, of about four feetin height, and with mild blue eyes, and a peach-blow complexion,and the gentlest, sweetest voice in the world;--as for courage,a moderate-sized cock-turkey had been known to put her to routat the very first gobble, and a stout house-dog, of moderatecapacity, would bring her into subjection merely by a show ofhis teeth. Her husband and children were her entire world, and inthese she ruled more by entreaty and persuasion than by commandor argument. There was only one thing that was capable of arousingher, and that provocation came in on the side of her unusuallygentle and sympathetic nature;--anything in the shape of crueltywould throw her into a passion, which was the more alarming andinexplicable in proportion to the general softness of her nature. Generally the most indulgent and easy to be entreated of all mothers,still her boys had a very reverent remembrance of a most vehementchastisement she once bestowed on them, because she found themleagued with several graceless boys of the neighborhood, stoninga defenceless kitten.
"I'll tell you what," Master Bill used to say, "I was scaredthat time. Mother came at me so that I thought she was crazy, andI was whipped and tumbled off to bed, without any supper, beforeI could get over wondering what had come about; and, after that,I heard mother crying outside the door, which made me feel worsethan all the rest. I'll tell you what," he'd say, "we boys neverstoned another kitten!"
On the present occasion, Mrs. Bird rose quickly, with veryred cheeks, which quite improved her general appearance, and walkedup to her husband, with quite a resolute air, and said, in adetermined tone,
"Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as thatis right and Christian?"
"You won't shoot me, now, Mary, if I say I do!"
"I never could have thought it of you, John; you didn'tvote for it?"
"Even so, my fair politician."
"You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless creatures! It's a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I'll break it,for one, the first time I get a chance; and I hope I _shall_have a chance, I do! Things have got to a pretty pass, if a womancan't give a warm supper and a bed to poor, starving creatures,just because they are slaves, and have been abused and oppressedall their lives, poor things!"
"But, Mary, just listen to me. Your feelings are all quiteright, dear, and interesting, and I love you for them; but, then,dear, we mustn't suffer our feelings to run away with our judgment;you must consider it's a matter of private feeling,--there aregreat public interests involved,--there is such a state of publicagitation rising, that we must put aside our private feelings."
"Now, John, I don't know anything about politics, but I can readmy Bible; and there I see that I must feed the hungry, clothethe naked, and comfort the desolate; and that Bible I meanto follow."
"But in cases where your doing so would involve a greatpublic evil--"
"Obeying God never brings on public evils. I know it can't. It's always safest, all round, to _do as He_ bids us.
"Now, listen to me, Mary, and I can state to you a veryclear argument, to show--"
"O, nonsense, John! you can talk all night, but you wouldn'tdo it. I put it to you, John,--would _you_ now turn away a poor,shivering, hungry creature from your door, because he was a runaway? _Would_ you, now?"
Now, if the truth must be told, our senator had the misfortuneto be a man who had a particularly humane and accessible nature,and turning away anybody that was in trouble never had been hisforte; and what was worse for him in this particular pinch of theargument was, that his wife knew it, and, of course was making anassault on rather an indefensible point. So he had recourse to theusual means of gaining time for such cases made and provided; he said"ahem," and coughed several times, took out his pocket-handkerchief,and began to wipe his glasses. Mrs. Bird, seeing the defencelesscondition of the enemy's territory, had no more conscience than topush her advantage.
"I should like to see you doing that, John--I really should! Turning a woman out of doors in a snowstorm, for instance; or maybe you'd take her up and put her in jail, wouldn't you? You wouldmake a great hand at that!"
"Of course, it would be a very painful duty," began Mr. Bird,in a moderate tone.
"Duty, John! don't use that word! You know it isn't a duty--itcan't be a duty! If folks want to keep their slaves fromrunning away, let 'em treat 'em well,--that's my doctrine. If Ihad slaves (as I hope I never shall have), I'd risk their wantingto run away from me, or you either, John. I tell you folks don'trun away when they are happy; and when they do run, poor creatures!they suffer enough with cold and hunger and fear, without everybody'sturning against them; and, law or no law, I never will, so help me God!"
"Mary! Mary! My dear, let me reason with you."
"I hate reasoning, John,--especially reasoning on such subjects. There's a way you political folks have of coming round and rounda plain right thing; and you don't believe in it yourselves, whenit comes to practice. I know _you_ well enough, John. You don'tbelieve it's right any more than I do; and you wouldn't do it anysooner than I."
At this critical juncture, old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work,put his head in at the door, and wished "Missis would come intothe kitchen;" and our senator, tolerably relieved, looked afterhis little wife with a whimsical mixture of amusement and vexation,and, seating himself in the arm-chair, began to read the papers.
After a moment, his wife's voice was heard at the door, in a quick,earnest tone,--"John! John! I do wish you'd come here, a moment."
He laid down his paper, and went into the kitchen, and started,quite amazed at the sight that presented itself:--A youngand slender woman, with garments torn and frozen, with one shoegone, and the stocking torn away from the cut and bleeding foot,was laid back in a deadly swoon upon two chairs. There was theimpress of the despised race on her face, yet none could helpfeeling its mournful and pathetic beauty, while its stony sharpness,its cold, fixed, deathly aspect, struck a solemn chill over him. He drew his breath short, and stood in silence. His wife, andtheir only colored domestic, old Aunt Dinah, were busily engagedin restorative measures; while old Cudjoe had got the boy on hisknee, and was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings, and chafinghis little cold feet.
"Sure, now, if she an't a sight to behold!" said old Dinah,compassionately; "'pears like 't was the heat that made her faint. She was tol'able peart when she cum in, and asked if she couldn'twarm herself here a spell; and I was just a-askin' her where shecum from, and she fainted right down. Never done much hard work,guess, by the looks of her hands."
"Poor creature!" said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the womanslowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked vacantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony crossed her face, and shesprang up, saying, "O, my Harry! Have they got him?"
The boy, at this, jumped from Cudjoe's knee, and runningto her side put up his arms. "O, he's here! he's here!" sheexclaimed.
"O, ma'am!" said she, wildly, to Mrs. Bird, "do protectus! don't let them get him!"
"Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman," said Mrs. Bird,encouragingly. "You are safe; don't be afraid."
"God bless you!" said the woman, covering her face and sobbing;while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get intoher lap.
With many gentle and womanly offices, which none knew betterhow to render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was, in time, renderedmore calm. A temporary bed was provided for her on the settle,near the fire; and, after a short time, she fell into a heavyslumber, with the child, who seemed no less weary, soundly sleepingon her arm; for the mother resisted, with nervous anxiety, thekindest attempts to take him from her; and, even in sleep, her armencircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if she could not eventhen be beguiled of her vigilant hold.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlor, where, strangeas it may appear, no reference was made, on either side, tothe preceding conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied herself withher knitting-work, and Mr. Bird pretended to be reading the paper.
"I wonder who and what she is!" said Mr. Bird, at last, ashe laid it down.
"When she wakes up and feels a little rested, we will see,"said Mrs. Bird.
"I say, wife!" said Mr. Bird after musing in silence overhis newspaper.
"Well, dear!"
"She couldn't wear one of your gowns, could she, by anyletting down, or such matter? She seems to be rather larger thanyou are."
A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird's face,as she answered, "We'll see."
Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out,
"I say, wife!"
"Well! What now?"
"Why, there's that old bombazin cloak, that you keep on purposeto put over me when I take my afternoon's nap; you might as wellgive her that,--she needs clothes."
At this instant, Dinah looked in to say that the woman wasawake, and wanted to see Missis.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the twoeldest boys, the smaller fry having, by this time, been safelydisposed of in bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle, by the fire. She was looking steadily into the blaze, with a calm, heart-brokenexpression, very different from her former agitated wildness.
"Did you want me?" said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. "I hope youfeel better now, poor woman!"
A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but shelifted her dark eyes, and fixed them on her with such a forlornand imploring expression, that the tears came into the littlewoman's eyes.
"You needn't be afraid of anything; we are friends here, poor woman! Tell me where you came from, and what you want," said she.
"I came from Kentucky," said the woman.
"When?" said Mr. Bird, taking up the interogatory.
"Tonight."
"How did you come?"
"I crossed on the ice."
"Crossed on the ice!" said every one present.
"Yes," said the woman, slowly, "I did. God helping me, Icrossed on the ice; for they were behind me--right behind--andthere was no other way!"
"Law, Missis," said Cudjoe, "the ice is all in broken-upblocks, a swinging and a tetering up and down in the water!"
"I know it was--I know it!" said she, wildly; "but I did it! I wouldn't have thought I could,--I didn't think I should getover, but I didn't care! I could but die, if I didn't. The Lordhelped me; nobody knows how much the Lord can help 'em, till theytry," said the woman, with a flashing eye.
"Were you a slave?" said Mr. Bird.
"Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky."
"Was he unkind to you?"
"No, sir; he was a good master."
"And was your mistress unkind to you?"
"No, sir--no! my mistress was always good to me."
"What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and runaway, and go through such dangers?"
The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scrutinizingglance, and it did not escape her that she was dressed in deepmourning.
"Ma'am," she said, suddenly, "have you ever lost a child?"
The question was unexpected, and it was thrust on a new wound;for it was only a month since a darling child of the familyhad been laid in the grave.
Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird burst into tears; but, recovering her voice, she said,
"Why do you ask that? I have lost a little one."
"Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one afteranother,--left 'em buried there when I came away; and I had onlythis one left. I never slept a night without him; he was all I had. He was my comfort and pride, day and night; and, ma'am, theywere going to take him away from me,--to _sell_ him,--sell him downsouth, ma'am, to go all alone,--a baby that had never been awayfrom his mother in his life! I couldn't stand it, ma'am. I knewI never should be good for anything, if they did; and when I knewthe papers the papers were signed, and he was sold, I took him andcame off in the night; and they chased me,--the man that boughthim, and some of Mas'r's folks,--and they were coming down rightbehind me, and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the ice; and howI got across, I don't know,--but, first I knew, a man was helpingme up the bank."
The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a placewhere tears are dry; but every one around her was, in some waycharacteristic of themselves, showing signs of hearty sympathy.
The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in their pockets,in search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers know arenever to be found there, had thrown themselves disconsolatelyinto the skirts of their mother's gown, where they were sobbing,and wiping their eyes and noses, to their hearts' content;--Mrs. Bird had her face fairly hidden in her pocket-handkerchief; andold Dinah, with tears streaming down her black, honest face, wasejaculating, "Lord have mercy on us!" with all the fervor of acamp-meeting;--while old Cudjoe, rubbing his eyes very hard withhis cuffs, and making a most uncommon variety of wry faces,occasionally responded in the same key, with great fervor. Oursenator was a statesman, and of course could not be expected tocry, like other mortals; and so he turned his back to the company,and looked out of the window, and seemed particularly busy inclearing his throat and wiping his spectacle-glasses, occasionallyblowing his nose in a manner that was calculated to excite suspicion,had any one been in a state to observe critically.
"How came you to tell me you had a kind master?" he suddenlyexclaimed, gulping down very resolutely some kind of rising in histhroat, and turning suddenly round upon the woman.
"Because he _was_ a kind master; I'll say that of him, anyway;--and my mistress was kind; but they couldn't help themselves. They were owing money; and there was some way, I can't tell how,that a man had a hold on them, and they were obliged to give himhis will. I listened, and heard him telling mistress that, andshe begging and pleading for me,--and he told her he couldn'thelp himself, and that the papers were all drawn;--and thenit was I took him and left my home, and came away. I knew 'twas no use of my trying to live, if they did it; for 't 'pears likethis child is all I have."
"Have you no husband?"
"Yes, but he belongs to another man. His master is real hardto him, and won't let him come to see me, hardly ever; andhe's grown harder and harder upon us, and he threatens to sell himdown south;--it's like I'll never see _him_ again!"
The quiet tone in which the woman pronounced these words mighthave led a superficial observer to think that she was entirelyapathetic; but there was a calm, settled depth of anguish in herlarge, dark eye, that spoke of something far otherwise.
"And where do you mean to go, my poor woman?" said Mrs. Bird.
"To Canada, if I only knew where that was. Is it very far off,is Canada?" said she, looking up, with a simple, confiding air,to Mrs. Bird's face.
"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bird, involuntarily.
"Is 't a very great way off, think?" said the woman, earnestly.
"Much further than you think, poor child!" said Mrs. Bird;"but we will try to think what can be done for you. Here, Dinah,make her up a bed in your own room, close by the kitchen, and I'llthink what to do for her in the morning. Meanwhile, never fear,poor woman; put your trust in God; he will protect you."
Mrs. Bird and her husband reentered the parlor. She sat downin her little rocking-chair before the fire, swaying thoughtfullyto and fro. Mr. Bird strode up and down the room, grumbling tohimself, "Pish! pshaw! confounded awkward business!" At length,striding up to his wife, he said,
"I say, wife, she'll have to get away from here, this very night. That fellow will be down on the scent bright and early tomorrowmorning: if 't was only the woman, she could lie quiet till it wasover; but that little chap can't be kept still by a troop of horseand foot, I'll warrant me; he'll bring it all out, popping his headout of some window or door. A pretty kettle of fish it would befor me, too, to be caught with them both here, just now! No; they'llhave to be got off tonight."
"Tonight! How is it possible?--where to?"
"Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, beginningto put on his boots, with a reflective air; and, stopping whenhis leg was half in, he embraced his knee with both hands,and seemed to go off in deep meditation.
"It's a confounded awkward, ugly business," said he, at last,beginning to tug at his boot-straps again, "and that's a fact!" After one boot was fairly on, the senator sat with the otherin his hand, profoundly studying the figure of the carpet. "Itwill have to be done, though, for aught I see,--hang it all!" andhe drew the other boot anxiously on, and looked out of the window.
Now, little Mrs. Bird was a discreet woman,--a woman whonever in her life said, "I told you so!" and, on the presentoccasion, though pretty well aware of the shape her husband'smeditations were taking, she very prudently forbore to meddle withthem, only sat very quietly in her chair, and looked quite readyto hear her liege lord's intentions, when he should think properto utter them.
"You see," he said, "there's my old client, Van Trompe, has comeover from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free; and he hasbought a place seven miles up the creek, here, back in thewoods, where nobody goes, unless they go on purpose; and it's aplace that isn't found in a hurry. There she'd be safe enough;but the plague of the thing is, nobody could drive a carriage theretonight, but _me_."
"Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver."
"Ay, ay, but here it is. The creek has to be crossed twice;and the second crossing is quite dangerous, unless one knows it asI do. I have crossed it a hundred times on horseback, and knowexactly the turns to take. And so, you see, there's no help for it. Cudjoe must put in the horses, as quietly as may be, abouttwelve o'clock, and I'll take her over; and then, to give color tothe matter, he must carry me on to the next tavern to take thestage for Columbus, that comes by about three or four, and so itwill look as if I had had the carriage only for that. I shall getinto business bright and early in the morning. But I'm thinkingI shall feel rather cheap there, after all that's been said anddone; but, hang it, I can't help it!"
"Your heart is better than your head, in this case, John,"said the wife, laying her little white hand on his. "Could I everhave loved you, had I not known you better than you know yourself?" And the little woman looked so handsome, with the tears sparklingin her eyes, that the senator thought he must be a decidedly cleverfellow, to get such a pretty creature into such a passionateadmiration of him; and so, what could he do but walk off soberly,to see about the carriage. At the door, however, he stopped amoment, and then coming back, he said, with some hesitation.
"Mary, I don't know how you'd feel about it, but there's thatdrawer full of things--of--of--poor little Henry's." So saying,he turned quickly on his heel, and shut the door after him.
His wife opened the little bed-room door adjoining her room and,taking the candle, set it down on the top of a bureau there;then from a small recess she took a key, and put it thoughtfullyin the lock of a drawer, and made a sudden pause, while two boys,who, boy like, had followed close on her heels, stood looking, withsilent, significant glances, at their mother. And oh! mother thatreads this, has there never been in your house a drawer, or a closet,the opening of which has been to you like the opening again of alittle grave? Ah! happy mother that you are, if it has not been so.
Mrs. Bird slowly opened the drawer. There were little coatsof many a form and pattern, piles of aprons, and rows of smallstockings; and even a pair of little shoes, worn and rubbedat the toes, were peeping from the folds of a paper. There was atoy horse and wagon, a top, a ball,--memorials gathered with manya tear and many a heart-break! She sat down by the drawer, and,leaning her head on her hands over it, wept till the tears fellthrough her fingers into the drawer; then suddenly raising herhead, she began, with nervous haste, selecting the plainest andmost substantial articles, and gathering them into a bundle.
"Mamma," said one of the boys, gently touching her arm,"you going to give away _those_ things?"
"My dear boys," she said, softly and earnestly, "if our dear,loving little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be gladto have us do this. I could not find it in my heart to give themaway to any common person--to anybody that was happy; but I givethem to a mother more heart-broken and sorrowful than I am; and Ihope God will send his blessings with them!"
There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows allspring up into joys for others; whose earthly hopes, laid in thegrave with many tears, are the seed from which spring healingflowers and balm for the desolate and the distressed. Among suchwas the delicate woman who sits there by the lamp, dropping slowtears, while she prepares the memorials of her own lost one forthe outcast wanderer.
After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking fromthence a plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down busilyto her work-table, and, with needle, scissors, and thimble, athand, quietly commenced the "letting down" process which her husbandhad recommended, and continued busily at it till the old clock inthe corner struck twelve, and she heard the low rattling of wheelsat the door.
"Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat inhis hand, "you must wake her up now; we must be off."
Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she hadcollected in a small plain trunk, and locking it, desired herhusband to see it in the carriage, and then proceeded to callthe woman. Soon, arrayed in a cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that hadbelonged to her benefactress, she appeared at the door with herchild in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her into the carriage, andMrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage steps. Eliza leanedout of the carriage, and put out her hand,--a hand as soft andbeautiful as was given in return. She fixed her large, dark eyes,full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face, and seemed going tospeak. Her lips moved,--she tried once or twice, but there was nosound,--and pointing upward, with a look never to be forgotten,she fell back in the seat, and covered her face. The door wasshut, and the carriage drove on.
What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had beenall the week before spurring up the legislature of his nativestate to pass more stringent resolutions against escaping fugitives,their harborers and abettors!
Our good senator in his native state had not been exceededby any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquencewhich has won for them immortal renown! How sublimely he had satwith his hands in his pockets, and scouted all sentimental weaknessof those who would put the welfare of a few miserable fugitivesbefore great state interests!
He was as bold as a lion about it, and "mightily convinced"not only himself, but everybody that heard him;--but then his ideaof a fugitive was only an idea of the letters that spell theword,--or at the most, the image of a little newspaper picture ofa man with a stick and bundle with "Ran away from the subscriber"under it. The magic of the real presence of distress,--theimploring human eye, the frail, trembling human hand, thedespairing appeal of helpless agony,--these he had never tried. He had never thought that a fugitive might be a hapless mother,a defenceless child,--like that one which was now wearing hislost boy's little well-known cap; and so, as our poor senatorwas not stone or steel,--as he was a man, and a downrightnoble-hearted one, too,--he was, as everybody must see, in a sadcase for his patriotism. And you need not exult over him, goodbrother of the Southern States; for we have some inklings thatmany of you, under similar circumstances, would not do much better. We have reason to know, in Kentucky, as in Mississippi, are nobleand generous hearts, to whom never was tale of suffering told in vain. Ah, good brother! is it fair for you to expect of us services whichyour own brave, honorable heart would not allow you to render,were you in our place?
Be that as it may, if our good senator was a political sinner,he was in a fair way to expiate it by his night's penance. There had been a long continuous period of rainy weather, and thesoft, rich earth of Ohio, as every one knows, is admirably suitedto the manufacture of mud--and the road was an Ohio railroad ofthe good old times.
"And pray, what sort of a road may that be?" says some easterntraveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas witha railroad, but those of smoothness or speed.
Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted regionsof the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth,roads are made of round rough logs, arranged transversely sideby side, and coated over in their pristine freshness with earth,turf, and whatsoever may come to hand, and then the rejoicingnative calleth it a road, and straightway essayeth to ride thereupon. In process of time, the rains wash off all the turf and grassaforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in picturesque positions,up, down and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts of black mudintervening.
Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along,making moral reflections as continuously as under the circumstancescould be expected,--the carriage proceeding along much asfollows,--bump! bump! bump! slush! down in the mud!--the senator,woman and child, reversing their positions so suddenly as to come,without any very accurate adjustment, against the windows of thedown-hill side. Carriage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outsideis heard making a great muster among the horses. After variousineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is losingall patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce,--twofront wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, andchild, all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat,--senator'shat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite unceremoniously, and heconsiders himself fairly extinguished;--child cries, and Cudjoe onthe outside delivers animated addresses to the horses, who arekicking, and floundering, and straining under repeated cracks ofthe whip. Carriage springs up, with another bounce,--down go thehind wheels,--senator, woman, and child, fly over on to the backseat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both her feet beingjammed into his hat, which flies off in the concussion. After afew moments the "slough" is passed, and the horses stop, panting;--thesenator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet and hushesher child, and they brace themselves for what is yet to come.
For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled,just by way of variety, with divers side plunges and compoundshakes; and they begin to flatter themselves that they are not sobadly off, after all. At last, with a square plunge, which putsall on to their feet and then down into their seats withincredible quickness, the carriage stops,--and, after muchoutside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door.
"Please, sir, it's powerful bad spot, this' yer. I don'tknow how we's to get clar out. I'm a thinkin' we'll have to be agettin' rails."
The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for somefirm foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth,--hetries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into themud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe.
But we forbear, out of sympathy to our readers' bones. Western travellers, who have beguiled the midnight hour in theinteresting process of pulling down rail fences, to pry theircarriages out of mud holes, will have a respectful and mournfulsympathy with our unfortunate hero. We beg them to drop a silenttear, and pass on.
It was full late in the night when the carriage emerged,dripping and bespattered, out of the creek, and stood at the doorof a large farmhouse.
It took no inconsiderable perseverance to arouse the inmates;but at last the respectable proprietor appeared, and undid the door. He was a great, tall, bristling Orson of a fellow, full six feetand some inches in his stockings, and arrayed in a red flannelhunting-shirt. A very heavy mat of sandy hair, in a decidedlytousled condition, and a beard of some days' growth, gave the worthyman an appearance, to say the least, not particularly prepossessing. He stood for a few minutes holding the candle aloft, and blinkingon our travellers with a dismal and mystified expression that wastruly ludicrous. It cost some effort of our senator to induce himto comprehend the case fully; and while he is doing his best atthat, we shall give him a little introduction to our readers.
Honest old John Van Trompe was once quite a considerable land-ownerand slave-owner in the State of Kentucky. Having "nothing of thebear about him but the skin," and being gifted by nature witha great, honest, just heart, quite equal to his gigantic frame,he had been for some years witnessing with repressed uneasinessthe workings of a system equally bad for oppressor and oppressed. At last, one day, John's great heart had swelled altogether toobig to wear his bonds any longer; so he just took his pocket-bookout of his desk, and went over into Ohio, and bought a quarter ofa township of good, rich land, made out free papers for all hispeople,--men, women, and children,--packed them up in wagons, andsent them off to settle down; and then honest John turned his faceup the creek, and sat quietly down on a snug, retired farm, toenjoy his conscience and his reflections.
"Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and childfrom slave-catchers?" said the senator, explicitly.
"I rather think I am," said honest John, with some considerable emphasis.
"I thought so,"' said the senator.
"If there's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching his tall,muscular form upward, "why here I'm ready for him: and I've gotseven sons, each six foot high, and they'll be ready for 'em. Give our respects to 'em," said John; "tell 'em it's no matterhow soon they call,--make no kinder difference to us," said John,running his fingers through the shock of hair that thatched hishead, and bursting out into a great laugh.
Weary, jaded, and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up tothe door, with her child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm. The rough man held the candle to her face, and uttering a kind ofcompassionate grunt, opened the door of a small bed-room adjoiningto the large kitchen where they were standing, and motioned herto go in. He took down a candle, and lighting it, set it uponthe table, and then addressed himself to Eliza.
"Now, I say, gal, you needn't be a bit afeard, let who willcome here. I'm up to all that sort o' thing," said he, pointingto two or three goodly rifles over the mantel-piece; "and mostpeople that know me know that 't wouldn't be healthy to try to getanybody out o' my house when I'm agin it. So _now_ you jist go tosleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a rockin' ye," said he,as he shut the door.
"Why, this is an uncommon handsome un," he said to the senator. "Ah, well; handsome uns has the greatest cause to run, sometimes,if they has any kind o' feelin, such as decent women should. I know all about that."
The senator, in a few words, briefly explained Eliza's history.
"O! ou! aw! now, I want to know?" said the good man, pitifully;"sho! now sho! That's natur now, poor crittur! hunted downnow like a deer,--hunted down, jest for havin' natural feelin's,and doin' what no kind o' mother could help a doin'! I tell yewhat, these yer things make me come the nighest to swearin', now,o' most anything," said honest John, as he wiped his eyes with theback of a great, freckled, yellow hand. "I tell yer what, stranger,it was years and years before I'd jine the church, 'cause theministers round in our parts used to preach that the Bible went infor these ere cuttings up,--and I couldn't be up to 'em with theirGreek and Hebrew, and so I took up agin 'em, Bible and all. I neverjined the church till I found a minister that was up to 'em allin Greek and all that, and he said right the contrary; and thenI took right hold, and jined the church,--I did now, fact," saidJohn, who had been all this time uncorking some very frisky bottledcider, which at this juncture he presented.
"Ye'd better jest put up here, now, till daylight," said he,heartily, "and I'll call up the old woman, and have a bedgot ready for you in no time."
"Thank you, my good friend," said the senator, "I must bealong, to take the night stage for Columbus."
"Ah! well, then, if you must, I'll go a piece with you, andshow you a cross road that will take you there better than theroad you came on. That road's mighty bad."
John equipped himself, and, with a lantern in hand, was soonseen guiding the senator's carriage towards a road that randown in a hollow, back of his dwelling. When they parted, thesenator put into his hand a ten-dollar bill.
"It's for her," he said, briefly.
"Ay, ay," said John, with equal conciseness.
They shook hands, and parted.
CHAPTER X
The Property Is Carried Off
The February morning looked gray and drizzling through thewindow of Uncle Tom's cabin. It looked on downcast faces, theimages of mournful hearts. The little table stood out before thefire, covered with an ironing-cloth; a coarse but clean shirt ortwo, fresh from the iron, hung on the back of a chair by the fire,and Aunt Chloe had another spread out before her on the table. Carefully she rubbed and ironed every fold and every hem, with themost scrupulous exactness, every now and then raising her hand toher face to wipe off the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.
Tom sat by, with his Testament open on his knee, and his headleaning upon his hand;--but neither spoke. It was yet early,and the children lay all asleep together in their little rudetrundle-bed.
Tom, who had, to the full, the gentle, domestic heart,which woe for them! has been a peculiar characteristic of hisunhappy race, got up and walked silently to look at his children.
"It's the last time," he said.
Aunt Chloe did not answer, only rubbed away over and overon the coarse shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it; andfinally setting her iron suddenly down with a despairing plunge,she sat down to the table, and "lifted up her voice and wept."
"S'pose we must be resigned; but oh Lord! how ken I? If I know'danything whar you 's goin', or how they'd sarve you! Missis saysshe'll try and 'deem ye, in a year or two; but Lor! nobodynever comes up that goes down thar! They kills 'em! I've hearn 'emtell how dey works 'em up on dem ar plantations."
"There'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here."
"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "s'pose dere will; but de Lord letsdrefful things happen, sometimes. I don't seem to get nocomfort dat way."
"I'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin' can go no furderthan he lets it;--and thar's _one_ thing I can thank him for. It's _me_ that's sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're safe;--what comes will come only on me; and the Lord,he'll help me,--I know he will."
Ah, brave, manly heart,--smothering thine own sorrow, tocomfort thy beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick utterance, andwith a bitter choking in his throat,--but he spoke brave and strong.
"Let's think on our marcies!" he added, tremulously, as ifhe was quite sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.
"Marcies!" said Aunt Chloe; "don't see no marcy in 't!'tan't right! tan't right it should be so! Mas'r never ought terleft it so that ye _could_ be took for his debts. Ye've arnt himall he gets for ye, twice over. He owed ye yer freedom, and oughtter gin 't to yer years ago. Mebbe he can't help himself now, butI feel it's wrong. Nothing can't beat that ar out o' me. Sich afaithful crittur as ye've been,--and allers sot his business 'foreyer own every way,--and reckoned on him more than yer own wife andchil'en! Them as sells heart's love and heart's blood, to get outthar scrapes, de Lord'll be up to 'em!"
"Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhapsjest the last time we'll ever have together! And I'll tell ye,Chloe, it goes agin me to hear one word agin Mas'r. Wan't he putin my arms a baby?--it's natur I should think a heap of him. And he couldn't be spected to think so much of poor Tom. Mas'rs isused to havin' all these yer things done for 'em, and nat'lly theydon't think so much on 't. They can't be spected to, no way. Set him 'longside of other Mas'rs--who's had the treatment and livin'I've had? And he never would have let this yer come on me, if hecould have seed it aforehand. I know he wouldn't."
"Wal, any way, thar's wrong about it _somewhar_," said AuntChloe, in whom a stubborn sense of justice was a predominant trait;"I can't jest make out whar 't is, but thar's wrong somewhar, I'm_clar_ o' that."
"Yer ought ter look up to the Lord above--he's aboveall--thar don't a sparrow fall without him."
"It don't seem to comfort me, but I spect it orter," said Aunt Chloe. "But dar's no use talkin'; I'll jes wet up de corn-cake, and get yeone good breakfast, 'cause nobody knows when you'll get another."
In order to appreciate the sufferings of the negroes soldsouth, it must be remembered that all the instinctive affectionsof that race are peculiarly strong. Their local attachments arevery abiding. They are not naturally daring and enterprising, buthome-loving and affectionate. Add to this all the terrors withwhich ignorance invests the unknown, and add to this, again, thatselling to the south is set before the negro from childhood as thelast severity of punishment. The threat that terrifies more thanwhipping or torture of any kind is the threat of being sent downriver. We have ourselves heard this feeling expressed by them,and seen the unaffected horror with which they will sit in theirgossipping hours, and tell frightful stories of that "down river,"which to them is
_"That undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns."_[1]
[1] A slightly inaccurate quotation from _Hamlet_, Act III,scene I, lines 369-370.
A missionary figure among the fugitives in Canada told us thatmany of the fugitives confessed themselves to have escapedfrom comparatively kind masters, and that they were induced tobrave the perils of escape, in almost every case, by the desperatehorror with which they regarded being sold south,--a doom whichwas hanging either over themselves or their husbands, their wivesor children. This nerves the African, naturally patient, timidand unenterprising, with heroic courage, and leads him to sufferhunger, cold, pain, the perils of the wilderness, and the moredread penalties of recapture.
The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. Shelbyhad excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the great house thatmorning. The poor soul had expended all her little energies onthis farewell feast,--had killed and dressed her choicest chicken,and prepared her corn-cake with scrupulous exactness, just to herhusband's taste, and brought out certain mysterious jars on themantel-piece, some preserves that were never produced except onextreme occasions.
"Lor, Pete," said Mose, triumphantly, "han't we got a busterof a breakfast!" at the same time catching at a fragment of thechicken.
Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. "Thar now! crowingover the last breakfast yer poor daddy's gwine to have to home!"
"O, Chloe!" said Tom, gently.
"Wal, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her facein her apron; "I 's so tossed about it, it makes me act ugly."
The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father andthen at their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes,began an imperious, commanding cry.
"Thar!" said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up the baby;"now I's done, I hope,--now do eat something. This yer's mynicest chicken. Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs! Yer mammy's been cross to yer."
The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with greatzeal for the eatables; and it was well they did so, asotherwise there would have been very little performed to anypurpose by the party.
"Now," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, "I mustput up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he'll take 'em all away. I know thar ways--mean as dirt, they is! Wal, now, yer flannelsfor rhumatis is in this corner; so be careful, 'cause therewon't nobody make ye no more. Then here's yer old shirts,and these yer is new ones. I toed off these yer stockings lastnight, and put de ball in 'em to mend with. But Lor! who'll evermend for ye?" and Aunt Chloe, again overcome, laid her head on thebox side, and sobbed. "To think on 't! no crittur to do for ye,sick or well! I don't railly think I ought ter be good now!"
The boys, having eaten everything there was on thebreakfast-table, began now to take some thought of the case; and,seeing their mother crying, and their father looking very sad,began to whimper and put their hands to their eyes. Uncle Tom hadthe baby on his knee, and was letting her enjoy herself to theutmost extent, scratching his face and pulling his hair, andoccasionally breaking out into clamorous explosions of delight,evidently arising out of her own internal reflections.
"Ay, crow away, poor crittur!" said Aunt Chloe; ye'll haveto come to it, too! ye'll live to see yer husband sold, or mebbebe sold yerself; and these yer boys, they's to be sold, I s'pose,too, jest like as not, when dey gets good for somethin'; an't nouse in niggers havin' nothin'!"
Here one of the boys called out, "Thar's Missis a-comin' in!"
"She can't do no good; what's she coming for?" said Aunt Chloe.
Mrs. Shelby entered. Aunt Chloe set a chair for her in amanner decidedly gruff and crusty. She did not seem to noticeeither the action or the manner. She looked pale and anxious.
"Tom," she said, "I come to--" and stopping suddenly, andregarding the silent group, she sat down in the chair, and, coveringher face with her handkerchief, began to sob.
"Lor, now, Missis, don't--don't!" said Aunt Chloe, burstingout in her turn; and for a few moments they all wept in company. And in those tears they all shed together, the high and the lowly,melted away all the heart-burnings and anger of the oppressed. O,ye who visit the distressed, do ye know that everything your moneycan buy, given with a cold, averted face, is not worth one honesttear shed in real sympathy?
"My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, "I can't give you anythingto do you any good. If I give you money, it will only be takenfrom you. But I tell you solemnly, and before God, that I willkeep trace of you, and bring you back as soon as I can commandthe money;--and, till then, trust in God!"
Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming, and thenan unceremonious kick pushed open the door. Haley stood therein very ill humor, having ridden hard the night before, and beingnot at all pacified by his ill success in recapturing his prey.
"Come," said he, "ye nigger, ye'r ready? Servant, ma'am!"said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby.
Aunt Chloe shut and corded the box, and, getting up, lookedgruffly on the trader, her tears seeming suddenly turnedto sparks of fire.
Tom rose up meekly, to follow his new master, and raisedup his heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in herarms to go with him to the wagon, and the children, still crying,trailed on behind.
Mrs. Shelby, walking up to the trader, detained him for afew moments, talking with him in an earnest manner; and while shewas thus talking, the whole family party proceeded to a wagon, thatstood ready harnessed at the door. A crowd of all the old andyoung hands on the place stood gathered around it, to bid farewellto their old associate. Tom had been looked up to, both as a headservant and a Christian teacher, by all the place, and there wasmuch honest sympathy and grief about him, particularly among the women.
"Why, Chloe, you bar it better 'n we do!" said one of the women,who had been weeping freely, noticing the gloomy calmnesswith which Aunt Chloe stood by the wagon.
"I's done _my_ tears!" she said, looking grimly at the trader,who was coming up. "I does not feel to cry 'fore dat arold limb, no how!"
"Get in!" said Haley to Tom, as he strode through the crowdof servants, who looked at him with lowering brows.
Tom got in, and Haley, drawing out from under the wagonseat a heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each ankle.
A smothered groan of indignation ran through the wholecircle, and Mrs. Shelby spoke from the verandah,--"Mr. Haley, I assure you that precaution is entirely unnecessary."
"Don' know, ma'am; I've lost one five hundred dollars fromthis yer place, and I can't afford to run no more risks."
"What else could she spect on him?" said Aunt Chloe,indignantly, while the two boys, who now seemed to comprehend atonce their father's destiny, clung to her gown, sobbing andgroaning vehemently.
"I'm sorry," said Tom, "that Mas'r George happened to be away."
George had gone to spend two or three days with a companionon a neighboring estate, and having departed early in the morning,before Tom's misfortune had been made public, had left withouthearing of it.
"Give my love to Mas'r George," he said, earnestly.
Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournfullook, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away.
Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home. He had sold Tomunder the spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the power ofa man whom he dreaded,--and his first feeling, after the consummationof the bargain, had been that of relief. But his wife's expostulationsawoke his half-slumbering regrets; and Tom's manly disinterestednessincreased the unpleasantness of his feelings. It was in vain thathe said to himself that he had a _right_ to do it,--that everybodydid it,--and that some did it without even the excuse of necessity;--hecould not satisfy his own feelings; and that he might not witnessthe unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a shortbusiness tour up the country, hoping that all would be over beforehe returned.
Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirlingpast every old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate werefairly passed, and they found themselves out on the open pike. After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at thedoor of a blacksmith's shop, when, taking out with him a pair ofhandcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have a little alterationin them.
"These yer 's a little too small for his build," said Haley,showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.
"Lor! now, if thar an't Shelby's Tom. He han't sold him,now?" said the smith.
"Yes, he has," said Haley.
"Now, ye don't! well, reely," said the smith, "who'd athought it! Why, ye needn't go to fetterin' him up this yer way. He's the faithfullest, best crittur--"
"Yes, yes," said Haley; "but your good fellers are justthe critturs to want ter run off. Them stupid ones, as doesn'tcare whar they go, and shifless, drunken ones, as don't care fornothin', they'll stick by, and like as not be rather pleased to betoted round; but these yer prime fellers, they hates it like sin. No way but to fetter 'em; got legs,--they'll use 'em,--no mistake."
"Well," said the smith, feeling among his tools, "themplantations down thar, stranger, an't jest the place a Kentucknigger wants to go to; they dies thar tol'able fast, don't they?"
"Wal, yes, tol'able fast, ther dying is; what with the'climating and one thing and another, they dies so as to keep themarket up pretty brisk," said Haley.
"Wal, now, a feller can't help thinkin' it's a mighty pityto have a nice, quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is, go downto be fairly ground up on one of them ar sugar plantations."
"Wal, he's got a fa'r chance. I promised to do well by him. I'll get him in house-servant in some good old family, andthen, if he stands the fever and 'climating, he'll have a berthgood as any nigger ought ter ask for."
"He leaves his wife and chil'en up here, s'pose?"
"Yes; but he'll get another thar. Lord, thar's women enougheverywhar," said Haley.
Tom was sitting very mournfully on the outside of the shopwhile this conversation was going on. Suddenly he heard the quick,short click of a horse's hoof behind him; and, before he couldfairly awake from his surprise, young Master George sprang intothe wagon, threw his arms tumultuously round his neck, and wassobbing and scolding with energy.
"I declare, it's real mean! I don't care what they say, anyof 'em! It's a nasty, mean shame! If I was a man, they shouldn'tdo it,--they should not, _so_!" said George, with a kind ofsubdued howl.
"O! Mas'r George! this does me good!" said Tom. "I couldn'tbar to go off without seein' ye! It does me real good, ye can'ttell!" Here Tom made some movement of his feet, and George's eyefell on the fetters.
"What a shame!" he exclaimed, lifting his hands. "I'll knockthat old fellow down--I will!"
"No you won't, Mas'r George; and you must not talk so loud. It won't help me any, to anger him."
"Well, I won't, then, for your sake; but only to think ofit--isn't it a shame? They never sent for me, nor sent me any word,and, if it hadn't been for Tom Lincon, I shouldn't have heard it. I tell you, I blew 'em up well, all of 'em, at home!"
"That ar wasn't right, I'm 'feard, Mas'r George."
"Can't help it! I say it's a shame! Look here, Uncle Tom,"said he, turning his back to the shop, and speaking in a mysterioustone, _"I've brought you my dollar!"_
"O! I couldn't think o' takin' on 't, Mas'r George, no waysin the world!" said Tom, quite moved.
"But you _shall_ take it!" said George; "look here--I toldAunt Chloe I'd do it, and she advised me just to make a hole init, and put a string through, so you could hang it round your neck,and keep it out of sight; else this mean scamp would take it away. I tell ye, Tom, I want to blow him up! it would do me good!"
"No, don't Mas'r George, for it won't do _me_ any good."
"Well, I won't, for your sake," said George, busily tyinghis dollar round Tom's neck; "but there, now, button your coattight over it, and keep it, and remember, every time you see it,that I'll come down after you, and bring you back. Aunt Chloe andI have been talking about it. I told her not to fear; I'll see toit, and I'll tease father's life out, if he don't do it."
"O! Mas'r George, ye mustn't talk so 'bout yer father!"
"Lor, Uncle Tom, I don't mean anything bad."
"And now, Mas'r George," said Tom, "ye must be a good boy;'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep close toyer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of them foolish ways boyshas of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'rGeorge, the Lord gives good many things twice over; but he don'tgive ye a mother but once. Ye'll never see sich another woman,Mas'r George, if ye live to be a hundred years old. So, now, youhold on to her, and grow up, and be a comfort to her, thar's myown good boy,--you will now, won't ye?"
"Yes, I will, Uncle Tom," said George seriously.
"And be careful of yer speaking, Mas'r George. Young boys,when they comes to your age, is wilful, sometimes-- it is naturthey should be. But real gentlemen, such as I hopes you'll be,never lets fall on words that isn't 'spectful to thar parents. Ye an't 'fended, Mas'r George?"
"No, indeed, Uncle Tom; you always did give me good advice."
"I's older, ye know," said Tom, stroking the boy's fine,curly head with his large, strong hand, but speaking in a voice astender as a woman's, "and I sees all that's bound up in you. O, Mas'r George, you has everything,--l'arnin', privileges, readin',writin',--and you'll grow up to be a great, learned, good man andall the people on the place and your mother and father'll be soproud on ye! Be a good Mas'r, like yer father; and be a Christian,like yer mother. 'Member yer Creator in the days o' yer youth,Mas'r George."
"I'll be _real_ good, Uncle Tom, I tell you," said George. "I'm going to be a _first-rater_; and don't you be discouraged. I'll have you back to the place, yet. As I told Aunt Chloe thismorning, I'll build our house all over, and you shall have a roomfor a parlor with a carpet on it, when I'm a man. O, you'll havegood times yet!"
Haley now came to the door, with the handcuffs in his hands.
"Look here, now, Mister," said George, with an air of greatsuperiority, as he got out, "I shall let father and mother knowhow you treat Uncle Tom!"
"You're welcome," said the trader.
"I should think you'd be ashamed to spend all your lifebuying men and women, and chaining them, like cattle! I shouldthink you'd feel mean!" said George.
"So long as your grand folks wants to buy men and women, I'm asgood as they is," said Haley; "'tan't any meaner sellin' on'em, that 't is buyin'!"
"I'll never do either, when I'm a man," said George; "I'mashamed, this day, that I'm a Kentuckian. I always was proud ofit before;" and George sat very straight on his horse, and lookedround with an air, as if he expected the state would be impressedwith his opinion.
"Well, good-by, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip," said George.
"Good-by, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly andadmiringly at him. "God Almighty bless you! Ah! Kentucky han'tgot many like you!" he said, in the fulness of his heart, as thefrank, boyish face was lost to his view. Away he went, and Tomlooked, till the clatter of his horse's heels died away, the lastsound or sight of his home. But over his heart there seemed to bea warm spot, where those young hands had placed that precious dollar. Tom put up his hand, and held it close to his heart.
"Now, I tell ye what, Tom," said Haley, as he came up tothe wagon, and threw in the handcuffs, "I mean to start fa'rwith ye, as I gen'ally do with my niggers; and I'll tell ye now,to begin with, you treat me fa'r, and I'll treat you fa'r;I an't never hard on my niggers. Calculates to do the best for'em I can. Now, ye see, you'd better jest settle down comfortable,and not be tryin' no tricks; because nigger's tricks of all sortsI'm up to, and it's no use. If niggers is quiet, and don't try toget off, they has good times with me; and if they don't, why, it'sthar fault, and not mine."
Tom assured Haley that he had no present intentions ofrunning off. In fact, the exhortation seemed rather a superfluousone to a man with a great pair of iron fetters on his feet. But Mr. Haley had got in the habit of commencing his relations withhis stock with little exhortations of this nature, calculated, ashe deemed, to inspire cheerfulness and confidence, and prevent thenecessity of any unpleasant scenes.
And here, for the present, we take our leave of Tom, topursue the fortunes of other characters in our story.
CHAPTER XI
In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind
It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveler alighted at thedoor of a small country hotel, in the village of N----, in Kentucky. In the barroom he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company,whom stress of weather had driven to harbor, and the place presentedthe usual scenery of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-bonedKentuckians, attired in hunting-shirts, and trailing their loosejoints over a vast extent of territory, with the easy lounge peculiarto the race,--rifles stacked away in the corner, shot-pouches,game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little negroes, all rolled togetherin the corners,--were the characteristic features in the picture. At each end of the fireplace sat a long-legged gentleman, with hischair tipped back, his hat on his head, and the heels of his muddyboots reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece,--a position, we willinform our readers, decidedly favorable to the turn of reflectionincident to western taverns, where travellers exhibit a decidedpreference for this particular mode of elevating their understandings.
Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his country men,was great of stature, good-natured and loose-jointed, with anenormous shock of hair on his head, and a great tall haton the top of that.
In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head thischaracteristic emblem of man's sovereignty; whether itwere felt hat, palm-leaf, greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, thereit reposed with true republican independence. In truth, it appearedto be the characteristic mark of every individual. Some wore themtipped rakishly to one side--these were your men of humor, jolly,free-and-easy dogs; some had them jammed independently down overtheir noses--these were your hard characters, thorough men, who,when they wore their hats, _wanted_ to wear them, and to wear themjust as they had a mind to; there were those who had them set farover back--wide-awake men, who wanted a clear prospect; whilecareless men, who did not know, or care, how their hats sat, hadthem shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in fact,were quite a Shakespearean study.
Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and with noredundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither andthither, without bringing to pass any very particular results,except expressing a generic willingness to turn over everythingin creation generally for the benefit of Mas'r and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly, crackling, rollicking fire, goingrejoicingly up a great wide chimney,--the outer door and everywindow being set wide open, and the calico window-curtain floppingand snapping in a good stiff breeze of damp raw air,--and you havean idea of the jollities of a Kentucky tavern.
Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of thedoctrine of transmitted instincts and pecularities. His fatherswere mighty hunters,--men who lived in the woods, and slept underthe free, open heavens, with the stars to hold their candles; andtheir descendant to this day always acts as if the house were hiscamp,--wears his hat at all hours, tumbles himself about, andputs his heels on the tops of chairs or mantelpieces, just as hisfather rolled on the green sward, and put his upon trees andlogs,--keeps all the windows and doors open, winter and summer,that he may get air enough for his great lungs,--calls everybody"stranger," with nonchalant bonhommie, and is altogether thefrankest, easiest, most jovial creature living.
Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round,good-natured countenance, and something rather fussy andparticular in his appearance. He was very careful of his valiseand umbrella, bringing them in with his own hands, and resisting,pertinaciously, all offers from the various servants to relievehim of them. He looked round the barroom with rather an anxiousair, and, retreating with his valuables to the warmest corner,disposed them under his chair, sat down, and looked ratherapprehensively up at the worthy whose heels illustrated the end ofthe mantel-piece, who was spitting from right to left, with acourage and energy rather alarming to gentlemen of weak nerves andparticular habits.
"I say, stranger, how are ye?" said the aforesaid gentleman,firing an honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction of thenew arrival.
"Well, I reckon," was the reply of the other, as he dodged,with some alarm, the threatening honor.
"Any news?" said the respondent, taking out a strip oftobacco and a large hunting-knife from his pocket.
"Not that I know of," said the man.
"Chaw?" said the first speaker, handing the old gentlemana bit of his tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air.
"No, thank ye--it don't agree with me," said the littleman, edging off.
"Don't, eh?" said the other, easily, and stowing away themorsel in his own mouth, in order to keep up the supply oftobacco-juice, for the general benefit of society.
The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start wheneverhis long-sided brother fired in his direction; and this beingobserved by his companion, he very good-naturedly turned hisartillery to another quarter, and proceeded to storm one ofthe fire-irons with a degree of military talent fully sufficientto take a city.
"What's that?" said the old gentleman, observing some ofthe company formed in a group around a large handbill.
"Nigger advertised!" said one of the company, briefly.
Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman's name, rose up,and, after carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceededdeliberately to take out his spectacles and fix them on his nose;and, this operation being performed, read as follows:
"Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George.
Said George six feet in height, a very light mulatto, browncurly hair; is very intelligent, speaks handsomely, can readand write, will probably try to pass for a white man, isdeeply scarred on his back and shoulders, has been brandedin his right hand with the letter H.
"I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and
the same sum for satisfactory proof that he has been killed."_
The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to endin a low voice, as if he were studying it.
The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-iron,as before related, now took down his cumbrous length, and rearingaloft his tall form, walked up to the advertisement and verydeliberately spit a full discharge of tobacco-juice on it.
"There's my mind upon that!" said he, briefly, and sat down again.
"Why, now, stranger, what's that for?" said mine host.
"I'd do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he washere," said the long man, coolly resuming his old employment ofcutting tobacco. "Any man that owns a boy like that, and can'tfind any better way o' treating on him, _deserves_ to lose him. Such papers as these is a shame to Kentucky; that's my mind rightout, if anybody wants to know!"
"Well, now, that's a fact," said mine host, as he made anentry in his book.
"I've got a gang of boys, sir," said the long man, resuming hisattack on the fire-irons, "and I jest tells 'em--`Boys,' saysI,--`_run_ now! dig! put! jest when ye want to! I never shall cometo look after you!' That's the way I keep mine. Let 'em know theyare free to run any time, and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More 'n all, I've got free papers for 'em all recorded, in case Igets keeled up any o' these times, and they know it; and I tellye, stranger, there an't a fellow in our parts gets more out ofhis niggers than I do. Why, my boys have been to Cincinnati, withfive hundred dollars' worth of colts, and brought me back the money,all straight, time and agin. It stands to reason they should. Treat 'em like dogs, and you'll have dogs' works and dogs' actions. Treat 'em like men, and you'll have men's works." And the honestdrover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by firing aperfect _feu de joi_ at the fireplace.
"I think you're altogether right, friend," said Mr. Wilson; "andthis boy described here _is_ a fine fellow--no mistake about that. He worked for me some half-dozen years in my bagging factory,and he was my best hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too: heinvented a machine for the cleaning of hemp--a really valuableaffair; it's gone into use in several factories. His master holdsthe patent of it."
"I'll warrant ye," said the drover, "holds it and makes moneyout of it, and then turns round and brands the boy in hisright hand. If I had a fair chance, I'd mark him, I reckon so thathe'd carry it _one_ while."
"These yer knowin' boys is allers aggravatin' and sarcy,"said a coarse-looking fellow, from the other side of the room;"that's why they gets cut up and marked so. If they behavedthemselves, they wouldn't."
"That is to say, the Lord made 'em men, and it's a hardsqueeze gettin 'em down into beasts," said the drover, dryly.
"Bright niggers isn't no kind of 'vantage to their masters,"continued the other, well entrenched, in a coarse, unconsciousobtuseness, from the contempt of his opponent; "what's the use o'talents and them things, if you can't get the use on 'em yourself? Why, all the use they make on 't is to get round you. I've hadone or two of these fellers, and I jest sold 'em down river. I knewI'd got to lose 'em, first or last, if I didn't."
"Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, andleave out their souls entirely," said the drover.
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of a smallone-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, anda well-dressed, gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a coloredservant driving.
The whole party examined the new comer with the interest withwhich a set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine everynewcomer. He was very tall, with a dark, Spanish complexion, fine,expressive black eyes, and close-curling hair, also of a glossyblackness. His well-formed aquiline nose, straight thin lips, andthe admirable contour of his finely-formed limbs, impressed thewhole company instantly with the idea of something uncommon. He walked easily in among the company, and with a nod indicatedto his waiter where to place his trunk, bowed to the company, and,with his hat in his hand, walked up leisurely to the bar, and gavein his name as Henry Butter, Oaklands, Shelby County. Turning, withan indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, andread it over.
"Jim," he said to his man, "seems to me we met a boy somethinglike this, up at Beman's, didn't we?"
"Yes, Mas'r, said Jim, "only I an't sure about the hand."
"Well, I didn't look, of course," said the stranger with acareless yawn. Then walking up to the landlord, he desired himto furnish him with a private apartment, as he had some writing todo immediately.
The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about sevennegroes, old and young, male and female, little and big, were soonwhizzing about, like a covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying,treading on each other's toes, and tumbling over each other, intheir zeal to get Mas'r's room ready, while he seated himself easilyon a chair in the middle of the room, and entered into conversationwith the man who sat next to him.
The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entranceof the stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed anduneasy curiosity. He seemed to himself to have met and beenacquainted with him somewhere, but he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the man spoke, or moved, or smiled, hewould start and fix his eyes on him, and then suddenly withdrawthem, as the bright, dark eyes met his with such unconcerned coolness. At last, a sudden recollection seemed to flash upon him, for he staredat the stranger with such an air of blank amazement and alarm, thathe walked up to him.
"Mr. Wilson, I think," said he, in a tone of recognition, andextending his hand. "I beg your pardon, I didn't recollectyou before. I see you remember me,--Mr. Butler, of Oaklands,Shelby County."
"Ye--yes--yes, sir," said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking ina dream.
Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that Mas'r'sroom was ready.
"Jim, see to the trunks," said the gentleman, negligently;then addressing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added--"I shouldlike to have a few moments' conversation with you on business,in my room, if you please."
Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; andthey proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made firewas crackling, and various servants flying about, putting finishingtouches to the arrangements.
When all was done, and the servants departed, the young mandeliberately locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket,faced about, and folding his arms on his bosom, looked Mr. Wilsonfull in the face.
"George!" said Mr. Wilson.
"Yes, George," said the young man.
"I couldn't have thought it!"
"I am pretty well disguised, I fancy," said the young man,with a smile. "A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin agenteel brown, and I've dyed my hair black; so you see I don'tanswer to the advertisement at all."
"O, George! but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could not have advised you to it."
"I can do it on my own responsibility," said George, withthe same proud smile.
We remark, _en passant_, that George was, by his father's side,of white descent. His mother was one of those unfortunatesof her race, marked out by personal beauty to be the slave of thepassions of her possessor, and the mother of children who may neverknow a father. From one of the proudest families in Kentucky hehad inherited a set of fine European features, and a high, indomitablespirit. From his mother he had received only a slight mulattotinge, amply compensated by its accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the tint of the skin and the color of his hairhad metamorphosed him into the Spanish-looking fellow he thenappeared; and as gracefulness of movement and gentlemanly mannershad always been perfectly natural to him, he found no difficultyin playing the bold part he had adopted--that of a gentlemantravelling with his domestic.
Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cautiousold gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as JohnBunyan hath it, "much tumbled up and down in his mind," and dividedbetween his wish to help George, and a certain confused notion ofmaintaining law and order: so, as he shambled about, he deliveredhimself as follows:
"Well, George, I s'pose you're running away--leaving yourlawful master, George--(I don't wonder at it)--at the same time,I'm sorry, George,--yes, decidedly--I think I must say that,George--it's my duty to tell you so."
"Why are you sorry, sir?" said George, calmly.
"Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in oppositionto the laws of your country."
"_My_ country!" said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis;"what country have I, but the grave,--and I wish to Godthat I was laid there!"
"Why, George, no--no--it won't do; this way of talking iswicked--unscriptural. George, you've got a hard master--in fact,he is--well he conducts himself reprehensibly--I can't pretend todefend him. But you know how the angel commanded Hagar to returnto her mistress, and submit herself under the hand;[1] and theapostle sent back Onesimus to his master."[2]
[1] Gen. 16. The angel bade the pregnant Hagar return toher mistress Sarai, even though Sarai had dealt harshly with her.
[2] Phil. 1:10. Onesimus went back to his master to becomeno longer a servant but a "brother beloved."
"Don't quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson," said George,with a flashing eye, "don't! for my wife is a Christian, and I meanto be, if ever I get to where I can; but to quote Bible to a fellowin my circumstances, is enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to God Almighty;--I'm willing to go with the case toHim, and ask Him if I do wrong to seek my freedom."
"These feelings are quite natural, George," said thegood-natured man, blowing his nose. "Yes, they're natural, but itis my duty not to encourage 'em in you. Yes, my boy, I'm sorryfor you, now; it's a bad case--very bad; but the apostle says, `Leteveryone abide in the condition in which he is called.' We mustall submit to the indications of Providence, George,--don't you see?"
George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded tightlyover his broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his lips.
"I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take youa prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keepyou all your life hoeing corn for them, if you'd think it your dutyto abide in the condition in which you were called. I rather thinkthat you'd think the first stray horse you could find an indicationof Providence--shouldn't you?"
The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at thisillustration of the case; but, though not much of a reasoner, hehad the sense in which some logicians on this particular subjectdo not excel,--that of saying nothing, where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully stroking his umbrella, and folding andpatting down all the creases in it, he proceeded on with hisexhortations in a general way.
"You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend;and whatever I've said, I've said for your good. Now, here,it seems to me, you're running an awful risk. You can't hopeto carry it out. If you're taken, it will be worse with you thanever; they'll only abuse you, and half kill you, and sell you downthe river."
"Mr. Wilson, I know all this," said George. "I _do_ run a risk,but--" he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols anda bowie-knife. "There!" he said, "I'm ready for 'em! Down southI never _will_ go.
No! if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet offree soil,--the first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky!"
"Why, George, this state of mind is awful; it's getting reallydesperate George. I'm concerned. Going to break the lawsof your country!"
"My country again! Mr. Wilson, _you_ have a country; but whatcountry have _I_, or any one like me, born of slave mothers? What laws are there for us? We don't make them,--we don't consentto them,--we have nothing to do with them; all they do for us isto crush us, and keep us down. Haven't I heard your Fourth-of-Julyspeeches? Don't you tell us all, once a year, that governmentsderive their just power from the consent of the governed? Can't afellow _think_, that hears such things? Can't he put this and thattogether, and see what it comes to?"
Mr. Wilson's mind was one of those that may not unaptly berepresented by a bale of cotton,--downy, soft, benevolently fuzzyand confused. He really pitied George with all his heart, and hada sort of dim and cloudy perception of the style of feeling thatagitated him; but he deemed it his duty to go on talking _good_ tohim, with infinite pertinacity.
"George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a friend,you'd better not be meddling with such notions; they are bad,George, very bad, for boys in your condition,--very;" and Mr.Wilson sat down to a table, and began nervously chewing the handleof his umbrella.
"See here, now, Mr. Wilson," said George, coming up and sittinghimself determinately down in front of him; "look at me, now. Don't I sit before you, every way, just as much a man as you are? Look at my face,--look at my hands,--look at my body," and theyoung man drew himself up proudly; "why am I _not_ a man, asmuch as anybody? Well, Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father--one of your Kentucky gentlemen--who didn't thinkenough of me to keep me from being sold with his dogs and horses,to satisfy the estate, when he died. I saw my mother put up atsheriff's sale, with her seven children. They were sold before hereyes, one by one, all to different masters; and I was the youngest. She came and kneeled down before old Mas'r, and begged him to buyher with me, that she might have at least one child with her; andhe kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw him do it; and thelast that I heard was her moans and screams, when I was tied tohis horse's neck, to be carried off to his place."
"Well, then?"
"My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister. She was a pious, good girl,--a member of the Baptist church,--andas handsome as my poor mother had been. She was well brought up,and had good manners. At first, I was glad she was bought,for I had one friend near me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, Ihave stood at the door and heard her whipped, when it seemed asif every blow cut into my naked heart, and I couldn't do anythingto help her; and she was whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decentChristian life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right tolive; and at last I saw her chained with a trader's gang, to besent to market in Orleans,--sent there for nothing else but that,--andthat's the last I know of her. Well, I grew up,--long years andyears,--no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul thatcared for me more than a dog; nothing but whipping, scolding,starving. Why, sir, I've been so hungry that I have been glad totake the bones they threw to their dogs; and yet, when I was alittle fellow, and laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn'tthe hunger, it wasn't the whipping, I cried for. No, sir, it wasfor _my mother_ and _my sisters_,--it was because I hadn't a friendto love me on earth. I never knew what peace or comfort was. I neverhad a kind word spoken to me till I came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me well; you encouraged me to do well,and to learn to read and write, and to try to make something ofmyself; and God knows how grateful I am for it. Then, sir,I found my wife; you've seen her,--you know how beautiful she is. When I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely couldbelieve I was alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as goodas she is beautiful. But now what? Why, now comes my master, takesme right away from my work, and my friends, and all I like, andgrinds me down into the very dirt! And why? Because, he says, Iforgot who I was; he says, to teach me that I am only a nigger! After all, and last of all, he comes between me and my wife, andsays I shall give her up, and live with another woman. And allthis your laws give him power to do, in spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it! There isn't _one_ of all these things, thathave broken the hearts of my mother and my sister, and my wife andmyself, but your laws allow, and give every man power to do, inKentucky, and none can say to him nay! Do you call these the lawsof _my_ country? Sir, I haven't any country, anymore than I haveany father. But I'm going to have one. I don't want anything of_your_ country, except to be let alone,--to go peaceably out ofit; and when I get to Canada, where the laws will own me and protectme, _that_ shall be my country, and its laws I will obey. But ifany man tries to stop me, let him take care, for I am desperate. I'll fight for my liberty to the last breath I breathe. You sayyour fathers did it; if it was right for them, it is right for me!"
This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, andpartly walking up and down the room,--delivered with tears, andflashing eyes, and despairing gestures,--was altogether too muchfor the good-natured old body to whom it was addressed, who hadpulled out a great yellow silk pocket-handkerchief, and wasmopping up his face with great energy.
"Blast 'em all!" he suddenly broke out. "Haven't I alwayssaid so--the infernal old cusses! I hope I an't swearing, now. Well! go ahead, George, go ahead; but be careful, my boy; don'tshoot anybody, George, unless--well--you'd _better_ not shoot, Ireckon; at least, I wouldn't _hit_ anybody, you know. Where isyour wife, George?" he added, as he nervously rose, and beganwalking the room.
"Gone, sir gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord onlyknows where;--gone after the north star; and when we ever meet,or whether we meet at all in this world, no creature can tell."
"Is it possible! astonishing! from such a kind family?"
"Kind families get in debt, and the laws of _our_ countryallow them to sell the child out of its mother's bosom to pay itsmaster's debts," said George, bitterly.
"Well, well," said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket: "I s'pose, perhaps, I an't following my judgment,--hang it,I _won't_ follow my judgment!" he added, suddenly; "so here,George," and, taking out a roll of bills from his pocket-book, heoffered them to George.
"No, my kind, good sir!" said George, "you've done a greatdeal for me, and this might get you into trouble. I have moneyenough, I hope, to take me as far as I need it."
"No; but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere;--can't have too much, if you get it honestly. Take it,--_do_ take it, _now_,--do, my boy!"
"On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some futuretime, I will," said George, taking up the money.
"And now, George, how long are you going to travel in thisway?--not long or far, I hope. It's well carried on, but too bold. And this black fellow,--who is he?"
"A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard, after he got there, that his master was so angry at himfor going off that he had whipped his poor old mother; and he hascome all the way back to comfort her, and get a chance to get her away."
"Has he got her?"
"Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found nochance yet. Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as Ohio, toput me among friends that helped him, and then he will come backafter her.
"Dangerous, very dangerous!" said the old man.
George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.
The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sortof innocent wonder.
"George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You holdup your head, and speak and move like another man," said Mr. Wilson.
"Because I'm a _freeman_!" said George, proudly. "Yes, sir;I've said Mas'r for the last time to any man. _I'm free!"_
"Take care! You are not sure,--you may be taken."
"All men are free and equal _in the grave_, if it comes tothat, Mr. Wilson," said George.
"I'm perfectly dumb-founded with your boldness!" said Mr. Wilson,--"to come right here to the nearest tavern!"
"Mr. Wilson, it is _so_ bold, and this tavern is so near, thatthey will never think of it; they will look for me on ahead, andyou yourself wouldn't know me. Jim's master don't live in thiscounty; he isn't known in these parts. Besides, he is given up;nobody is looking after him, and nobody will take me up from theadvertisement, I think."
"But the mark in your hand?"
George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scarin his hand.
"That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris' regard," he said, scornfully. "A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give it to me,because he said he believed I should try to get away one ofthese days. Looks interesting, doesn't it?" he said, drawing hisglove on again.
"I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it,--yourcondition and your risks!" said Mr. Wilson.
"Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present,it's about up to the boiling point," said George.
"Well, my good sir," continued George, after a few moments'silence, "I saw you knew me; I thought I'd just have this talk withyou, lest your surprised looks should bring me out. I leave earlytomorrow morning, before daylight; by tomorrow night I hope tosleep safe in Ohio. I shall travel by daylight, stop at the besthotels, go to the dinner-tables with the lords of the land. So, good-by, sir; if you hear that I'm taken, you may know thatI'm dead!"
George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with theair of a prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily,and after a little shower of caution, he took his umbrella, andfumbled his way out of the room.
George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the oldman closed it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to it, and opening it, said,
"Mr. Wilson, one word more."
The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, lockedthe door, and then stood for a few moments looking on thefloor, irresolutely. At last, raising his head with a suddeneffort--"Mr. Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian inyour treatment of me,--I want to ask one last deed of Christiankindness of you."
"Well, George."
"Well, sir,--what you said was true. I _am_ running adreadful risk. There isn't, on earth, a living soul to care if Idie," he added, drawing his breath hard, and speaking with a greateffort,--"I shall be kicked out and buried like a dog, and nobody'llthink of it a day after,--_only my poor wife!_ Poor soul! she'llmourn and grieve; and if you'd only contrive, Mr. Wilson, to sendthis little pin to her. She gave it to me for a Christmas present,poor child! Give it to her, and tell her I loved her to the last. Will you? _Will_ you?" he added, earnestly.
"Yes, certainly--poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, takingthe pin, with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.
"Tell her one thing," said George; "it's my last wish, ifshe _can_ get to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind hermistress is,--no matter how much she loves her home; beg her notto go back,--for slavery always ends in misery. Tell her to bringup our boy a free man, and then he won't suffer as I have. Tell herthis, Mr. Wilson, will you?"
"Yes, George. I'll tell her; but I trust you won't die;take heart,--you're a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my heart you were safe through, though,--that's what I do."
"_Is_ there a God to trust in?" said George, in such a tone ofbitter despair as arrested the old gentleman's words. "O, I'veseen things all my life that have made me feel that there can't bea God. You Christians don't know how these things look to us. There's a God for you, but is there any for us?"
"O, now, don't--don't, my boy!" said the old man, almostsobbing as he spoke; "don't feel so! There is--there is; cloudsand darkness are around about him, but righteousness and judgmentare the habitation of his throne. There's a _God_, George,--believeit; trust in Him, and I'm sure He'll help you. Everything will beset right,--if not in this life, in another."
The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested himwith a temporary dignity and authority, as he spoke. George stoppedhis distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfullya moment, and then said, quietly,
"Thank you for saying that, my good friend; I'll _think of that_."
CHAPTER XII
Select Incident of Lawful Trade
"In Ramah there was a voice heard,--weeping, and lamentation,and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would notbe comforted."[1]
[1] Jer. 31:15.
Mr. Haley and Tom jogged onward in their wagon, each, for a time,absorbed in his own reflections. Now, the reflections of two mensitting side by side are a curious thing,--seated on the same seat,having the same eyes, ears, hands and organs of all sorts, andhaving pass before their eyes the same objects,--it is wonderfulwhat a variety we shall find in these same reflections!
As, for example, Mr. Haley: he thought first of Tom's length,and breadth, and height, and what he would sell for, if he waskept fat and in good case till he got him into market. He thoughtof how he should make out his gang; he thought of the respectivemarket value of certain supposititious men and women and childrenwho were to compose it, and other kindred topics of the business;then he thought of himself, and how humane he was, that whereasother men chained their "niggers" hand and foot both, he only putfetters on the feet, and left Tom the use of his hands, as longas he behaved well; and he sighed to think how ungrateful humannature was, so that there was even room to doubt whether Tomappreciated his mercies. He had been taken in so by "niggers"whom he had favored; but still he was astonished to considerhow good-natured he yet remained!
As to Tom, he was thinking over some words of an unfashionableold book, which kept running through his head, again and again, asfollows: "We have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come;wherefore God himself is not ashamed to be called our God; for hehath prepared for us a city." These words of an ancient volume,got up principally by "ignorant and unlearned men," have, throughall time, kept up, somehow, a strange sort of power over the mindsof poor, simple fellows, like Tom. They stir up the soul from itsdepths, and rouse, as with trumpet call, courage, energy, andenthusiasm, where before was only the blackness of despair.
Mr. Haley pulled out of his pocket sundry newspapers, andbegan looking over their advertisements, with absorbed interest. He was not a remarkably fluent reader, and was in the habit ofreading in a sort of recitative half-aloud, by way of calling inhis ears to verify the deductions of his eyes. In this tone heslowly recited the following paragraph:
"EXECUTOR'S SALE,--NEGROES!--Agreeably to order of court,
will be sold, on Tuesday, February 20, before the Court-housedoor, in the town of Washington, Kentucky, the following negroes: Hagar, aged 60; John, aged 30; Ben, aged 21; Saul, aged 25;Albert, aged 14. Sold for the benefit of the creditors and heirsof the estate of Jesse Blutchford,
SAMUEL MORRIS, THOMAS FLINT, _Executors_."
"This yer I must look at," said he to Tom, for want ofsomebody else to talk to.
"Ye see, I'm going to get up a prime gang to take down with ye,Tom; it'll make it sociable and pleasant like,--good company will,ye know. We must drive right to Washington first and foremost,and then I'll clap you into jail, while I does the business."
Tom received this agreeable intelligence quite meekly; simplywondering, in his own heart, how many of these doomed men hadwives and children, and whether they would feel as he did aboutleaving them. It is to be confessed, too, that the naive, off-handinformation that he was to be thrown into jail by no means producedan agreeable impression on a poor fellow who had always pridedhimself on a strictly honest and upright course of life. Yes, Tom,we must confess it, was rather proud of his honesty, poor fellow,--nothaving very much else to be proud of;--if he had belonged to someof the higher walks of society, he, perhaps, would never have beenreduced to such straits. However, the day wore on, and the eveningsaw Haley and Tom comfortably accommodated in Washington,--the onein a tavern, and the other in a jail.
About eleven o'clock the next day, a mixed throng was gatheredaround the court-house steps,--smoking, chewing, spitting,swearing, and conversing, according to their respective tastes andturns,--waiting for the auction to commence. The men and women tobe sold sat in a group apart, talking in a low tone to each other. The woman who had been advertised by the name of Hagar was a regularAfrican in feature and figure. She might have been sixty, but wasolder than that by hard work and disease, was partially blind, andsomewhat crippled with rheumatism. By her side stood her onlyremaining son, Albert, a bright-looking little fellow of fourteenyears. The boy was the only survivor of a large family, who hadbeen successively sold away from her to a southern market. Themother held on to him with both her shaking hands, and eyed withintense trepidation every one who walked up to examine him.
"Don't be feard, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of the men,"I spoke to Mas'r Thomas 'bout it, and he thought he might manageto sell you in a lot both together."
"Dey needn't call me worn out yet," said she, lifting hershaking hands. "I can cook yet, and scrub, and scour,--I'm wutha buying, if I do come cheap;--tell em dat ar,--you _tell_ em,"she added, earnestly.
Haley here forced his way into the group, walked up to theold man, pulled his mouth open and looked in, felt of his teeth,made him stand and straighten himself, bend his back, and performvarious evolutions to show his muscles; and then passed on to thenext, and put him through the same trial. Walking up last to theboy, he felt of his arms, straightened his hands, and looked athis fingers, and made him jump, to show his agility.
"He an't gwine to be sold widout me!" said the old woman, withpassionate eagerness; "he and I goes in a lot together; I 's railstrong yet, Mas'r and can do heaps o' work,--heaps on it, Mas'r."
"On plantation?" said Haley, with a contemptuous glance. "Likely story!" and, as if satisfied with his examination, he walkedout and looked, and stood with his hands in his pocket, his cigarin his mouth, and his hat cocked on one side, ready for action.
"What think of 'em?" said a man who had been followingHaley's examination, as if to make up his own mind from it.
"Wal," said Haley, spitting, "I shall put in, I think, forthe youngerly ones and the boy."
"They want to sell the boy and the old woman together,"said the man.
"Find it a tight pull;--why, she's an old rack o' bones,--notworth her salt."
"You wouldn't then?" said the man.
"Anybody 'd be a fool 't would. She's half blind, crookedwith rheumatis, and foolish to boot."
"Some buys up these yer old critturs, and ses there's asight more wear in 'em than a body 'd think," said the man,reflectively.
"No go, 't all," said Haley; "wouldn't take her for apresent,--fact,--I've _seen_, now."
"Wal, 't is kinder pity, now, not to buy her with her son,--herheart seems so sot on him,--s'pose they fling her in cheap."
"Them that's got money to spend that ar way, it's all well enough. I shall bid off on that ar boy for a plantation-hand;--wouldn't bebothered with her, no way, notif they'd give her to me," said Haley.
"She'll take on desp't," said the man.
"Nat'lly, she will," said the trader, coolly.
The conversation was here interrupted by a busy hum in theaudience; and the auctioneer, a short, bustling, important fellow,elbowed his way into the crowd. The old woman drew in her breath,and caught instinctively at her son.
"Keep close to yer mammy, Albert,--close,--dey'll put usup togedder," she said.
"O, mammy, I'm feard they won't," said the boy.
"Dey must, child; I can't live, no ways, if they don't"said the old creature, vehemently.
The stentorian tones of the auctioneer, calling out to clearthe way, now announced that the sale was about to commence. A place was cleared, and the bidding began. The different men onthe list were soon knocked off at prices which showed a prettybrisk demand in the market; two of them fell to Haley.
"Come, now, young un," said the auctioneer, giving the boya touch with his hammer, "be up and show your springs, now."
"Put us two up togedder, togedder,--do please, Mas'r," saidthe old woman, holding fast to her boy.
"Be off," said the man, gruffly, pushing her hands away;"you come last. Now, darkey, spring;" and, with the word,he pushed the boy toward the block, while a deep, heavy groanrose behind him. The boy paused, and looked back; but therewas no time to stay, and, dashing the tears from his large, brighteyes, he was up in a moment.
His fine figure, alert limbs, and bright face, raised aninstant competition, and half a dozen bids simultaneously met theear of the auctioneer. Anxious, half-frightened, he looked fromside to side, as he heard the clatter of contending bids,--nowhere, now there,--till the hammer fell. Haley had got him. He waspushed from the block toward his new master, but stopped onemoment, and looked back, when his poor old mother, trembling inevery limb, held out her shaking hands toward him.
"Buy me too, Mas'r, for de dear Lord's sake!--buy me,--Ishall die if you don't!"
"You'll die if I do, that's the kink of it," said Haley,--"no!"And he turned on his heel.
The bidding for the poor old creature was summary. The man whohad addressed Haley, and who seemed not destitute of compassion,bought her for a trifle, and the spectators began to disperse.
The poor victims of the sale, who had been brought up inone place together for years, gathered round the despairing oldmother, whose agony was pitiful to see.
"Couldn't dey leave me one? Mas'r allers said I should haveone,--he did," she repeated over and over, in heart-broken tones.
"Trust in the Lord, Aunt Hagar," said the oldest of themen, sorrowfully.
"What good will it do?" said she, sobbing passionately.
"Mother, mother,--don't! don't!" said the boy. "They sayyou 's got a good master."
"I don't care,--I don't care. O, Albert! oh, my boy! you's my last baby. Lord, how ken I?"
"Come, take her off, can't some of ye?" said Haley, dryly;"don't do no good for her to go on that ar way."
The old men of the company, partly by persuasion and partlyby force, loosed the poor creature's last despairing hold, and, asthey led her off to her new master's wagon, strove to comfort her.
"Now!" said Haley, pushing his three purchases together, andproducing a bundle of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put ontheir wrists; and fastening each handcuff to a long chain, he drovethem before him to the jail.
A few days saw Haley, with his possessions, safely depositedon one of the Ohio boats. It was the commencement of his gang, tobe augmented, as the boat moved on, by various other merchandiseof the same kind, which he, or his agent, had stored for him invarious points along shore.
The La Belle Riviere, as brave and beautiful a boat as everwalked the waters of her namesake river, was floating gayly downthe stream, under a brilliant sky, the stripes and stars of freeAmerica waving and fluttering over head; the guards crowded withwell-dressed ladies and gentlemen walking and enjoying thedelightful day. All was full of life, buoyant and rejoicing;--allbut Haley's gang, who were stored, with other freight, on the lowerdeck, and who, somehow, did not seem to appreciate their variousprivileges, as they sat in a knot, talking to each other in low tones.
"Boys," said Haley, coming up, briskly, "I hope you keep up goodheart, and are cheerful. Now, no sulks, ye see; keep stiffupper lip, boys; do well by me, and I'll do well by you."
The boys addressed responded the invariable "Yes, Mas'r,"for ages the watchword of poor Africa; but it's to be owned theydid not look particularly cheerful; they had their various littleprejudices in favor of wives, mothers, sisters, and children, seenfor the last time,--and though "they that wasted them required ofthem mirth," it was not instantly forthcoming.
"I've got a wife," spoke out the article enumerated as "John,aged thirty," and he laid his chained hand on Tom's knee,--"andshe don't know a word about this, poor girl!"
"Where does she live?" said Tom.
"In a tavern a piece down here," said John; "I wish, now,I _could_ see her once more in this world," he added.
Poor John! It _was_ rather natural; and the tears that fell,as he spoke, came as naturally as if he had been a white man. Tom drew a long breath from a sore heart, and tried, in his poorway, to comfort him.
And over head, in the cabin, sat fathers and mothers, husbandsand wives; and merry, dancing children moved round among them,like so many little butterflies, and everything was going onquite easy and comfortable.
"O, mamma," said a boy, who had just come up from below,"there's a negro trader on board, and he's brought four or fiveslaves down there."
"Poor creatures!" said the mother, in a tone between griefand indignation.
"What's that?" said another lady.
"Some poor slaves below," said the mother.
"And they've got chains on," said the boy.
"What a shame to our country that such sights are to beseen!" said another lady.
"O, there's a great deal to be said on both sides of thesubject," said a genteel woman, who sat at her state-room doorsewing, while her little girl and boy were playing round her. "I've been south, and I must say I think the negroes are betteroff than they would be to be free."
"In some respects, some of them are well off, I grant,"said the lady to whose remark she had answered. "The mostdreadful part of slavery, to my mind, is its outrages on thefeelings and affections,--the separating of families, for example."
"That _is_ a bad thing, certainly," said the other lady,holding up a baby's dress she had just completed, and lookingintently on its trimmings; "but then, I fancy, it don't occur often."
"O, it does," said the first lady, eagerly; "I've lived many yearsin Kentucky and Virginia both, and I've seen enough to make anyone's heart sick. Suppose, ma'am, your two children, there,should be taken from you, and sold?"
"We can't reason from our feelings to those of this class ofpersons," said the other lady, sorting out some worsteds on her lap.
"Indeed, ma'am, you can know nothing of them, if you say so,"answered the first lady, warmly. "I was born and brought upamong them. I know they _do_ feel, just as keenly,--even more so,perhaps,--as we do."
The lady said "Indeed!" yawned, and looked out the cabinwindow, and finally repeated, for a finale, the remark with whichshe had begun,--"After all, I think they are better off than theywould be to be free."
"It's undoubtedly the intention of Providence that theAfrican race should be servants,--kept in a low condition," saida grave-looking gentleman in black, a clergyman, seated by thecabin door. "`Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall hebe,' the scripture says."[2]
[2] Gen. 9:25. This is what Noah says when he wakes out ofdrunkenness and realizes that his youngest son, Ham, father ofCanaan, has seen him naked.
"I say, stranger, is that ar what that text means?" saida tall man, standing by.
"Undoubtedly. It pleased Providence, for some inscrutablereason, to doom the race to bondage, ages ago; and we must not setup our opinion against that."
"Well, then, we'll all go ahead and buy up niggers," said the man,"if that's the way of Providence,--won't we, Squire?" said he,turning to Haley, who had been standing, with his hands in hispockets, by the stove and intently listening to the conversation.
"Yes," continued the tall man, "we must all be resigned to thedecrees of Providence. Niggers must be sold, and trucked round,and kept under; it's what they's made for. 'Pears like this yerview 's quite refreshing, an't it, stranger?" said he to Haley.
"I never thought on 't," said Haley, "I couldn't have saidas much, myself; I ha'nt no larning. I took up the trade just tomake a living; if 'tan't right, I calculated to 'pent on 't intime, ye know."
"And now you'll save yerself the trouble, won't ye?" said thetall man. "See what 't is, now, to know scripture. If ye'donly studied yer Bible, like this yer good man, ye might have know'dit before, and saved ye a heap o' trouble. Ye could jist havesaid, `Cussed be'--what's his name?--`and 't would all have comeright.'" And the stranger, who was no other than the honest droverwhom we introduced to our readers in the Kentucky tavern, sat down,and began smoking, with a curious smile on his long, dry face.
A tall, slender young man, with a face expressive of greatfeeling and intelligence, here broke in, and repeated the words,"`All things whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, doye even so unto them.' I suppose," he added, "_that_ is scripture,as much as `Cursed be Canaan.'"
"Wal, it seems quite _as_ plain a text, stranger," saidJohn the drover, "to poor fellows like us, now;" and John smokedon like a volcano.
The young man paused, looked as if he was going to saymore, when suddenly the boat stopped, and the company made theusual steamboat rush, to see where they were landing.
"Both them ar chaps parsons?" said John to one of the men,as they were going out.
The man nodded.
As the boat stopped, a black woman came running wildly up theplank, darted into the crowd, flew up to where the slave gangsat, and threw her arms round that unfortunate piece of merchandisebefore enumerate--"John, aged thirty," and with sobs and tearsbemoaned him as her husband.
But what needs tell the story, told too oft,--every day told,--ofheart-strings rent and broken,--the weak broken and torn forthe profit and convenience of the strong! It needs not to betold;--every day is telling it,--telling it, too, in the ear ofOne who is not deaf, though he be long silent.
The young man who had spoken for the cause of humanity and Godbefore stood with folded arms, looking on this scene. He turned,and Haley was standing at his side. "My friend," he said,speaking with thick utterance, "how can you, how dare you, carryon a trade like this? Look at those poor creatures! Here I am,rejoicing in my heart that I am going home to my wife and child;and the same bell which is a signal to carry me onward towards themwill part this poor man and his wife forever. Depend upon it, Godwill bring you into judgment for this."
The trader turned away in silence.
"I say, now," said the drover, touching his elbow, "there'sdifferences in parsons, an't there? `Cussed be Canaan' don't seemto go down with this 'un, does it?"
Haley gave an uneasy growl.
"And that ar an't the worst on 't," said John; "mabbee itwon't go down with the Lord, neither, when ye come to settle withHim, one o' these days, as all on us must, I reckon."
Haley walked reflectively to the other end of the boat.
"If I make pretty handsomely on one or two next gangs," he thought,"I reckon I'll stop off this yer; it's really getting dangerous." And he took out his pocket-book, and began adding over hisaccounts,--a process which many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley havefound a specific for an uneasy conscience.
The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went onmerrily, as before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed, and children played, and the boat passed on her way.
One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in Kentucky,Haley went up into the place on a little matter of business.
Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderatecircuit, had drawn near the side of the boat, and stood listlesslygazing over the railing. After a time, he saw the trader returning,with an alert step, in company with a colored woman, bearing inher arms a young child. She was dressed quite respectably, and acolored man followed her, bringing along a small trunk. The womancame cheerfully onward, talking, as she came, with the man who boreher trunk, and so passed up the plank into the boat. The bellrung, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned and coughed, and awayswept the boat down the river.
The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of thelower deck, and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping toher baby.
Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up,seated himself near her, and began saying something to her inan indifferent undertone.
Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman'sbrow; and that she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence.
"I don't believe it,--I won't believe it!" he heard her say. "You're jist a foolin with me."
"If you won't believe it, look here!" said the man, drawingout a paper; "this yer's the bill of sale, and there's your master'sname to it; and I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can tellyou,--so, now!"
"I don't believe Mas'r would cheat me so; it can't be true!"said the woman, with increasing agitation.
"You can ask any of these men here, that can read writing. Here!" he said, to a man that was passing by, "jist read this yer,won't you! This yer gal won't believe me, when I tell her what 't is."
"Why, it's a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick," saidthe man, "making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. It's all straight enough, for aught I see."
The woman's passionate exclamations collected a crowd aroundher, and the trader briefly explained to them the cause of theagitation.
"He told me that I was going down to Louisville, to hire outas cook to the same tavern where my husband works,--that's whatMas'r told me, his own self; and I can't believe he'd lie to me,"said the woman.
"But he has sold you, my poor woman, there's no doubt about it,"said a good-natured looking man, who had been examining thepapers; "he has done it, and no mistake."
"Then it's no account talking," said the woman, suddenlygrowing quite calm; and, clasping her child tighter in her arms,she sat down on her box, turned her back round, and gazed listlesslyinto the river.
"Going to take it easy, after all!" said the trader. "Gal's gotgrit, I see."
The woman looked calm, as the boat went on; and a beautifulsoft summer breeze passed like a compassionate spirit over herhead,--the gentle breeze, that never inquires whether the brow isdusky or fair that it fans. And she saw sunshine sparkling on thewater, in golden ripples, and heard gay voices, full of ease andpleasure, talking around her everywhere; but her heart lay as ifa great stone had fallen on it. Her baby raised himself up againsther, and stroked her cheeks with his little hands; and, springingup and down, crowing and chatting, seemed determined to arouse her. She strained him suddenly and tightly in her arms, and slowly onetear after another fell on his wondering, unconscious face; andgradually she seemed, and little by little, to grow calmer,and busied herself with tending and nursing him.
The child, a boy of ten months, was uncommonly large andstrong of his age, and very vigorous in his limbs. Never, for amoment, still, he kept his mother constantly busy in holding him,and guarding his springing activity.
"That's a fine chap!" said a man, suddenly stopping oppositeto him, with his hands in his pockets. "How old is he?"
"Ten months and a half," said the mother.
The man whistled to the boy, and offered him part of a stickof candy, which he eagerly grabbed at, and very soon had itin a baby's general depository, to wit, his mouth.
"Rum fellow!" said the man "Knows what's what!" and he whistled,and walked on. When he had got to the other side of the boat,he came across Haley, who was smoking on top of a pile of boxes.
The stranger produced a match, and lighted a cigar, saying,as he did so,
"Decentish kind o' wench you've got round there, stranger."
"Why, I reckon she _is_ tol'able fair," said Haley, blowingthe smoke out of his mouth.
"Taking her down south?" said the man.
Haley nodded, and smoked on.
"Plantation hand?" said the man.
"Wal," said Haley, "I'm fillin' out an order for a plantation,and I think I shall put her in. They telled me she was a goodcook; and they can use her for that, or set her at the cotton-picking. She's got the right fingers for that; I looked at 'em. Sell well,either way;" and Haley resumed his cigar.
"They won't want the young 'un on the plantation," saidthe man.
"I shall sell him, first chance I find," said Haley, lightinganother cigar.
"S'pose you'd be selling him tol'able cheap," said thestranger, mounting the pile of boxes, and sitting down comfortably.
"Don't know 'bout that," said Haley; "he's a pretty smartyoung 'un, straight, fat, strong; flesh as hard as a brick!"
"Very true, but then there's the bother and expense of raisin'."
"Nonsense!" said Haley; "they is raised as easy as any kindof critter there is going; they an't a bit more trouble than pups. This yer chap will be running all around, in a month."
"I've got a good place for raisin', and I thought of takin'in a little more stock," said the man. "One cook lost a young 'unlast week,--got drownded in a washtub, while she was a hangin' outthe clothes,--and I reckon it would be well enough to set her toraisin' this yer."
Haley and the stranger smoked a while in silence, neitherseeming willing to broach the test question of the interview. At last the man resumed:
"You wouldn't think of wantin' more than ten dollars forthat ar chap, seeing you _must_ get him off yer hand, any how?"
Haley shook his head, and spit impressively.
"That won't do, no ways," he said, and began his smoking again.
"Well, stranger, what will you take?"
"Well, now," said Haley, "I _could_ raise that ar chap myself,or get him raised; he's oncommon likely and healthy, andhe'd fetch a hundred dollars, six months hence; and, in a year ortwo, he'd bring two hundred, if I had him in the right spot; Ishan't take a cent less nor fifty for him now."
"O, stranger! that's rediculous, altogether," said the man.
"Fact!" said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.
"I'll give thirty for him," said the stranger, "but not acent more."
"Now, I'll tell ye what I will do," said Haley, spittingagain, with renewed decision. "I'll split the difference, andsay forty-five; and that's the most I will do."
"Well, agreed!" said the man, after an interval.
"Done!" said Haley. "Where do you land?"
"At Louisville," said the man.
"Louisville," said Haley. "Very fair, we get there about dusk. Chap will be asleep,--all fair,--get him off quietly, and noscreaming,--happens beautiful,--I like to do everything quietly,--Ihates all kind of agitation and fluster." And so, after a transferof certain bills had passed from the man's pocket-book to thetrader's, he resumed his cigar.
It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at thewharf at Louisville. The woman had been sitting with her babyin her arms, now wrapped in a heavy sleep. When she heard the nameof the place called out, she hastily laid the child down in a littlecradle formed by the hollow among the boxes, first carefullyspreading under it her cloak; and then she sprung to the side ofthe boat, in hopes that, among the various hotel-waiters who throngedthe wharf, she might see her husband. In this hope, she pressedforward to the front rails, and, stretching far over them, strainedher eyes intently on the moving heads on the shore, and the crowdpressed in between her and the child.
"Now's your time," said Haley, taking the sleeping child up,and handing him to the stranger. "Don't wake him up, and sethim to crying, now; it would make a devil of a fuss with the gal."The man took the bundle carefully, and was soon lost in the crowdthat went up the wharf.
When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, hadloosed from the wharf, and was beginning slowly to strainherself along, the woman returned to her old seat. The trader was sitting there,--the child was gone!
"Why, why,--where?" she began, in bewildered surprise.
"Lucy," said the trader, "your child's gone; you may as wellknow it first as last. You see, I know'd you couldn't takehim down south; and I got a chance to sell him to a first-ratefamily, that'll raise him better than you can."
The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian andpolitical perfection which has been recommended by some preachersand politicians of the north, lately, in which he had completelyovercome every humane weakness and prejudice. His heart was exactlywhere yours, sir, and mine could be brought, with proper effortand cultivation. The wild look of anguish and utter despair thatthe woman cast on him might have disturbed one less practised; buthe was used to it. He had seen that same look hundreds of times. You can get used to such things, too, my friend; and it is thegreat object of recent efforts to make our whole northern communityused to them, for the glory of the Union. So the trader onlyregarded the mortal anguish which he saw working in those darkfeatures, those clenched hands, and suffocating breathings, asnecessary incidents of the trade, and merely calculated whethershe was going to scream, and get up a commotion on the boat; for,like other supporters of our peculiar institution, he decidedlydisliked agitation.
But the woman did not scream. The shot had passed toostraight and direct through the heart, for cry or tear.
Dizzily she sat down. Her slack hands fell lifeless byher side. Her eyes looked straight forward, but she saw nothing. All the noise and hum of the boat, the groaning of the machinery,mingled dreamily to her bewildered ear; and the poor, dumb-strickenheart had neither cry not tear to show for its utter misery. She wasquite calm.
The trader, who, considering his advantages, was almost ashumane as some of our politicians, seemed to feel called on toadminister such consolation as the case admitted of.
"I know this yer comes kinder hard, at first, Lucy," said he;"but such a smart, sensible gal as you are, won't give way to it. You see it's _necessary_, and can't be helped!"
"O! don't, Mas'r, don't!" said the woman, with a voice likeone that is smothering.
"You're a smart wench, Lucy," he persisted; "I mean to dowell by ye, and get ye a nice place down river; and you'll soonget another husband,--such a likely gal as you--"
"O! Mas'r, if you _only_ won't talk to me now," said the woman,in a voice of such quick and living anguish that the traderfelt that there was something at present in the case beyond hisstyle of operation. He got up, and the woman turned away, andburied her head in her cloak.
The trader walked up and down for a time, and occasionallystopped and looked at her.
"Takes it hard, rather," he soliloquized, "but quiet,tho';--let her sweat a while; she'll come right, by and by!"
Tom had watched the whole transaction from first to last,and had a perfect understanding of its results. To him, it lookedlike something unutterably horrible and cruel, because, poor,ignorant black soul! he had not learned to generalize, and to takeenlarged views. If he had only been instructed by certain ministersof Christianity, he might have thought better of it, and seen init an every-day incident of a lawful trade; a trade which is thevital suport of an institution which an American divine[3] tells ushas _"no evils but such as are inseparable from any other relationsin social and domestic life_." But Tom, as we see, being a poor,ignorant fellow, whose reading had been confined entirely to theNew Testament, could not comfort and solace himself with viewslike these. His very soul bled within him for what seemed to himthe _wrongs_ of the poor suffering thing that lay like a crushedreed on the boxes; the feeling, living, bleeding, yet immortal_thing_, which American state law coolly classes with the bundles,and bales, and boxes, among which she is lying.
[3] Dr. Joel Parker of Philadelphia. [Mrs. Stowe's note.]Presbyterian clergyman (1799-1873), a friend of the Beecher family. Mrs. Stowe attempted unsuccessfully to have this identifying noteremoved from the stereotype-plate of the first edition.
Tom drew near, and tried to say something; but she only groaned. Honestly, and with tears running down his own cheeks, he spokeof a heart of love in the skies, of a pitying Jesus, and aneternal home; but the ear was deaf with anguish, and the palsiedheart could not feel.
Night came on,--night calm, unmoved, and glorious, shining downwith her innumerable and solemn angel eyes, twinkling, beautiful,but silent. There was no speech nor language, no pitying voice orhelping hand, from that distant sky. One after another, the voicesof business or pleasure died away; all on the boat were sleeping,and the ripples at the prow were plainly heard. Tom stretchedhimself out on a box, and there, as he lay, he heard, ever andanon, a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creature,--"O! whatshall I do? O Lord! O good Lord, do help me!" and so, ever andanon, until the murmur died away in silence.
At midnight, Tom waked, with a sudden start. Something blackpassed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he hearda splash in the water. No one else saw or heard anything. He raised his head,--the woman's place was vacant! He got up,and sought about him in vain. The poor bleeding heart was still,at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just as brightly as ifit had not closed above it.
Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongslike these. Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of theoppressed, is forgotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory. In his patient, generous bosom he bears the anguish of a world. Bear thou, like him, in patience, and labor in love; for sure ashe is God, "the year of his redeemed _shall_ come."
The trader waked up bright and early, and came out to see to hislive stock. It was now his turn to look about in perplexity.
"Where alive is that gal?" he said to Tom.
Tom, who had learned the wisdom of keeping counsel, did notfeel called upon to state his observations and suspicions, butsaid he did not know.
"She surely couldn't have got off in the night at any ofthe landings, for I was awake, and on the lookout, whenever theboat stopped. I never trust these yer things to other folks."
This speech was addressed to Tom quite confidentially, as ifit was something that would be specially interesting to him. Tom made no answer.
The trader searched the boat from stem to stern, among boxes,bales and barrels, around the machinery, by the chimneys,in vain.
"Now, I say, Tom, be fair about this yer," he said, when, aftera fruitless search, he came where Tom was standing. "You knowsomething about it, now. Don't tell me,--I know you do. I sawthe gal stretched out here about ten o'clock, and ag'in attwelve, and ag'in between one and two; and then at four she wasgone, and you was a sleeping right there all the time. Now, youknow something,--you can't help it."
"Well, Mas'r," said Tom, "towards morning something brushedby me, and I kinder half woke; and then I hearn a great splash,and then I clare woke up, and the gal was gone. That's all I knowon 't."
The trader was not shocked nor amazed; because, as we said before,he was used to a great many things that you are not used to. Even the awful presence of Death struck no solemn chill upon him. He had seen Death many times,--met him in the way of trade, andgot acquainted with him,--and he only thought of him as a hardcustomer, that embarrassed his property operations very unfairly;and so he only swore that the gal was a baggage, and that he wasdevilish unlucky, and that, if things went on in this way, he shouldnot make a cent on the trip. In short, he seemed to considerhimself an ill-used man, decidedly; but there was no help for it,as the woman had escaped into a state which _never will_ give upa fugitive,--not even at the demand of the whole glorious Union. The trader, therefore, sat discontentedly down, with his littleaccount-book, and put down the missing body and soul under the headof _losses!_
"He's a shocking creature, isn't he,--this trader? so unfeeling! It's dreadful, really!"
"O, but nobody thinks anything of these traders! They areuniversally despised,--never received into any decent society."
But who, sir, makes the trader? Who is most to blame? The enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports thesystem of which the trader is the inevitable result, or the poortrader himself? You make the public statement that calls forhis trade, that debauches and depraves him, till he feels noshame in it; and in what are you better than he?
Are you educated and he ignorant, you high and he low, yourefined and he coarse, you talented and he simple?
In the day of a future judgment, these very considerationsmay make it more tolerable for him than for you.
In concluding these little incidents of lawful trade, wemust beg the world not to think that American legislatorsare entirely destitute of humanity, as might, perhaps, beunfairly inferred from the great efforts made in our nationalbody to protect and perpetuate this species of traffic.
Who does not know how our great men are outdoing themselves,in declaiming against the _foreign_ slave-trade. There are aperfect host of Clarksons and Wilberforces[4] risen up among us onthat subject, most edifying to hear and behold. Trading negroesfrom Africa, dear reader, is so horrid! It is not to be thought of! But trading them from Kentucky,--that's quite another thing!
[4] Thomas Clarkson (1760-1846) and William Wilberforce(1759-1833), English philanthropists and anti-slavery agitatorswho helped to secure passage of the Emancipation Bill by Parliamentin 1833.
CHAPTER XIII
The Quaker Settlement
A quiet scene now rises before us. A large, roomy,neatly-painted kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and smooth, andwithout a particle of dust; a neat, well-blacked cooking-stove;rows of shining tin, suggestive of unmentionable good things tothe appetite; glossy green wood chairs, old and firm; a smallflag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a patch-work cushion in it, neatlycontrived out of small pieces of different colored woollen goods,and a larger sized one, motherly and old, whose wide arms breathedhospitable invitation, seconded by the solicitation of its feathercushions,--a real comfortable, persuasive old chair, and worth, inthe way of honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen of your plush orbrochetelle drawing-room gentry; and in the chair, gently swayingback and forward, her eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat our fineold friend Eliza. Yes, there she is, paler and thinner than inher Kentucky home, with a world of quiet sorrow lying under theshadow of her long eyelashes, and marking the outline of hergentle mouth! It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heartwas grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; and when, anon, herlarge dark eye was raised to follow the gambols of her little Harry,who was sporting, like some tropical butterfly, hither and thitherover the floor, she showed a depth of firmness and steady resolvethat was never there in her earlier and happier days.
By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, intowhich she was carefully sorting some dried peaches. She mightbe fifty-five or sixty; but hers was one of those faces that timeseems to touch only to brighten and adorn. The snowy fisse crapecap, made after the strait Quaker pattern,--the plain white muslinhandkerchief, lying in placid folds across her bosom,--the drabshawl and dress,--showed at once the community to which she belonged. Her face was round and rosy, with a healthful downy softness,suggestive of a ripe peach. Her hair, partially silvered by age,was parted smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which timehad written no inscription, except peace on earth, good will tomen, and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving browneyes; you only needed to look straight into them, to feel that yousaw to the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever throbbed inwoman's bosom. So much has been said and sung of beautiful younggirls, why don't somebody wake up to the beauty of old women? If any want to get up an inspiration under this head, we refer themto our good friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in herlittle rocking-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking,--thatchair had,--either from having taken cold in early life, or fromsome asthmatic affection, or perhaps from nervous derangement; but,as she gently swung backward and forward, the chair kept up a kindof subdued "creechy crawchy," that would have been intolerable inany other chair. But old Simeon Halliday often declared it was asgood as any music to him, and the children all avowed that theywouldn't miss of hearing mother's chair for anything in the world. For why? for twenty years or more, nothing but loving words, andgentle moralities, and motherly loving kindness, had come from thatchair;--head-aches and heart-aches innumerable had been curedthere,--difficulties spiritual and temporal solved there,--all byone good, loving woman, God bless her!
"And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?" she said,as she was quietly looking over her peaches.
"Yes, ma'am," said Eliza, firmly. "I must go onward. I darenot stop."
"And what'll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must thinkabout that, my daughter."
"My daughter" came naturally from the lips of RachelHalliday; for hers was just the face and form that made "mother"seem the most natural word in the world.
Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her finework; but she answered, firmly,
"I shall do--anything I can find. I hope I can find something."
"Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,"said Rachel.
"O, thank you," said Eliza, "but"--she pointed to Harry--"Ican't sleep nights; I can't rest. Last night I dreamed I saw thatman coming into the yard," she said, shuddering.
"Poor child!" said Rachel, wiping her eyes; "but theemustn't feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath afugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine will not bethe first."
The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin-cushionywoman stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like aripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, withthe muslin folded neatly across her round, plump little chest.
"Ruth Stedman," said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; "howis thee, Ruth? she said, heartily taking both her hands.
"Nicely," said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, anddusting it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so,a round little head, on which the Quaker cap sat with a sortof jaunty air, despite all the stroking and patting of thesmall fat hands, which were busily applied to arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escapedhere and there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into theirplace again; and then the new comer, who might have beenfive-and-twenty, turned from the small looking-glass, beforewhich she had been making these arrangements, and looked wellpleased,--as most people who looked at her might have been,--forshe was decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping littlewoman, as ever gladdened man's heart withal.
"Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the littleboy I told thee of."
"I am glad to see thee, Eliza,--very," said Ruth, shakinghands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting;"and this is thy dear boy,--I brought a cake for him," she said,holding out a little heart to the boy, who came up, gazing throughhis curls, and accepted it shyly.
"Where's thy baby, Ruth?" said Rachel.
"O, he's coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, andran off with him to the barn, to show him to the children."
At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest,rosy-looking girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother's,came in with the baby.
"Ah! ha!" said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white,fat fellow in her arms, "how good he looks, and how he does grow!"
"To be sure, he does," said little bustling Ruth, as she tookthe child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, andvarious layers and wrappers of outer garments; and having given atwitch here, and a pull there, and variously adjusted and arrangedhim, and kissed him heartily, she set him on the floor to collecthis thoughts. Baby seemed quite used to this mode of proceeding,for he put his thumb in his mouth (as if it were quite a thing ofcourse), and seemed soon absorbed in his own reflections, whilethe mother seated herself, and taking out a long stocking ofmixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with briskness.
"Mary, thee'd better fill the kettle, hadn't thee?" gentlysuggested the mother.
Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing,placed it over the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming,a sort of censer of hospitality and good cheer. The peaches,moreover, in obedience to a few gentle whispers from Rachel, weresoon deposited, by the same hand, in a stew-pan over the fire.
Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying onan apron, proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first sayingto Mary,--"Mary, hadn't thee better tell John to get a chickenready?" and Mary disappeared accordingly.
"And how is Abigail Peters?" said Rachel, as she went onwith her biscuits.
"O, she's better," said Ruth; "I was in, this morning; madethe bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this afternoon,and baked bread and pies enough to last some days; and I engagedto go back to get her up, this evening."
"I will go in tomorrow, and do any cleaning there may be,and look over the mending," said Rachel.
"Ah! that is well," said Ruth. "I've heard," she added,"that Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night,--Imust go there tomorrow."
"John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stayall day," suggested Rachel.
"Thank thee, Rachel; will see, tomorrow; but, here comes Simeon."
Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drabcoat and pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.
"How is thee, Ruth?" he said, warmly, as he spread hisbroad open hand for her little fat palm; "and how is John?"
"O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks," saidRuth, cheerily.
"Any news, father?" said Rachel, as she was putting herbiscuits into the oven.
"Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along tonight,with _friends_," said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing hishands at a neat sink, in a little back porch.
"Indeed!" said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancingat Eliza.
"Did thee say thy name was Harris?" said Simeon to Eliza,as he reentered.
Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulouslyanswered "yes;" her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possiblythere might be advertisements out for her.
"Mother!" said Simeon, standing in the porch, and callingRachel out.
"What does thee want, father?" said Rachel, rubbing herfloury hands, as she went into the porch.
"This child's husband is in the settlement, and will behere tonight," said Simeon.
"Now, thee doesn't say that, father?" said Rachel, all herface radiant with joy.
"It's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the wagon,to the other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men;and one said his name was George Harris; and from what he toldof his history, I am certain who he is. He is a bright, likelyfellow, too."
"Shall we tell her now?" said Simeon.
"Let's tell Ruth," said Rachel. "Here, Ruth,--come here."
Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porchin a moment.
"Ruth, what does thee think?" said Rachel. "Father says Eliza'shusband is in the last company, and will be here tonight."
A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her littlehands, that two stray curls fell from under her Quaker cap,and lay brightly on her white neckerchief.
"Hush thee, dear!" said Rachel, gently; "hush, Ruth! Tell us,shall we tell her now?"
"Now! to be sure,--this very minute. Why, now, suppose 'twas my John, how should I feel? Do tell her, right off."
"Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor,Ruth," said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.
"To be sure. Isn't it what we are made for? If I didn'tlove John and the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now do tell her,--do!" and she laid her hands persuasivelyon Rachel's arm. "Take her into thy bed-room, there, and let mefry the chicken while thee does it."
Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing,and opening the door of a small bed-room, said, gently, "Come inhere with me, my daughter; I have news to tell thee."
The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face; she rose, tremblingwith nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy.
"No, no," said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her hands. "Never thee fear; it's good news, Eliza,--go in, go in!"And she gently pushed her to the door which closed after her; andthen, turning round, she caught little Harry in her arms, and begankissing him.
"Thee'll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it? Thy father is coming," she said, over and over again, as the boylooked wonderingly at her.
Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, "The Lordhath had mercy on thee, daughter; thy husband hath escapedfrom the house of bondage."
The blood flushed to Eliza's cheek in a sudden glow, andwent back to her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, paleand faint.
"Have courage, child," said Rachel, laying her hand on her head. "He is among friends, who will bring him here tonight."
"Tonight!" Eliza repeated, "tonight!" The words lost allmeaning to her; her head was dreamy and confused; all was mist fora moment.
When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed,with a blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her handswith camphor. She opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, deliciouslanguor, such as one who has long been bearing a heavy load, andnow feels it gone, and would rest. The tension of the nerves,which had never ceased a moment since the first hour of her flight,had given way, and a strange feeling of security and rest came overher; and as she lay, with her large, dark eyes open, she followed,as in a quiet dream, the motions of those about her. She saw thedoor open into the other room; saw the supper-table, with its snowycloth; heard the dreamy murmur of the singing tea-kettle; saw Ruthtripping backward and forward, with plates of cake and saucers ofpreserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a cake into Harry'shand, or pat his head, or twine his long curls round her snowyfingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she everand anon came to the bedside, and smoothed and arranged somethingabout the bedclothes, and gave a tuck here and there, by way ofexpressing her good-will; and was conscious of a kind of sunshinebeaming down upon her from her large, clear, brown eyes. She sawRuth's husband come in,--saw her fly up to him, and commencewhispering very earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture,pointing her little finger toward the room. She saw her, with thebaby in her arms, sitting down to tea; she saw them all at table,and little Harry in a high chair, under the shadow of Rachel's amplewing; there were low murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons,and musical clatter of cups and saucers, and all mingled in a delightfuldream of rest; and Eliza slept, as she had not slept before, sincethe fearful midnight hour when she had taken her child and fledthrough the frosty starlight.
She dreamed of a beautiful country,--a land, it seemed to her,of rest,--green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifullyglittering water; and there, in a house which kind voices toldher was a home, she saw her boy playing, free and happy child. She heard her husband's footsteps; she felt him coming nearer;his arms were around her, his tears falling on her face, andshe awoke! It was no dream. The daylight had long faded; herchild lay calmly sleeping by her side; a candle was burning dimlyon the stand, and her husband was sobbing by her pillow.
The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. "Mother" was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys,whom we had scarce time to introduce to our readers yesterday, andwho all moved obediently to Rachel's gentle "Thee had better," ormore gentle "Hadn't thee better?" in the work of getting breakfast;for a breakfast in the luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thingcomplicated and multiform, and, like picking up the rose-leavesand trimming the bushes in Paradise, asking other hands than thoseof the original mother. While, therefore, John ran to the springfor fresh water, and Simeon the second sifted meal for corn-cakes,and Mary ground coffee, Rachel moved gently, and quietly about,making biscuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a sort of sunnyradiance over the whole proceeding generally. If there was anydanger of friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of somany young operators, her gentle "Come! come!" or "I wouldn't, now,"was quite sufficient to allay the difficulty. Bards have writtenof the cestus of Venus, that turned the heads of all the world insuccessive generations. We had rather, for our part, have thecestus of Rachel Halliday, that kept heads from being turned, andmade everything go on harmoniously. We think it is more suited toour modern days, decidedly.
While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the elderstood in his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass inthe corner, engaged in the anti-patriarchal operation of shaving. Everything went on so sociably, so quietly, so harmoniously, inthe great kitchen,--it seemed so pleasant to every one to do justwhat they were doing, there was such an atmosphere of mutualconfidence and good fellowship everywhere,--even the knives andforks had a social clatter as they went on to the table; and thechicken and ham had a cheerful and joyous fizzle in the pan, as ifthey rather enjoyed being cooked than otherwise;--and when Georgeand Eliza and little Harry came out, they met such a hearty,rejoicing welcome, no wonder it seemed to them like a dream.
At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stoodat the stove, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained thetrue exact golden-brown tint of perfection, were transferredquite handily to the table.
Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the headof her table. There was so much motherliness and full-heartednesseven in the way she passed a plate of cakes or poured a cup ofcoffee, that it seemed to put a spirit into the food and drinkshe offered.
It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal termsat any white man's table; and he sat down, at first, with someconstraint and awkwardness; but they all exhaled and went off likefog, in the genial morning rays of this simple, overflowing kindness.
This, indeed, was a home,--_home_,--a word that George hadnever yet known a meaning for; and a belief in God, and trust inhis providence, began to encircle his heart, as, with a goldencloud of protection and confidence, dark, misanthropic, piningatheistic doubts, and fierce despair, melted away before the lightof a living Gospel, breathed in living faces, preached by a thousandunconscious acts of love and good will, which, like the cup of coldwater given in the name of a disciple, shall never lose their reward.
"Father, what if thee should get found out again?" saidSimeon second, as he buttered his cake.
"I should pay my fine," said Simeon, quietly.
"But what if they put thee in prison?"
"Couldn't thee and mother manage the farm?" said Simeon, smiling.
"Mother can do almost everything," said the boy. "But isn'tit a shame to make such laws?"
"Thee mustn't speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon," said hisfather, gravely. "The Lord only gives us our worldly goods thatwe may do justice and mercy; if our rulers require a price of usfor it, we must deliver it up.
"Well, I hate those old slaveholders!" said the boy, whofelt as unchristian as became any modern reformer.
"I am surprised at thee, son," said Simeon; "thy mother nevertaught thee so. I would do even the same for the slaveholderas for the slave, if the Lord brought him to my door in affliction."
Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only smiled,and said, "Simeon is my good boy; he will grow older, by and by,and then he will be like his father."
"I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to anydifficulty on our account," said George, anxiously.
"Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the world. If we would not meet trouble for a good cause, we were notworthy of our name."
"But, for _me_," said George, "I could not bear it."
"Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for Godand man, we do it," said Simeon. "And now thou must lie byquietly this day, and tonight, at ten o'clock, Phineas Fletcherwill carry thee onward to the next stand,--thee and the rest ofthey company. The pursuers are hard after thee; we must not delay."
"If that is the case, why wait till evening?" said George.
"Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in thesettlement is a Friend, and all are watching. It has been foundsafer to travel by night."
CHAPTER XIV
Evangeline
"A young star! which shone O'er life--too sweet an image, for such glass! A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded; A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."
The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have itsscenes been changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poeticdescription of it,[1] as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes,rolling amid undreamed wonders of vegetable and animal existence.
[1] _In Atala; or the Love and Constantcy of Two Savages inthe Desert_ (1801) by Francois Auguste Rene, Vicomte de Chateaubriand(1768-1848).
But as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romancehas emerged to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the world bears on its bosom to the ocean thewealth and enterprise of such another country?--a country whoseproducts embrace all between the tropics and the poles! Those turbidwaters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along, an apt resemblance ofthat headlong tide of business which is poured along its wave bya race more vehement and energetic than any the old world ever saw. Ah! would that they did not also bear along a more fearfulfreight,--the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the helpless,the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts to an unknownGod--unknown, unseen and silent, but who will yet "come out of hisplace to save all the poor of the earth!"
The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-likeexpanse of the river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark cypress,hung with wreaths of dark, funereal moss, glow in the golden ray,as the heavily-laden steamboat marches onward.
Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up overdeck and sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massiveblock of gray, she moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time among its crowded decks before we shall findagain our humble friend Tom. High on the upper deck, in a littlenook among the everywhere predominant cotton-bales, at last we mayfind him.
Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby's representations,and partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character ofthe man, Tom had insensibly won his way far into the confidenceeven of such a man as Haley.
At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and neverallowed him to sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplainingpatience and apparent contentment of Tom's manner led him graduallyto discontinue these restraints, and for some time Tom had enjoyeda sort of parole of honor, being permitted to come and go freelywhere he pleased on the boat.
Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a handin every emergency which occurred among the workmen below, he hadwon the good opinion of all the hands, and spent many hours inhelping them with as hearty a good will as ever he worked on aKentucky farm.
When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he wouldclimb to a nook among the cotton-bales of the upper deck,and busy himself in studying over his Bible,--and itis there we see him now.
For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the riveris higher than the surrounding country, and rolls its tremendousvolume between massive levees twenty feet in height. The travellerfrom the deck of the steamer, as from some floating castle top,overlooks the whole country for miles and miles around. Tom,therefore, had spread out full before him, in plantation afterplantation, a map of the life to which he was approaching.
He saw the distant slaves at their toil; he saw afar theirvillages of huts gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation,distant from the stately mansions and pleasure-grounds of themaster;--and as the moving picture passed on, his poor, foolishheart would be turning backward to the Kentucky farm, with its oldshadowy beeches,--to the master's house, with its wide, cool halls,and, near by, the little cabin overgrown with the multiflora andbignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces of comrades whohad grown up with him from infancy; he saw his busy wife, bustlingin her preparations for his evening meals; he heard the merry laughof his boys at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at his knee;and then, with a start, all faded, and he saw again the canebrakesand cypresses and gliding plantations, and heard again the creakingand groaning of the machinery, all telling him too plainly thatall that phase of life had gone by forever.
In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messagesto your children; but Tom could not write,--the mail for him hadno existence, and the gulf of separation was unbridged by even afriendly word or signal.
Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages ofhis Bible, as he lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with patientfinger, threading his slow way from word to word, traces outits promises? Having learned late in life, Tom was but a slowreader, and passed on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate for him was it that the book he was intent onwas one which slow reading cannot injure,--nay, one whose words,like ingots of gold, seem often to need to be weighed separately,that the mind may take in their priceless value. Let us followhim a moment, as, pointing to each word, and pronouncing each halfaloud, he reads,
"Let--not--your--heart--be--troubled. In--my--Father's--house--are--many--mansions. I--go--to--prepare--a--place--for--you."
Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, hada heart as full of honest grief as poor Tom's,--perhaps no fuller,for both were only men;--but Cicero could pause over no such sublimewords of hope, and look to no such future reunion; and if he _had_seen them, ten to one he would not have believed,--he must fillhis head first with a thousand questions of authenticity ofmanuscript, and correctness of translation. But, to poor Tom,there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently true and divinethat the possibility of a question never entered his simple head. It must be true; for, if not true, how could he live?
As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helpsin margin from learned commentators, still it had been embellishedwith certain way-marks and guide-boards of Tom's own invention,and which helped him more than the most learned expositions couldhave done. It had been his custom to get the Bible read to him byhis master's children, in particular by young Master George; and,as they read, he would designate, by bold, strong marks and dashes,with pen and ink, the passages which more particularly gratifiedhis ear or affected his heart. His Bible was thus marked through,from one end to the other, with a variety of styles and designations;so he could in a moment seize upon his favorite passages, withoutthe labor of spelling out what lay between them;--and while itlay there before him, every passage breathing of some old homescene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible seemed tohim all of this life that remained, as well as the promise of afuture one.
Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman offortune and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name ofSt. Clare. He had with him a daughter between five and six yearsof age, together with a lady who seemed to claim relationship toboth, and to have the little one especially under her charge.
Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl,--forshe was one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no morecontained in one place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze,--nor wasshe one that, once seen, could be easily forgotten.
Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, withoutits usual chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was aboutit an undulating and aerial grace, such as one might dream of forsome mythic and allegorical being. Her face was remarkable lessfor its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and dreamyearnestness of expression, which made the ideal start when theylooked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal wereimpressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her head andthe turn of her neck and bust was peculiarly noble, and the longgolden-brown hair that floated like a cloud around it, the deepspiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringesof golden brown,--all marked her out from other children, and madeevery one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and thitheron the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you wouldhave called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary,an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadowof summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyantfigure. She was always in motion, always with a half smile on herrosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undulating andcloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit ofher,--but, when caught, she melted from them again like a summercloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever fell on her earfor whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own way all over theboat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a shadowthrough all sorts of places, without contracting spot or stain;and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where thosefairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary golden head,with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along.
The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimesfound those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of thefurnace, and fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought himin some dreadful danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel pausedand smiled, as the picture-like head gleamed through the window ofthe round house, and in a moment was gone again. A thousand timesa day rough voices blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softnessstole over hard faces, as she passed; and when she tripped fearlesslyover dangerous places, rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarilyout to save her, and smooth her path.
Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race,ever yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched thelittle creature with daily increasing interest. To him she seemedsomething almost divine; and whenever her golden head and deep blueeyes peered out upon him from behind some dusky cotton-bale, orlooked down upon him over some ridge of packages, he half believedthat he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New Testament.
Often and often she walked mournfully round the place whereHaley's gang of men and women sat in their chains. She would glidein among them, and look at them with an air of perplexed andsorrowful earnestness; and sometimes she would lift their chainswith her slender hands, and then sigh wofully, as she glided away. Several times she appeared suddenly among them, with her hands fullof candy, nuts, and oranges, which she would distribute joyfullyto them, and then be gone again.
Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he venturedon any overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundanceof simple acts to propitiate and invite the approaches of the littlepeople, and he resolved to play his part right skilfully. He couldcut cunning little baskets out of cherry-stones, could make grotesquefaces on hickory-nuts, or odd-jumping figures out of elder-pith,and he was a very Pan in the manufacture of whistles of all sizesand sorts. His pockets were full of miscellaneous articles ofattraction, which he had hoarded in days of old for his master'schildren, and which he now produced, with commendable prudence andeconomy, one by one, as overtures for acquaintance and friendship.
The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everythinggoing on, and it was not easy to tame her. For a while, shewould perch like a canary-bird on some box or package near Tom,while busy in the little arts afore-named, and take from him,with a kind of grave bashfulness, the little articles he offered. But at last they got on quite confidential terms.
"What's little missy's name?" said Tom, at last, when hethought matters were ripe to push such an inquiry.
"Evangeline St. Clare," said the little one, "though papaand everybody else call me Eva. Now, what's your name?"
"My name's Tom; the little chil'en used to call me UncleTom, way back thar in Kentuck."
"Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see,I like you," said Eva. "So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?"
"I don't know, Miss Eva."
"Don't know?" said Eva.
"No, I am going to be sold to somebody. I don't know who."
"My papa can buy you," said Eva, quickly; "and if he buys you,you will have good times. I mean to ask him, this very day."
"Thank you, my little lady," said Tom.
The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood,and Eva, hearing her father's voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom roseup, and went forward to offer his service in wooding, and soon wasbusy among the hands.
Eva and her father were standing together by the railingsto see the boat start from the landing-place, the wheel had madetwo or three revolutions in the water, when, by some sudden movement,the little one suddenly lost her balance and fell sheer over theside of the boat into the water. Her father, scarce knowing whathe did, was plunging in after her, but was held back by some behindhim, who saw that more efficient aid had followed his child.
Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she fell. He saw her strike the water, and sink, and was after her ina moment. A broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothingfor him to keep afloat in the water, till, in a moment or two thechild rose to the surface, and he caught her in his arms, and,swimming with her to the boat-side, handed her up, all dripping,to the grasp of hundreds of hands, which, as if they had all belongedto one man, were stretched eagerly out to receive her. A fewmoments more, and her father bore her, dripping and senseless, tothe ladies' cabin, where, as is usual in cases of the kind, thereensued a very well-meaning and kind-hearted strife among the femaleoccupants generally, as to who should do the most things to makea disturbance, and to hinder her recovery in every way possible.
It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamerdrew near to New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation andpreparation was spread through the boat; in the cabin, one andanother were gathering their things together, and arranging them,preparatory to going ashore. The steward and chambermaid, and all,were busily engaged in cleaning, furbishing, and arranging thesplendid boat, preparatory to a grand entree.
On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded,and anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a groupon the other side of the boat.
There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than theday before, but otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accidentwhich had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly-formed young manstood by her, carelessly leaning one elbow on a bale of cotton. while a large pocket-book lay open before him. It was quite evident,at a glance, that the gentleman was Eva's father. There was thesame noble cast of head, the same large blue eyes, the samegolden-brown hair; yet the expression was wholly different. In the large, clear blue eyes, though in form and color exactlysimilar, there was wanting that misty, dreamy depth of expression;all was clear, bold, and bright, but with a light wholly of thisworld: the beautifully cut mouth had a proud and somewhat sarcasticexpression, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat notungracefully in every turn and movement of his fine form. He waslistening, with a good-humored, negligent air, half comic, halfcontemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on thequality of the article for which they were bargaining.
"All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black Morocco,complete!" he said, when Haley had finished. "Well, now,my good fellow, what's the damage, as they say in Kentucky; inshort, what's to be paid out for this business? How much are yougoing to cheat me, now? Out with it!"
"Wal," said Haley, "if I should say thirteen hundred dollarsfor that ar fellow, I shouldn't but just save myself; I shouldn't,now, re'ly."
"Poor fellow!" said the young man, fixing his keen, mockingblue eye on him; "but I suppose you'd let me have him for that,out of a particular regard for me."
"Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, andnat'lly enough."
"O! certainly, there's a call on your benevolence, my friend. Now, as a matter of Christian charity, how cheap could youafford to let him go, to oblige a young lady that's particularsot on him?"
"Wal, now, just think on 't," said the trader; "just lookat them limbs,--broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at hishead; them high forrads allays shows calculatin niggers, that'lldo any kind o' thing. I've, marked that ar. Now, a nigger of thatar heft and build is worth considerable, just as you may say, forhis body, supposin he's stupid; but come to put in his calculatinfaculties, and them which I can show he has oncommon, why, ofcourse, it makes him come higher. Why, that ar fellow managed hismaster's whole farm. He has a strornary talent for business."
"Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!" said theyoung man, with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. "Never will do, in the world. Your smart fellows are always runningoff, stealing horses, and raising the devil generally. I thinkyou'll have to take off a couple of hundred for his smartness."
"Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warnt forhis character; but I can show recommends from his master and others,to prove he is one of your real pious,--the most humble, prayin,pious crittur ye ever did see. Why, he's been called a preacherin them parts he came from."
"And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly," addedthe young man, dryly. "That's quite an idea. Religion isa remarkably scarce article at our house."
"You're joking, now."
"How do you know I am? Didn't you just warrant him for a preacher? Has he been examined by any synod or council? Come, handover your papers."
If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humoredtwinkle in the large eye, that all this banter was sure, in thelong run, to turn out a cash concern, he might have been somewhatout of patience; as it was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book onthe cotton-bales, and began anxiously studying over certain papersin it, the young man standing by, the while, looking down on himwith an air of careless, easy drollery.
"Papa, do buy him! it's no matter what you pay," whispered Eva,softly, getting up on a package, and putting her arm aroundher father's neck. "You have money enough, I know. I want him."
"What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box,or a rocking-horse, or what?
"I want to make him happy."
"An original reason, certainly."
Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby,which the young man took with the tips of his long fingers,and glanced over carelessly.
"A gentlemanly hand," he said, "and well spelt, too. Well, now,but I'm not sure, after all, about this religion," said he,the old wicked expression returning to his eye; "the country isalmost ruined with pious white people; such pious politicians aswe have just before elections,--such pious goings on in alldepartments of church and state, that a fellow does not know who'llcheat him next. I don't know, either, about religion's being upin the market, just now. I have not looked in the papers lately,to see how it sells. How many hundred dollars, now, do you put onfor this religion?"
"You like to be jokin, now," said the trader; "but, then,there's _sense_ under all that ar. I know there's differencesin religion. Some kinds is mis'rable: there's your meetin pious;there's your singin, roarin pious; them ar an't no account, inblack or white;--but these rayly is; and I've seen it in niggersas often as any, your rail softly, quiet, stiddy, honest, pious,that the hull world couldn't tempt 'em to do nothing that theythinks is wrong; and ye see in this letter what Tom's old mastersays about him."
"Now," said the young man, stooping gravely over his bookof bills, "if you can assure me that I really can buy _this_ kindof pious, and that it will be set down to my account in the bookup above, as something belonging to me, I wouldn't care if I didgo a little extra for it. How d'ye say?"
"Wal, raily, I can't do that," said the trader. "I'm athinkin that every man'll have to hang on his own hook, in themar quarters."
"Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, andcan't trade with it in the state where he wants it most, an't it,now?" said the young man, who had been making out a roll of billswhile he was speaking. "There, count your money, old boy!" headded, as he handed the roll to the trader.
"All right," said Haley, his face beaming with delight; andpulling out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill ofsale, which, in a few moments, he handed to the young man.
"I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried," said thelatter as he ran over the paper, "how much I might bring. Say somuch for the shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, somuch for arms, and hands, and legs, and then so much for education,learning, talent, honesty, religion! Bless me! there would be smallcharge on that last, I'm thinking. But come, Eva," he said; andtaking the hand of his daughter, he stepped across the boat, andcarelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom's chin, said,good-humoredly, "Look-up, Tom, and see how you like your new master."
Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young,handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure; and Tom felt thetears start in his eyes as he said, heartily, "God bless you, Mas'r!"
"Well, I hope he will. What's your name? Tom? Quite as likelyto do it for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can youdrive horses, Tom?"
"I've been allays used to horses," said Tom. "Mas'r Shelbyraised heaps of 'em."
"Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition thatyou won't be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases ofemergency, Tom."
Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, "I neverdrink, Mas'r."
"I've heard that story before, Tom; but then we'll see. It will be a special accommodation to all concerned, if you don't. Never mind, my boy," he added, good-humoredly, seeing Tom stilllooked grave; "I don't doubt you mean to do well."
"I sartin do, Mas'r," said Tom.
"And you shall have good times," said Eva. "Papa is verygood to everybody, only he always will laugh at them."
"Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation," saidSt. Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.
CHAPTER XV
Of Tom's New Master, and Various Other Matters
Since the thread of our humble hero's life has now becomeinterwoven with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give somebrief introduction to them.
Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana. The family had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers, verysimilar in temperament and character, one had settled on aflourishing farm in Vermont, and the other became an opulent planterin Louisiana. The mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady,whose family had emigrated to Louisiana during the days of itsearly settlement. Augustine and another brother were the onlychildren of their parents. Having inherited from his mother anexceeding delicacy of constitution, he was, at the instance ofphysicians, during many years of his boyhood, sent to the care ofhis uncle in Vermont, in order that his constitution might, bestrengthened by the cold of a more bracing climate.
In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and markedsensitiveness of character, more akin to the softness of woman thanthe ordinary hardness of his own sex. Time, however, overgrew thissoftness with the rough bark of manhood, and but few knew how livingand fresh it still lay at the core. His talents were of the veryfirst order, although his mind showed a preference always for theideal and the aesthetic, and there was about him that repugnanceto the actual business of life which is the common result of thisbalance of the faculties. Soon after the completion of his collegecourse, his whole nature was kindled into one intense and passionateeffervescence of romantic passion. His hour came,--the hour thatcomes only once; his star rose in the horizon,--that star that risesso often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and itrose for him in vain. To drop the figure,--he saw and won thelove of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northernstates, and they were affianced. He returned south to makearrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, hisletters were returned to him by mail, with a short note from herguardian, stating to him that ere this reached him the lady wouldbe the wife of another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, asmany another has done, to fling the whole thing from his heartby one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seekexplanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionablesociety, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter wasthe accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and assoon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of afine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousanddollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, andentertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa,near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought tohim in _that_ well-remembered writing. It was handed to him whilehe was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a wholeroom-full of company. He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing,but still preserved his composure, and finished the playful warfareof badinage which he was at the moment carrying on with a ladyopposite; and, a short time after, was missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the letter, now worsethan idle and useless to be read. It was from her, givinga long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed byher guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their son:and she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased toarrive; how she had written time and again, till she became wearyand doubtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, andhow, at last, she had discovered the whole fraud which had beenpractised on them both. The letter ended with expressions of hopeand thankfulness, and professions of undying affection, which weremore bitter than death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to herimmediately:
"I have received yours,--but too late. I believed all I heard. I was desperate. _I am married_, and all is over. Only forget,--itis all that remains for either of us."
And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life forAugustine St. Clare. But the _real_ remained,--the _real_, likethe flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, withall its company of gliding boats and white-winged ships, its musicof oars and chiming waters, has gone down, and there it lies, flat,slimy, bare,--exceedingly real.
Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die,and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright diesto us. There is a most busy and important round of eating, drinking,dressing, walking, visiting, buying, selling, talking, reading,and all that makes up what is commonly called _living_, yet to begone through; and this yet remained to Augustine. Had his wifebeen a whole woman, she might yet have done something--as womancan--to mend the broken threads of life, and weave again into atissue of brightness. But Marie St. Clare could not even see thatthey had been broken. As before stated, she consisted of a finefigure, a pair of splendid eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars;and none of these items were precisely the ones to minister to amind diseased.
When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa,and pleaded sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress, sherecommended to him to smell of hartshorn; and when the palenessand headache came on week after week, she only said that she neverthought Mr. St. Clare was sickly; but it seems he was very liableto sick-headaches, and that it was a very unfortunate thing forher, because he didn't enjoy going into company with her, and itseemed odd to go so much alone, when they were just married. Augustine was glad in his heart that he had married so undiscerninga woman; but as the glosses and civilities of the honeymoon woreaway, he discovered that a beautiful young woman, who has livedall her life to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite a hardmistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much capabilityof affection, or much sensibility, and the little that she had,had been merged into a most intense and unconscious selfishness;a selfishness the more hopeless, from its quiet obtuseness, itsutter ignorance of any claims but her own. From her infancy, shehad been surrounded with servants, who lived only to study hercaprices; the idea that they had either feelings or rights hadnever dawned upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father,whose only child she had been, had never denied her anything thatlay within the compass of human possibility; and when she enteredlife, beautiful, accomplished, and an heiress, she had, of course,all the eligibles and non-eligibles of the other sex sighing ather feet, and she had no doubt that Augustine was a most fortunateman in having obtained her. It is a great mistake to suppose thata woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the exchange ofaffection. There is not on earth a more merciless exactor of lovefrom others than a thoroughly selfish woman; and the moreunlovely she grows, the more jealously and scrupulously she exactslove, to the uttermost farthing. When, therefore, St. Clare beganto drop off those gallantries and small attentions which flowed atfirst through the habitude of courtship, he found his sultana noway ready to resign her slave; there were abundance of tears,poutings, and small tempests, there were discontents, pinings,upbraidings. St. Clare was good-natured and self-indulgent, andsought to buy off with presents and flatteries; and when Mariebecame mother to a beautiful daughter, he really felt awakened,for a time, to something like tenderness.
St. Clare's mother had been a woman of uncommon elevationand purity of character, and he gave to his child his mother'sname, fondly fancying that she would prove a reproduction of herimage. The thing had been remarked with petulant jealousy by hiswife, and she regarded her husband's absorbing devotion to thechild with suspicion and dislike; all that was given to her seemedso much taken from herself. From the time of the birth of thischild, her health gradually sunk. A life of constant inaction,bodily and mental,--the friction of ceaseless ennui and discontent,united to the ordinary weakness which attended the period ofmaternity,--in course of a few years changed the blooming youngbelle into a yellow faded, sickly woman, whose time was dividedamong a variety of fanciful diseases, and who considered herself,in every sense, the most ill-used and suffering person in existence.
There was no end of her various complaints; but her principalforte appeared to lie in sick-headache, which sometimes wouldconfine her to her room three days out of six. As, of course, allfamily arrangements fell into the hands of servants, St. Clarefound his menage anything but comfortable. His only daughter wasexceedingly delicate, and he feared that, with no one to look afterher and attend to her, her health and life might yet fall a sacrificeto her mother's inefficiency. He had taken her with him on a tourto Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss Ophelia St. Clare,to return with him to his southern residence; and they are nowreturning on this boat, where we have introduced them to our readers.
And now, while the distant domes and spires of New Orleans rise toour view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia.
Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember,in some cool village, the large farmhouse, with its clean-sweptgrassy yard, shaded by the dense and massive foliage of thesugar maple; and remember the air of order and stillness, ofperpetuity and unchanging repose, that seemed to breathe overthe whole place. Nothing lost, or out of order; not a picket loosein the fence, not a particle of litter in the turfy yard, with itsclumps of lilac bushes growing up under the windows. Within, hewill remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing ever seems to bedoing or going to be done, where everything is once and foreverrigidly in place, and where all household arrangements move withthe punctual exactness of the old clock in the corner. In thefamily "keeping-room," as it is termed, he will remember the staid,respectable old book-case, with its glass doors, where Rollin'sHistory,[1] Milton's Paradise Lost, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, andScott's Family Bible,[2] stand side by side in decorous order, withmultitudes of other books, equally solemn and respectable. Thereare no servants in the house, but the lady in the snowy cap, withthe spectacles, who sits sewing every afternoon among her daughters,as if nothing ever had been done, or were to be done,--she and hergirls, in some long-forgotten fore part of the day, "_did up the work_,"and for the rest of the time, probably, at all hours when you wouldsee them, it is "_done up_." The old kitchen floor never seemsstained or spotted; the tables, the chairs, and the various cookingutensils, never seem deranged or disordered; though three andsometimes four meals a day are got there, though the family washingand ironing is there performed, and though pounds of butter andcheese are in some silent and mysterious manner there broughtinto existence.
[1] _The Ancient History_, ten volumes (1730-1738), by theFrench historian Charles Rollin (1661-1741).
[2] _Scott's Family Bible_ (1788-1792), edited with notes bythe English Biblical commentator, Thomas Scott (1747-1821).
On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia hadspent a quiet existence of some forty-five years, when hercousin invited her to visit his southern mansion. The eldest ofa large family, she was still considered by her father and motheras one of "the children," and the proposal that she should go to_Orleans_ was a most momentous one to the family circle. The oldgray-headed father took down Morse's Atlas[3] out of the book-case,and looked out the exact latitude and longitude; and read Flint'sTravels in the South and West,[4] to make up his own mind as to thenature of the country.
[3] _The Cerographic Atlas of the United States_ (1842-1845),by Sidney Edwards Morse (1794-1871), son of the geographer, JedidiahMorse, and brother of the painter-inventor, Samuel F. B. Morse.
[4] _Recollections of the Last Ten Years_ (1826) by Timothy Flint(1780-1840), missionary of Presbyterianism to the trans-Allegheny West.
The good mother inquired, anxiously, "if Orleans wasn't anawful wicked place," saying, "that it seemed to her most equal togoing to the Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the heathen."
It was known at the minister's and at the doctor's, and atMiss Peabody's milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was "talkingabout" going away down to Orleans with her cousin; and of coursethe whole village could do no less than help this very importantprocess of _taking about_ the matter. The minister, who inclinedstrongly to abolitionist views, was quite doubtful whether such astep might not tend somewhat to encourage the southerners inholding on to their slaves; while the doctor, who was a stanchcolonizationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss Ophelia oughtto go, to show the Orleans people that we don't think hardly ofthem, after all. He was of opinion, in fact, that southern peopleneeded encouraging. When however, the fact that she had resolvedto go was fully before the public mind, she was solemnly invitedout to tea by all her friends and neighbors for the space of afortnight, and her prospects and plans duly canvassed and inquired into. Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the dress-making,acquired daily accessions of importance from the developmentswith regard to Miss Ophelia's wardrobe which she had been enabledto make. It was credibly ascertained that Squire Sinclare, as hisname was commonly contracted in the neighborhood, had countedout fifty dollars, and given them to Miss Ophelia, and told herto buy any clothes she thought best; and that two new silk dresses,and a bonnet, had been sent for from Boston. As to the proprietyof this extraordinary outlay, the public mind was divided,--someaffirming that it was well enough, all things considered, for oncein one's life, and others stoutly affirming that the money hadbetter have been sent to the missionaries; but all parties agreedthat there had been no such parasol seen in those parts as had beensent on from New York, and that she had one silk dress that mightfairly be trusted to stand alone, whatever might be said ofits mistress. There were credible rumors, also, of a hemstitchedpocket-handkerchief; and report even went so far as to state thatMiss Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief with lace all around it,--itwas even added that it was worked in the corners; but this latterpoint was never satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in fact,unsettled to this day.
Miss Ophelia, as you now behold her, stands before you, ina very shining brown linen travelling-dress, tall, square-formed,and angular. Her face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines;the lips compressed, like those of a person who is in the habit ofmaking up her mind definitely on all subjects; while the keen, darkeyes had a peculiarly searching, advised movement, and travelled overeverything, as if they were looking for something to take care of.
All her movements were sharp, decided, and energetic; and,though she was never much of a talker, her words were remarkablydirect, and to the purpose, when she did speak.
In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, method,and exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable as a clock,and as inexorable as a railroad engine; and she held in mostdecided contempt and abomination anything of a contrary character.
The great sin of sins, in her eyes,--the sum of allevils,--was expressed by one very common and important word in hervocabulary--"shiftlessness." Her finale and ultimatum of contemptconsisted in a very emphatic pronunciation of the word "shiftless;"and by this she characterized all modes of procedure which had nota direct and inevitable relation to accomplishment of some purposethen definitely had in mind. People who did nothing, or who didnot know exactly what they were going to do, or who did not takethe most direct way to accomplish what they set their hands to,were objects of her entire contempt,--a contempt shown less frequentlyby anything she said, than by a kind of stony grimness, as if shescorned to say anything about the matter.
As to mental cultivation,--she had a clear, strong, active mind,was well and thoroughly read in history and the older Englishclassics, and thought with great strength within certainnarrow limits. Her theological tenets were all made up,labelled in most positive and distinct forms, and put by, likethe bundles in her patch trunk; there were just so many of them,and there were never to be any more. So, also, were her ideaswith regard to most matters of practical life,--such ashousekeeping in all its branches, and the various politicalrelations of her native village. And, underlying all, deeperthan anything else, higher and broader, lay the strongestprinciple of her being--conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscienceso dominant and all-absorbing as with New England women. It isthe granite formation, which lies deepest, and rises out, even tothe tops of the highest mountains.
Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the "_ought_."Once make her certain that the "path of duty," as she commonlyphrased it, lay in any given direction, and fire and water couldnot keep her from it. She would walk straight down into a well,or up to a loaded cannon's mouth, if she were only quite sure thatthere the path lay. Her standard of right was so high, soall-embracing, so minute, and making so few concessions to humanfrailty, that, though she strove with heroic ardor to reach it,she never actually did so, and of course was burdened with a constantand often harassing sense of deficiency;--this gave a severe andsomewhat gloomy cast to her religious character.
But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with AugustineSt. Clare,--gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, sceptical,--inshort,--walking with impudent and nonchalant freedom over everyone of her most cherished habits and opinions?
To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him. When a boy,it had been hers to teach him his catechism, mend his clothes,comb his hair, and bring him up generally in the way he should go;and her heart having a warm side to it, Augustine had, as he usuallydid with most people, monopolized a large share of it for himself,and therefore it was that he succeeded very easily in persuadingher that the "path of duty" lay in the direction of New Orleans,and that she must go with him to take care of Eva, and keepeverything from going to wreck and ruin during the frequentillnesses of his wife. The idea of a house without anybody to takecare of it went to her heart; then she loved the lovely littlegirl, as few could help doing; and though she regarded Augustineas very much of a heathen, yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes,and forbore with his failings, to an extent which those who knewhim thought perfectly incredible. But what more or other is to beknown of Miss Ophelia our reader must discover by a personalacquaintance.
There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded bya mixed multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets,each containing some separate responsibility which she is tying,binding up, packing, or fastening, with a face of great earnestness.
"Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things? Of courseyou haven't,--children never do: there's the spotted carpet-bagand the little blue band-box with your best bonnet,--that's two;then the India rubber satchel is three; and my tape and needle boxis four; and my band-box, five; and my collar-box; and that littlehair trunk, seven. What have you done with your sunshade? Give itto me, and let me put a paper round it, and tie it to my umbrellawith my shade;--there, now."
"Why, aunty, we are only going up home;--what is the use?"
"To keep it nice, child; people must take care of their things,if they ever mean to have anything; and now, Eva, is yourthimble put up?"
"Really, aunty, I don't know."
"Well, never mind; I'll look your box over,--thimble, wax, twospools, scissors, knife, tape-needle; all right,--put it in here. What did you ever do, child, when you were coming on withonly your papa. I should have thought you'd a lost everythingyou had."
"Well, aunty, I did lose a great many; and then, when we stopped
anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it was."
"Mercy on us, child,--what a way!"
"It was a very easy way, aunty," said Eva.
"It's a dreadful shiftless one," said aunty.
"Why, aunty, what'll you do now?" said Eva; "that trunk istoo full to be shut down."
"It _must_ shut down," said aunty, with the air of a general,as she squeezed the things in, and sprung upon the lid;--still alittle gap remained about the mouth of the trunk.
"Get up here, Eva!" said Miss Ophelia, courageously; "whathas been done can be done again. This trunk has _got to be_ shutand locked--there are no two ways about it."
And the trunk, intimidated, doubtless, by this resolutestatement, gave in. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and MissOphelia turned the key, and pocketed it in triumph.
"Now we're ready. Where's your papa? I think it time this baggagewas set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you see your papa."
"O, yes, he's down the other end of the gentlemen's cabin,eating an orange."
"He can't know how near we are coming," said aunty; "hadn'tyou better run and speak to him?"
"Papa never is in a hurry about anything," said Eva, "andwe haven't come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty. Look! there's our house, up that street!"
The boat now began, with heavy groans, like some vast, tiredmonster, to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamersat the levee. Eva joyously pointed out the various spires, domes,and way-marks, by which she recognized her native city.
"Yes, yes, dear; very fine," said Miss Ophelia. "But mercyon us! the boat has stopped! where is your father?"
And now ensued the usual turmoil of landing--waiters runningtwenty ways at once--men tugging trunks, carpet-bags, boxes--womenanxiously calling to their children, and everybody crowding in adense mass to the plank towards the landing.
Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely on the latelyvanquished trunk, and marshalling all her goods and chattels infine military order, seemed resolved to defend them to the last.
"Shall I take your trunk, ma'am?" "Shall I take your baggage?" "Let me 'tend to your baggage, Missis?" "Shan't I carry outthese yer, Missis?" rained down upon her unheeded. She satwith grim determination, upright as a darning-needle stuck in aboard, holding on her bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replyingwith a determination that was enough to strike dismay even into ahackman, wondering to Eva, in each interval, "what upon earth herpapa could be thinking of; he couldn't have fallen over, now,--butsomething must have happened;"--and just as she had begun to workherself into a real distress, he came up, with his usually carelessmotion, and giving Eva a quarter of the orange he was eating, said,
"Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready."
"I've been ready, waiting, nearly an hour," said MissOphelia; "I began to be really concerned about you.
"That's a clever fellow, now," said he. "Well, the carriageis waiting, and the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out ina decent and Christian manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here," he added to a driver who stood behind him, "take these things."
"I'll go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia.
"O, pshaw, cousin, what's the use?" said St. Clare.
"Well, at any rate, I'll carry this, and this, and this," said MissOphelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet-bag.
"My dear Miss Vermont, positively you mustn't come the GreenMountains over us that way. You must adopt at least a pieceof a southern principle, and not walk out under all that load. They'll take you for a waiting-maid; give them to this fellow;he'll put them down as if they were eggs, now."
Miss Ophelia looked despairingly as her cousin took all hertreasures from her, and rejoiced to find herself once more inthe carriage with them, in a state of preservation.
"Where's Tom?" said Eva.
"O, he's on the outside, Pussy. I'm going to take Tom up tomother for a peace-offering, to make up for that drunken fellowthat upset the carriage."
"O, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know," said Eva;"he'll never get drunk."
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, builtin that odd mixture of Spanish and French style, of which thereare specimens in some parts of New Orleans. It was built in theMoorish fashion,--a square building enclosing a court-yard, intowhich the carriage drove through an arched gateway. The court, inthe inside, had evidently been arranged to gratify a picturesqueand voluptuous ideality. Wide galleries ran all around the foursides, whose Moorish arches, slender pillars, and arabesque ornaments,carried the mind back, as in a dream, to the reign of orientalromance in Spain. In the middle of the court, a fountain threwhigh its silvery water, falling in a never-ceasing spray into amarble basin, fringed with a deep border of fragrant violets. The water in the fountain, pellucid as crystal, was alive with myriadsof gold and silver fishes, twinkling and darting through it likeso many living jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved witha mosaic of pebbles, laid in various fanciful patterns; and this,again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as green velvet, while acarriage-drive enclosed the whole. Two large orange-trees, nowfragrant with blossoms, threw a delicious shade; and, ranged in acircle round upon the turf, were marble vases of arabesque sculpture,containing the choicest flowering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with their glossy leaves and flame-coloredflowers, dark-leaved Arabian jessamines, with their silvery stars,geraniums, luxuriant roses bending beneath their heavy abundanceof flowers, golden jessamines, lemon-scented verbenum, all unitedtheir bloom and fragrance, while here and there a mystic old aloe,with its strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some old enchanter,sitting in weird grandeur among the more perishable bloom andfragrance around it.
The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned with acurtain of some kind of Moorish stuff, and could be drawn downat pleasure, to exclude the beams of the sun. On the whole, theappearance of the place was luxurious and romantic.
As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready toburst from a cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight.
"O, isn't it beautiful, lovely! my own dear, darling home!"she said to Miss Ophelia. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"'T is a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted;"though it looks rather old and heathenish to me."
Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an airof calm, still enjoyment. The negro, it must be remembered,is an exotic of the most gorgeous and superb countries of the world,and he has, deep in his heart, a passion for all that is splendid,rich, and fanciful; a passion which, rudely indulged by an untrainedtaste, draws on them the ridicule of the colder and more correctwhite race.
St. Clare, who was in heart a poetical voluptuary, smiled asMiss Ophelia made her remark on his premises, and, turningto Tom, who was standing looking round, his beaming black faceperfectly radiant with admiration, he said,
"Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you."
"Yes, Mas'r, it looks about the right thing," said Tom.
All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being hustledoff, hackman paid, and while a crowd, of all ages and sizes,--men,women, and children,--came running through the galleries, bothabove and below to see Mas'r come in. Foremost among them was ahighly-dressed young mulatto man, evidently a very _distingue_personage, attired in the ultra extreme of the mode, and gracefullywaving a scented cambric handkerchief in his hand.
This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity,in driving all the flock of domestics to the other end ofthe verandah.
"Back! all of you. I am ashamed of you," he said, in a toneof authority. "Would you intrude on Master's domestic relations,in the first hour of his return?"
All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite anair, and stood huddled together at a respectful distance, excepttwo stout porters, who came up and began conveying away the baggage.
Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic arrangements, when St. Clareturned round from paying the hackman, there was nobody inview but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous in satin vest, goldguard-chain, and white pants, and bowing with inexpressible graceand suavity.
"Ah, Adolph, is it you?" said his master, offering his handto him; "how are you, boy?" while Adolph poured forth, with greatfluency, an extemporary speech, which he had been preparing, withgreat care, for a fortnight before.
"Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air ofnegligent drollery, "that's very well got up, Adolph. See thatthe baggage is well bestowed. I'll come to the people in a minute;"and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large parlor that openedon the verandah.
While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird, throughthe porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening likewiseon the verandah.
A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman, half rose from a couch onwhich she was reclining.
"Mamma!" said Eva, in a sort of a rapture, throwing herselfon her neck, and embracing her over and over again.
"That'll do,--take care, child,--don't, you make my head ache,"said the mother, after she had languidly kissed her.
St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandlyfashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie liftedher large eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity,and received her with languid politeness. A crowd of servants nowpressed to the entry door, and among them a middle-aged mulattowoman, of very respectable appearance, stood foremost, in a tremorof expectation and joy, at the door.
"O, there's Mammy!" said Eva, as she flew across the room;and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.
This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but,on the contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, tillher sanity was a thing to be doubted of; and when released fromher, Eva flew from one to another, shaking hands and kissing, ina way that Miss Ophelia afterwards declared fairly turned her stomach.
"Well!" said Miss Ophelia, "you southern children can dosomething that _I_ couldn't."
"What, now, pray?" said St. Clare.
"Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn't haveanything hurt; but as to kissing--"
"Niggers," said St. Clare, "that you're not up to,--hey?"
"Yes, that's it. How can she?"
St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. "Halloa, here,what's to pay out here? Here, you all--Mammy, Jimmy, Polly,Sukey--glad to see Mas'r?" he said, as he went shaking hands fromone to another. "Look out for the babies!" he added, as he stumbledover a sooty little urchin, who was crawling upon all fours. "If Istep upon anybody, let 'em mention it."
There was an abundance of laughing and blessing Mas'r, asSt. Clare distributed small pieces of change among them.
"Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls,"he said; and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappearedthrough a door into a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carrieda large satchel, which she had been filling with apples, nuts,candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every description, during herwhole homeward journey.
As St. Clare turned to go back his eye fell upon Tom, who wasstanding uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, whileAdolph stood negligently leaning against the banisters, examiningTom through an opera-glass, with an air that would have done creditto any dandy living.
"Puh! you puppy," said his master, striking down the opera glass;"is that the way you treat your company? Seems to me, Dolph,"he added, laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest thatAdolph was sporting, "seems to me that's _my_ vest."
"O! Master, this vest all stained with wine; of course, agentleman in Master's standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow,like me."
And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers throughhis scented hair, with a grace.
"So, that's it, is it?" said St. Clare, carelessly. "Well, here,I'm going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take himto the kitchen; and mind you don't put on any of your airs to him. He's worth two such puppies as you."
"Master always will have his joke," said Adolph, laughing. "I'm delighted to see Master in such spirits."
"Here, Tom," said St. Clare, beckoning.
Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets,and the before unimagined splendors of mirrors, pictures, statues,and curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, therewas no more spirit in him. He looked afraid even to set hisfeet down.
"See here, Marie," said St. Clare to his wife, "I've boughtyou a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he's a regularhearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral,if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don'tsay I never think about you when I'm gone."
Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising.
"I know he'll get drunk," she said.
"No, he's warranted a pious and sober article."
"Well, I hope he may turn out well," said the lady; "it'smore than I expect, though."
"Dolph," said St. Clare, "show Tom down stairs; and, mindyourself," he added; "remember what I told you."
Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumberingtread, went after.
"He's a perfect behemoth!" said Marie.
"Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a stoolbeside her sofa, "be gracious, and say something pretty toa fellow."
"You've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said thelady, pouting.
"Well, you know I wrote you the reason."
"Such a short, cold letter!" said the lady.
"Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be thator nothing."
"That's just the way, always," said the lady; "always somethingto make your journeys long, and letters short."
"See here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case outof his pocket, and opening it, "here's a present I got for youin New York."
It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving,representing Eva and her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.
"What made you sit in such an awkward position?" she said.
"Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but whatdo you think of the likeness?"
"If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, Isuppose you wouldn't in another," said the lady, shutting thedaguerreotype.
"Hang the woman!" said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud he added,"Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't benonsensical, now."
"It's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady,"to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I've beenlying all day with the sick-headache; and there's been such a tumultmade ever since you came, I'm half dead."
"You're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am!" said MissOphelia, suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair,where she had sat quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture,and calculating its expense.
"Yes, I'm a perfect martyr to it," said the lady.
"Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache," said MissOphelia; "at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife, used tosay so; and she was a great nurse."
"I'll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in ourgarden by the lake brought in for that special purpose," said St. Clare, gravely pulling the bell as he did so; "meanwhile, cousin,you must be wanting to retire to your apartment, and refresh yourselfa little, after your journey. Dolph," he added, "tell Mammy tocome here." The decent mulatto woman whom Eva had caressed sorapturously soon entered; she was dressed neatly, with a high redand yellow turban on her head, the recent gift of Eva, and whichthe child had been arranging on her head. "Mammy," said St. Clare,"I put this lady under your care; she is tired, and wants rest;take her to her chamber, and be sure she is made comfortable," andMiss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy.
CHAPTER XVI
Tom's Mistress and Her Opinions
"And now, Marie," said St. Clare, "your golden days are dawning. Here is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who willtake the whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give youtime to refresh yourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremonyof delivering the keys had better come off forthwith."
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few morningsafter Miss Ophelia had arrived.
"I'm sure she's welcome," said Marie, leaning her headlanguidly on her hand. "I think she'll find one thing, if shedoes, and that is, that it's we mistresses that are the slaves,down here."
"O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world ofwholesome truths besides, no doubt," said St. Clare.
"Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our_convenience_," said Marie. "I'm sure, if we consulted _that_, wemight let them all go at once."
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother's face,with an earnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply,"What do you keep them for, mamma?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, except for a plague; they are theplague of my life. I believe that more of my ill health is causedby them than by any one thing; and ours, I know, are the veryworst that ever anybody was plagued with."
"O, come, Marie, you've got the blues, this morning," saidSt. Clare. "You know 't isn't so. There's Mammy, the best creatureliving,--what could you do without her?"
"Mammy is the best I ever knew," said Marie; "and yet Mammy, now,is selfish--dreadfully selfish; it's the fault of the whole race."
"Selfishness _is_ a dreadful fault," said St. Clare, gravely.
"Well, now, there's Mammy," said Marie, "I think it's selfishof her to sleep so sound nights; she knows I need littleattentions almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and yetshe's so hard to wake. I absolutely am worse, this very morning,for the efforts I had to make to wake her last night."
"Hasn't she sat up with you a good many nights, lately,mamma?" said Eva.
"How should you know that?" said Marie, sharply; "she'sbeen complaining, I suppose."
"She didn't complain; she only told me what bad nightsyou'd had,--so many in succession."
"Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night ortwo," said St. Clare, "and let her rest?"
"How can you propose it?" said Marie. "St. Clare, you reallyare inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbsme; and a strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the interest in me she ought to, she'd wakeeasier,--of course, she would. I've heard of people who had suchdevoted servants, but it never was _my_ luck;" and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an airof shrewd, observant gravity; and she still kept her lips tightlycompressed, as if determined fully to ascertain her longitude andposition, before she committed herself.
"Now, Mammy has a _sort_ of goodness," said Marie; "she'ssmooth and respectful, but she's selfish at heart. Now, she neverwill be done fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I was married and came to live here, of course, Ihad to bring her with me, and her husband my father couldn't spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of course, very necessary; and I thoughtand said, at the time, that Mammy and he had better give each otherup, as it wasn't likely to be convenient for them ever to livetogether again. I wish, now, I'd insisted on it, and married Mammyto somebody else; but I was foolish and indulgent, and didn't wantto insist. I told Mammy, at the time, that she mustn't ever expectto see him more than once or twice in her life again, for the airof father's place doesn't agree with my health, and I can't gothere; and I advised her to take up with somebody else; but no--she wouldn't. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots,that everybody don't see as I do."
"Has she children?" said Miss Ophelia.
"Yes; she has two."
"I suppose she feels the separation from them?"
"Well, of course, I couldn't bring them. They were littledirty things--I couldn't have them about; and, besides, they tookup too much of her time; but I believe that Mammy has always keptup a sort of sulkiness about this. She won't marry anybody else;and I do believe, now, though she knows how necessary she is tome, and how feeble my health is, she would go back to her husbandtomorrow, if she only could. I _do_, indeed," said Marie; "theyare just so selfish, now, the best of them."
"It's distressing to reflect upon," said St. Clare, dryly.
Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush ofmortification and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl ofthe lip, as he spoke.
"Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me," said Marie. "I wish some of your northern servants could look at herclosets of dresses,--silks and muslins, and one real linencambric, she has hanging there. I've worked sometimes wholeafternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready to go toa party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She never waswhipped more than once or twice in her whole life. She has herstrong coffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's abominable, to be sure; but St. Clare will have high lifebelow-stairs, and they every one of them live just as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged. I suppose it ispartly our fault that they are selfish, and act like spoiledchildren; but I've talked to St. Clare till I am tired."
"And I, too," said St. Clare, taking up the morning paper.
Eva, the beautiful Eva, had stood listening to her mother,with that expression of deep and mystic earnestness which waspeculiar to her. She walked softly round to her mother's chair,and put her arms round her neck.
"Well, Eva, what now?" said Marie.
"Mamma, couldn't I take care of you one night--just one? I know I shouldn't make you nervous, and I shouldn't sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking--"
"O, nonsense, child--nonsense!" said Marie; "you are sucha strange child!"
"But may I, mamma? I think," she said, timidly, "that Mammyisn't well. She told me her head ached all the time, lately."
"O, that's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like allthe rest of them--makes such a fuss about every little headacheor finger-ache; it'll never do to encourage it--never! I'm principledabout this matter," said she, turning to Miss Ophelia; "you'll findthe necessity of it. If you encourage servants in giving way toevery little disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every littleailment, you'll have your hands full. I never complain myself--nobodyknows what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do."
Miss Ophelia's round eyes expressed an undisguised amazement atthis peroration, which struck St. Clare as so supremely ludicrous,that he burst into a loud laugh.
"St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to myill health," said Marie, with the voice of a suffering martyr. "I only hope the day won't come when he'll remember it!" and Marieput her handkerchief to her eyes.
Of course, there was rather a foolish silence. Finally, St. Claregot up, looked at his watch, and said he had an engagementdown street. Eva tripped away after him, and Miss Ophelia andMarie remained at the table alone.
"Now, that's just like St. Clare!" said the latter, withdrawingher handkerchief with somewhat of a spirited flourish when thecriminal to be affected by it was no longer in sight. "He neverrealizes, never can, never will, what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of the complaining sort, or ever made any fuss aboutmy ailments, there would be some reason for it. Men do get tired,naturally, of a complaining wife. But I've kept things to myself,and borne, and borne, till St. Clare has got in the way of thinkingI can bear anything."
Miss Ophelia did not exactly know what she was expected toanswer to this.
While she was thinking what to say, Marie gradually wiped awayher tears, and smoothed her plumage in a general sort of way,as a dove might be supposed to make toilet after a shower, andbegan a housewifely chat with Miss Ophelia, concerning cupboards,closets, linen-presses, store-rooms, and other matters, of whichthe latter was, by common understanding, to assume the direction,--giving her so many cautious directions and charges, that a headless systematic and business-like than Miss Ophelia's would havebeen utterly dizzied and confounded.
"And now," said Marie, "I believe I've told you everything;so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you'll be able to goforward entirely, without consulting me;--only about Eva,--sherequires watching."
"She seems to be a good child, very," said Miss Ophelia;"I never saw a better child."
"Eva's peculiar," said her mother, "very. There are thingsabout her so singular; she isn't like me, now, a particle;" andMarie sighed, as if this was a truly melancholy consideration.
Miss Ophelia in her own heart said, "I hope she isn't,"but had prudence enough to keep it down.
"Eva always was disposed to be with servants; and I thinkthat well enough with some children. Now, I always played withfather's little negroes--it never did me any harm. But Eva somehowalways seems to put herself on an equality with every creature thatcomes near her. It's a strange thing about the child. I neverhave been able to break her of it. St. Clare, I believe, encouragesher in it. The fact is, St. Clare indulges every creature underthis roof but his own wife."
Again Miss Ophelia sat in blank silence.
"Now, there's no way with servants," said Marie, "but to _putthem down_, and keep them down. It was always natural to me,from a child. Eva is enough to spoil a whole house-full. What she will do when she comes to keep house herself, I'm sureI don't know. I hold to being _kind_ to servants--I always am;but you must make 'em _know their place_. Eva never does; there'sno getting into the child's head the first beginning of an idea whata servant's place is! You heard her offering to take care of menights, to let Mammy sleep! That's just a specimen of the way thechild would be doing all the time, if she was left to herself."
"Why," said Miss Ophelia, bluntly, "I suppose you think yourservants are human creatures, and ought to have some restwhen they are tired."
"Certainly, of course. I'm very particular in letting themhave everything that comes convenient,--anything that doesn't putone at all out of the way, you know. Mammy can make up her sleep,some time or other; there's no difficulty about that. She's thesleepiest concern that ever I saw; sewing, standing, or sitting,that creature will go to sleep, and sleep anywhere and everywhere. No danger but Mammy gets sleep enough. But this treating servantsas if they were exotic flowers, or china vases, is really ridiculous,"said Marie, as she plunged languidly into the depths of a voluminousand pillowy lounge, and drew towards her an elegant cut-glassvinaigrette.
"You see," she continued, in a faint and lady-like voice,like the last dying breath of an Arabian jessamine, or somethingequally ethereal, "you see, Cousin Ophelia, I don't often speakof myself. It isn't my _habit_; 't isn't agreeable to me. In fact,I haven't strength to do it. But there are points where St. Clareand I differ. St. Clare never understood me, never appreciated me. I think it lies at the root of all my ill health. St. Claremeans well, I am bound to believe; but men are constitutionallyselfish and inconsiderate to woman. That, at least, is my impression."
Miss Ophelia, who had not a small share of the genuine NewEngland caution, and a very particular horror of being drawn intofamily difficulties, now began to foresee something of this kindimpending; so, composing her face into a grim neutrality, anddrawing out of her pocket about a yard and a quarter of stocking,which she kept as a specific against what Dr. Watts asserts to bea personal habit of Satan when people have idle hands, she proceededto knit most energetically, shutting her lips together in a way thatsaid, as plain as words could, "You needn't try to make me speak. I don't want anything to do with your affairs,"--in fact, shelooked about as sympathizing as a stone lion. But Marie didn'tcare for that. She had got somebody to talk to, and she felt ither duty to talk, and that was enough; and reinforcing herself bysmelling again at her vinaigrette, she went on.
"You see, I brought my own property and servants into theconnection, when I married St. Clare, and I am legally entitled tomanage them my own way. St. Clare had his fortune and his servants,and I'm well enough content he should manage them his way; but St.Clare will be interfering. He has wild, extravagant notions aboutthings, particularly about the treatment of servants. He reallydoes act as if he set his servants before me, and before himself,too; for he lets them make him all sorts of trouble, and neverlifts a finger. Now, about some things, St. Clare is reallyfrightful--he frightens me--good-natured as he looks, in general. Now, he has set down his foot that, come what will, there shallnot be a blow struck in this house, except what he or I strike;and he does it in a way that I really dare not cross him. Well, you may see what that leads to; for St. Clare wouldn'traise his hand, if every one of them walked over him, and I--yousee how cruel it would be to require me to make the exertion. Now, you know these servants are nothing but grown-up children."
"I don't know anything about it, and I thank the Lord thatI don't!" said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
"Well, but you will have to know something, and know it toyour cost, if you stay here. You don't know what a provoking,stupid, careless, unreasonable, childish, ungrateful set of wretchesthey are."
Marie seemed wonderfully supported, always, when she got uponthis topic; and she now opened her eyes, and seemed quite toforget her languor.
"You don't know, and you can't, the daily, hourly trialsthat beset a housekeeper from them, everywhere and every way. But it's no use to complain to St. Clare. He talks thestrangest stuff. He says we have made them what they are,and ought to bear with them. He says their faults are allowing to us, and that it would be cruel to make the fault andpunish it too. He says we shouldn't do any better, in theirplace; just as if one could reason from them to us, you know."
"Don't you believe that the Lord made them of one bloodwith us?" said Miss Ophelia, shortly.
"No, indeed not I! A pretty story, truly! They are a degraded race."
"Don't you think they've got immortal souls?" said MissOphelia, with increasing indignation.
"O, well," said Marie, yawning, "that, of course--nobodydoubts that. But as to putting them on any sort of equality withus, you know, as if we could be compared, why, it's impossible! Now, St. Clare really has talked to me as if keeping Mammy fromher husband was like keeping me from mine. There's no comparingin this way. Mammy couldn't have the feelings that I should. It's a different thing altogether,-- of course, it is,--and yet St.Clare pretends not to see it. And just as if Mammy could love herlittle dirty babies as I love Eva! Yet St. Clare once really andsoberly tried to persuade me that it was my duty, with my weakhealth, and all I suffer, to let Mammy go back, and take somebodyelse in her place. That was a little too much even for _me_ to bear. I don't often show my feelings, I make it a principle to endureeverything in silence; it's a wife's hard lot, and I bear it. But I did break out, that time; so that he has never alludedto the subject since. But I know by his looks, and little thingsthat he says, that he thinks so as much as ever; and it's so trying,so provoking!"
Miss Ophelia looked very much as if she was afraid she shouldsay something; but she rattled away with her needles in a waythat had volumes of meaning in it, if Marie could only haveunderstood it.
"So, you just see," she continued, "what you've got to manage. A household without any rule; where servants have it all theirown way, do what they please, and have what they please, exceptso far as I, with my feeble health, have kept up government. I keep my cowhide about, and sometimes I do lay it on; but theexertion is always too much for me. If St. Clare would only havethis thing done as others do--"
"And how's that?"
"Why, send them to the calaboose, or some of the other placesto be flogged. That's the only way. If I wasn't such a poor,feeble piece, I believe I should manage with twice the energythat St. Clare does."
"And how does St. Clare contrive to manage?" said Miss Ophelia. "You say he never strikes a blow."
"Well, men have a more commanding way, you know; it is easierfor them; besides, if you ever looked full in his eye, it'speculiar,--that eye,--and if he speaks decidedly, there's a kindof flash. I'm afraid of it, myself; and the servants know theymust mind. I couldn't do as much by a regular storm and scoldingas St. Clare can by one turn of his eye, if once he is in earnest. O, there's no trouble about St. Clare; that's the reason he's nomore feeling for me. But you'll find, when you come to manage,that there's no getting along without severity,--they are so bad,so deceitful, so lazy".
"The old tune," said St. Clare, sauntering in. "What an awfulaccount these wicked creatures will have to settle, at last,especially for being lazy! You see, cousin," said he, as he stretchedhimself at full length on a lounge opposite to Marie, "it's whollyinexcusable in them, in the light of the example that Marie and Iset them,--this laziness."
"Come, now, St. Clare, you are too bad!" said Marie.
"Am I, now? Why, I thought I was talking good, quiteremarkably for me. I try to enforce your remarks, Marie, always."
"You know you meant no such thing, St. Clare," said Marie.
"O, I must have been mistaken, then. Thank you, my dear,for setting me right."
"You do really try to be provoking," said Marie.
"O, come, Marie, the day is growing warm, and I have justhad a long quarrel with Dolph, which has fatigued me excessively;so, pray be agreeable, now, and let a fellow repose in the lightof your smile."
"What's the matter about Dolph?" said Marie. "That fellow'simpudence has been growing to a point that is perfectly intolerableto me. I only wish I had the undisputed management of him a while. I'd bring him down!"
"What you say, my dear, is marked with your usual acutenessand good sense," said St. Clare. "As to Dolph, the case is this:that he has so long been engaged in imitating my graces andperfections, that he has, at last, really mistaken himself for hismaster; and I have been obliged to give him a little insight intohis mistake."
"How?" said Marie.
"Why, I was obliged to let him understand explicitly that Ipreferred to keep _some_ of my clothes for my own personal wearing;also, I put his magnificence upon an allowance of cologne-water,and actually was so cruel as to restrict him to one dozen of mycambric handkerchiefs. Dolph was particularly huffy about it, andI had to talk to him like a father, to bring him round."
"O! St. Clare, when will you learn how to treat your servants? It's abominable, the way you indulge them!" said Marie.
"Why, after all, what's the harm of the poor dog's wantingto be like his master; and if I haven't brought him up any betterthan to find his chief good in cologne and cambric handkerchiefs,why shouldn't I give them to him?"
"And why haven't you brought him up better?" said MissOphelia, with blunt determination.
"Too much trouble,--laziness, cousin, laziness,--which ruinsmore souls than you can shake a stick at. If it weren't forlaziness, I should have been a perfect angel, myself. I'm inclinedto think that laziness is what your old Dr. Botherem, up in Vermont,used to call the `essence of moral evil.' It's an awfulconsideration, certainly."
"I think you slaveholders have an awful responsibility uponyou," said Miss Ophelia. "I wouldn't have it, for a thousandworlds. You ought to educate your slaves, and treat them likereasonable creatures,--like immortal creatures, that you've got tostand before the bar of God with. That's my mind," said the goodlady, breaking suddenly out with a tide of zeal that had beengaining strength in her mind all the morning.
"O! come, come," said St. Clare, getting up quickly; "whatdo you know about us?" And he sat down to the piano, and rattleda lively piece of music. St. Clare had a decided genius for music. His touch was brilliant and firm, and his fingers flew over thekeys with a rapid and bird-like motion, airy, and yet decided. He played piece after piece, like a man who is trying to play himselfinto a good humor. After pushing the music aside, he rose up, andsaid, gayly, "Well, now, cousin, you've given us a good talk anddone your duty; on the whole, I think the better of you for it. I make no manner of doubt that you threw a very diamond of truthat me, though you see it hit me so directly in the face that itwasn't exactly appreciated, at first."
"For my part, I don't see any use in such sort of talk,"said Marie. "I'm sure, if anybody does more for servants than wedo, I'd like to know who; and it don't do 'em a bit good,--not aparticle,--they get worse and worse. As to talking to them, oranything like that, I'm sure I have talked till I was tired andhoarse, telling them their duty, and all that; and I'm sure theycan go to church when they like, though they don't understand aword of the sermon, more than so many pigs,--so it isn't of anygreat use for them to go, as I see; but they do go, and so theyhave every chance; but, as I said before, they are a degraded race,and always will be, and there isn't any help for them; you can'tmake anything of them, if you try. You see, Cousin Ophelia,I've tried, and you haven't; I was born and bred among them, andI know."
Miss Ophelia thought she had said enough, and thereforesat silent. St. Clare whistled a tune.
"St. Clare, I wish you wouldn't whistle," said Marie; "itmakes my head worse."
"I won't," said St. Clare. "Is there anything else youwouldn't wish me to do?"
"I wish you _would_ have some kind of sympathy for mytrials; you never have any feeling for me."
"My dear accusing angel!" said St. Clare.
"It's provoking to be talked to in that way."
"Then, how will you be talked to? I'll talk to order,--anyway you'll mention,--only to give satisfaction."
A gay laugh from the court rang through the silken curtainsof the verandah. St. Clare stepped out, and lifting up the curtain,laughed too.
"What is it?" said Miss Ophelia, coming to the railing.
There sat Tom, on a little mossy seat in the court, every oneof his button-holes stuck full of cape jessamines, and Eva,gayly laughing, was hanging a wreath of roses round his neck; andthen she sat down on his knee, like a chip-sparrow, still laughing.
"O, Tom, you look so funny!"
Tom had a sober, benevolent smile, and seemed, in his quiet way,to be enjoying the fun quite as much as his little mistress. He lifted his eyes, when he saw his master, with a half-deprecating,apologetic air.
"How can you let her?" said Miss Ophelia.
"Why not?" said St. Clare.
"Why, I don't know, it seems so dreadful!"
"You would think no harm in a child's caressing a large dog,even if he was black; but a creature that can think, andreason, and feel, and is immortal, you shudder at; confess it,cousin. I know the feeling among some of you northerners wellenough. Not that there is a particle of virtue in our not havingit; but custom with us does what Christianity ought to do,--obliteratesthe feeling of personal prejudice. I have often noticed, in mytravels north, how much stronger this was with you than with us. You loathe them as you would a snake or a toad, yet you are indignantat their wrongs. You would not have them abused; but you don'twant to have anything to do with them yourselves. You would sendthem to Africa, out of your sight and smell, and then send amissionary or two to do up all the self-denial of elevating themcompendiously. Isn't that it?"
"Well, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, thoughtfully, "theremay be some truth in this."
"What would the poor and lowly do, without children?" saidSt. Clare, leaning on the railing, and watching Eva, as she trippedoff, leading Tom with her. "Your little child is your only truedemocrat. Tom, now is a hero to Eva; his stories are wonders inher eyes, his songs and Methodist hymns are better than an opera,and the traps and little bits of trash in his pocket a mine ofjewels, and he the most wonderful Tom that ever wore a black skin. This is one of the roses of Eden that the Lord has dropped downexpressly for the poor and lowly, who get few enough of any other kind."
"It's strange, cousin," said Miss Ophelia, "one might almostthink you were a _professor_, to hear you talk."
"A professor?" said St. Clare.
"Yes; a professor of religion."
"Not at all; not a professor, as your town-folks have it;and, what is worse, I'm afraid, not a _practiser_, either."
"What makes you talk so, then?"
"Nothing is easier than talking," said St. Clare. "I believeShakespeare makes somebody say, `I could sooner show twentywhat were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow myown showing.'[1] Nothing like division of labor. My forte lies intalking, and yours, cousin, lies in doing."
[1] _The Merchant of Venice_, Act 1, scene 2, lines 17-18.
In Tom's external situation, at this time, there was, as theworld says, nothing to complain of Little Eva's fancy forhim--the instinctive gratitude and loveliness of a noble nature--hadled her to petition her father that he might be her especialattendant, whenever she needed the escort of a servant, in herwalks or rides; and Tom had general orders to let everything elsego, and attend to Miss Eva whenever she wanted him,--orders whichour readers may fancy were far from disagreeable to him. He waskept well dressed, for St. Clare was fastidiously particular onthis point. His stable services were merely a sinecure, andconsisted simply in a daily care and inspection, and directing anunder-servant in his duties; for Marie St. Clare declared that shecould not have any smell of the horses about him when he came nearher, and that he must positively not be put to any service thatwould make him unpleasant to her, as her nervous system was entirelyinadequate to any trial of that nature; one snuff of anythingdisagreeable being, according to her account, quite sufficient toclose the scene, and put an end to all her earthly trials at once. Tom, therefore, in his well-brushed broadcloth suit, smooth beaver,glossy boots, faultless wristbands and collar, with his grave,good-natured black face, looked respectable enough to be aBishop of Carthage, as men of his color were, in other ages.
Then, too, he was in a beautiful place, a consideration towhich his sensitive race was never indifferent; and he did enjoywith a quiet joy the birds, the flowers, the fountains, the perfume,and light and beauty of the court, the silken hangings, and pictures,and lustres, and statuettes, and gilding, that made the parlorswithin a kind of Aladdin's palace to him.
If ever Africa shall show an elevated and cultivated race,--andcome it must, some time, her turn to figure in the great dramaof human improvement.--life will awake there with a gorgeousnessand splendor of which our cold western tribes faintly have conceived. In that far-off mystic land of gold, and gems, and spices, andwaving palms, and wondrous flowers, and miraculous fertility, willawake new forms of art, new styles of splendor; and the negro race,no longer despised and trodden down, will, perhaps, show forth someof the latest and most magnificent revelations of human life. Certainly they will, in their gentleness, their lowly docility ofheart, their aptitude to repose on a superior mind and rest on ahigher power, their childlike simplicity of affection, and facilityof forgiveness. In all these they will exhibit the highest formof the peculiarly _Christian life_, and, perhaps, as God chastenethwhom he loveth, he hath chosen poor Africa in the furnace ofaffliction, to make her the highest and noblest in that kingdomwhich he will set up, when every other kingdom has been tried, andfailed; for the first shall be last, and the last first.
Was this what Marie St. Clare was thinking of, as she stood,gorgeously dressed, on the verandah, on Sunday morning, claspinga diamond bracelet on her slender wrist? Most likely it was. Or, if it wasn't that, it was something else; for Marie patronizedgood things, and she was going now, in full force,--diamonds, silk,and lace, and jewels, and all,--to a fashionable church, to bevery religious. Marie always made a point to be very piouson Sundays. There she stood, so slender, so elegant, so airy andundulating in all her motions, her lace scarf enveloping her likea mist. She looked a graceful creature, and she felt very goodand very elegant indeed. Miss Ophelia stood at her side, a perfectcontrast. It was not that she had not as handsome a silk dressand shawl, and as fine a pocket-handkerchief; but stiffness andsquareness, and bolt-uprightness, enveloped her with as indefiniteyet appreciable a presence as did grace her elegant neighbor; notthe grace of God, however,--that is quite another thing!
"Where's Eva?" said Marie.
"The child stopped on the stairs, to say something to Mammy."
And what was Eva saying to Mammy on the stairs? Listen, reader,and you will hear, though Marie does not.
"Dear Mammy, I know your head is aching dreadfully."
"Lord bless you, Miss Eva! my head allers aches lately. You don't need to worry."
"Well, I'm glad you're going out; and here,"--and the littlegirl threw her arms around her,--"Mammy, you shall take myvinaigrette."
"What! your beautiful gold thing, thar, with them diamonds! Lor, Miss, 't wouldn't be proper, no ways."
"Why not? You need it, and I don't. Mamma always uses itfor headache, and it'll make you feel better. No, you shall takeit, to please me, now."
"Do hear the darlin talk!" said Mammy, as Eva thrust itinto her bosom, and kissing her, ran down stairs to her mother.
"What were you stopping for?"
"I was just stopping to give Mammy my vinaigrette, to taketo church with her."
"Eva" said Marie, stamping impatiently,--"your gold vinaigretteto _Mammy!_ When will you learn what's _proper_? Go right andtake it back this moment!"
Eva looked downcast and aggrieved, and turned slowly.
"I say, Marie, let the child alone; she shall do as shepleases," said St. Clare.
"St. Clare, how will she ever get along in the world?" said Marie.
"The Lord knows," said St. Clare, "but she'll get along inheaven better than you or I."
"O, papa, don't," said Eva, softly touching his elbow; "ittroubles mother."
"Well, cousin, are you ready to go to meeting?" said MissOphelia, turning square about on St. Clare.
"I'm not going, thank you."
"I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church," said Marie;"but he hasn't a particle of religion about him. It really isn'trespectable."
"I know it," said St. Clare. "You ladies go to church to learnhow to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety shedsrespectability on us. If I did go at all, I would go where Mammygoes; there's something to keep a fellow awake there, at least."
"What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!" said Marie.
"Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie. Positively, it's too much to ask of a man. Eva, do youlike to go? Come, stay at home and play with me."
"Thank you, papa; but I'd rather go to church."
"Isn't it dreadful tiresome?" said St. Clare.
"I think it is tiresome, some," said Eva, "and I am sleepy,too, but I try to keep awake."
"What do you go for, then?"
"Why, you know, papa," she said, in a whisper, "cousin told methat God wants to have us; and he gives us everything, you know;and it isn't much to do it, if he wants us to. It isn't so verytiresome after all."
"You sweet, little obliging soul!" said St. Clare, kissing her;"go along, that's a good girl, and pray for me."
"Certainly, I always do," said the child, as she sprangafter her mother into the carriage.
St. Clare stood on the steps and kissed his hand to her,as the carriage drove away; large tears were in his eyes.
"O, Evangeline! rightly named," he said; "hath not God madethee an evangel to me?"
So he felt a moment; and then he smoked a cigar, and readthe Picayune, and forgot his little gospel. Was he much unlikeother folks?
"You see, Evangeline," said her mother, "it's always rightand proper to be kind to servants, but it isn't proper to treatthem _just_ as we would our relations, or people in our own classof life. Now, if Mammy was sick, you wouldn't want to put her inyour own bed."
"I should feel just like it, mamma," said Eva, "because thenit would be handier to take care of her, and because, youknow, my bed is better than hers."
Marie was in utter despair at the entire want of moralperception evinced in this reply.
"What can I do to make this child understand me?" she said.
"Nothing," said Miss Ophelia, significantly.
Eva looked sorry and disconcerted for a moment; but children,luckily, do not keep to one impression long, and in a few momentsshe was merrily laughing at various things which she saw from thecoach-windows, as it rattled along.
- * * * * *
"Well, ladies," said St. Clare, as they were comfortably seatedat the dinner-table, "and what was the bill of fare at church today?"
"O, Dr. G---- preached a splendid sermon," said Marie. "It was just such a sermon as you ought to hear; it expressed allmy views exactly."
"It must have been very improving," said St. Clare. "The subjectmust have been an extensive one."
"Well, I mean all my views about society, and such things,"said Marie. "The text was, `He hath made everything beautiful inits season;' and he showed how all the orders and distinctions insociety came from God; and that it was so appropriate, you know,and beautiful, that some should be high and some low, and that somewere born to rule and some to serve, and all that, you know; andhe applied it so well to all this ridiculous fuss that is madeabout slavery, and he proved distinctly that the Bible was on ourside, and supported all our institutions so convincingly. I onlywish you'd heard him."
"O, I didn't need it," said St. Clare. "I can learn what doesme as much good as that from the Picayune, any time, and smokea cigar besides; which I can't do, you know, in a church."
"Why," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you believe in these views?"
"Who,--I? You know I'm such a graceless dog that thesereligious aspects of such subjects don't edify me much. If I wasto say anything on this slavery matter, I would say out, fair andsquare, `We're in for it; we've got 'em, and mean to keep 'em,--it'sfor our convenience and our interest;' for that's the long andshort of it,--that's just the whole of what all this sanctifiedstuff amounts to, after all; and I think that it will be intelligibleto everybody, everywhere."
"I do think, Augustine, you are so irreverent!" said Marie. "I think it's shocking to hear you talk."
"Shocking! it's the truth. This religious talk on suchmatters,--why don't they carry it a little further, and show thebeauty, in its season, of a fellow's taking a glass too much,and sitting a little too late over his cards, and variousprovidential arrangements of that sort, which are prettyfrequent among us young men;--we'd like to hear that those areright and godly, too."
"Well," said Miss Ophelia, "do you think slavery right or wrong?"
I'm not going to have any of your horrid New Englanddirectness, cousin," said St. Clare, gayly. "If I answer thatquestion, I know you'll be at me with half a dozen others, eachone harder than the last; and I'm not a going to define my position. I am one of the sort that lives by throwing stones at other people'sglass houses, but I never mean to put up one for them to stone."
"That's just the way he's always talking," said Marie; "you can'tget any satisfaction out of him. I believe it's just becausehe don't like religion, that he's always running out in this wayhe's been doing."
"Religion!" said St. Clare, in a tone that made both ladieslook at him. "Religion! Is what you hear at church, religion? Is that which can bend and turn, and descend and ascend, to fit everycrooked phase of selfish, worldly society, religion? Is that religionwhich is less scrupulous, less generous, less just, less consideratefor man, than even my own ungodly, worldly, blinded nature? No! When I look for a religion, I must look for something above me,and not something beneath."
"Then you don't believe that the Bible justifies slavery,"said Miss Ophelia.
"The Bible was my _mother's_ book," said St. Clare. "By it shelived and died, and I would be very sorry to think it did. I'd as soon desire to have it proved that my mother could drinkbrandy, chew tobacco, and swear, by way of satisfying me that Idid right in doing the same. It wouldn't make me at all moresatisfied with these things in myself, and it would take from methe comfort of respecting her; and it really is a comfort, in thisworld, to have anything one can respect. In short, you see," saidhe, suddenly resuming his gay tone, "all I want is that differentthings be kept in different boxes. The whole frame-work of society,both in Europe and America, is made up of various things which willnot stand the scrutiny of any very ideal standard of morality. It's pretty generally understood that men don't aspire after theabsolute right, but only to do about as well as the rest of theworld. Now, when any one speaks up, like a man, and says slaveryis necessary to us, we can't get along without it, we should bebeggared if we give it up, and, of course, we mean to hold on toit,--this is strong, clear, well-defined language; it has therespectability of truth to it; and, if we may judge by theirpractice, the majority of the world will bear us out in it. But when he begins to put on a long face, and snuffle, and quoteScripture, I incline to think he isn't much better than he should be."
"You are very uncharitable," said Marie.
"Well," said St. Clare, "suppose that something should bringdown the price of cotton once and forever, and make the wholeslave property a drug in the market, don't you think we should soonhave another version of the Scripture doctrine? What a flood oflight would pour into the church, all at once, and how immediatelyit would be discovered that everything in the Bible and reason wentthe other way!"
"Well, at any rate," said Marie, as she reclined herselfon a lounge, "I'm thankful I'm born where slavery exists; and Ibelieve it's right,--indeed, I feel it must be; and, at any rate,I'm sure I couldn't get along without it."
"I say, what do you think, Pussy?" said her father to Eva,who came in at this moment, with a flower in her hand.
"What about, papa?"
"Why, which do you like the best,--to live as they do at youruncle's, up in Vermont, or to have a house-full of servants,as we do?"
"O, of course, our way is the pleasantest," said Eva.
"Why so?" said St. Clare, stroking her head.
"Why, it makes so many more round you to love, you know,"said Eva, looking up earnestly.
"Now, that's just like Eva," said Marie; "just one of herodd speeches."
"Is it an odd speech, papa?" said Eva, whisperingly, asshe got upon his knee.
"Rather, as this world goes, Pussy," said St. Clare. "But wherehas my little Eva been, all dinner-time?"
"O, I've been up in Tom's room, hearing him sing, and AuntDinah gave me my dinner."
"Hearing Tom sing, hey?"
"O, yes! he sings such beautiful things about the NewJerusalem, and bright angels, and the land of Canaan."
"I dare say; it's better than the opera, isn't it?"
"Yes, and he's going to teach them to me."
"Singing lessons, hey?--you _are_ coming on."
"Yes, he sings for me, and I read to him in my Bible; andhe explains what it means, you know."
"On my word," said Marie, laughing, "that is the latestjoke of the season."
"Tom isn't a bad hand, now, at explaining Scripture, I'll dareswear," said St. Clare. "Tom has a natural genius for religion. I wanted the horses out early, this morning, and I stole up toTom's cubiculum there, over the stables, and there I heard himholding a meeting by himself; and, in fact, I haven't heard anythingquite so savory as Tom's prayer, this some time. He put in for me,with a zeal that was quite apostolic."
"Perhaps he guessed you were listening. I've heard of thattrick before."
"If he did, he wasn't very polite; for he gave the Lordhis opinion of me, pretty freely. Tom seemed to think therewas decidedly room for improvement in me, and seemed veryearnest that I should be converted."
"I hope you'll lay it to heart," said Miss Ophelia.
"I suppose you are much of the same opinion," said St. Clare. "Well, we shall see,--shan't we, Eva?"
CHAPTER XVII
The Freeman's Defence
There was a gentle bustle at the Quaker house, as theafternoon drew to a close. Rachel Halliday moved quietly to andfro, collecting from her household stores such needments as couldbe arranged in the smallest compass, for the wanderers who were togo forth that night. The afternoon shadows stretched eastward,and the round red sun stood thoughtfully on the horizon, and hisbeams shone yellow and calm into the little bed-room where Georgeand his wife were sitting. He was sitting with his child on hisknee, and his wife's hand in his. Both looked thoughtful andserious and traces of tears were on their cheeks.
"Yes, Eliza," said George, "I know all you say is true. You are a good child,--a great deal better than I am; and I willtry to do as you say. I'll try to act worthy of a free man. I'll try to feel like a Christian. God Almighty knows that I'vemeant to do well,--tried hard to do well,--when everything has beenagainst me; and now I'll forget all the past, and put away every hardand bitter feeling, and read my Bible, and learn to be a good man."
"And when we get to Canada," said Eliza, "I can help you. I can do dress-making very well; and I understand fine washing andironing; and between us we can find something to live on."
"Yes, Eliza, so long as we have each other and our boy. O! Eliza,if these people only knew what a blessing it is for a man to feelthat his wife and child belong to _him_! I've often wondered tosee men that could call their wives and children _their own_fretting and worrying about anything else. Why, I feel rich andstrong, though we have nothing but our bare hands. I feelas if I could scarcely ask God for any more. Yes, though I'veworked hard every day, till I am twenty-five years old, and havenot a cent of money, nor a roof to cover me, nor a spot of land tocall my own, yet, if they will only let me alone now, I will besatisfied,--thankful; I will work, and send back the money for youand my boy. As to my old master, he has been paid five times overfor all he ever spent for me. I don't owe him anything."
"But yet we are not quite out of danger," said Eliza; "weare not yet in Canada."
"True," said George, "but it seems as if I smelt the freeair, and it makes me strong."
At this moment, voices were heard in the outer apartment,in earnest conversation, and very soon a rap was heard on the door. Eliza started and opened it.
Simeon Halliday was there, and with him a Quaker brother, whomhe introduced as Phineas Fletcher. Phineas was tall and lathy,red-haired, with an expression of great acuteness and shrewdnessin his face. He had not the placid, quiet, unworldly air of SimeonHalliday; on the contrary, a particularly wide-awake and _au fait_appearance, like a man who rather prides himself on knowing whathe is about, and keeping a bright lookout ahead; peculiaritieswhich sorted rather oddly with his broad brim and formal phraseology.
"Our friend Phineas hath discovered something of importanceto the interests of thee and thy party, George," said Simeon; "itwere well for thee to hear it."
"That I have," said Phineas, "and it shows the use of aman's always sleeping with one ear open, in certain places,as I've always said. Last night I stopped at a little lonetavern, back on the road. Thee remembers the place, Simeon, wherewe sold some apples, last year, to that fat woman, with the greatear-rings. Well, I was tired with hard driving; and, after mysupper I stretched myself down on a pile of bags in the corner,and pulled a buffalo over me, to wait till my bed was ready; andwhat does I do, but get fast asleep."
"With one ear open, Phineas?" said Simeon, quietly.
"No; I slept, ears and all, for an hour or two, for I was prettywell tired; but when I came to myself a little, I found thatthere were some men in the room, sitting round a table, drinkingand talking; and I thought, before I made much muster, I'd justsee what they were up to, especially as I heard them say somethingabout the Quakers. `So,' says one, `they are up in the Quakersettlement, no doubt,' says he. Then I listened with both ears,and I found that they were talking about this very party. So Ilay and heard them lay off all their plans. This young man, theysaid, was to be sent back to Kentucky, to his master, who was goingto make an example of him, to keep all niggers from running away;and his wife two of them were going to run down to New Orleans tosell, on their own account, and they calculated to get sixteen oreighteen hundred dollars for her; and the child, they said, wasgoing to a trader, who had bought him; and then there was the boy,Jim, and his mother, they were to go back to their masters inKentucky. They said that there were two constables, in a town alittle piece ahead, who would go in with 'em to get 'em taken up,and the young woman was to be taken before a judge; and one of thefellows, who is small and smooth-spoken, was to swear to her forhis property, and get her delivered over to him to take south. They've got a right notion of the track we are going tonight; andthey'll be down after us, six or eight strong. So now, what's tobe done?"
The group that stood in various attitudes, after thiscommunication, were worthy of a painter. Rachel Halliday, who hadtaken her hands out of a batch of biscuit, to hear the news, stoodwith them upraised and floury, and with a face of the deepestconcern. Simeon looked profoundly thoughtful; Eliza had thrownher arms around her husband, and was looking up to him. Georgestood with clenched hands and glowing eyes, and looking as anyother man might look, whose wife was to be sold at auction, and sonsent to a trader, all under the shelter of a Christian nation's laws.
"What _shall_ we do, George?" said Eliza faintly.
"I know what _I_ shall do," said George, as he stepped intothe little room, and began examining pistols.
"Ay, ay," said Phineas, nodding his head to Simeon; thouseest, Simeon, how it will work."
"I see," said Simeon, sighing; "I pray it come not to that."
"I don't want to involve any one with or for me," said George. "If you will lend me your vehicle and direct me, I will drivealone to the next stand. Jim is a giant in strength, andbrave as death and despair, and so am I."
"Ah, well, friend," said Phineas, "but thee'll need a driver,for all that. Thee's quite welcome to do all the fighting,thee knows; but I know a thing or two about the road, that theedoesn't."
"But I don't want to involve you," said George.
"Involve," said Phineas, with a curious and keen expressionof face, "When thee does involve me, please to let me know."
"Phineas is a wise and skilful man," said Simeon. "Thee doeswell, George, to abide by his judgment; and," he added, layinghis hand kindly on George's shoulder, and pointing to the pistols,"be not over hasty with these,--young blood is hot."
"I will attack no man," said George. "All I ask of this countryis to be let alone, and I will go out peaceably; but,"--he paused,and his brow darkened and his face worked,--"I've had a sistersold in that New Orleans market. I know what they are sold for;and am I going to stand by and see them take my wife and sell her,when God has given me a pair of strong arms to defend her? No; Godhelp me! I'll fight to the last breath, before they shall take mywife and son. Can you blame me?"
"Mortal man cannot blame thee, George. Flesh and blood couldnot do otherwise," said Simeon. "Woe unto the world becauseof offences, but woe unto them through whom the offence cometh."
"Would not even you, sir, do the same, in my place?"
"I pray that I be not tried," said Simeon; "the flesh is weak."
"I think my flesh would be pretty tolerable strong, in sucha case," said Phineas, stretching out a pair of arms like the sailsof a windmill. "I an't sure, friend George, that I shouldn't holda fellow for thee, if thee had any accounts to settle with him."
"If man should _ever_ resist evil," said Simeon, "then Georgeshould feel free to do it now: but the leaders of our peopletaught a more excellent way; for the wrath of man worketh not therighteousness of God; but it goes sorely against the corrupt willof man, and none can receive it save they to whom it is given. Let us pray the Lord that we be not tempted."
"And so _I_ do," said Phineas; "but if we are tempted toomuch--why, let them look out, that's all."
"It's quite plain thee wasn't born a Friend," said Simeon, smiling. "The old nature hath its way in thee pretty strong as yet."
To tell the truth, Phineas had been a hearty, two-fistedbackwoodsman, a vigorous hunter, and a dead shot at a buck; but,having wooed a pretty Quakeress, had been moved by the power ofher charms to join the society in his neighborhood; and though hewas an honest, sober, and efficient member, and nothing particularcould be alleged against him, yet the more spiritual among themcould not but discern an exceeding lack of savor in his developments.
"Friend Phineas will ever have ways of his own," said RachelHalliday, smiling; "but we all think that his heart is in the rightplace, after all."
"Well," said George, "isn't it best that we hasten our flight?"
"I got up at four o'clock, and came on with all speed, fulltwo or three hours ahead of them, if they start at the time theyplanned. It isn't safe to start till dark, at any rate; for thereare some evil persons in the villages ahead, that might be disposedto meddle with us, if they saw our wagon, and that would delay usmore than the waiting; but in two hours I think we may venture. I will go over to Michael Cross, and engage him to come behind onhis swift nag, and keep a bright lookout on the road, and warn usif any company of men come on. Michael keeps a horse that can soonget ahead of most other horses; and he could shoot ahead and letus know, if there were any danger. I am going out now to warn Jimand the old woman to be in readiness, and to see about the horse. We have a pretty fair start, and stand a good chance to get to thestand before they can come up with us. So, have good courage,friend George; this isn't the first ugly scrape that I've been inwith thy people," said Phineas, as he closed the door.
"Phineas is pretty shrewd," said Simeon. "He will do thebest that can be done for thee, George."
"All I am sorry for," said George, "is the risk to you."
"Thee'll much oblige us, friend George, to say no more about that. What we do we are conscience bound to do; we can do no other way. And now, mother," said he, turning to Rachel, "hurry thy preparationsfor these friends, for we must not send them away fasting."
And while Rachel and her children were busy making corn-cake,and cooking ham and chicken, and hurrying on the _et ceteras_ ofthe evening meal, George and his wife sat in their little room,with their arms folded about each other, in such talk as husbandand wife have when they know that a few hours may part them forever.
"Eliza," said George, "people that have friends, and houses,and lands, and money, and all those things _can't_ love as we do,who have nothing but each other. Till I knew you, Eliza, no creaturehad loved me, but my poor, heart-broken mother and sister. I sawpoor Emily that morning the trader carried her off. She came tothe corner where I was lying asleep, and said, `Poor George, yourlast friend is going. What will become of you, poor boy?' And Igot up and threw my arms round her, and cried and sobbed, and shecried too; and those were the last kind words I got for ten longyears; and my heart all withered up, and felt as dry as ashes, tillI met you. And your loving me,--why, it was almost like raisingone from the dead! I've been a new man ever since! And now, Eliza,I'll give my last drop of blood, but they _shall not_ take you from me. Whoever gets you must walk over my dead body."
"O, Lord, have mercy!" said Eliza, sobbing. "If he will onlylet us get out of this country together, that is all we ask."
"Is God on their side?" said George, speaking less to his wifethan pouring out his own bitter thoughts. "Does he see allthey do? Why does he let such things happen? And they tell us thatthe Bible is on their side; certainly all the power is. They arerich, and healthy, and happy; they are members of churches, expectingto go to heaven; and they get along so easy in the world, and haveit all their own way; and poor, honest, faithful Christians,--Christiansas good or better than they,--are lying in the very dust undertheir feet. They buy 'em and sell 'em, and make trade of theirheart's blood, and groans and tears,--and God _lets_ them."
"Friend George," said Simeon, from the kitchen, "listen tothis Psalm; it may do thee good."
George drew his seat near the door, and Eliza, wiping hertears, came forward also to listen, while Simeon read as follows:
"But as for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps hadwell-nigh slipped. For I was envious of the foolish, when I sawthe prosperity of the wicked. They are not in trouble like othermen, neither are they plagued like other men. Therefore, pridecompasseth them as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment. Their eyes stand out with fatness; they have more than heartcould wish. They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerningoppression; they speak loftily. Therefore his people return,and the waters of a full cup are wrung out to them, and they say,How doth God know? and is there knowledge in the Most High?"
"Is not that the way thee feels, George?"
"It is so indeed," said George,--"as well as I could havewritten it myself."
"Then, hear," said Simeon: "When I thought to know this,it was too painful for me until I went unto the sanctuary of God. Then understood I their end. Surely thou didst set them in slipperyplaces, thou castedst them down to destruction. As a dream whenone awaketh, so, oh Lord, when thou awakest, thou shalt despisetheir image. Nevertheless I am continually with thee; thou hastholden me by my right hand. Thou shalt guide me by thy counsel,and afterwards receive me to glory. It is good for me to draw nearunto God. I have put my trust in the Lord God."[1]
[1] Ps. 73, "The End of the Wicked contrasted with that ofthe Righteous."
The words of holy trust, breathed by the friendly old man,stole like sacred music over the harassed and chafed spiritof George; and after he ceased, he sat with a gentle andsubdued expression on his fine features.
"If this world were all, George," said Simeon, "thee might,indeed, ask where is the Lord? But it is often those who have leastof all in this life whom he chooseth for the kingdom. Put thytrust in him and, no matter what befalls thee here, he will makeall right hereafter."
If these words had been spoken by some easy, self-indulgentexhorter, from whose mouth they might have come merely as piousand rhetorical flourish, proper to be used to people in distress,perhaps they might not have had much effect; but coming from onewho daily and calmly risked fine and imprisonment for the cause ofGod and man, they had a weight that could not but be felt, and boththe poor, desolate fugitives found calmness and strength breathinginto them from it.
And now Rachel took Eliza's hand kindly, and led the way to thesupper-table. As they were sitting down, a light tap soundedat the door, and Ruth entered.
"I just ran in," she said, "with these little stockings for theboy,--three pair, nice, warm woollen ones. It will be so cold,thee knows, in Canada. Does thee keep up good courage, Eliza?"she added, tripping round to Eliza's side of the table, andshaking her warmly by the hand, and slipping a seed-cake intoHarry's hand. "I brought a little parcel of these for him," shesaid, tugging at her pocket to get out the package. "Children,thee knows, will always be eating."
"O, thank you; you are too kind," said Eliza.
"Come, Ruth, sit down to supper," said Rachel.
"I couldn't, any way. I left John with the baby, and somebiscuits in the oven; and I can't stay a moment, else John willburn up all the biscuits, and give the baby all the sugar inthe bowl. That's the way he does," said the little Quakeress,laughing. "So, good-by, Eliza; good-by, George; the Lord grantthee a safe journey;" and, with a few tripping steps, Ruth wasout of the apartment.
A little while after supper, a large covered-wagon drew upbefore the door; the night was clear starlight; and Phineas jumpedbriskly down from his seat to arrange his passengers. George walkedout of the door, with his child on one arm and his wife on the other. His step was firm, his face settled and resolute. Rachel andSimeon came out after them.
"You get out, a moment," said Phineas to those inside, "andlet me fix the back of the wagon, there, for the women-folks andthe boy."
"Here are the two buffaloes," said Rachel. "Make the seatsas comfortable as may be; it's hard riding all night."
Jim came out first, and carefully assisted out his old mother,who clung to his arm, and looked anxiously about, as if sheexpected the pursuer every moment.
"Jim, are your pistols all in order?" said George, in alow, firm voice.
"Yes, indeed," said Jim.
"And you've no doubt what you shall do, if they come?"
"I rather think I haven't," said Jim, throwing open hisbroad chest, and taking a deep breath. "Do you think I'll letthem get mother again?"
During this brief colloquy, Eliza had been taking her leaveof her kind friend, Rachel, and was handed into the carriage bySimeon, and, creeping into the back part with her boy, sat downamong the buffalo-skins. The old woman was next handed in andseated and George and Jim placed on a rough board seat front ofthem, and Phineas mounted in front.
"Farewell, my friends," said Simeon, from without.
"God bless you!" answered all from within.
And the wagon drove off, rattling and jolting over thefrozen road.
There was no opportunity for conversation, on account of theroughness of the way and the noise of the wheels. The vehicle,therefore, rumbled on, through long, dark stretches of woodland,--overwide dreary plains,--up hills, and down valleys,--and on, on, onthey jogged, hour after hour. The child soon fell asleep, and layheavily in his mother's lap. The poor, frightened old woman atlast forgot her fears; and, even Eliza, as the night waned, foundall her anxieties insufficient to keep her eyes from closing. Phineas seemed, on the whole, the briskest of the company, andbeguiled his long drive with whistling certain very unquaker-likesongs, as he went on.
But about three o'clock George's ear caught the hasty anddecided click of a horse's hoof coming behind them at some distanceand jogged Phineas by the elbow. Phineas pulled up his horses,and listened.
"That must be Michael," he said; "I think I know the soundof his gallop;" and he rose up and stretched his head anxiouslyback over the road.
A man riding in hot haste was now dimly descried at thetop of a distant hill.
"There he is, I do believe!" said Phineas. George and Jim bothsprang out of the wagon before they knew what they were doing. All stood intensely silent, with their faces turned towards theexpected messenger. On he came. Now he went down into a valley,where they could not see him; but they heard the sharp, hasty tramp,rising nearer and nearer; at last they saw him emerge on the topof an eminence, within hail.
"Yes, that's Michael!" said Phineas; and, raising his voice,"Halloa, there, Michael!"
"Phineas! is that thee?"
"Yes; what news--they coming?"
"Right on behind, eight or ten of them, hot with brandy,swearing and foaming like so many wolves."
And, just as he spoke, a breeze brought the faint sound ofgalloping horsemen towards them.
"In with you,--quick, boys, _in!_" said Phineas. "If you mustfight, wait till I get you a piece ahead." And, with the word,both jumped in, and Phineas lashed the horses to a run, the horsemankeeping close beside them. The wagon rattled, jumped, almost flew,over the frozen ground; but plainer, and still plainer, came thenoise of pursuing horsemen behind. The women heard it, and, lookinganxiously out, saw, far in the rear, on the brow of a distant hill,a party of men looming up against the red-streaked sky of early dawn. Another hill, and their pursuers had evidently caught sight oftheir wagon, whose white cloth-covered top made it conspicuousat some distance, and a loud yell of brutal triumph came forwardon the wind. Eliza sickened, and strained her child closer to herbosom; the old woman prayed and groaned, and George and Jim clenchedtheir pistols with the grasp of despair. The pursuers gained onthem fast; the carriage made a sudden turn, and brought them neara ledge of a steep overhanging rock, that rose in an isolated ridgeor clump in a large lot, which was, all around it, quite clearand smooth. This isolated pile, or range of rocks, rose up blackand heavy against the brightening sky, and seemed to promise shelterand concealment. It was a place well known to Phineas, who hadbeen familiar with the spot in his hunting days; and it was to gainthis point he had been racing his horses.
"Now for it!" said he, suddenly checking his horses, andspringing from his seat to the ground. "Out with you, in a twinkling,every one, and up into these rocks with me. Michael, thee tie thyhorse to the wagon, and drive ahead to Amariah's and get him andhis boys to come back and talk to these fellows."
In a twinkling they were all out of the carriage.
"There," said Phineas, catching up Harry, "you, each of you,see to the women; and run, _now_ if you ever _did_ run!"
They needed no exhortation. Quicker than we can say it, thewhole party were over the fence, making with all speed for therocks, while Michael, throwing himself from his horse, and fasteningthe bridle to the wagon, began driving it rapidly away.
"Come ahead," said Phineas, as they reached the rocks, andsaw in the mingled starlight and dawn, the traces of a rude butplainly marked foot-path leading up among them; "this is one ofour old hunting-dens. Come up!"
Phineas went before, springing up the rocks like a goat,with the boy in his arms. Jim came second, bearing his tremblingold mother over his shoulder, and George and Eliza brought up therear. The party of horsemen came up to the fence, and, with mingledshouts and oaths, were dismounting, to prepare to follow them. A few moments' scrambling brought them to the top of the ledge; thepath then passed between a narrow defile, where only one could walkat a time, till suddenly they came to a rift or chasm more than ayard in breadth, and beyond which lay a pile of rocks, separatefrom the rest of the ledge, standing full thirty feet high, withits sides steep and perpendicular as those of a castle. Phineaseasily leaped the chasm, and sat down the boy on a smooth, flatplatform of crisp white moss, that covered the top of the rock.
"Over with you!" he called; "spring, now, once, for yourlives!" said he, as one after another sprang across. Severalfragments of loose stone formed a kind of breast-work, whichsheltered their position from the observation of those below.
"Well, here we all are," said Phineas, peeping over the stonebreast-work to watch the assailants, who were coming tumultuouslyup under the rocks. "Let 'em get us, if they can. Whoever comeshere has to walk single file between those two rocks, in fairrange of your pistols, boys, d'ye see?"
"I do see," said George! "and now, as this matter is ours,let us take all the risk, and do all the fighting."
"Thee's quite welcome to do the fighting, George," said Phineas,chewing some checkerberry-leaves as he spoke; "but I may havethe fun of looking on, I suppose. But see, these fellows arekinder debating down there, and looking up, like hens when theyare going to fly up on to the roost. Hadn't thee better give 'ema word of advice, before they come up, just to tell 'em handsomelythey'll be shot if they do?"
The party beneath, now more apparent in the light of the dawn,consisted of our old acquaintances, Tom Loker and Marks, withtwo constables, and a posse consisting of such rowdies at the lasttavern as could be engaged by a little brandy to go and help thefun of trapping a set of niggers.
"Well, Tom, yer coons are farly treed," said one.
"Yes, I see 'em go up right here," said Tom; "and here'sa path. I'm for going right up. They can't jump down in a hurry,and it won't take long to ferret 'em out."
"But, Tom, they might fire at us from behind the rocks,"said Marks. "That would be ugly, you know."
"Ugh!" said Tom, with a sneer. "Always for saving yourskin, Marks! No danger! niggers are too plaguy scared!"
"I don't know why I _shouldn't_ save my skin," said Marks. "It's the best I've got; and niggers _do_ fight like the devil,sometimes."
At this moment, George appeared on the top of a rock abovethem, and, speaking in a calm, clear voice, said,
"Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you want?"
"We want a party of runaway niggers," said Tom Loker. "One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, andJim Selden, and an old woman. We've got the officers, here,and a warrant to take 'em; and we're going to have 'em, too. D'ye hear? An't you George Harris, that belongs to Mr. Harris,of Shelby county, Kentucky?"
"I am George Harris. A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did callme his property. But now I'm a free man, standing on God's freesoil; and my wife and my child I claim as mine. Jim and his motherare here. We have arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it. You can come up, if you like; but the first one of you that comeswithin the range of our bullets is a dead man, and the next, andthe next; and so on till the last."
"O, come! come!" said a short, puffy man, stepping forward,and blowing his nose as he did so. "Young man, this an't no kindof talk at all for you. You see, we're officers of justice. We've got the law on our side, and the power, and so forth; soyou'd better give up peaceably, you see; for you'll certainly haveto give up, at last."
"I know very well that you've got the law on your side, and thepower," said George, bitterly. "You mean to take my wifeto sell in New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf in a trader'spen, and send Jim's old mother to the brute that whipped and abusedher before, because he couldn't abuse her son. You want to sendJim and me back to be whipped and tortured, and ground down underthe heels of them that you call masters; and your laws _will_ bearyou out in it,--more shame for you and them! But you haven't got us. We don't own your laws; we don't own your country; we standhere as free, under God's sky, as you are; and, by the great Godthat made us, we'll fight for our liberty till we die."
George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, ashe made his declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gavea flush to his swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and despairgave fire to his dark eye; and, as if appealing from man to thejustice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as he spoke.
If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely defendingin some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping fromAustria into America, this would have been sublime heroism; but asit was a youth of African descent, defending the retreat of fugitivesthrough America into Canada, of course we are too well instructedand patriotic to see any heroism in it; and if any of our readersdo, they must do it on their own private responsibility. Whendespairing Hungarian fugitives make their way, against all thesearch-warrants and authorities of their lawful government, toAmerica, press and political cabinet ring with applause and welcome. When despairing African fugitives do the same thing,--it is--what_is_ it?
Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice,manner, of the speaker for a moment struck the party belowto silence. There is something in boldness and determination thatfor a time hushes even the rudest nature. Marks was the only onewho remained wholly untouched. He was deliberately cocking hispistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed George's speech,he fired at him.
"Ye see ye get jist as much for him dead as alive in Kentucky,"he said coolly, as he wiped his pistol on his coat-sleeve.
George sprang backward,--Eliza uttered a shriek,--the ballhad passed close to his hair, had nearly grazed the cheek of hiswife, and struck in the tree above.
"It's nothing, Eliza," said George, quickly.
"Thee'd better keep out of sight, with thy speechifying,"said Phineas; "they're mean scamps."
"Now, Jim," said George, "look that your pistols are allright, and watch that pass with me. The first man that showshimself I fire at; you take the second, and so on. It won't do,you know, to waste two shots on one."
"But what if you don't hit?"
"I _shall_ hit," said George, coolly.
"Good! now, there's stuff in that fellow," muttered Phineas,between his teeth.
The party below, after Marks had fired, stood, for a moment,rather undecided.
"I think you must have hit some on 'em," said one of the men. "I heard a squeal!"
"I'm going right up for one," said Tom. "I never was afraidof niggers, and I an't going to be now. Who goes after?" he said,springing up the rocks.
George heard the words distinctly. He drew up his pistol,examined it, pointed it towards that point in the defile where thefirst man would appear.
One of the most courageous of the party followed Tom, and,the way being thus made, the whole party began pushing up therock,--the hindermost pushing the front ones faster than they wouldhave gone of themselves. On they came, and in a moment the burlyform of Tom appeared in sight, almost at the verge of the chasm.
George fired,--the shot entered his side,--but, though wounded,he would not retreat, but, with a yell like that of a mad bull,he was leaping right across the chasm into the party.
"Friend," said Phineas, suddenly stepping to the front, andmeeting him with a push from his long arms, "thee isn't wanted here."
Down he fell into the chasm, crackling down among trees,bushes, logs, loose stones, till he lay bruised and groaning thirtyfeet below. The fall might have killed him, had it not been brokenand moderated by his clothes catching in the branches of a largetree; but he came down with some force, however,--more than was atall agreeable or convenient.
"Lord help us, they are perfect devils!" said Marks, headingthe retreat down the rocks with much more of a will than he hadjoined the ascent, while all the party came tumbling precipitatelyafter him,--the fat constable, in particular, blowing and puffingin a very energetic manner.
"I say, fellers," said Marks, "you jist go round and pickup Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse to go back forhelp,--that's you;" and, without minding the hootings and jeers ofhis company, Marks was as good as his word, and was soon seengalloping away.
"Was ever such a sneaking varmint?" said one of the men; "tocome on his business, and he clear out and leave us this yer way!"
"Well, we must pick up that feller," said another. "Cuss me ifI much care whether he is dead or alive."
The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackledthrough stumps, logs and bushes, to where that hero lay groaningand swearing with alternate vehemence.
"Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom," said one. "Ye much hurt?"
"Don't know. Get me up, can't ye? Blast that infernal Quaker! If it hadn't been for him, I'd a pitched some on 'em down here,to see how they liked it."
With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assistedto rise; and, with one holding him up under each shoulder, theygot him as far as the horses.
"If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place,and stop this infernal bleeding."
George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift theburly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectualattempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.
"O, I hope he isn't killed!" said Eliza, who, with all theparty, stood watching the proceeding.
"Why not?" said Phineas; "serves him right."
"Because after death comes the judgment," said Eliza.
"Yes," said the old woman, who had been groaning and praying,in her Methodist fashion, during all the encounter, "it's an awfulcase for the poor crittur's soul."
"On my word, they're leaving him, I do believe," said Phineas.
It was true; for after some appearance of irresolution andconsultation, the whole party got on their horses and rode away. When they were quite out of sight, Phineas began to bestir himself.
"Well, we must go down and walk a piece," he said. "I toldMichael to go forward and bring help, and be along back here withthe wagon; but we shall have to walk a piece along the road, Ireckon, to meet them. The Lord grant he be along soon! It's earlyin the day; there won't be much travel afoot yet a while; we an'tmuch more than two miles from our stopping-place. If the roadhadn't been so rough last night, we could have outrun 'em entirely."
As the party neared the fence, they discovered in thedistance, along the road, their own wagon coming back, accompaniedby some men on horseback.
"Well, now, there's Michael, and Stephen and Amariah,"exclaimed Phineas, joyfully. "Now we _are_ made--as safe as ifwe'd got there."
"Well, do stop, then," said Eliza, "and do something forthat poor man; he's groaning dreadfully."
"It would be no more than Christian," said George; "let'stake him up and carry him on."
"And doctor him up among the Quakers!" said Phineas; "prettywell, that! Well, I don't care if we do. Here, let's have a lookat him;" and Phineas, who in the course of his hunting and backwoodslife had acquired some rude experience of surgery, kneeled down bythe wounded man, and began a careful examination of his condition.
"Marks," said Tom, feebly, "is that you, Marks?"
"No; I reckon 'tan't friend," said Phineas. "Much Markscares for thee, if his own skin's safe. He's off, long ago."
"I believe I'm done for," said Tom. "The cussed sneaking dog,to leave me to die alone! My poor old mother always told me't would be so."
"La sakes! jist hear the poor crittur. He's got a mammy,now," said the old negress. "I can't help kinder pityin' on him."
"Softly, softly; don't thee snap and snarl, friend," saidPhineas, as Tom winced and pushed his hand away. "Thee has nochance, unless I stop the bleeding." And Phineas busied himselfwith making some off-hand surgical arrangements with his ownpocket-handkerchief, and such as could be mustered in the company.
"You pushed me down there," said Tom, faintly.
"Well if I hadn't thee would have pushed us down, thee sees,"said Phineas, as he stooped to apply his bandage. "There,there,--let me fix this bandage. We mean well to thee; we bearno malice. Thee shall be taken to a house where they'll nursethee first rate, well as thy own mother could."
Tom groaned, and shut his eyes. In men of his class, vigorand resolution are entirely a physical matter, and ooze out withthe flowing of the blood; and the gigantic fellow really lookedpiteous in his helplessness.
The other party now came up. The seats were taken out ofthe wagon. The buffalo-skins, doubled in fours, were spread allalong one side, and four men, with great difficulty, lifted theheavy form of Tom into it. Before he was gotten in, he faintedentirely. The old negress, in the abundance of her compassion,sat down on the bottom, and took his head in her lap. Eliza, Georgeand Jim, bestowed themselves, as well as they could, in the remainingspace and the whole party set forward.
"What do you think of him?" said George, who sat by Phineasin front.
"Well it's only a pretty deep flesh-wound; but, then, tumblingand scratching down that place didn't help him much. It hasbled pretty freely,--pretty much dreaned him out, courage andall,--but he'll get over it, and may be learn a thing or two by it."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," said George. "It would alwaysbe a heavy thought to me, if I'd caused his death, even ina just cause."
"Yes," said Phineas, "killing is an ugly operation, any waythey'll fix it,--man or beast. I've seen a buck that was shotdown and a dying, look that way on a feller with his eye, that itreely most made a feller feel wicked for killing on him; and humancreatures is a more serious consideration yet, bein', as thy wifesays, that the judgment comes to 'em after death. So I don't knowas our people's notions on these matters is too strict; and,considerin' how I was raised, I fell in with them pretty considerably."
"What shall you do with this poor fellow?" said George.
"O, carry him along to Amariah's. There's old GrandmamStephens there,--Dorcas, they call her,--she's most an amazin'nurse. She takes to nursing real natural, and an't never bettersuited than when she gets a sick body to tend. We may reckon onturning him over to her for a fortnight or so."
A ride of about an hour more brought the party to a neatfarmhouse, where the weary travellers were received to an abundantbreakfast. Tom Loker was soon carefully deposited in a much cleanerand softer bed than he had, ever been in the habit of occupying. His wound was carefully dressed and bandaged, and he lay languidlyopening and shutting his eyes on the white window-curtains andgently-gliding figures of his sick room, like a weary child. And here,for the present, we shall take our leave of one party.
CHAPTER XVIII
Miss Ophelia's Experiences and Opinions
Our friend Tom, in his own simple musings, often compared hismore fortunate lot, in the bondage into which he was cast, withthat of Joseph in Egypt; and, in fact, as time went on, and hedeveloped more and more under the eye of his master, the strengthof the parallel increased.
St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Hitherto theproviding and marketing had been principally done by Adolph,who was, to the full, as careless and extravagant as his master;and, between them both, they had carried on the dispersing processwith great alacrity. Accustomed, for many years, to regard hismaster's property as his own care, Tom saw, with an uneasiness hecould scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure of the establishment;and, in the quiet, indirect way which his class often acquire,would sometimes make his own suggestions.
St. Clare at first employed him occasionally; but, struck withhis soundness of mind and good business capacity, he confidedin him more and more, till gradually all the marketing and providingfor the family were intrusted to him.
"No, no, Adolph," he said, one day, as Adolph was deprecatingthe passing of power out of his hands; "let Tom alone. You onlyunderstand what you want; Tom understands cost and come to; andthere may be some end to money, bye and bye if we don't letsomebody do that."
Trusted to an unlimited extent by a careless master, whohanded him a bill without looking at it, and pocketed the changewithout counting it, Tom had every facility and temptation todishonesty; and nothing but an impregnable simplicity of nature,strengthened by Christian faith, could have kept him from it. But, to that nature, the very unbounded trust reposed in him wasbond and seal for the most scrupulous accuracy.
With Adolph the case had been different. Thoughtless andself-indulgent, and unrestrained by a master who found it easierto indulge than to regulate, he had fallen into an absolute confusionas to _meum tuum_ with regard to himself and his master, whichsometimes troubled even St. Clare. His own good sense taught himthat such a training of his servants was unjust and dangerous. A sort of chronic remorse went with him everywhere, although notstrong enough to make any decided change in his course; and thisvery remorse reacted again into indulgence. He passed lightly overthe most serious faults, because he told himself that, if he haddone his part, his dependents had not fallen into them.
Tom regarded his gay, airy, handsome young master with an oddmixture of fealty, reverence, and fatherly solicitude. That henever read the Bible; never went to church; that he jested andmade free with any and every thing that came in the way of his wit;that he spent his Sunday evenings at the opera or theatre; that hewent to wine parties, and clubs, and suppers, oftener than was atall expedient,--were all things that Tom could see as plainly asanybody, and on which he based a conviction that "Mas'r wasn't aChristian;"--a conviction, however, which he would have been veryslow to express to any one else, but on which he founded manyprayers, in his own simple fashion, when he was by himself in hislittle dormitory. Not that Tom had not his own way of speakinghis mind occasionally, with something of the tact often observablein his class; as, for example, the very day after the Sabbath wehave described, St. Clare was invited out to a convivial partyof choice spirits, and was helped home, between one and two o'clockat night, in a condition when the physical had decidedly attainedthe upper hand of the intellectual. Tom and Adolph assisted toget him composed for the night, the latter in high spirits,evidently regarding the matter as a good joke, and laughing heartilyat the rusticity of Tom's horror, who really was simple enough tolie awake most of the rest of the night, praying for his young master.
"Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?" said St. Clare, the nextday, as he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers. St. Clare had just been entrusting Tom with some money, andvarious commissions. "Isn't all right there, Tom?" he added,as Tom still stood waiting.
"I'm 'fraid not, Mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face.
St. Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup,and looked at Tom.
"Why Tom, what's the case? You look as solemn as a coffin."
"I feel very bad, Mas'r. I allays have thought that Mas'rwould be good to everybody."
"Well, Tom, haven't I been? Come, now, what do you want? There's something you haven't got, I suppose, and this isthe preface."
"Mas'r allays been good to me. I haven't nothing to complainof on that head. But there is one that Mas'r isn't good to."
"Why, Tom, what's got into you? Speak out; what do you mean?"
"Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studiedupon the matter then. Mas'r isn't good to _himself_."
Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on thedoor-knob. St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed.
"O, that's all, is it?" he said, gayly.
"All!" said Tom, turning suddenly round and falling on his knees. "O, my dear young Mas'r; I'm 'fraid it will be _loss ofall--all_--body and soul. The good Book says, `it biteth like aserpent and stingeth like an adder!' my dear Mas'r!"
Tom's voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks.
"You poor, silly fool!" said St. Clare, with tears in hisown eyes. "Get up, Tom. I'm not worth crying over."
But Tom wouldn't rise, and looked imploring.
"Well, I won't go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom,"said St. Clare; "on my honor, I won't. I don't know why Ihaven't stopped long ago. I've always despised _it_, and myselffor it,--so now, Tom, wipe up your eyes, and go about your errands. Come, come," he added, "no blessings. I'm not so wonderfully good,now," he said, as he gently pushed Tom to the door. "There, I'llpledge my honor to you, Tom, you don't see me so again," he said;and Tom went off, wiping his eyes, with great satisfaction.
"I'll keep my faith with him, too," said St. Clare, as heclosed the door.
And St. Clare did so,--for gross sensualism, in any form,was not the peculiar temptation of his nature.
But, all this time, who shall detail the tribulationsmanifold of our friend Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors ofa Southern housekeeper?
There is all the difference in the world in the servants ofSouthern establishments, according to the character and capacityof the mistresses who have brought them up.
South as well as north, there are women who have anextraordinary talent for command, and tact in educating. Such areenabled, with apparent ease, and without severity, to subject totheir will, and bring into harmonious and systematic order, thevarious members of their small estate,--to regulate their peculiarities,and so balance and compensate the deficiencies of one by the excessof another, as to produce a harmonious and orderly system.
Such a housekeeper was Mrs. Shelby, whom we have alreadydescribed; and such our readers may remember to have met with. If they are not common at the South, it is because they are notcommon in the world. They are to be found there as often asanywhere; and, when existing, find in that peculiar state ofsociety a brilliant opportunity to exhibit their domestic talent.
Such a housekeeper Marie St. Clare was not, nor her motherbefore her. Indolent and childish, unsystematic and improvident,it was not to be expected that servants trained under her careshould not be so likewise; and she had very justly described toMiss Ophelia the state of confusion she would find in the family,though she had not ascribed it to the proper cause.
The first morning of her regency, Miss Ophelia was up atfour o'clock; and having attended to all the adjustments of herown chamber, as she had done ever since she came there, to thegreat amazement of the chambermaid, she prepared for a vigorousonslaught on the cupboards and closets of the establishment ofwhich she had the keys.
The store-room, the linen-presses, the china-closet, thekitchen and cellar, that day, all went under an awful review. Hidden things of darkness were brought to light to an extent thatalarmed all the principalities and powers of kitchen and chamber,and caused many wonderings and murmurings about "dese yer northernladies" from the domestic cabinet.
Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule andauthority in the kitchen department, was filled with wrath atwhat she considered an invasion of privilege. No feudal baron in_Magna Charta_ times could have more thoroughly resented someincursion of the crown.
Dinah was a character in her own way, and it would be injusticeto her memory not to give the reader a little idea of her. She was a native and essential cook, as much as Aunt Chloe,--cooking being an indigenous talent of the African race; butChloe was a trained and methodical one, who moved in an orderlydomestic harness, while Dinah was a self-taught genius, and, likegeniuses in general, was positive, opinionated and erratic, to thelast degree.
Like a certain class of modern philosophers, Dinah perfectlyscorned logic and reason in every shape, and always took refuge inintuitive certainty; and here she was perfectly impregnable. Nopossible amount of talent, or authority, or explanation, could evermake her believe that any other way was better than her own, orthat the course she had pursued in the smallest matter could be inthe least modified. This had been a conceded point with her oldmistress, Marie's mother; and "Miss Marie," as Dinah always calledher young mistress, even after her marriage, found it easier tosubmit than contend; and so Dinah had ruled supreme. This was theeasier, in that she was perfect mistress of that diplomatic artwhich unites the utmost subservience of manner with the utmostinflexibility as to measure.
Dinah was mistress of the whole art and mystery of excuse-making,in all its branches. Indeed, it was an axiom with her that thecook can do no wrong; and a cook in a Southern kitchen findsabundance of heads and shoulders on which to lay off every sinand frailty, so as to maintain her own immaculateness entire. If any part of the dinner was a failure, there were fifty indisputablygood reasons for it; and it was the fault undeniably of fifty otherpeople, whom Dinah berated with unsparing zeal.
But it was very seldom that there was any failure in Dinah'slast results. Though her mode of doing everything was peculiarlymeandering and circuitous, and without any sort of calculation asto time and place,--though her kitchen generally looked as if ithad been arranged by a hurricane blowing through it, and she hadabout as many places for each cooking utensil as there were daysin the year,--yet, if one would have patience to wait her own goodtime, up would come her dinner in perfect order, and in a style ofpreparation with which an epicure could find no fault.
It was now the season of incipient preparation for dinner. Dinah, who required large intervals of reflection and repose, andwas studious of ease in all her arrangements, was seated on thekitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to which she was muchaddicted, and which she always kindled up, as a sort of censer,whenever she felt the need of an inspiration in her arrangements. It was Dinah's mode of invoking the domestic Muses.
Seated around her were various members of that rising racewith which a Southern household abounds, engaged in shelling peas,peeling potatoes, picking pin-feathers out of fowls, and otherpreparatory arrangements,--Dinah every once in a while interruptingher meditations to give a poke, or a rap on the head, to some ofthe young operators, with the pudding-stick that lay by her side. In fact, Dinah ruled over the woolly heads of the younger memberswith a rod of iron, and seemed to consider them born for no earthlypurpose but to "save her steps," as she phrased it. It was thespirit of the system under which she had grown up, and she carriedit out to its full extent.
Miss Ophelia, after passing on her reformatory tour through allthe other parts of the establishment, now entered the kitchen. Dinah had heard, from various sources, what was going on, andresolved to stand on defensive and conservative ground,--mentallydetermined to oppose and ignore every new measure, without anyactual observable contest.
The kitchen was a large brick-floored apartment, with a greatold-fashioned fireplace stretching along one side of it,--anarrangement which St. Clare had vainly tried to persuade Dinah toexchange for the convenience of a modern cook-stove. Not she. NoPuseyite,[1] or conservative of any school, was ever more inflexiblyattached to time-honored inconveniences than Dinah.
[1] Edward Bouverie Pusey (1800-1882), champion of the orthodoxyof revealed religion, defender of the Oxford movement, and Regiusprofessor of Hebrew and Canon of Christ Church, Oxford.
When St. Clare had first returned from the north, impressedwith the system and order of his uncle's kitchen arrangements, hehad largely provided his own with an array of cupboards, drawers,and various apparatus, to induce systematic regulation, under thesanguine illusion that it would be of any possible assistance toDinah in her arrangements. He might as well have provided themfor a squirrel or a magpie. The more drawers and closets therewere, the more hiding-holes could Dinah make for the accommodationof old rags, hair-combs, old shoes, ribbons, cast-off artificialflowers, and other articles of _vertu_, wherein her soul delighted.
When Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen Dinah did not rise,but smoked on in sublime tranquillity, regarding her movementsobliquely out of the corner of her eye, but apparently intent onlyon the operations around her.
Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.
"What is this drawer for, Dinah?" she said.
"It's handy for most anything, Missis," said Dinah. So itappeared to be. From the variety it contained, Miss Opheliapulled out first a fine damask table-cloth stained with blood,having evidently been used to envelop some raw meat.
"What's this, Dinah? You don't wrap up meat in your mistress'best table-cloths?"
"O Lor, Missis, no; the towels was all a missin'--so I jestdid it. I laid out to wash that a,--that's why I put it thar."
"Shif'less!" said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding totumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg-grater and two orthree nutmegs, a Methodist hymn-book, a couple of soiled Madrashandkerchiefs, some yarn and knitting-work, a paper of tobacco anda pipe, a few crackers, one or two gilded china-saucers with somepomade in them, one or two thin old shoes, a piece of flannelcarefully pinned up enclosing some small white onions, severaldamask table-napkins, some coarse crash towels, some twine anddarning-needles, and several broken papers, from which sundry sweetherbs were sifting into the drawer.
"Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?" said Miss Ophelia,with the air of one who prayed for patience.
"Most anywhar, Missis; there's some in that cracked tea-cup,up there, and there's some over in that ar cupboard."
"Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holdingthem up.
"Laws, yes, I put 'em there this morning,--I likes to keep mythings handy," said Dinah. "You, Jake! what are you stopping for! You'll cotch it! Be still, thar!" she added, with a dive ofher stick at the criminal.
"What's this?" said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucer of pomade.
"Laws, it's my har _grease_;--I put it thar to have it handy."
"Do you use your mistress' best saucers for that?"
"Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry;--I wasgwine to change it this very day."
"Here are two damask table-napkins."
"Them table-napkins I put thar, to get 'em washed out, some day."
"Don't you have some place here on purpose for things tobe washed?"
"Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat;but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days,and then it an't handy a liftin' up the lid."
"Why don't you mix your biscuits on the pastry-table, there?"
"Law, Missis, it gets sot so full of dishes, and one thingand another, der an't no room, noway--"
"But you should _wash_ your dishes, and clear them away."
"Wash my dishes!" said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrathbegan to rise over her habitual respect of manner; "what does ladiesknow 'bout work, I want to know? When 'd Mas'r ever get his dinner,if I vas to spend all my time a washin' and a puttin' up dishes? Miss Marie never telled me so, nohow."
"Well, here are these onions."
"Laws, yes!" said Dinah; "thar _is_ whar I put 'em, now. I couldn't 'member. Them 's particular onions I was a savin' fordis yer very stew. I'd forgot they was in dat ar old flannel."
Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.
"I wish Missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my thingswhere I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather decidedly.
"But you don't want these holes in the papers."
"Them 's handy for siftin' on 't out," said Dinah.
"But you see it spills all over the drawer."
"Laws, yes! if Missis will go a tumblin' things all up so,it will. Missis has spilt lots dat ar way," said Dinah, cominguneasily to the drawers. "If Missis only will go up starstill my clarin' up time comes, I'll have everything right;but I can't do nothin' when ladies is round, a henderin'. You, Sam, don't you gib the baby dat ar sugar-bowl! I'll crackye over, if ye don't mind!"
"I'm going through the kitchen, and going to put everythingin order, _once_, Dinah; and then I'll expect you to _keep_ it so."
"Lor, now! Miss Phelia; dat ar an't no way for ladies to do. I never did see ladies doin' no sich; my old Missis nor MissMarie never did, and I don't see no kinder need on 't;" and Dinahstalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorteddishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar into onereceptacle, sorted napkins, table-cloths, and towels, for washing;washing, wiping, and arranging with her own hands, and with a speedand alacrity which perfectly amazed Dinah.
"Lor now! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey an'tladies, nohow," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safehearing distance. "I has things as straight as anybody, when myclarin' up times comes; but I don't want ladies round, a henderin',and getting my things all where I can't find 'em."
To do Dinah justice, she had, at irregular periods, paroxymsof reformation and arrangement, which she called "clarin' up times,"when she would begin with great zeal, and turn every drawer andcloset wrong side outward, on to the floor or tables, and make theordinary confusion seven-fold more confounded. Then she wouldlight her pipe, and leisurely go over her arrangements, lookingthings over, and discoursing upon them; making all the young fryscour most vigorously on the tin things, and keeping up for severalhours a most energetic state of confusion, which she would explainto the satisfaction of all inquirers, by the remark that she wasa "clarin' up." "She couldn't hev things a gwine on so as they hadbeen, and she was gwine to make these yer young ones keep betterorder;" for Dinah herself, somehow, indulged the illusion that she,herself, was the soul of order, and it was only the _young uns_,and the everybody else in the house, that were the cause of anythingthat fell short of perfection in this respect. When all the tinswere scoured, and the tables scrubbed snowy white, and everythingthat could offend tucked out of sight in holes and corners, Dinahwould dress herself up in a smart dress, clean apron, and high,brilliant Madras turban, and tell all marauding "young uns" to keepout of the kitchen, for she was gwine to have things kept nice. Indeed, these periodic seasons were often an inconvenience to thewhole household; for Dinah would contract such an immoderateattachment to her scoured tin, as to insist upon it that it shouldn'tbe used again for any possible purpose,--at least, till the ardorof the "clarin' up" period abated.
Miss Ophelia, in a few days, thoroughly reformed everydepartment of the house to a systematic pattern; but her labors inall departments that depended on the cooperation of servants werelike those of Sisyphus or the Danaides. In despair, she one dayappealed to St. Clare.
"There is no such thing as getting anything like a systemin this family!"
"To be sure, there isn't," said St. Clare.
"Such shiftless management, such waste, such confusion, Inever saw!"
"I dare say you didn't."
"You would not take it so coolly, if you were housekeeper."
"My dear cousin, you may as well understand, once for all,that we masters are divided into two classes, oppressors andoppressed. We who are good-natured and hate severity make up ourminds to a good deal of inconvenience. If we _will keep_ a shambling,loose, untaught set in the community, for our convenience, why, wemust take the consequence. Some rare cases I have seen, of persons,who, by a peculiar tact, can produce order and system withoutseverity; but I'm not one of them,--and so I made up my mind, longago, to let things go just as they do. I will not have the poordevils thrashed and cut to pieces, and they know it,--and, ofcourse, they know the staff is in their own hands."
"But to have no time, no place, no order,--all going on inthis shiftless way!"
"My dear Vermont, you natives up by the North Pole set anextravagant value on time! What on earth is the use of time to afellow who has twice as much of it as he knows what to do with? As to order and system, where there is nothing to be done but to loungeon the sofa and read, an hour sooner or later in breakfast or dinnerisn't of much account. Now, there's Dinah gets you a capitaldinner,--soup, ragout, roast fowl, dessert, ice-creams and all,--andshe creates it all out of chaos and old night down there, in thatkitchen. I think it really sublime, the way she manages. But,Heaven bless us! if we are to go down there, and view all thesmoking and squatting about, and hurryscurryation of the preparatoryprocess, we should never eat more! My good cousin, absolve yourselffrom that! It's more than a Catholic penance, and does no more good. You'll only lose your own temper, and utterly confound Dinah. Let her go her own way."
But, Augustine, you don't know how I found things."
"Don't I? Don't I know that the rolling-pin is under her bed,and the nutmeg-grater in her pocket with her tobacco,--thatthere are sixty-five different sugar-bowls, one in every hole inthe house,--that she washes dishes with a dinner-napkin one day,and with a fragment of an old petticoat the next? But the upshotis, she gets up glorious dinners, makes superb coffee; and you mustjudge her as warriors and statesmen are judged, _by her success_."
"But the waste,--the expense!"
"O, well! Lock everything you can, and keep the key. Give outby driblets, and never inquire for odds and ends,--it isn't best."
"That troubles me, Augustine. I can't help feeling as ifthese servants were not _strictly honest_. Are you sure they canbe relied on?"
Augustine laughed immoderately at the grave and anxiousface with which Miss Ophelia propounded the question.
"O, cousin, that's too good,--_honest!_--as if that's athing to be expected! Honest!--why, of course, they arn't. Why should they be? What upon earth is to make them so?"
"Why don't you instruct?"
"Instruct! O, fiddlestick! What instructing do you thinkI should do? I look like it! As to Marie, she has spiritenough, to be sure, to kill off a whole plantation, if I'd let hermanage; but she wouldn't get the cheatery out of them."
"Are there no honest ones?"
"Well, now and then one, whom Nature makes so impracticablysimple, truthful and faithful, that the worst possible influencecan't destroy it. But, you see, from the mother's breast thecolored child feels and sees that there are none but underhand waysopen to it. It can get along no other way with its parents, itsmistress, its young master and missie play-fellows. Cunning anddeception become necessary, inevitable habits. It isn't fair toexpect anything else of him. He ought not to be punished for it. As to honesty, the slave is kept in that dependent, semi-childishstate, that there is no making him realize the rights of property,or feel that his master's goods are not his own, if he can get them. For my part, I don't see how they _can_ be honest. Such a fellowas Tom, here, is,--is a moral miracle!"
"And what becomes of their souls?" said Miss Ophelia.
"That isn't my affair, as I know of," said St. Clare; "I amonly dealing in facts of the present life. The fact is, thatthe whole race are pretty generally understood to be turned overto the devil, for our benefit, in this world, however it may turnout in another!"
"This is perfectly horrible!" said Miss Ophelia; you oughtto be ashamed of yourselves!"
"I don't know as I am. We are in pretty good company, for allthat," said St. Clare, "as people in the broad road generally are. Look at the high and the low, all the world over, and it'sthe same story,--the lower class used up, body, soul and spirit,for the good of the upper. It is so in England; it is so everywhere;and yet all Christendom stands aghast, with virtuous indignation,because we do the thing in a little different shape from what theydo it."
"It isn't so in Vermont."
"Ah, well, in New England, and in the free States, you havethe better of us, I grant. But there's the bell; so, Cousin, letus for a while lay aside our sectional prejudices, and come out todinner."
As Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen in the latter part ofthe afternoon, some of the sable children called out, "La, sakes!thar's Prue a coming, grunting along like she allers does."
A tall, bony colored woman now entered the kitchen, bearingon her head a basket of rusks and hot rolls.
"Ho, Prue! you've come," said Dinah.
Prue had a peculiar scowling expression of countenance,and a sullen, grumbling voice. She set down her basket, squattedherself down, and resting her elbows on her knees said,
"O Lord! I wish't I 's dead!"
"Why do you wish you were dead?" said Miss Ophelia.
"I'd be out o' my misery," said the woman, gruffly, withouttaking her eyes from the floor.
"What need you getting drunk, then, and cutting up, Prue?"said a spruce quadroon chambermaid, dangling, as she spoke, a pairof coral ear-drops.
The woman looked at her with a sour surly glance.
"Maybe you'll come to it, one of these yer days. I'd beglad to see you, I would; then you'll be glad of a drop, like me,to forget your misery."
"Come, Prue," said Dinah, "let's look at your rusks. Here'sMissis will pay for them."
Miss Ophelia took out a couple of dozen.
"Thar's some tickets in that ar old cracked jug on the topshelf," said Dinah. "You, Jake, climb up and get it down."
"Tickets,--what are they for?" said Miss Ophelia.
"We buy tickets of her Mas'r, and she gives us bread for 'em."
"And they counts my money and tickets, when I gets home, to seeif I 's got the change; and if I han't, they half kills me."
"And serves you right," said Jane, the pert chambermaid,"if you will take their money to get drunk on. That's what shedoes, Missis."
"And that's what I _will_ do,--I can't live no otherways,--drink and forget my misery."
"You are very wicked and very foolish," said Miss Ophelia,"to steal your master's money to make yourself a brute with."
"It's mighty likely, Missis; but I will do it,--yes, I will. O Lord! I wish I 's dead, I do,--I wish I 's dead, and outof my misery!" and slowly and stiffly the old creature rose, andgot her basket on her head again; but before she went out, shelooked at the quadroon girt, who still stood playing with herear-drops.
"Ye think ye're mighty fine with them ar, a frolickin' anda tossin' your head, and a lookin' down on everybody. Well, nevermind,--you may live to be a poor, old, cut-up crittur, like me. Hope to the Lord ye will, I do; then see if ye won'tdrink,--drink,--drink,--yerself into torment; and sarve ye right,too--ugh!" and, with a malignant howl, the woman left the room.
"Disgusting old beast!" said Adolph, who was getting hismaster's shaving-water. "If I was her master, I'd cut her up worsethan she is."
"Ye couldn't do that ar, no ways," said Dinah. "Her back'sa far sight now,--she can't never get a dress together over it."
"I think such low creatures ought not to be allowed to goround to genteel families," said Miss Jane. "What do you think,Mr. St. Clare?" she said, coquettishly tossing her head at Adolph.
It must be observed that, among other appropriations fromhis master's stock, Adolph was in the habit of adopting his nameand address; and that the style under which he moved, among thecolored circles of New Orleans, was that of _Mr. St. Clare_.
"I'm certainly of your opinion, Miss Benoir," said Adolph.
Benoir was the name of Marie St. Clare's family, and Janewas one of her servants.
"Pray, Miss Benoir, may I be allowed to ask if those dropsare for the ball, tomorrow night? They are certainly bewitching!"
"I wonder, now, Mr. St. Clare, what the impudence of youmen will come to!" said Jane, tossing her pretty head til theear-drops twinkled again. "I shan't dance with you for a wholeevening, if you go to asking me any more questions."
"O, you couldn't be so cruel, now! I was just dying to knowwhether you would appear in your pink tarletane," said Adolph.
"What is it?" said Rosa, a bright, piquant little quadroonwho came skipping down stairs at this moment.
"Why, Mr. St. Clare's so impudent!"
"On my honor," said Adolph, "I'll leave it to Miss Rosa now."
"I know he's always a saucy creature," said Rosa, poisingherself on one of her little feet, and looking maliciously atAdolph. "He's always getting me so angry with him."
"O! ladies, ladies, you will certainly break my heart,between you," said Adolph. "I shall be found dead in my bed, somemorning, and you'll have it to answer for."
"Do hear the horrid creature talk!" said both ladies,laughing immoderately.
"Come,--clar out, you! I can't have you cluttering up thekitchen," said Dinah; "in my way, foolin' round here."
"Aunt Dinah's glum, because she can't go to the ball," said Rosa.
"Don't want none o' your light-colored balls," said Dinah;"cuttin' round, makin' b'lieve you's white folks. Arter all, you'sniggers, much as I am."
"Aunt Dinah greases her wool stiff, every day, to make itlie straight," said Jane.
"And it will be wool, after all," said Rosa, maliciouslyshaking down her long, silky curls.
"Well, in the Lord's sight, an't wool as good as bar, anytime?" said Dinah. "I'd like to have Missis say which is worththe most,--a couple such as you, or one like me. Get out wid ye,ye trumpery,--I won't have ye round!"
Here the conversation was interrupted in a two-fold manner. St. Clare's voice was heard at the head of the stairs, asking Adolphif he meant to stay all night with his shaving-water; and MissOphelia, coming out of the dining-room, said,
"Jane and Rosa, what are you wasting your time for, here? Go in and attend to your muslins."
Our friend Tom, who had been in the kitchen during theconversation with the old rusk-woman, had followed her out intothe street. He saw her go on, giving every once in a while asuppressed groan. At last she set her basket down on a doorstep,and began arranging the old, faded shawl which covered her shoulders.
"I'll carry your basket a piece," said Tom, compassionately.
"Why should ye?" said the woman. "I don't want no help."
"You seem to be sick, or in trouble, or somethin'," said Tom.
"I an't sick," said the woman, shortly.
"I wish," said Tom, looking at her earnestly,--"I wish Icould persuade you to leave off drinking. Don't you know it willbe the ruin of ye, body and soul?"
"I knows I'm gwine to torment," said the woman, sullenly. "Ye don't need to tell me that ar. I 's ugly, I 's wicked,--I 's gwine straight to torment. O, Lord! I wish I 's thar!"
Tom shuddered at these frightful words, spoken with asullen, impassioned earnestness.
"O, Lord have mercy on ye! poor crittur. Han't ye neverheard of Jesus Christ?"
"Jesus Christ,--who's he?"
"Why, he's _the Lord_," said Tom.
"I think I've hearn tell o' the Lord, and the judgment and torment. I've heard o' that."
"But didn't anybody ever tell you of the Lord Jesus, thatloved us poor sinners, and died for us?"
"Don't know nothin' 'bout that," said the woman; "nobodyhan't never loved me, since my old man died."
"Where was you raised?" said Tom.
"Up in Kentuck. A man kept me to breed chil'en for market,and sold 'em as fast as they got big enough; last of all, he soldme to a speculator, and my Mas'r got me o' him."
"What set you into this bad way of drinkin'?"
"To get shet o' my misery. I had one child after I come here;and I thought then I'd have one to raise, cause Mas'r wasn'ta speculator. It was de peartest little thing! and Missis sheseemed to think a heap on 't, at first; it never cried,--it waslikely and fat. But Missis tuck sick, and I tended her; and I tuckthe fever, and my milk all left me, and the child it pined to skinand bone, and Missis wouldn't buy milk for it. She wouldn't hearto me, when I telled her I hadn't milk. She said she knowed Icould feed it on what other folks eat; and the child kinder pined,and cried, and cried, and cried, day and night, and got all goneto skin and bones, and Missis got sot agin it and she said 't wan'tnothin' but crossness. She wished it was dead, she said; and shewouldn't let me have it o' nights, cause, she said, it kept meawake, and made me good for nothing. She made me sleep in herroom; and I had to put it away off in a little kind o' garret, andthar it cried itself to death, one night. It did; and I tuck todrinkin', to keep its crying out of my ears! I did,--and I willdrink! I will, if I do go to torment for it! Mas'r says I shall goto torment, and I tell him I've got thar now!"
"O, ye poor crittur!" said Tom, "han't nobody never telled ye howthe Lord Jesus loved ye, and died for ye? Han't they telled yethat he'll help ye, and ye can go to heaven, and have rest, at last?"
"I looks like gwine to heaven," said the woman; "an't tharwhere white folks is gwine? S'pose they'd have me thar? I'd rathergo to torment, and get away from Mas'r and Missis. I had _so_,"she said, as with her usual groan, she got her basket on her head,and walked sullenly away.
Tom turned, and walked sorrowfully back to the house. In thecourt he met little Eva,--a crown of tuberoses on her head,and her eyes radiant with delight.
"O, Tom! here you are. I'm glad I've found you. Papa saysyou may get out the ponies, and take me in my little newcarriage," she said, catching his hand. "But what'sthe matter Tom?--you look sober."
"I feel bad, Miss Eva," said Tom, sorrowfully. "But I'llget the horses for you."
"But do tell me, Tom, what is the matter. I saw youtalking to cross old Prue."
Tom, in simple, earnest phrase, told Eva the woman's history. She did not exclaim or wonder, or weep, as other children do. Her cheeks grew pale, and a deep, earnest shadow passed overher eyes. She laid both hands on her bosom, and sighed heavily.
VOLUME II.CHAPTER XIX
Miss Ophelia's Experiences and Opinions Continued
"Tom, you needn't get me the horses. I don't want to go,"she said.
"Why not, Miss Eva?"
"These things sink into my heart, Tom," said Eva,--"theysink into my heart," she repeated, earnestly. "I don't want togo;" and she turned from Tom, and went into the house.
A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue's place,to bring the rusks; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen.
"Lor!" said Dinah, "what's got Prue?"
"Prue isn't coming any more," said the woman, mysteriously.
"Why not?" said Dinah. "she an't dead, is she?"
"We doesn't exactly know. She's down cellar," said thewoman, glancing at Miss Ophelia.
After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed thewoman to the door.
"What _has_ got Prue, any how?" she said.
The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, andanswered, in low, mysterious tone.
"Well, you mustn't tell nobody, Prue, she got drunk agin,--andthey had her down cellar,--and thar they left her all day,--and Ihearn 'em saying that the _flies had got to her_,--and _she's dead_!"
Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her sidethe spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyesdilated with horror, and every drop of blood driven from her lipsand cheeks.
"Lor bless us! Miss Eva's gwine to faint away! What go usall, to let her har such talk? Her pa'll be rail mad."
"I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child, firmly; "and why shouldn'tI hear it? It an't so much for me to hear it, as for poor Prueto suffer it."
"_Lor sakes_! it isn't for sweet, delicate young ladies,like you,--these yer stories isn't; it's enough to kill 'em!"
Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow andmelancholy step.
Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman's story. Dinah gavea very garrulous version of it, to which Tom added theparticulars which he had drawn from her that morning.
"An abominable business,--perfectly horrible!" she exclaimed,as she entered the room where St. Clare lay reading his paper.
"Pray, what iniquity has turned up now?" said he.
"What now? why, those folks have whipped Prue to death!"said Miss Ophelia, going on, with great strength of detail, intothe story, and enlarging on its most shocking particulars.
"I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. Clare, going on with his paper.
"Thought so!--an't you going to _do_ anything about it?"said Miss Ophelia. "Haven't you got any _selectmen_, or anybody,to interfere and look after such matters?"
"It's commonly supposed that the _property_ interest is asufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin theirown possessions, I don't know what's to be done. It seems the poorcreature was a thief and a drunkard; and so there won't be muchhope to get up sympathy for her."
"It is perfectly outrageous,--it is horrid, Augustine! It will certainly bring down vengeance upon you."
"My dear cousin, I didn't do it, and I can't help it; I would,if I could. If low-minded, brutal people will act likethemselves, what am I to do? they have absolute control; they areirresponsible despots. There would be no use in interfering; thereis no law that amounts to anything practically, for such a case. The best we can do is to shut our eyes and ears, and let it alone. It's the only resource left us."
"How can you shut your eyes and ears? How can you letsuch things alone?"
"My dear child, what do you expect? Here is a wholeclass,--debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking,--put, withoutany sort of terms or conditions, entirely into the hands of suchpeople as the majority in our world are; people who have neitherconsideration nor self-control, who haven't even an enlightenedregard to their own interest,--for that's the case with the largesthalf of mankind. Of course, in a community so organized, what cana man of honorable and humane feelings do, but shut his eyes allhe can, and harden his heart? I can't buy every poor wretch I see. I can't turn knight-errant, and undertake to redress every individualcase of wrong in such a city as this. The most I can do is to tryand keep out of the way of it."
St. Clare's fine countenance was for a moment overcast; he said,
"Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the Fates;you've only seen a peep through the curtain,--a specimen ofwhat is going on, the world over, in some shape or other. If weare to be prying and spying into all the dismals of life, we shouldhave no heart to anything. 'T is like looking too close into thedetails of Dinah's kitchen;" and St. Clare lay back on the sofa,and busied himself with his paper.
Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work,and sat there grim with indignation. She knit and knit,but while she mused the fire burned; at last she brokeout--"I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so,if you can. It's a perfect abomination for you to defendsuch a system,--that's _my_ mind!"
"What now?" said St. Clare, looking up. "At it again, hey?"
"I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such asystem!" said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth.
"_I_ defend it, my dear lady? Who ever said I did defend it?"said St. Clare.
"Of course, you defend it,--you all do,--all you Southerners. What do you have slaves for, if you don't?"
"Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in thisworld ever does what they don't think is right? Don't you, ordidn't you ever, do anything that you did not think quite right?"
"If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia,rattling her needles with energy.
"So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange; "I'm repentingof it all the time."
"What do you keep on doing it for?"
"Didn't you ever keep on doing wrong, after you'd repented,my good cousin?"
"Well, only when I've been very much tempted," said Miss Ophelia.
"Well, I'm very much tempted," said St. Clare; "that's justmy difficulty."
"But I always resolve I won't and I try to break off."
"Well, I have been resolving I won't, off and on, theseten years," said St. Clare; "but I haven't, some how, got clear. Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin?"
"Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and layingdown her knitting-work, "I suppose I deserve that you shouldreprove my short-comings. I know all you say is true enough;nobody else feels them more than I do; but it does seem to me,after all, there is some difference between me and you. It seemsto me I would cut off my right hand sooner than keep on, from dayto day, doing what I thought was wrong. But, then, my conduct isso inconsistent with my profession, I don't wonder you reprove me."
"O, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the floor,and laying his head back in her lap, "don't take on so awfullyserious! You know what a good-for-nothing, saucy boy I always was. I love to poke you up,--that's all,--just to see you get earnest. I do think you are desperately, distressingly good; it tires me todeath to think of it."
"But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said MissOphelia, laying her hand on his forehead.
"Dismally so," said he; "and I--well, I never want to talkseriously in hot weather. What with mosquitos and all, a fellowcan't get himself up to any very sublime moral flights; and Ibelieve," said St. Clare, suddenly rousing himself up, "there's atheory, now! I understand now why northern nations are always morevirtuous than southern ones,--I see into that whole subject."
"O, Augustine, you are a sad rattle-brain!"
"Am I? Well, so I am, I suppose; but for once I will beserious, now; but you must hand me that basket of oranges;--yousee, you'll have to `stay me with flagons and comfort me withapples,' if I'm going to make this effort. Now," said Augustine,drawing the basket up, "I'll begin: When, in the course of humanevents, it becomes necessary for a fellow to hold two or threedozen of his fellow-worms in captivity, a decent regard to theopinions of society requires--"
"I don't see that you are growing more serious," said Miss Ophelia.
"Wait,--I'm coming on,--you'll hear. The short of the matteris, cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly settling intoan earnest and serious expression, "on this abstract questionof slavery there can, as I think, be but one opinion. Planters,who have money to make by it,--clergymen, who have planters toplease,--politicians, who want to rule by it,--may warp and bendlanguage and ethics to a degree that shall astonish the world attheir ingenuity; they can press nature and the Bible, and nobodyknows what else, into the service; but, after all, neither theynor the world believe in it one particle the more. It comes fromthe devil, that's the short of it;--and, to my mind, it's a prettyrespectable specimen of what he can do in his own line."
Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised,and St. Clare, apparently enjoying her astonishment, went on.
"You seem to wonder; but if you will get me fairly at it,I'll make a clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed ofGod and man, what is it? Strip it of all its ornament, run it downto the root and nucleus of the whole, and what is it? Why, becausemy brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I am intelligent andstrong,--because I know how, and _can_ do it,--therefore, I maysteal all he has, keep it, and give him only such and so much assuits my fancy. Whatever is too hard, too dirty, too disagreeable,for me, I may set Quashy to doing. Because I don't like work,Quashy shall work. Because the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay inthe sun. Quashy shall earn the money, and I will spend it. Quashyshall lie down in every puddle, that I may walk over dry-shod. Quashy shall do my will, and not his, all the days of his mortallife, and have such chance of getting to heaven, at last, as I findconvenient. This I take to be about what slavery _is_. I defyanybody on earth to read our slave-code, as it stands in ourlaw-books, and make anything else of it. Talk of the _abuses_of slavery! Humbug! The _thing itself_ is the essence of all abuse! And the only reason why the land don't sink under it, like Sodomand Gomorrah, is because it is _used_ in a way infinitely betterthan it is. For pity's sake, for shame's sake, because we are menborn of women, and not savage beasts, many of us do not, and darenot,--we would _scorn_ to use the full power which our savage lawsput into our hands. And he who goes the furthest, and does theworst, only uses within limits the power that the law gives him."
St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when excited,was walking, with hurried steps, up and down the floor. His fineface, classic as that of a Greek statue, seemed actually to burnwith the fervor of his feelings. His large blue eyes flashed,and he gestured with an unconscious eagerness. Miss Ophelia hadnever seen him in this mood before, and she sat perfectly silent.
"I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping before hiscousin "(It's no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject),but I declare to you, there have been times when I have thought,if the whole country would sink, and hide all this injustice andmisery from the light, I would willingly sink with it. When I havebeen travelling up and down on our boats, or about on my collectingtours, and reflected that every brutal, disgusting, mean, low-livedfellow I met, was allowed by our laws to become absolute despot ofas many men, women and children, as he could cheat, steal, or gamblemoney enough to buy,--when I have seen such men in actual ownershipof helpless children, of young girls and women,--I have been readyto curse my country, to curse the human race!"
"Augustine! Augustine!" said Miss Ophelia, "I'm sure you'vesaid enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like this, evenat the North."
"At the North!" said St. Clare, with a sudden change ofexpression, and resuming something of his habitual careless tone. "Pooh! your northern folks are cold-blooded; you are coolin everything! You can't begin to curse up hill and down aswe can, when we get fairly at it."
"Well, but the question is," said Miss Ophelia.
"O, yes, to be sure, the _question is_,--and a deuce of aquestion it is! How came _you_ in this state of sin and misery? Well, I shall answer in the good old words you used to teach me,Sundays. I came so by ordinary generation. My servants were myfather's, and, what is more, my mother's; and now they are mine,they and their increase, which bids fair to be a pretty considerableitem. My father, you know, came first from New England; and hewas just such another man as your father,--a regular old Roman,--upright,energetic, noble-minded, with an iron will. Your father settleddown in New England, to rule over rocks and stones, and to forcean existence out of Nature; and mine settled in Louisiana, to ruleover men and women, and force existence out of them. My mother,"said St. Clare, getting up and walking to a picture at the end ofthe room, and gazing upward with a face fervent with veneration,"_she was divine!_ Don't look at me so!--you know what I mean! She probably was of mortal birth; but, as far as ever I couldobserve, there was no trace of any human weakness or error abouther; and everybody that lives to remember her, whether bond orfree, servant, acquaintance, relation, all say the same. Why,cousin, that mother has been all that has stood between me andutter unbelief for years. She was a direct embodiment andpersonification of the New Testament,--a living fact, to be accountedfor, and to be accounted for in no other way than by its truth. O,mother! mother!" said St. Clare, clasping his hands, in a sort oftransport; and then suddenly checking himself, he came back, andseating himself on an ottoman, he went on:
"My brother and I were twins; and they say, you know, that twinsought to resemble each other; but we were in all points a contrast. He had black, fiery eyes, coal-black hair, a strong, fine Romanprofile, and a rich brown complexion. I had blue eyes, goldenhair, a Greek outline, and fair complexion. He was active andobserving, I dreamy and inactive. He was generous to his friendsand equals, but proud, dominant, overbearing, to inferiors, andutterly unmerciful to whatever set itself up against him. Truthful we both were; he from pride and courage, I from asort of abstract ideality. We loved each other about as boysgenerally do,--off and on, and in general;--he was my father's pet,and I my mother's.
"There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feelingin me on all possible subjects, of which he and my father had nokind of understanding, and with which they could have no possiblesympathy. But mother did; and so, when I had quarreled with Alfred,and father looked sternly on me, I used to go off to mother's room,and sit by her. I remember just how she used to look, with herpale cheeks, her deep, soft, serious eyes, her white dress,--shealways wore white; and I used to think of her whenever I read inRevelations about the saints that were arrayed in fine linen, cleanand white. She had a great deal of genius of one sort and another,particularly in music; and she used to sit at her organ, playingfine old majestic music of the Catholic church, and singing witha voice more like an angel than a mortal woman; and I would lay myhead down on her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel,--oh,immeasurably!--things that I had no language to say!
"In those days, this matter of slavery had never beencanvassed as it has now; nobody dreamed of any harm in it.
"My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in somepreexistent state, he must have been in the higher circles ofspirits, and brought all his old court pride along with him; forit was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was originally ofpoor and not in any way of noble family. My brother was begottenin his image.
"Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no humansympathies, beyond a certain line in society. In England the lineis in one place, in Burmah in another, and in America in another;but the aristocrat of all these countries never goes over it. Whatwould be hardship and distress and injustice in his own class, isa cool matter of course in another one. My father's dividing linewas that of color. _Among his equals_, never was a man more justand generous; but he considered the negro, through all possiblegradations of color, as an intermediate link between man and animals,and graded all his ideas of justice or generosity on this hypothesis. I suppose, to be sure, if anybody had asked him, plump and fair,whether they had human immortal souls, he might have hemmed andhawed, and said yes. But my father was not a man much troubledwith spiritualism; religious sentiment he had none, beyond aveneration for God, as decidedly the head of the upper classes.
"Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes; he wasan inflexible, driving, punctilious business man; everything wasto move by system,--to be sustained with unfailing accuracy andprecision. Now, if you take into account that all this was to beworked out by a set of lazy, twaddling, shiftless laborers, whohad grown up, all their lives, in the absence of every possiblemotive to learn how to do anything but `shirk,' as you Vermonterssay, and you'll see that there might naturally be, on his plantation,a great many things that looked horrible and distressing to asensitive child, like me.
"Besides all, he had an overseer,--great, tall, slab-sided,two-fisted renegade son of Vermont--(begging your pardon),--whohad gone through a regular apprenticeship in hardness and brutalityand taken his degree to be admitted to practice. My mother nevercould endure him, nor I; but he obtained an entire ascendency overmy father; and this man was the absolute despot of the estate.
"I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love thatI have now for all kinds of human things,--a kind of passion forthe study of humanity, come in what shape it would. I was foundin the cabins and among the field-hands a great deal, and, ofcourse, was a great favorite; and all sorts of complaints andgrievances were breathed in my ear; and I told them to mother, andwe, between us, formed a sort of committee for a redress ofgrievances. We hindered and repressed a great deal of cruelty,and congratulated ourselves on doing a vast deal of good, till, asoften happens, my zeal overacted. Stubbs complained to my fatherthat he couldn't manage the hands, and must resign his position. Father was a fond, indulgent husband, but a man that never flinchedfrom anything that he thought necessary; and so he put down hisfoot, like a rock, between us and the field-hands. He told mymother, in language perfectly respectful and deferential, but quiteexplicit, that over the house-servants she should be entire mistress,but that with the field-hands he could allow no interference. Herevered and respected her above all living beings; but he wouldhave said it all the same to the virgin Mary herself, if she hadcome in the way of his system.
"I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases withhim,--endeavoring to excite his sympathies. He would listen tothe most pathetic appeals with the most discouraging politenessand equanimity. `It all resolves itself into this,' he would say;`must I part with Stubbs, or keep him? Stubbs is the soul ofpunctuality, honesty, and efficiency,--a thorough business hand,and as humane as the general run. We can't have perfection; andif I keep him, I must sustain his administration as a _whole_, evenif there are, now and then, things that are exceptionable. Allgovernment includes some necessary hardness. General rules willbear hard on particular cases.' This last maxim my father seemedto consider a settler in most alleged cases of cruelty. After hehad said _that_, he commonly drew up his feet on the sofa, like aman that has disposed of a business, and betook himself to a nap,or the newspaper, as the case might be.
"The fact is my father showed the exact sort of talent fora statesman. He could have divided Poland as easily as an orange,or trod on Ireland as quietly and systematically as any man living. At last my mother gave up, in despair. It never will be known,till the last account, what noble and sensitive natures like hershave felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what seems to them an abyssof injustice and cruelty, and which seems so to nobody about them. It has been an age of long sorrow of such natures, in such ahell-begotten sort of world as ours. What remained for her, butto train her children in her own views and sentiments? Well, afterall you say about training, children will grow up substantiallywhat they _are_ by nature, and only that. From the cradle, Alfredwas an aristocrat; and as he grew up, instinctively, all hissympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, and all mother'sexhortations went to the winds. As to me, they sunk deep into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything my father said, or seemeddirectly to differ from him; but she impressed, burnt into my verysoul, with all the force of her deep, earnest nature, an idea ofthe dignity and worth of the meanest human soul. I have looked inher face with solemn awe, when she would point up to the stars inthe evening, and say to me, `See there, Auguste! the poorest,meanest soul on our place will be living, when all these stars aregone forever,--will live as long as God lives!'
"She had some fine old paintings; one, in particular, of Jesushealing a blind man. They were very fine, and used to impressme strongly. `See there, Auguste,' she would say; `the blind manwas a beggar, poor and loathsome; therefore, he would not heal him_afar off!_ He called him to him, and put _his hands on him!_ Remember this, my boy.' If I had lived to grow up under her care,she might have stimulated me to I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, reformer, martyr,--but, alas! alas! I went from her when I was only thirteen, and I never saw her again!"
St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speakfor some minutes. After a while, he looked up, and went on:
"What poor, mean trash this whole business of human virtue is! A mere matter, for the most part, of latitude and longitude,and geographical position, acting with natural temperament. Thegreater part is nothing but an accident! Your father, for example,settles in Vermont, in a town where all are, in fact, free andequal; becomes a regular church member and deacon, and in due timejoins an Abolition society, and thinks us all little better thanheathens. Yet he is, for all the world, in constitution and habit,a duplicate of my father. I can see it leaking out in fiftydifferent ways,--just the same strong, overbearing, dominant spirit. You know very well how impossible it is to persuade some of thefolks in your village that Squire Sinclair does not feel abovethem. The fact is, though he has fallen on democratic times, andembraced a democratic theory, he is to the heart an aristocrat, asmuch as my father, who ruled over five or six hundred slaves."
Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture, andwas laying down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare stopped her.
"Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not saythey _were_ alike, in fact. One fell into a condition whereeverything acted against the natural tendency, and the other whereeverything acted for it; and so one turned out a pretty wilful,stout, overbearing old democrat, and the other a wilful, stoutold despot. If both had owned plantations in Louisiana, theywould have been as like as two old bullets cast in the same mould."
"What an undutiful boy you are!" said Miss Ophelia.
"I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. "You knowreverence is not my forte. But, to go back to my history:
"When father died, he left the whole property to us twin boys,to be divided as we should agree. There does not breathe onGod's earth a nobler-souled, more generous fellow, than Alfred, inall that concerns his equals; and we got on admirably with thisproperty question, without a single unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work the plantation together; and Alfred, whoseoutward life and capabilities had double the strength of mine,became an enthusiastic planter, and a wonderfully successful one.
"But two years' trial satisfied me that I could not be apartner in that matter. To have a great gang of seven hundred,whom I could not know personally, or feel any individual interestin, bought and driven, housed, fed, worked like so many hornedcattle, strained up to military precision,--the question of howlittle of life's commonest enjoyments would keep them in workingorder being a constantly recurring problem,--the necessity ofdrivers and overseers,--the ever-necessary whip, first, last, andonly argument,--the whole thing was insufferably disgusting andloathsome to me; and when I thought of my mothcr's estimate of onepoor human soul, it became even frightful!
"It's all nonsense to talk to me about slaves _enjoying_all this! To this day, I have no patience with the unutterabletrash that some of your patronizing Northerners have made up, asin their zeal to apologize for our sins. We all know better. Tellme that any man living wants to work all his days, from day-dawntill dark, under the constant eye of a master, without the powerof putting forth one irresponsible volition, on the same dreary,monotonous, unchanging toil, and all for two pairs of pantaloonsand a pair of shoes a year, with enough food and shelter to keephim in working order! Any man who thinks that human beings can, asa general thing, be made about as comfortable that way as any other,I wish he might try it. I'd buy the dog, and work him, with aclear conscience!"
"I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, "that you, all of you,approved of these things, and thought them _right_--accordingto Scripture."
"Humbug! We are not quite reduced to that yet. Alfred whois as determined a despot as ever walked, does not pretend to thiskind of defence;--no, he stands, high and haughty, on that goodold respectable ground, _the right of the strongest_; and he says,and I think quite sensibly, that the American planter is `onlydoing, in another form, what the English aristocracy and capitalistsare doing by the lower classes;' that is, I take it, _appropriating_them, body and bone, soul and spirit, to their use and convenience. He defends both,--and I think, at least, _consistently_. He saysthat there can be no high civilization without enslavement of themasses, either nominal or real. There must, he says, be a lowerclass, given up to physical toil and confined to an animal nature;and a higher one thereby acquires leisure and wealth for a moreexpanded intelligence and improvement, and becomes the directingsoul of the lower. So he reasons, because, as I said, he is bornan aristocrat;--so I don't believe, because I was born a democrat."
"How in the world can the two things be compared?" saidMiss Ophelia. "The English laborer is not sold, traded, partedfrom his family, whipped."
"He is as much at the will of his employer as if he weresold to him. The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave todeath,--the capitalist can starve him to death. As to familysecurity, it is hard to say which is the worst,--to have one'schildren sold, or see them starve to death at home."
"But it's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that itisn't worse than some other bad thing."
"I didn't give it for one,--nay, I'll say, besides, thatours is the more bold and palpable infringement of human rights;actually buying a man up, like a horse,--looking at his teeth,cracking his joints, and trying his paces and then paying down forhim,--having speculators, breeders, traders, and brokers in humanbodies and souls,--sets the thing before the eyes of the civilizedworld in a more tangible form, though the thing done be, after all,in its nature, the same; that is, appropriating one set of humanbeings to the use and improvement of another without any regard totheir own."
"I never thought of the matter in this light," said Miss Ophelia.
"Well, I've travelled in England some, and I've looked overa good many documents as to the state of their lower classes; andI really think there is no denying Alfred, when he says that hisslaves are better off than a large class of the population ofEngland. You see, you must not infer, from what I have told you,that Alfred is what is called a hard master; for he isn't. He isdespotic, and unmerciful to insubordination; he would shoot a fellowdown with as little remorse as he would shoot a buck, if he opposedhim. But, in general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slavescomfortably fed and accommodated.
"When I was with him, I insisted that he should do somethingfor their instruction; and, to please me, he did get a chaplain,and used to have them catechized Sunday, though, I believe, in hisheart, that he thought it would do about as much good to set achaplain over his dogs and horses. And the fact is, that a mindstupefied and animalized by every bad influence from the hour ofbirth, spending the whole of every week-day in unreflecting toil,cannot be done much with by a few hours on Sunday. The teachersof Sunday-schools among the manufacturing population of England,and among plantation-hands in our country, could perhaps testifyto the same result, _there and here_. Yet some striking exceptionsthere are among us, from the fact that the negro is naturally moreimpressible to religious sentiment than the white."
"Well," said Miss Ophelia, "how came you to give up yourplantation life?"
"Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred sawplainly that I was no planter. He thought it absurd, after he hadreformed, and altered, and improved everywhere, to suit my notions,that I still remained unsatisfied. The fact was, it was, afterall, the THING that I hated--the using these men and women, theperpetuation of all this ignorance, brutality and vice,--just tomake money for me!
"Besides, I was always interfering in the details. Beingmyself one of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too muchfellow-feeling for the lazy; and when poor, shiftless dogs putstones at the bottom of their cotton-baskets to make them weighheavier, or filled their sacks with dirt, with cotton at the top,it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I were they, I couldn'tand wouldn't have them flogged for it. Well, of course, there wasan end of plantation discipline; and Alf and I came to about thesame point that I and my respected father did, years before. Sohe told me that I was a womanish sentimentalist, and would neverdo for business life; and advised me to take the bank-stock andthe New Orleans family mansion, and go to writing poetry, and lethim manage the plantation. So we parted, and I came here."
"But why didn't you free your slaves?"
"Well, I wasn't up to that. To hold them as tools for money-making,I could not;--have them to help spend money, you know, didn'tlook quite so ugly to me. Some of them were old house-servants,to whom I was much attached; and the younger ones were childrento the old. All were well satisfied to be as they were." He paused,and walked reflectively up and down the room.
"There was," said St. Clare, "a time in my life when I hadplans and hopes of doing something in this world, more than tofloat and drift. I had vague, indistinct yearnings to be a sortof emancipator,--to free my native land from this spot and stain. All young men have had such fever-fits, I suppose, some time,--but then--"
"Why didn't you?" said Miss Ophelia;--"you ought not toput your hand to the plough, and look back."
"O, well, things didn't go with me as I expected, and I gotthe despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was anecessary incident to wisdom in us both; but, some how or other,instead of being actor and regenerator in society, I became a pieceof driftwood, and have been floating and eddying about, ever since. Alfred scolds me, every time we meet; and he has the better of me,I grant,--for he really does something; his life is a logical resultof his opinions and mine is a contemptible _non sequitur_."
"My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way ofspending your probation?"
"Satisfied! Was I not just telling you I despised it? But, then,to come back to this point,--we were on this liberation business. I don't think my feelings about slavery are peculiar. I findmany men who, in their hearts, think of it just as I do. The landgroans under it; and, bad as it is for the slave, it is worse,if anything, for the master. It takes no spectacles to seethat a great class of vicious, improvident, degraded people, amongus, are an evil to us, as well as to themselves. The capitalistand aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do, because theydo not mingle with the class they degrade as we do. They are inour homes; they are the associates of our children, and they formtheir minds faster than we can; for they are a race that childrenalways will cling to and assimilate with. If Eva, now, was notmore angel than ordinary, she would be ruined. We might as wellallow the small-pox to run among them, and think our childrenwould not take it, as to let them be uninstructed and vicious,and think our children will not be affected by that. Yet ourlaws positively and utterly forbid any efficient generaleducational system, and they do it wisely, too; for, just beginand thoroughly educate one generation, and the whole thing wouldbe blown sky high. If we did not give them liberty, they wouldtake it."
"And what do you think will be the end of this?" said Miss Ophelia.
"I don't know. One thing is certain,--that there is amustering among the masses, the world over; and there is a _diesirae_ coming on, sooner or later. The same thing is working inEurope, in England, and in this country. My mother used to tellme of a millennium that was coming, when Christ should reign, andall men should be free and happy. And she taught me, when I wasa boy, to pray, `thy kingdom come.' Sometimes I think all thissighing, and groaning, and stirring among the dry bones foretellswhat she used to tell me was coming. But who may abide the day ofHis appearing?"
"Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the kingdom,"said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and lookinganxiously at her cousin.
"Thank you for your good opinion, but it's up and down withme,--up to heaven's gate in theory, down in earth's dust in practice. But there's the teabell,--do let's go,--and don't say, now, Ihaven't had one downright serious talk, for once in my life."
At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. "I supposeyou'll think, cousin," she said, "that we are all barbarians."
"I think that's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, "butI don't think you are all barbarians."
"Well, now," said Marie, "I know it's impossible to getalong with some of these creatures. They are so bad they oughtnot to live. I don't feel a particle of sympathy for such cases. If they'd only behave themselves, it would not happen."
"But, mamma," said Eva, "the poor creature was unhappy;that's what made her drink."
"O, fiddlestick! as if that were any excuse! I'm unhappy,very often. I presume," she said, pensively, "that I've hadgreater trials than ever she had. It's just because they areso bad. There's some of them that you cannot break in by anykind of severity. I remember father had a man that was solazy he would run away just to get rid of work, and lie roundin the swamps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid things. That man was caught and whipped, time and again, and it never didhim any good; and the last time he crawled off, though he couldn'tbut just go, and died in the swamp. There was no sort of reasonfor it, for father's hands were always treated kindly."
"I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, "that all theoverseers and masters had tried their hands on in vain."
"You!" said Marie; "well, I'd be glad to know when _you_ever did anything of the sort."
"Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow,--a native-bornAfrican; and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom inhim to an uncommon degree. He was a regular African lion. Theycalled him Scipio. Nobody could do anything with him; and he wassold round from overseer to overseer, till at last Alfred boughthim, because he thought he could manage him. Well, one day heknocked down the overseer, and was fairly off into the swamps. I was on a visit to Alf's plantation, for it was after we haddissolved partnership. Alfred was greatly exasperated; butI told him that it was his own fault, and laid him any wager thatI could break the man; and finally it was agreed that, if I caughthim, I should have him to experiment on. So they mustered out aparty of some six or seven, with guns and dogs, for the hunt. People, you know, can get up as much enthusiasm in hunting a manas a deer, if it is only customary; in fact, I got a little excitedmyself, though I had only put in as a sort of mediator, in case hewas caught.
"Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scampered,and finally we started him. He ran and bounded like a buck, andkept us well in the rear for some time; but at last he got caughtin an impenetrable thicket of cane; then he turned to bay, and Itell you he fought the dogs right gallantly. He dashed them toright and left, and actually killed three of them with only hisnaked fists, when a shot from a gun brought him down, and he fell,wounded and bleeding, almost at my feet. The poor fellow lookedup at me with manhood and despair both in his eye. I kept backthe dogs and the party, as they came pressing up, and claimed himas my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them from shootinghim, in the flush of success; but I persisted in my bargain, andAlfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in onefortnight I had him tamed down as submissive and tractable as heartcould desire."
"What in the world did you do to him?" said Marie.
"Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my ownroom, had a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and tendedhim myself, until he got fairly on his feet again. And, inprocess of time, I had free papers made out for him, and told himhe might go where he liked."
"And did he go?" said Miss Ophelia.
"No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and absolutelyrefused to leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow,--trustyand true as steel. He embraced Christianity afterwards, and becameas gentle as a child. He used to oversee my place on the lake,and did it capitally, too. I lost him the first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life for me. For I was sick, almost todeath; and when, through the panic, everybody else fled, Scipioworked for me like a giant, and actually brought me back into lifeagain. But, poor fellow! he was taken, right after, and there wasno saving him. I never felt anybody's loss more."
Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as hetold the story,--her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnestwith absorbing interest.
As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around hisneck, burst into tears, and sobbed convulsively.
"Eva, dear child! what is the matter?" said St. Clare, asthe child's small frame trembled and shook with the violence ofher feelings. "This child," he added, "ought not to hear any ofthis kind of thing,--she's nervous."
"No, papa, I'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself,suddenly, with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. "I'm not nervous, but these things _sink into my heart_."
"What do you mean, Eva?"
"I can't tell you, papa, I think a great many thoughts. Perhaps some day I shall tell you."
"Well, think away, dear,--only don't cry and worry your papa,"said St. Clare, "Look here,--see what a beautiful peach Ihave got for you."
Eva took it and smiled, though there was still a nervoustwiching about the corners of her mouth.
"Come, look at the gold-fish," said St. Clare, taking herhand and stepping on to the verandah. A few moments, and merrylaughs were heard through the silken curtains, as Eva and St.Clare were pelting each other with roses, and chasing each otheramong the alleys of the court.
There is danger that our humble friend Tom be neglected amidthe adventures of the higher born; but, if our readers willaccompany us up to a little loft over the stable, they may, perhaps,learn a little of his affairs. It was a decent room, containinga bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, where lay Tom's Bibleand hymn-book; and where he sits, at present, with his slate beforehim, intent on something that seems to cost him a great deal ofanxious thought.
The fact was, that Tom's home-yearnings had become so strongthat he had begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva, and, musteringup all his small stock of literary attainment acquired by Mas'rGeorge's instructions, he conceived the bold idea of writing aletter; and he was busy now, on his slate, getting out his firstdraft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, for the forms of someof the letters he had forgotten entirely; and of what he didremember, he did not know exactly which to use. And while he wasworking, and breathing very hard, in his earnestness, Eva alighted,like a bird, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped overhis shoulder.
"O, Uncle Tom! what funny things you _are_ making, there!"
"I'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, andmy little chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his hand overhis eyes; "but, some how, I'm feard I shan't make it out."
"I wish I could help you, Tom! I've learnt to write some. Last year I could make all the letters, but I'm afraid I'veforgotten."
So Eva put her golden head close to his, and the two commenceda grave and anxious discussion, each one equally earnest,and about equally ignorant; and, with a deal of consulting andadvising over every word, the composition began, as they bothfelt very sanguine, to look quite like writing.
"Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," saidEva, gazing delightedly on it. "How pleased your wife'll be, andthe poor little children! O, it's a shame you ever had to go awayfrom them! I mean to ask papa to let you go back, some time."
"Missis said that she would send down money for me, as soonas they could get it together," said Tom. "I'm 'spectin, she will. Young Mas'r George, he said he'd come for me; and he gave me thisyer dollar as a sign;" and Tom drew from under his clothes theprecious dollar.
"O, he'll certainly come, then!" said Eva. "I'm so glad!"
"And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em knowwhar I was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off,--cause shefelt so drefful, poor soul!"
"I say Tom!" said St. Clare's voice, coming in the door atthis moment.
Tom and Eva both started.
"What's here?" said St. Clare, coming up and looking atthe slate.
"O, it's Tom's letter. I'm helping him to write it," saidEva; "isn't it nice?"
"I wouldn't discourage either of you," said St. Clare,"but I rather think, Tom, you'd better get me to write your letterfor you. I'll do it, when I come home from my ride."
"It's very important he should write," said Eva, "because hismistress is going to send down money to redeem him, you know,papa; he told me they told him so."
St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably onlyone of those things which good-natured owners say to theirservants, to alleviate their horror of being sold, without anyintention of fulfilling the expectation thus excited. But he didnot make any audible comment upon it,--only ordered Tom to get thehorses out for a ride.
Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening,and safely lodged in the post-office.
Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the housekeepingline. It was universally agreed, among all the household, fromDinah down to the youngest urchin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly"curis,"--a term by which a southern servant implies that his orher betters don't exactly suit them.
The higher circle in the family--to wit, Adolph, Jane andRosa--agreed that she was no lady; ladies never keep working aboutas she did,--that she had no _air_ at all; and they were surprisedthat she should be any relation of the St. Clares. Even Mariedeclared that it was absolutely fatiguing to see Cousin Opheliaalways so busy. And, in fact, Miss Ophelia's industry was soincessant as to lay some foundation for the complaint. She sewedand stitched away, from daylight till dark, with the energy of onewho is pressed on by some immediate urgency; and then, when thelight faded, and the work was folded away, with one turn out camethe ever-ready knitting-work, and there she was again, going on asbriskly as ever. It really was a labor to see her.
CHAPTER XX
Topsy
One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of herdomestic cares, St. Clare's voice was heard, callingher at the foot of the stairs.
"Come down here, Cousin, I've something to show you."
"What is it?" said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with hersewing in her hand.
"I've made a purchase for your department,--see here," saidSt. Clare; and, with the word, he pulled along a little negro girl,about eight or nine years of age.
She was one of the blackest of her race; and her roundshining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved with quick andrestless glances over everything in the room. Her mouth, half openwith astonishment at the wonders of the new Mas'r's parlor, displayeda white and brilliant set of teeth. Her woolly hair was braidedin sundry little tails, which stuck out in every direction. Theexpression of her face was an odd mixture of shrewdness and cunning,over which was oddly drawn, like a kind of veil, an expression ofthe most doleful gravity and solemnity. She was dressed in a singlefilthy, ragged garment, made of bagging; and stood with her handsdemurely folded before her. Altogether, there was something oddand goblin-like about her appearance,--something, as Miss Opheliaafterwards said, "so heathenish," as to inspire that good lady withutter dismay; and turning to St. Clare, she said,
"Augustine, what in the world have you brought that thinghere for?"
"For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way sheshould go. I thought she was rather a funny specimen in the JimCrow line. Here, Topsy," he added, giving a whistle, as a manwould to call the attention of a dog, "give us a song, now, andshow us some of your dancing."
The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wickeddrollery, and the thing struck up, in a clear shrill voice, an oddnegro melody, to which she kept time with her hands and feet,spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees together,in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and producing in her throat allthose odd guttural sounds which distinguish the native music ofher race; and finally, turning a summerset or two, and giving aprolonged closing note, as odd and unearthly as that of a steam-whistle,she came suddenly down on the carpet, and stood with her handsfolded, and a most sanctimonious expression of meekness and solemnityover her face, only broken by the cunning glances which she shotaskance from the corners of her eyes.
Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amazement. St. Clare, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to enjoyher astonishment; and, addressing the child again, said,
"Topsy, this is your new mistress. I'm going to give youup to her; see now that you behave yourself."
"Yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with sanctimonious gravity, herwicked eyes twinkling as she spoke.
"You're going to be good, Topsy, you understand," said St. Clare.
"O yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her handsstill devoutly folded.
"Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for?" said Miss Ophelia. "Your house is so full of these little plagues, now, thata body can't set down their foot without treading on 'em. I getup in the morning, and find one asleep behind the door, and seeone black head poking out from under the table, one lying on thedoor-mat,--and they are mopping and mowing and grinning betweenall the railings, and tumbling over the kitchen floor! What onearth did you want to bring this one for?"
"For you to educate--didn't I tell you? You're alwayspreaching about educating. I thought I would make you a presentof a fresh-caught specimen, and let you try your hand on her, andbring her up in the way she should go."
"_I_ don't want her, I am sure;--I have more to do with'em now than I want to."
"That's you Christians, all over!--you'll get up a society,and get some poor missionary to spend all his days among just suchheathen. But let me see one of you that would take one into yourhouse with you, and take the labor of their conversion on yourselves! No; when it comes to that, they are dirty and disagreeable, andit's too much care, and so on."
"Augustine, you know I didn't think of it in that light,"said Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. "Well, it might be a realmissionary work," said she, looking rather more favorably on thechild.
St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia'sconscientiousness was ever on the alert. "But," she added, "Ireally didn't see the need of buying this one;--there are enoughnow, in your house, to take all my time and skill."
"Well, then, Cousin," said St. Clare, drawing her aside,"I ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing speeches. You are so good, after all, that there's no sense in them. Why, the fact is, this concern belonged to a couple of drunkencreatures that keep a low restaurant that I have to pass by everyday, and I was tired of hearing her screaming, and them beatingand swearing at her. She looked bright and funny, too, as ifsomething might be made of her;--so I bought her, and I'll giveher to you. Try, now, and give her a good orthodox New Englandbringing up, and see what it'll make of her. You know I haven'tany gift that way; but I'd like you to try."
"Well, I'll do what I can," said Miss Ophelia; and sheapproached her new subject very much as a person might be supposedto approach a black spider, supposing them to have benevolentdesigns toward it.
"She's dreadfully dirty, and half naked," she said.
"Well, take her down stairs, and make some of them cleanand clothe her up."
Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions.
"Don't see what Mas'r St. Clare wants of 'nother nigger!"said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friendly air. "Won't have her around under _my_ feet, _I_ know!"
"Pah!" said Rosa and Jane, with supreme disgust; "let herkeep out of our way! What in the world Mas'r wanted another ofthese low niggers for, I can't see!"
"You go long! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Rosa," saidDinah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. "You seem to tink yourself white folks. You an't nerry one,black _nor_ white, I'd like to be one or turrer."
Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that wouldundertake to oversee the cleansing and dressing of the newarrival; and so she was forced to do it herself, with some veryungracious and reluctant assistance from Jane.
It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of thefirst toilet of a neglected, abused child. In fact, in thisworld, multitudes must live and die in a state that it would betoo great a shock to the nerves of their fellow-mortals even tohear described. Miss Ophelia had a good, strong, practical dealof resolution; and she went through all the disgusting details withheroic thoroughness, though, it must be confessed, with no verygracious air,--for endurance was the utmost to which her principlescould bring her. When she saw, on the back and shoulders of thechild, great welts and calloused spots, ineffaceable marks of thesystem under which she had grown up thus far, her heart becamepitiful within her.
"See there!" said Jane, pointing to the marks, "don't thatshow she's a limb? We'll have fine works with her, I reckon. I hate these nigger young uns! so disgusting! I wonder that Mas'rwould buy her!"
The "young un" alluded to heard all these comments with thesubdued and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, onlyscanning, with a keen and furtive glance of her flickering eyes,the ornaments which Jane wore in her ears. When arrayed at lastin a suit of decent and whole clothing, her hair cropped short toher head, Miss Ophelia, with some satisfaction, said she lookedmore Christian-like than she did, and in her own mind began tomature some plans for her instruction.
Sitting down before her, she began to question her.
"How old are you, Topsy?"
"Dun no, Missis," said the image, with a grin that showedall her teeth.
"Don't know how old you are? Didn't anybody ever tell you? Who was your mother?"
"Never had none!" said the child, with another grin.
"Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you born?"
"Never was born!" persisted Topsy, with another grin, that lookedso goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at all nervous,she might have fancied that she had got hold of some sooty gnomefrom the land of Diablerie; but Miss Ophelia was not nervous,but plain and business-like, and she said, with some sternness,
"You mustn't answer me in that way, child; I'm not playingwith you. Tell me where you were born, and who your father andmother were."
"Never was born," reiterated the creature, more emphatically;"never had no father nor mother, nor nothin'. I was raised by aspeculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue used to take car on us."
The child was evidently sincere, and Jane, breaking intoa short laugh, said,
"Laws, Missis, there's heaps of 'em. Speculators buys 'emup cheap, when they's little, and gets 'em raised for market."
"How long have you lived with your master and mistress?"
"Dun no, Missis."
"Is it a year, or more, or less?"
"Dun no, Missis."
"Laws, Missis, those low negroes,--they can't tell; theydon't know anything about time," said Jane; "they don't know whata year is; they don't know their own ages.
"Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy?"
The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual.
"Do you know who made you?"
"Nobody, as I knows on," said the child, with a short laugh.
The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her eyestwinkled, and she added,
"I spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me."
"Do you know how to sew?" said Miss Ophelia, who thoughtshe would turn her inquiries to something more tangible.
"No, Missis."
"What can you do?--what did you do for your master and mistress?"
"Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait on folks."
"Were they good to you?"
"Spect they was," said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia cunningly.
Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy; St. Clarewas leaning over the back of her chair.
"You find virgin soil there, Cousin; put in your ownideas,--you won't find many to pull up."
Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other ideas,were very set and definite; and of the kind that prevailed in NewEngland a century ago, and which are still preserved in some veryretired and unsophisticated parts, where there are no railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they could be comprised in veryfew words: to teach them to mind when they were spoken to; to teachthem the catechism, sewing, and reading; and to whip them if theytold lies. And though, of course, in the flood of light that isnow poured on education, these are left far away in the rear, yetit is an undisputed fact that our grandmothers raised some tolerablyfair men and women under this regime, as many of us can rememberand testify. At all events, Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else todo; and, therefore, applied her mind to her heathen with the bestdiligence she could command.
The child was announced and considered in the family asMiss Ophelia's girl; and, as she was looked upon with no graciouseye in the kitchen, Miss Ophelia resolved to confine her sphere ofoperation and instruction chiefly to her own chamber. With aself-sacrifice which some of our readers will appreciate, sheresolved, instead of comfortably making her own bed, sweeping anddusting her own chamber,--which she had hitherto done, in utter scornof all offers of help from the chambermaid of the establishment,--tocondemn herself to the martyrdom of instructing Topsy to performthese operations,--ah, woe the day! Did any of our readers ever dothe same, they will appreciate the amount of her self-sacrifice.
Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her chamber,the first morning, and solemnly commencing a course of instructionin the art and mystery of bed-making.
Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the littlebraided tails wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a cleangown, with well-starched apron, standing reverently before MissOphelia, with an expression of solemnity well befitting a funeral.
"Now, Topsy, I'm going to show you just how my bed is tobe made. I am very particular about my bed. You must learn exactlyhow to do it."
"Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face ofwoful earnestness.
"Now, Topsy, look here;--this is the hem of the sheet,--thisis the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong;--will youremember?"
"Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh.
"Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over thebolster,--so--and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice andsmooth,--so,--do you see?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with profound attention.
"But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, "must be broughtdown in this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at thefoot,--so,--the narrow hem at the foot."
"Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before;--but we will add, whatMiss Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good lady'sback was turned in the zeal of her manipulations, the young disciplehad contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which shehad adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her handsdutifully folded, as before.
"Now, Topsy, let's see _you_ do this," said Miss Ophelia,pulling off the clothes, and seating herself.
Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through theexercise completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction; smoothing thesheets, patting out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through thewhole process, a gravity and seriousness with which her instructresswas greatly edified. By an unlucky slip, however, a flutteringfragment of the ribbon hung out of one of her sleeves, just as shewas finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia's attention. Instantly, shepounced upon it. "What's this? You naughty, wicked child,--you'vebeen stealing this!"
The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet was shenot in the least disconcerted; she only looked at it with anair of the most surprised and unconscious innocence.
"Laws! why, that ar's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it? How couldit a got caught in my sleeve?
"Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie,--youstole that ribbon!"
"Missis, I declar for 't, I didn't;--never seed it tilldis yer blessed minnit."
"Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you now it's wicked totell lies?"
"I never tell no lies, Miss Feely," said Topsy, with virtuousgravity; "it's jist the truth I've been a tellin now, and an'tnothin else."
"Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so."
"Laws, Missis, if you's to whip all day, couldn't say noother way," said Topsy, beginning to blubber. "I never seed datar,--it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss Feeley must have leftit on the bed, and it got caught in the clothes, and so got inmy sleeve."
Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, thatshe caught the child and shook her.
"Don't you tell me that again!"
The shake brought the glove on to the floor, from the other sleeve.
"There, you!" said Miss Ophelia, "will you tell me now,you didn't steal the ribbon?"
Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted indenying the ribbon.
"Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "if you'll confess all about it,I won't whip you this time." Thus adjured, Topsy confessedto the ribbon and gloves, with woful protestations of penitence.
"Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other thingssince you have been in the house, for I let you run about allday yesterday. Now, tell me if you took anything, and I shan'twhip you."
"Laws, Missis! I took Miss Eva's red thing she wars on her neck."
"You did, you naughty child!--Well, what else?"
"I took Rosa's yer-rings,--them red ones."
"Go bring them to me this minute, both of 'em."
"Laws, Missis! I can't,--they 's burnt up!"
"Burnt up!--what a story! Go get 'em, or I'll whip you."
Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans,declared that she _could_ not. "They 's burnt up,--they was."
"What did you burn 'em for?" said Miss Ophelia.
"Cause I 's wicked,--I is. I 's mighty wicked, any how. I can't help it."
Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the room,with the identical coral necklace on her neck.
"Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace?" said Miss Ophelia.
"Get it? Why, I've had it on all day," said Eva.
"Did you have it on yesterday?"
"Yes; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all night. I forgotto take it off when I went to bed."
Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more so, as Rosa,at that instant, came into the room, with a basket of newly-ironedlinen poised on her head, and the coral ear-drops shaking in her ears!
"I'm sure I can't tell anything what to do with such a child!"she said, in despair. "What in the world did you tell meyou took those things for, Topsy?"
"Why, Missis said I must 'fess; and I couldn't think ofnothin' else to 'fess," said Topsy, rubbing her eyes.
"But, of course, I didn't want you to confess things youdidn't do," said Miss Ophelia; "that's telling a lie, just as muchas the other."
"Laws, now, is it?" said Topsy, with an air of innocent wonder.
"La, there an't any such thing as truth in that limb," saidRosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. "If I was Mas'r St. Clare,I'd whip her till the blood run. I would,--I'd let her catch it!"
"No, no Rosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which thechild could assume at times; "you mustn't talk so, Rosa. I can'tbear to hear it."
"La sakes! Miss Eva, you 's so good, you don't know nothinghow to get along with niggers. There's no way but to cut 'em wellup, I tell ye."
"Rosa!" said Eva, "hush! Don't you say another word of thatsort!" and the eye of the child flashed, and her cheek deepenedits color.
Rosa was cowed in a moment.
"Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that's plain. She can speak, for all the world, just like her papa," she said,as she passed out of the room.
Eva stood looking at Topsy.
There stood the two children representatives of the two extremesof society. The fair, high-bred child, with her golden head,her deep eyes, her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like movements;and her black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute neighbor. They stood the representatives of their races. The Saxon, bornof ages of cultivation, command, education, physical and moraleminence; the Afric, born of ages of oppression, submission,ignorance, toil and vice!
Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled throughEva's mind. But a child's thoughts are rather dim, undefinedinstincts; and in Eva's noble nature many such were yearning andworking, for which she had no power of utterance. When Miss Opheliaexpatiated on Topsy's naughty, wicked conduct, the child lookedperplexed and sorrowful, but said, sweetly.
"Poor Topsy, why need you steal? You're going to be takengood care of now. I'm sure I'd rather give you anything of mine,than have you steal it."
It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heardin her life; and the sweet tone and manner struck strangely on thewild, rude heart, and a sparkle of something like a tear shone inthe keen, round, glittering eye; but it was followed by the shortlaugh and habitual grin. No! the ear that has never heard anythingbut abuse is strangely incredulous of anything so heavenly askindness; and Topsy only thought Eva's speech something funny andinexplicable,--she did not believe it.
But what was to be done with Topsy? Miss Ophelia found thecase a puzzler; her rules for bringing up didn't seem to apply. She thought she would take time to think of it; and, by the way ofgaining time, and in hopes of some indefinite moral virtues supposedto be inherent in dark closets, Miss Ophelia shut Topsy up in onetill she had arranged her ideas further on the subject.
"I don't see," said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, "how I'mgoing to manage that child, without whipping her."
"Well, whip her, then, to your heart's content; I'll giveyou full power to do what you like."
"Children always have to be whipped," said Miss Ophelia;"I never heard of bringing them up without."
"O, well, certainly," said St. Clare; "do as you think best. Only I'll make one suggestion: I've seen this child whippedwith a poker, knocked down with the shovel or tongs, whichever camehandiest, &c.; and, seeing that she is used to that style ofoperation, I think your whippings will have to be pretty energetic,to make much impression."
"What is to be done with her, then?" said Miss Ophelia.
"You have started a serious question," said St. Clare; "Iwish you'd answer it. What is to be done with a human being thatcan be governed only by the lash,--_that_ fails,--it's a very commonstate of things down here!"
"I'm sure I don't know; I never saw such a child as this."
"Such children are very common among us, and such men andwomen, too. How are they to be governed?" said St. Clare.
"I'm sure it's more than I can say," said Miss Ophelia.
"Or I either," said St. Clare. "The horrid cruelties and outragesthat once and a while find their way into the papers,--suchcases as Prue's, for example,--what do they come from? In manycases, it is a gradual hardening process on both sides,--the ownergrowing more and more cruel, as the servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse are like laudanum; you have to double the doseas the sensibilities decline. I saw this very early when I becamean owner; and I resolved never to begin, because I did not knowwhen I should stop,--and I resolved, at least, to protect my ownmoral nature. The consequence is, that my servants act like spoiledchildren; but I think that better than for us both to be brutalizedtogether. You have talked a great deal about our responsibilitiesin educating, Cousin. I really wanted you to _try_ with one child,who is a specimen of thousands among us."
"It is your system makes such children," said Miss Ophelia.
"I know it; but they are _made_,--they exist,--and what_is_ to be done with them?"
"Well, I can't say I thank you for the experiment. But, then,as it appears to be a duty, I shall persevere and try, anddo the best I can," said Miss Ophelia; and Miss Ophelia, afterthis, did labor, with a commendable degree of zeal and energy, onher new subject. She instituted regular hours and employments forher, and undertook to teach her to read and sew.
In the former art, the child was quick enough. She learnedher letters as if by magic, and was very soon able to read plainreading; but the sewing was a more difficult matter. The creaturewas as lithe as a cat, and as active as a monkey, and the confinementof sewing was her abomination; so she broke her needles, threw themslyly out of the window, or down in chinks of the walls; she tangled,broke, and dirtied her thread, or, with a sly movement, would throwa spool away altogether. Her motions were almost as quick as thoseof a practised conjurer, and her command of her face quite as great;and though Miss Ophelia could not help feeling that so many accidentscould not possibly happen in succession, yet she could not, withouta watchfulness which would leave her no time for anything else,detect her.
Topsy was soon a noted character in the establishment. Her talent for every species of drollery, grimace, and mimicry,--fordancing, tumbling, climbing, singing, whistling, imitating everysound that hit her fancy,--seemed inexhaustible. In her play-hours,she invariably had every child in the establishment at her heels,open-mouthed with admiration and wonder,--not excepting Miss Eva,who appeared to be fascinated by her wild diablerie, as a dove issometimes charmed by a glittering serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasythat Eva should fancy Topsy's society so much, and implored St.Clare to forbid it.
"Poh! let the child alone," said St. Clare. "Topsy willdo her good."
"But so depraved a child,--are you not afraid she willteach her some mischief?"
"She can't teach her mischief; she might teach it to somechildren, but evil rolls off Eva's mind like dew off acabbage-leaf,--not a drop sinks in."
"Don't be too sure," said Miss Ophelia. "I know I'd neverlet a child of mine play with Topsy."
"Well, your children needn't," said St. Clare, "but mine may;if Eva could have been spoiled, it would have been done years ago."
Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper servants. They soon found reason to alter their opinion. It was very soondiscovered that whoever cast an indignity on Topsy was sure tomeet with some inconvenient accident shortly after;--either apair of ear-rings or some cherished trinket would be missing, oran article of dress would be suddenly found utterly ruined, or theperson would stumble accidently into a pail of hot water, or alibation of dirty slop would unaccountably deluge them from abovewhen in full gala dress;-and on all these occasions, when investigationwas made, there was nobody found to stand sponsor for the indignity. Topsy was cited, and had up before all the domestic judicatories,time and again; but always sustained her examinations with mostedifying innocence and gravity of appearance. Nobody in the worldever doubted who did the things; but not a scrap of any directevidence could be found to establish the suppositions, and MissOphelia was too just to feel at liberty to proceed to any lengthwithout it.
The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, asfurther to shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for revenge onRosa and Jane, the two chamber maids, were always chosen in thoseseasons when (as not unfrequently happened) they were in disgracewith their mistress, when any complaint from them would of coursemeet with no sympathy. In short, Topsy soon made the householdunderstand the propriety of letting her alone; and she was letalone, accordingly.
Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations,learning everything that was taught her with surprising quickness. With a few lessons, she had learned to do the proprieties of MissOphelia's chamber in a way with which even that particular ladycould find no fault. Mortal hands could not lay spread smoother,adjust pillows more accurately, sweep and dust and arrange moreperfectly, than Topsy, when she chose,--but she didn't very oftenchoose. If Miss Ophelia, after three or four days of carefulpatient supervision, was so sanguine as to suppose that Topsy hadat last fallen into her way, could do without over-looking, and sogo off and busy herself about something else, Topsy would hold aperfect carnival of confusion, for some one or two hours. Insteadof making the bed, she would amuse herself with pulling off thepillowcases, butting her woolly head among the pillows, till itwould sometimes be grotesquely ornamented with feathers stickingout in various directions; she would climb the posts, and hang headdownward from the tops; flourish the sheets and spreads all overthe apartment; dress the bolster up in Miss Ophelia's night-clothes,and enact various performances with that,--singing and whistling,and making grimaces at herself in the looking-glass; in short, asMiss Ophelia phrased it, "raising Cain" generally.
On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her verybest scarlet India Canton crape shawl wound round her head for aturban, going on with her rehearsals before the glass in greatstyle,--Miss Ophelia having, with carelessness most unheard-of inher, left the key for once in her drawer.
"Topsy!" she would say, when at the end of all patience,"what does make you act so?"
"Dunno, Missis,--I spects cause I 's so wicked!"
"I don't know anything what I shall do with you, Topsy."
"Law, Missis, you must whip me; my old Missis allers whipped me. I an't used to workin' unless I gets whipped."
"Why, Topsy, I don't want to whip you. You can do well,if you've a mind to; what is the reason you won't?"
"Laws, Missis, I 's used to whippin'; I spects it's goodfor me."
Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably madea terrible commotion, screaming, groaning and imploring, thoughhalf an hour afterwards, when roosted on some projection of thebalcony, and surrounded by a flock of admiring "young uns," shewould express the utmost contempt of the whole affair.
"Law, Miss Feely whip!--wouldn't kill a skeeter, her whippins. Oughter see how old Mas'r made the flesh fly; old Mas'rknow'd how!"
Topsy always made great capital of her own sins andenormities, evidently considering them as something peculiarlydistinguishing.
"Law, you niggers," she would say to some of her auditors,"does you know you 's all sinners? Well, you is--everybody is. White folks is sinners too,--Miss Feely says so; but I spectsniggers is the biggest ones; but lor! ye an't any on ye up to me. I 's so awful wicked there can't nobody do nothin' with me. I usedto keep old Missis a swarin' at me half de time. I spects I 'sthe wickedest critter in the world;" and Topsy would cut a summerset,and come up brisk and shining on to a higher perch, and evidentlyplume herself on the distinction.
Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays,teaching Topsy the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon verbalmemory, and committed with a fluency that greatly encouragedher instructress.
"What good do you expect it is going to do her?" said St. Clare.
"Why, it always has done children good. It's what childrenalways have to learn, you know," said Miss Ophelia.
"Understand it or not," said St. Clare.
"O, children never understand it at the time; but, afterthey are grown up, it'll come to them."
"Mine hasn't come to me yet," said St. Clare, "though I'llbear testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly when Iwas a boy."'
"Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I usedto have great hopes of you," said Miss Ophelia.
"Well, haven't you now?" said St. Clare.
"I wish you were as good as you were when you were a boy,Augustine."
"So do I, that's a fact, Cousin," said St. Clare. "Well, goahead and catechize Topsy; may be you'll make out something yet."
Topsy, who had stood like a black statue during this discussion,with hands decently folded, now, at a signal from Miss Ophelia,went on:
"Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their ownwill, fell from the state wherein they were created."
Topsy's eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly.
"What is it, Topsy?" said Miss Ophelia.
"Please, Missis, was dat ar state Kintuck?"
"What state, Topsy?"
"Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas'r tell howwe came down from Kintuck."
St. Clare laughed.
"You'll have to give her a meaning, or she'll make one,"said he. "There seems to be a theory of emigration suggestedthere."
"O! Augustine, be still," said Miss Ophelia; "how can I doanything, if you will be laughing?"
"Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on my honor;"and St. Clare took his paper into the parlor, and sat down, tillTopsy had finished her recitations. They were all very well, onlythat now and then she would oddly transpose some important words,and persist in the mistake, in spite of every effort to the contrary;and St. Clare, after all his promises of goodness, took a wickedpleasure in these mistakes, calling Topsy to him whenever he hada mind to amuse himself, and getting her to repeat the offendingpassages, in spite of Miss Ophelia's remonstrances.
"How do you think I can do anything with the child, if youwill go on so, Augustine?" she would say.
"Well, it is too bad,--I won't again; but I do like to hearthe droll little image stumble over those big words!"
"But you confirm her in the wrong way."
"What's the odds? One word is as good as another to her."
"You wanted me to bring her up right; and you ought toremember she is a reasonable creature, and be careful of yourinfluence over her."
"O, dismal! so I ought; but, as Topsy herself says, `I 'sso wicked!'"
In very much this way Topsy's training proceeded, for a yearor two,--Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to day, withher, as a kind of chronic plague, to whose inflictions she became,in time, as accustomed, as persons sometimes do to the neuralgiaor sick headache.
St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child that a manmight in the tricks of a parrot or a pointer. Topsy, wheneverher sins brought her into disgrace in other quarters, always tookrefuge behind his chair; and St. Clare, in one way or other, wouldmake peace for her. From him she got many a stray picayune, whichshe laid out in nuts and candies, and distributed, with carelessgenerosity, to all the children in the family; for Topsy, to doher justice, was good-natured and liberal, and only spiteful inself-defence. She is fairly introduced into our _corps be ballet_,and will figure, from time to time, in her turn, with other performers.
CHAPTER XXI
Kentuck
Our readers may not be unwilling to glance back, for abrief interval, at Uncle Tom's Cabin, on the Kentucky farm, andsee what has been transpiring among those whom he had left behind.
It was late in the summer afternoon, and the doors andwindows of the large parlor all stood open, to invite any straybreeze, that might feel in a good humor, to enter. Mr. Shelby satin a large hall opening into the room, and running through thewhole length of the house, to a balcony on either end. Leisurelytipped back on one chair, with his heels in another, he was enjoyinghis after-dinner cigar. Mrs. Shelby sat in the door, busy aboutsome fine sewing; she seemed like one who had something on hermind, which she was seeking an opportunity to introduce.
"Do you know," she said, "that Chloe has had a letter from Tom?"
"Ah! has she? Tom 's got some friend there, it seems. How is theold boy?"
"He has been bought by a very fine family, I should think,"said Mrs. Shelby,--"is kindly treated, and has not much to do."
"Ah! well, I'm glad of it,--very glad," said Mr. Shelby, heartily. "Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a Southern residence;--hardlywant to come up here again."
"On the contrary he inquires very anxiously," said Mrs. Shelby, "when the money for his redemption is to be raised."
"I'm sure _I_ don't know," said Mr. Shelby. "Once get businessrunning wrong, there does seem to be no end to it. It's likejumping from one bog to another, all through a swamp; borrowof one to pay another, and then borrow of another to pay one,--andthese confounded notes falling due before a man has time to smokea cigar and turn round,--dunning letters and dunning messages,--allscamper and hurry-scurry."
"It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be doneto straighten matters. Suppose we sell off all the horses, andsell one of your farms, and pay up square?"
"O, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in Kentucky;but still you haven't sense to know that you don't understandbusiness;--women never do, and never can.
"But, at least," said Mrs. Shelby, "could not you give mesome little insight into yours; a list of all your debts, at least,and of all that is owed to you, and let me try and see if I can'thelp you to economize."
"O, bother! don't plague me, Emily!--I can't tell exactly. I know somewhere about what things are likely to be; but there'sno trimming and squaring my affairs, as Chloe trims crust off herpies. You don't know anything about business, I tell you."
And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforcing hisideas, raised his voice,--a mode of arguing very convenient andconvincing, when a gentleman is discussing matters of business withhis wife.
Mrs. Shelby ceased talking, with something of a sigh. The factwas, that though her husband had stated she was a woman, shehad a clear, energetic, practical mind, and a force of characterevery way superior to that of her husband; so that it would nothave been so very absurd a supposition, to have allowed hercapable of managing, as Mr. Shelby supposed. Her heart was set onperforming her promise to Tom and Aunt Chloe, and she sighed asdiscouragements thickened around her.
"Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raisethat money? Poor Aunt Chloe! her heart is so set on it!"
"I'm sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promising. I'm not sure, now, but it's the best way to tell Chloe, and lether make up her mind to it. Tom'll have another wife, in a yearor two; and she had better take up with somebody else."
"Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their marriagesare as sacred as ours. I never could think of giving Chloesuch advice."
"It's a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a moralityabove their condition and prospects. I always thought so."
"It's only the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby."
"Well, well, Emily, I don't pretend to interfere with yourreligious notions; only they seem extremely unfitted for people inthat condition."
"They are, indeed," said Mrs. Shelby, "and that is why,from my soul, I hate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, _I_cannot absolve myself from the promises I make to these helplesscreatures. If I can get the money no other way I will takemusic-scholars;--I could get enough, I know, and earn the moneymyself."
"You wouldn't degrade yourself that way, Emily? I nevercould consent to it."
"Degrade! would it degrade me as much as to break my faithwith the helpless? No, indeed!"
"Well, you are always heroic and transcendental," said Mr. Shelby, "but I think you had better think before you undertake sucha piece of Quixotism."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance ofAunt Chloe, at the end of the verandah.
"If you please, Missis," said she.
"Well, Chloe, what is it?" said her mistress, rising, andgoing to the end of the balcony.
"If Missis would come and look at dis yer lot o' poetry."
Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry,--anapplication of language in which she always persisted, notwithstandingfrequent corrections and advisings from the young members of thefamily.
"La sakes!" she would say, "I can't see; one jis good asturry,--poetry suthin good, any how;" and so poetry Chloe continuedto call it.
Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickensand ducks, over which Chloe stood, with a very grave face ofconsideration.
"I'm a thinkin whether Missis would be a havin a chickenpie o' dese yer."
"Really, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care;--serve them anyway you like."
Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly; it was quiteevident that the chickens were not what she was thinking of. At last, with the short laugh with which her tribe often introducea doubtful proposal, she said,
"Laws me, Missis! what should Mas'r and Missis be a troublintheirselves 'bout de money, and not a usin what's right in derhands?" and Chloe laughed again.
"I don't understand you, Chloe," said Mrs. Shelby, nothingdoubting, from her knowledge of Chloe's manner, that she had heardevery word of the conversation that had passed between her and herhusband.
"Why, laws me, Missis!" said Chloe, laughing again, "other folkshires out der niggers and makes money on 'em! Don't keep sicha tribe eatin 'em out of house and home."
"Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire out?"
"Laws! I an't a proposin nothin; only Sam he said der was oneof dese yer _perfectioners_, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, saidhe wanted a good hand at cake and pastry; and said he'd give fourdollars a week to one, he did."
"Well, Chloe."
"Well, laws, I 's a thinkin, Missis, it's time Sally was putalong to be doin' something. Sally 's been under my care, now,dis some time, and she does most as well as me, considerin; and ifMissis would only let me go, I would help fetch up de money. I an't afraid to put my cake, nor pies nother, 'long side no_perfectioner's_.
"Confectioner's, Chloe."
"Law sakes, Missis! 'tan't no odds;--words is so curis,can't never get 'em right!"
"But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children?"
"Laws, Missis! de boys is big enough to do day's works; dey doeswell enough; and Sally, she'll take de baby,--she's sucha peart young un, she won't take no lookin arter."
"Louisville is a good way off."
"Law sakes! who's afeard?--it's down river, somer near myold man, perhaps?" said Chloe, speaking the last in the tone of aquestion, and looking at Mrs. Shelby.
"No, Chloe; it's many a hundred miles off," said Mrs. Shelby.
Chloe's countenance fell.
"Never mind; your going there shall bring you nearer, Chloe. Yes, you may go; and your wages shall every cent of them be laidaside for your husband's redemption."
As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, soChloe's dark face brightened immediately,--it really shone.
"Laws! if Missis isn't too good! I was thinking of dat arvery thing; cause I shouldn't need no clothes, nor shoes, nornothin,--I could save every cent. How many weeks is der in ayear, Missis?"
"Fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby.
"Laws! now, dere is? and four dollars for each on em. Why, howmuch 'd dat ar be?"
"Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby.
"Why-e!" said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and delight;"and how long would it take me to work it out, Missis?"
"Some four or five years, Chloe; but, then, you needn't doit all,--I shall add something to it."
"I wouldn't hear to Missis' givin lessons nor nothin. Mas'r's quite right in dat ar;--'t wouldn't do, no ways. I hopenone our family ever be brought to dat ar, while I 's got hands."
"Don't fear, Chloe; I'll take care of the honor of the family,"said Mrs. Shelby, smiling. "But when do you expect to go?"
"Well, I want spectin nothin; only Sam, he's a gwine to deriver with some colts, and he said I could go long with him; so Ijes put my things together. If Missis was willin, I'd go with Samtomorrow morning, if Missis would write my pass, and write me acommendation."
"Well, Chloe, I'll attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has noobjections. I must speak to him."
Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, wentout to her cabin, to make her preparation.
"Law sakes, Mas'r George! ye didn't know I 's a gwine toLouisville tomorrow!" she said to George, as entering her cabin,he found her busy in sorting over her baby's clothes. "I thoughtI'd jis look over sis's things, and get 'em straightened up. ButI'm gwine, Mas'r George,--gwine to have four dollars a week; andMissis is gwine to lay it all up, to buy back my old man agin!"
"Whew!" said George, "here's a stroke of business, to be sure! How are you going?"
"Tomorrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George, I knows you'lljis sit down and write to my old man, and tell him all aboutit,--won't ye?"
"To be sure," said George; "Uncle Tom'll be right glad to hearfrom us. I'll go right in the house, for paper and ink; andthen, you know, Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the new colts and all."
"Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George; you go 'long, and I'll getye up a bit o' chicken, or some sich; ye won't have many moresuppers wid yer poor old aunty."
CHAPTER XXII
"The Grass Withereth--the Flower Fadeth"
Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed withour friend Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted fromall his soul held dear, and though often yearning for what laybeyond, still was he never positively and consciously miserable;for, so well is the harp of human feeling strung, that nothing buta crash that breaks every string can wholly mar its harmony; and,on looking back to seasons which in review appear to us as thoseof deprivation and trial, we can remember that each hour, as itglided, brought its diversions and alleviations, so that, thoughnot happy wholly, we were not, either, wholly miserable.
Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had "learnedin whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content." It seemedto him good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded well with thesettled and thoughtful habit which he had acquired from thereading of that same book.
His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter,was in due time answered by Master George, in a good, round,school-boy hand, that Tom said might be read "most acrost the room."It contained various refreshing items of home intelligence, withwhich our reader is fully acquainted: stated how Aunt Chloe hadbeen hired out to a confectioner in Louisville, where her skillin the pastry line was gaining wonderful sums of money, all ofwhich, Tom was informed, was to be laid up to go to make up thesum of his redemption money; Mose and Pete were thriving, andthe baby was trotting all about the house, under the care of Sallyand the family generally.
Tom's cabin was shut up for the present; but George expatiatedbrilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it when Tomcame back.
The rest of this letter gave a list of George's schoolstudies, each one headed by a flourishing capital; and also toldthe names of four new colts that appeared on the premises sinceTom left; and stated, in the same connection, that father and motherwere well. The style of the letter was decidedly concise and terse;but Tom thought it the most wonderful specimen of composition thathad appeared in modern times. He was never tired of looking atit, and even held a council with Eva on the expediency of gettingit framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing but the difficulty ofarranging it so that both sides of the page would show at oncestood in the way of this undertaking.
The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with thechild's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held inthe soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He lovedher as something frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped her assomething heavenly and divine. He gazed on her as the Italiansailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus,--with a mixture ofreverence and tenderness; and to humor her graceful fancies, andmeet those thousand simple wants which invest childhood like amany-colored rainbow, was Tom's chief delight. In the market, atmorning, his eyes were always on the flower-stalls for rare bouquetsfor her, and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into hispocket to give to her when he came back; and the sight that pleasedhim most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his distantapproach, and her childish questions,--"Well, Uncle Tom, what haveyou got for me today?"
Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though achild, she was a beautiful reader;--a fine musical ear, a quickpoetic fancy, and an instinctive sympathy with what's grand andnoble, made her such a reader of the Bible as Tom had never beforeheard. At first, she read to please her humble friend; but soonher own earnest nature threw out its tendrils, and wound itselfaround the majestic book; and Eva loved it, because it woke in herstrange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions, such as impassioned,imaginative children love to feel.
The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and theProphecies,--parts whose dim and wondrous imagery, and ferventlanguage, impressed her the more, that she questioned vainly oftheir meaning;--and she and her simple friend, the old child andthe young one, felt just alike about it. All that they knew was,that they spoke of a glory to be revealed,--a wondrous somethingyet to come, wherein their soul rejoiced, yet knew not why; andthough it be not so in the physical, yet in moral science thatwhich cannot be understood is not always profitless. For the soulawakes, a trembling stranger, between two dim eternities,--theeternal past, the eternal future. The light shines only on a smallspace around her; therefore, she needs must yearn towards theunknown; and the voices and shadowy movings which come to her fromout the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one echoes andanswers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic imagery are somany talismans and gems inscribed with unknown hieroglyphics; shefolds them in her bosom, and expects to read them when she passesbeyond the veil.
At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is,for the time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats of summer had driven all who were able to leave thesultry and unhealthy city, to seek the shores of the lake, andits cool sea-breezes.
St. Clare's villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded bylight verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides intogardens and pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room opened onto a large garden, fragrant with every picturesque plant and flowerof the tropics, where winding paths ran down to the very shores ofthe lake, whose silvery sheet of water lay there, rising and fallingin the sunbeams,--a picture never for an hour the same, yet everyhour more beautiful.
It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindlesthe whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes the wateranother sky. The lake lay in rosy or golden streaks, save wherewhite-winged vessels glided hither and thither, like so manyspirits, and little golden stars twinkled through the glow, andlooked down at themselves as they trembled in the water.
Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbor, atthe foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva's Biblelay open on her knee. She read,--"And I saw a sea of glass, mingledwith fire."
"Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake,"there 't is."
"What, Miss Eva?"
"Don't you see,--there?" said the child, pointing to theglassy water, which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glowof the sky. "There's a `sea of glass, mingled with fire.'"
"True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom; and Tom sang--
"O, had I the wings of the morning, I'd fly away to Canaan's shore; Bright angels should convey me home, To the new Jerusalem."
"Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?" said Eva.
"O, up in the clouds, Miss Eva."
"Then I think I see it," said Eva. "Look in those clouds!--theylook like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond them--far,far off--it's all gold. Tom, sing about `spirits bright.'"
Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn,
"I see a band of spirits bright, That taste the glories there; They all are robed in spotless white, And conquering palms they bear."
"Uncle Tom, I've seen _them_," said Eva.
Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him inthe least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he wouldhave thought it entirely probable.
"They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;"and Eva's eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice,
"They are all robed in spotless white, And conquering palms they bear."
"Uncle Tom," said Eva, "I'm going there."
"Where, Miss Eva?"
The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky;the glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with akind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly onthe skies.
"I'm going _there_," she said, "to the spirits bright, Tom;_I'm going, before long_."
The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom thoughthow often he had noticed, within six months, that Eva's littlehands had grown thinner, and her skin more transparent, and herbreath shorter; and how, when she ran or played in the garden,as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak often of a cough, that all hermedicaments could not cure; and even now that fervent cheek andlittle hand were burning with hectic fever; and yet the thoughtthat Eva's words suggested had never come to him till now.
Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been;but their names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles,their heavenly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among theburied treasures of yearning hearts. In how many families do youhear the legend that all the goodness and graces of the living arenothing to the peculiar charms of one who _is not_. It is as ifheaven had an especial band of angels, whose office it was tosojourn for a season here, and endear to them the wayward humanheart, that they might bear it upward with them in their homewardflight. When you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye,--whenthe little soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than theordinary words of children,--hope not to retain that child; forthe seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looksout from its eyes.
Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling! Thou arepassing away; but they that love thee dearest know it not.
The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hastycall from Miss Ophelia.
"Eva--Eva!--why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn't beout there!"
Eva and Tom hastened in.
Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful footstepsof that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of thefairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken,seals them irrevocably for death.
She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek;nor could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy born offever, deceive her.
She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threwback her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike hisusual careless good-humor.
"Don't be croaking, Cousin,--I hate it!" he would say;"don't you see that the child is only growing. Children alwayslose strength when they grow fast."
"But she has that cough!"
"O! nonsense of that cough!--it is not anything. She hastaken a little cold, perhaps."
"Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, andEllen and Maria Sanders."
"O! stop these hobgoblin' nurse legends. You old hands gotso wise, that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you seedesperation and ruin at hand. Only take care of the child, keepher from the night air, and don't let her play too hard, and she'lldo well enough."
So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless. He watchedEva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the frequencywith which he repeated over that "the child was quite well"--thatthere wasn't anything in that cough,--it was only some littlestomach affection, such as children often had. But he kept by hermore than before, took her oftener to ride with him, brought homeevery few days some receipt or strengthening mixture,--"not," hesaid, "that the child _needed_ it, but then it would not do herany harm."
If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to hisheart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity ofthe child's mind and feelings. While still retaining all a child'sfanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, words ofsuch a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wisdom, that theyseemed to be an inspiration. At such times, St. Clare would feela sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that fond claspcould save her; and his heart rose up with wild determination tokeep her, never to let her go.
The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in worksof love and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been;but there was a touching and womanly thoughtfulness about her now,that every one noticed. She still loved to play with Topsy, andthe various colored children; but she now seemed rather a spectatorthan an actor of their plays, and she would sit for half an hourat a time, laughing at the odd tricks of Topsy,--and then a shadowwould seem to pass across her face, her eyes grew misty, and herthoughts were afar.
"Mamma," she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, "whydon't we teach our servants to read?"
"What a question child! People never do."
"Why don't they?" said Eva.
"Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help themto work any better, and they are not made for anything else."
"But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's will."
"O! they can get that read to them all _they_ need."
"It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to readthemselves. They need it a great many times when there is nobodyto read it."
"Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother.
"Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva.
"Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is theworst creature I ever saw!"
"Here's poor Mammy!" said Eva. "She does love the Bibleso much, and wishes so she could read! And what will she do whenI can't read to her?"
Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, asshe answered,
"Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things tothink of besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not butthat is very proper; I've done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to be dressing and going into company, you won'thave time. See here!" she added, "these jewels I'm going to giveyou when you come out. I wore them to my first ball. I can tellyou, Eva, I made a sensation."
Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was plain herthoughts were elsewhere.
"How sober you look child!" said Marie.
"Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?"
"To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. They are worth a small fortune."
"I wish I had them," said Eva, "to do what I pleased with!"
"What would you do with them?"
"I'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and takeall our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to readand write."
Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing.
"Set up a boarding-school! Wouldn't you teach them to playon the piano, and paint on velvet?"
"I'd teach them to read their own Bible, and write their ownletters, and read letters that are written to them," said Eva,steadily. "I know, mamma, it does come very hard on them that theycan't do these things. Tom feels it--Mammy does,--a great many ofthem do. I think it's wrong."
"Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You don't know anythingabout these things," said Marie; "besides, your talking makes myhead ache."
Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversationthat did not exactly suit her.
Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gave Mammyreading lessons.
CHAPTER XXIII
Henrique
About this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with his eldest son,a boy of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at the lake.
No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of thesetwin brothers. Nature, instead of instituting resemblances betweenthem, had made them opposites on every point; yet a mysterious tieseemed to unite them in a closer friendship than ordinary.
They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleysand walks of the garden. Augustine, with his blue eyes and goldenhair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious features; andAlfred, dark-eyed, with haughty Roman profile, firmly-knit limbs,and decided bearing. They were always abusing each other's opinionsand practices, and yet never a whit the less absorbed in eachother's society; in fact, the very contrariety seemed to unitethem, like the attraction between opposite poles of the magnet.
Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed,princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit; and, from the firstmoment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by thespirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline.
Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It waseasy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress; and thispony was now brought up to the back verandah by Tom, while a littlemulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small black Arabian,which had just been imported, at a great expense, for Henrique.
Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession; and, as headvanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom,he looked carefully over him, and his brow darkened.
"What's this, Dodo, you little lazy dog! you haven't rubbedmy horse down, this morning."
"Yes, Mas'r," said Dodo, submissively; "he got that duston his own self."
"You rascal, shut your mouth!" said Henrique, violentlyraising his riding-whip. "How dare you speak?"
The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of justHenrique's size, and his curling hair hung round a high, boldforehead. He had white blood in his veins, as could be seen bythe quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his eye, as heeagerly tried to speak.
"Mas'r Henrique!--" he began.
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, and,seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and beathim till he was out of breath.
"There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to answerback when I speak to you? Take the horse back, and cleanhim properly. I'll teach you your place!"
"Young Mas'r," said Tom, "I specs what he was gwine to say was,that the horse would roll when he was bringing him up fromthe stable; he's so full of spirits,--that's the way he got thatdirt on him; I looked to his cleaning."
"You hold your tongue till you're asked to speak!" saidHenrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to speakto Eva, who stood in her riding-dress.
"Dear Cousin, I'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept youwaiting," he said. "Let's sit down here, on this seat tillthey come. What's the matter, Cousin?--you look sober."
"How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo?" asked Eva.
"Cruel,--wicked!" said the boy, with unaffected surprise. "What do you mean, dear Eva?"
"I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so,"said Eva.
"Dear Cousin, you don't know Dodo; it's the only way to managehim, he's so full of lies and excuses. The only way is to puthim down at once,--not let him open his mouth; that's the waypapa manages."
"But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tellswhat isn't true."
"He's an uncommon old nigger, then!" said Henrique. "Dodo willlie as fast as he can speak."
"You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so."
"Why, Eva, you've really taken such a fancy to Dodo, thatI shall be jealous."
"But you beat him,--and he didn't deserve it."
"O, well, it may go for some time when he does, and don'tget it. A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo,--he's a regularspirit, I can tell you; but I won't beat him again before you, ifit troubles you."
Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to makeher handsome cousin understand her feelings.
Dodo soon appeared, with the horses.
"Well, Dodo, you've done pretty well, this time," said hisyoung master, with a more gracious air. "Come, now, and hold MissEva's horse while I put her on to the saddle."
Dodo came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was troubled;his eyes looked as if he had been crying.
Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroitness inall matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in the saddle,and, gathering the reins, placed them in her hands.
But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodowas standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins,--"That'sa good boy, Dodo;--thank you!"
Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face; theblood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes.
"Here, Dodo," said his master, imperiously.
Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted.
"There's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo," saidHenrique; "go get some."
And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stoodlooking after the two children. One had given him money; and onehad given him what he wanted far more,--a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few months away from his mother. His masterhad bought him at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to bea match to the handsome pony; and he was now getting his breakingin, at the hands of his young master.
The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the twobrothers St. Clare, from another part of the garden.
Augustine's cheek flushed; but he only observed, with hisusual sarcastic carelessness.
"I suppose that's what we may call republican education, Alfred?"
"Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood's up,"said Alfred, carelessly.
"I suppose you consider this an instructive practice forhim," said Augustine, drily.
"I couldn't help it, if I didn't. Henrique is a regularlittle tempest;--his mother and I have given him up, long ago. But, then, that Dodo is a perfect sprite,--no amount of whippingcan hurt him."
"And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse ofa republican's catechism, `All men are born free and equal!'"
"Poh!" said Alfred; "one of Tom Jefferson's pieces of Frenchsentiment and humbug. It's perfectly ridiculous to have that goingthe rounds among us, to this day."
"I think it is," said St. Clare, significantly.
"Because," said Alfred, "we can see plainly enough that all menare _not_ born free, nor born equal; they are born anything else. For my part, I think half this republican talk sheer humbug. It is the educated, the intelligent, the wealthy, the refined, whoought to have equal rights and not the canaille."
"If you can keep the canaille of that opinion," said Augustine. "They took _their_ turn once, in France."
"Of course, they must be _kept down_, consistently, steadily,as I _should_," said Alfred, setting his foot hard down as if hewere standing on somebody.
"It makes a terrible slip when they get up," saidAugustine,--"in St. Domingo, for instance."
"Poh!" said Alfred, "we'll take care of that, in this country. We must set our face against all this educating, elevating talk,that is getting about now; the lower class must not be educated."
"That is past praying for," said Augustine; "educated they willbe, and we have only to say how. Our system is educating themin barbarism and brutality. We are breaking all humanizing ties,and making them brute beasts; and, if they get the upper hand, suchwe shall find them."
"They shall never get the upper hand!" said Alfred.
"That's right," said St. Clare; "put on the steam, fastendown the escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you'll land."
"Well," said Alfred, "we _will_ see. I'm not afraid to siton the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, andthe machinery works well."
"The nobles in Louis XVI.'s time thought just so; and Austriaand Pius IX. think so now; and, some pleasant morning, youmay all be caught up to meet each other in the air, _when theboilers burst_."
"_Dies declarabit_," said Alfred, laughing.
"I tell you," said Augustine, "if there is anything that isrevealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is thatthe masses are to rise, and the under class become the upper one."
"That's one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine! Why didn'tyou ever take to the stump;--you'd make a famous stump orator! Well, I hope I shall be dead before this millennium of your greasymasses comes on."
"Greasy or not greasy, they will govern _you_, when theirtime comes," said Augustine; "and they will be just such rulers asyou make them. The French noblesse chose to have the people `_sansculottes_,' and they had `_sans culotte_' governors to their hearts'content. The people of Hayti--"
"O, come, Augustine! as if we hadn't had enough of that abominable,contemptible Hayti![1] The Haytiens were not Anglo Saxons; ifthey had been there would have been another story. The AngloSaxon is the dominant race of the world, and _is to be so_."
[1] In August 1791, as a consequence of the French Revolution,the black slaves and mulattoes on Haiti rose in revolt against thewhites, and in the period of turmoil that followed enormous crueltieswere practised by both sides. The "Emperor" Dessalines, come topower in 1804, massacred all the whites on the island. Haitianbloodshed became an argument to show the barbarous nature of theNegro, a doctrine Wendell Phillips sought to combat in his celebratedlecture on Toussaint L'Ouverture.
"Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo Saxon bloodamong our slaves, now," said Augustine. "There are plenty amongthem who have only enough of the African to give a sort of tropicalwarmth and fervor to our calculating firmness and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour comes, Anglo Saxon blood will lead onthe day. Sons of white fathers, with all our haughty feelingsburning in their veins, will not always be bought and sold andtraded. They will rise, and raise with them their mother's race."
"Stuff!--nonsense!"
"Well," said Augustine, "there goes an old saying to thiseffect, `As it was in the days of Noah so shall it be;--they ate,they drank, they planted, they builded, and knew not till the floodcame and took them.'"
"On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do fora circuit rider," said Alfred, laughing. "Never you fear forus; possession is our nine points. We've got the power. Thissubject race," said he, stamping firmly, "is down and shall _stay_down! We have energy enough to manage our own powder."
"Sons trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians of yourpowder-magazines," said Augustine,--"so cool and self-possessed! The proverb says, "`They that cannot govern themselves cannotgovern others.'"
"There is a trouble there" said Alfred, thoughtfully;"there's no doubt that our system is a difficult one to trainchildren under. It gives too free scope to the passions, altogether,which, in our climate, are hot enough. I find trouble with Henrique. The boy is generous and warm-hearted, but a perfect fire-crackerwhen excited. I believe I shall send him North for his education,where obedience is more fashionable, and where he will associatemore with equals, and less with dependents."
"Since training children is the staple work of the human race,"said Augustine, "I should think it something of a considerationthat our system does not work well there."
"It does not for some things," said Alfred; "for others, again,it does. It makes boys manly and courageous; and the veryvices of an abject race tend to strengthen in them the oppositevirtues. I think Henrique, now, has a keener sense of the beautyof truth, from seeing lying and deception the universal badge ofslavery."
"A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly!" said Augustine.
"It's true, Christian-like or not; and is about asChristian-like as most other things in the world," said Alfred.
"That may be," said St. Clare.
"Well, there's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe we'vebeen round and round this old track five hundred times, moreor less. What do you say to a game of backgammon?"
The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were soon seatedat a light bamboo stand, with the backgammon-board between them. As they were setting their men, Alfred said,
"I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I shoulddo something."
"I dare say you would,--you are one of the doing sort,--but what?"
"Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen," said Alfred,with a half-scornful smile.
"You might as well set Mount AEtna on them flat, and tellthem to stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants underall the superincumbent mass of society upon them. One man can donothing, against the whole action of a community. Education, todo anything, must be a state education; or there must be enoughagreed in it to make a current."
"You take the first throw," said Alfred; and the brotherswere soon lost in the game, and heard no more till the scraping ofhorses' feet was heard under the verandah.
"There come the children," said Augustine, rising. "Look here,Alf! Did you ever see anything so beautiful?" And, in truth,it _was_ a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold brow, anddark, glossy curls, and glowing cheek, was laughing gayly as hebent towards his fair cousin, as they came on. She was dressed ina blue riding dress, with a cap of the same color. Exercise hadgiven a brilliant hue to her cheeks, and heightened the effect ofher singularly transparent skin, and golden hair.
"Good heavens! what perfectly dazzling beauty!" said Alfred. "I tell you, Auguste, won't she make some hearts ache, one ofthese days?"
"She will, too truly,--God knows I'm afraid so!" said St.Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to takeher off her horse.
"Eva darling! you're not much tired?" he said, as he claspedher in his arms.
"No, papa," said the child; but her short, hard breathingalarmed her father.
"How could you ride so fast, dear?--you know it's bad for you."
"I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot."
St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor, and laidher on the sofa.
"Henrique, you must be careful of Eva," said he; "youmustn't ride fast with her."
"I'll take her under my care," said Henrique, seatinghimself by the sofa, and taking Eva's hand.
Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncleresumed their game, and the children were left together.
"Do you know, Eva, I'm sorry papa is only going to stay twodays here, and then I shan't see you again for ever so long! If I stay with you, I'd try to be good, and not be cross to Dodo,and so on. I don't mean to treat Dodo ill; but, you know, I'vegot such a quick temper. I'm not really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now and then; and you see he dresses well. I think, on the whole, Dodo 's pretty well off."
"Would you think you were well off, if there were not one creaturein the world near you to love you?"
"I?--Well, of course not."
"And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he ever had,and now he has not a creature to love him;--nobody can be goodthat way."
"Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his motherand I can't love him myself, nor anybody else, as I know of."
"Why can't you?" said Eva.
"_Love_ Dodo! Why, Eva, you wouldn't have me! I may _like_him well enough; but you don't _love_ your servants."
"I do, indeed."
"How odd!"
"Don't the Bible say we must love everybody?"
"O, the Bible! To be sure, it says a great many such things; but,then, nobody ever thinks of doing them,--you know, Eva, nobody does."
Eva did not speak; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful fora few moments.
"At any rate," she said, "dear Cousin, do love poor Dodo,and be kind to him, for my sake!"
"I could love anything, for your sake, dear Cousin; for Ireally think you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw!" And Henrique spoke with an earnestness that flushed his handsome face. Eva received it with perfect simplicity, without even a change offeature; merely saying, "I'm glad you feel so, dear Henrique! I hope you will remember."
The dinner-bell put an end to the interview.
CHAPTER XXIV
Foreshadowings
Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine parted;and Eva, who had been stimulated, by the society of her youngcousin, to exertions beyond her strength, began to fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last willing to call in medical advice,--a thingfrom which he had always shrunk, because it was the admission ofan unwelcome truth.
But, for a day or two, Eva was so unwell as to be confinedto the house; and the doctor was called.
Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's graduallydecaying health and strength, because she was completely absorbedin studying out two or three new forms of disease to which shebelieved she herself was a victim. It was the first principle ofMarie's belief that nobody ever was or could be so great a suffereras _herself_; and, therefore, she always repelled quite indignantlyany suggestion that any one around her could be sick. She wasalways sure, in such a case, that it was nothing but laziness, orwant of energy; and that, if they had had the suffering _she_ had,they would soon know the difference.
Miss Ophelia had several times tried to awaken her maternalfears about Eva; but to no avail.
"I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say;"she runs about, and plays."
"But she has a cough."
"Cough! you don't need to tell _me_ about a cough. I've alwaysbeen subject to a cough, all my days. When I was of Eva's age,they thought I was in a consumption. Night after night, Mammyused to sit up with me. O! Eva's cough is not anything."
"But she gets weak, and is short-breathed."
"Law! I've had that, years and years; it's only a nervous affection."
"But she sweats so, nights!"
"Well, I have, these ten years. Very often, night after night,my clothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry threadin my night-clothes and the sheets will be so that Mammy has tohang them up to dry! Eva doesn't sweat anything like that!"
Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But, now that Evawas fairly and visibly prostrated, and a doctor called, Marie,all on a sudden, took a new turn.
"She knew it," she said; "she always felt it, that she wasdestined to be the most miserable of mothers. Here she was, withher wretched health, and her only darling child going down to thegrave before her eyes;"--and Marie routed up Mammy nights, andrumpussed and scolded, with more energy than ever, all day, on thestrength of this new misery.
"My dear Marie, don't talk so!" said St. Clare. You oughtnot to give up the case so, at once."
"You have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare! You nevercould understand me!--you don't now."
"But don't talk so, as if it were a gone case!"
"I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare.
If _you_ don't feel when your only child is in this alarming state,I do. It's a blow too much for me, with all I was bearing before."
"It's true," said St. Clare, "that Eva is very delicate,_that_ I always knew; and that she has grown so rapidly as toexhaust her strength; and that her situation is critical. But justnow she is only prostrated by the heat of the weather, and by theexcitement of her cousin's visit, and the exertions she made. The physician says there is room for hope."
"Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do;it's a mercy if people haven't sensitive feelings, in this world. I am sure I wish I didn't feel as I do; it only makes me completelywretched! I wish I _could_ be as easy as the rest of you!"
And the "rest of them" had good reason to breathe the sameprayer, for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason and apologyfor all sorts of inflictions on every one about her. Every wordthat was spoken by anybody, everything that was done or was notdone everywhere, was only a new proof that she was surrounded byhard-hearted, insensible beings, who were unmindful of her peculiarsorrows. Poor Eva heard some of these speeches; and nearly criedher little eyes out, in pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that sheshould make her so much distress.
In a week or two, there was a great improvement ofsymptoms,--one of those deceitful lulls, by which her inexorabledisease so often beguiles the anxious heart, even on the verge ofthe grave. Eva's step was again in the garden,--in the balconies;she played and laughed again,--and her father, in a transport,declared that they should soon have her as hearty as anybody. MissOphelia and the physician alone felt no encouragement from thisillusive truce. There was one other heart, too, that felt the samecertainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. What is it thatsometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthlytime is short? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, orthe soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on? Be it what itmay, it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, propheticcertainty that Heaven was near; calm as the light of sunset, sweetas the bright stillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed,only troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly.
For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life wasunfolding before her with every brightness that love and wealthcould give, had no regret for herself in dying.
In that book which she and her simple old friend had readso much together, she had seen and taken to her young heart theimage of one who loved the little child; and, as she gazed andmused, He had ceased to be an image and a picture of the distantpast, and come to be a living, all-surrounding reality. His loveenfolded her childish heart with more than mortal tenderness; andit was to Him, she said, she was going, and to his home.
But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that shewas to leave behind. Her father most,--for Eva, though she neverdistinctly thought so, had an instinctive perception that she wasmore in his heart than any other. She loved her mother becauseshe was so loving a creature, and all the selfishness that she hadseen in her only saddened and perplexed her; for she had a child'simplicit trust that her mother could not do wrong. There wassomething about her that Eva never could make out; and she alwayssmoothed it over with thinking that, after all, it was mamma, andshe loved her very dearly indeed.
She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she wasas daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually generalize;but Eva was an uncommonly mature child, and the things that shehad witnessed of the evils of the system under which they wereliving had fallen, one by one, into the depths of her thoughtful,pondering heart. She had vague longings to do something forthem,--to bless and save not only them, but all in theircondition,--longings that contrasted sadly with the feebleness ofher little frame.
"Uncle Tom," she said, one day, when she was reading toher friend, "I can understand why Jesus _wanted_ to die for us."
"Why, Miss Eva?"
"Because I've felt so, too."
"What is it Miss Eva?--I don't understand."
"I can't tell you; but, when I saw those poor creatures onthe boat, you know, when you came up and I,--some had lost theirmothers, and some their husbands, and some mothers cried for theirlittle children--and when I heard about poor Prue,--oh, wasn't thatdreadful!--and a great many other times, I've felt that I would beglad to die, if my dying could stop all this misery. _I would_die for them, Tom, if I could," said the child, earnestly, layingher little thin hand on his.
Tom looked at the child with awe; and when she, hearing herfather's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, ashe looked after her.
"It's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said toMammy, whom he met a moment after. "She's got the Lord's markin her forehead."
"Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands; "I've allerssaid so. She wasn't never like a child that's to live--there wasallers something deep in her eyes. I've told Missis so, many thetime; it's a comin' true,--we all sees it,--dear, little, blessed lamb!"
Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It waslate in the afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed a kindof glory behind her, as she came forward in her white dress, withher golden hair and glowing cheeks, her eyes unnaturally brightwith the slow fever that burned in her veins.
St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had beenbuying for her; but her appearance, as she came on, impressedhim suddenly and painfully. There is a kind of beauty so intense,yet so fragile, that we cannot bear to look at it. Her fatherfolded her suddenly in his arms, and almost forgot what he wasgoing to tell her.
"Eva, dear, you are better now-a-days,--are you not?"
"Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness "I've had things Iwanted to say to you, a great while. I want to say themnow, before I get weaker."
St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She laidher head on his bosom, and said,
"It's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. The time is coming that I am going to leave you. I am going, andnever to come back!" and Eva sobbed.
"O, now, my dear little Eva!" said St. Clare, trembling ashe spoke, but speaking cheerfully, "you've got nervous andlow-spirited; you mustn't indulge such gloomy thoughts. See here,I've bought a statuette for you!"
"No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, "don't deceiveyourself!--I am _not_ any better, I know it perfectly well,--andI am going, before long. I am not nervous,--I am not low-spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my friends, I should be perfectlyhappy. I want to go,--I long to go!"
"Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so sad? You have had everything, to make you happy, that could begiven you."
"I had rather be in heaven; though, only for my friends'sake, I would be willing to live. There are a great many thingshere that make me sad, that seem dreadful to me; I had rather bethere; but I don't want to leave you,--it almost breaks my heart!"
"What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva?"
"O, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel sadfor our poor people; they love me dearly, and they are all goodand kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all _free_."
"Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough off now?"
"O, but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what wouldbecome of them? There are very few men like you, papa. Uncle Alfredisn't like you, and mamma isn't; and then, think of poor old Prue'sowners! What horrid things people do, and can do!" and Eva shuddered.
"My dear child, you are too sensitive. I'm sorry I everlet you hear such stories."
"O, that's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live sohappy, and never to have any pain,--never suffer anything,--noteven hear a sad story, when other poor creatures have nothing butpain and sorrow, an their lives;--it seems selfish. I ought toknow such things, I ought to feel about them! Such things alwayssunk into my heart; they went down deep; I've thought and thoughtabout them. Papa, isn't there any way to have all slaves made free?"
"That's a difficult question, dearest. There's no doubt thatthis way is a very bad one; a great many people think so; Ido myself I heartily wish that there were not a slave in the land;but, then, I don't know what is to be done about it!"
"Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind,and you always have a way of saying things that is so pleasant,couldn't you go all round and try to persuade people to do rightabout this? When I am dead, papa, then you will think of me, anddo it for my sake. I would do it, if I could."
"When you are dead, Eva," said St. Clare, passionately. "O, child, don't talk to me so! You are all I have on earth."
"Poor old Prue's child was all that she had,--and yet shehad to hear it crying, and she couldn't help it! Papa, these poorcreatures love their children as much as you do me. O! do somethingfor them! There's poor Mammy loves her children; I've seen her crywhen she talked about them. And Tom loves his children; and it'sdreadful, papa, that such things are happening, all the time!"
"There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly; "only don'tdistress yourself, don't talk of dying, and I will do anythingyou wish."
"And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his freedomas soon as"--she stopped, and said, in a hesitating tone--"Iam gone!"
"Yes, dear, I will do anything in the world,--anything youcould ask me to."
"Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheekagainst his, "how I wish we could go together!"
"Where, dearest?" said St. Clare.
"To our Saviour's home; it's so sweet and peaceful there--itis all so loving there!" The child spoke unconsciously, as of aplace where she had often been. "Don't you want to go, papa?"she said.
St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent.
"You will come to me," said the child, speaking in a voiceof calm certainty which she often used unconsciously.
"I shall come after you. I shall not forget you."
The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them deeper anddeeper, as St. Clare sat silently holding the little frail formto his bosom. He saw no more the deep eyes, but the voice cameover him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of judgment vision,his whole past life rose in a moment before his eyes: his mother'sprayers and hymns; his own early yearnings and aspirings for good;and, between them and this hour, years of worldliness and scepticism,and what man calls respectable living. We can think _much_, verymuch, in a moment. St. Clare saw and felt many things, but spokenothing; and, as it grew darker, he took his child to her bed-room;and, when she was prepared for rest; he sent away the attendants,and rocked her in his arms, and sung to her till she was asleep.
CHAPTER XXV
The Little Evangelist
It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo loungein the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclinedon a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah, closelysecluded, under an awning of transparent gauze, from the outragesof the mosquitos, and languidly holding in her hand an elegantlybound prayer-book. She was holding it because it was Sunday, andshe imagined she had been reading it,--though, in fact, she hadbeen only taking a succession of short naps, with it open in her hand.
Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a smallMethodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, withTom as driver, to attend it; and Eva had accompanied them.
"I say, Augustine," said Marie after dozing a while, "I mustsend to the city after my old Doctor Posey; I'm sure I've gotthe complaint of the heart."
"Well; why need you send for him? This doctor that attendsEva seems skilful."
"I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie;"and I think I may say mine is becoming so! I've been thinking ofit, these two or three nights past; I have such distressing pains,and such strange feelings."
"O, Marie, you are blue; I don't believe it's heart complaint."
"I dare say _you_ don't," said Marie; "I was prepared toexpect _that_. You can be alarmed enough, if Eva coughs, or hasthe least thing the matter with her; but you never think of me."
"If it's particularly agreeable to you to have heart disease,why, I'll try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare; "I didn'tknow it was."
"Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this, when it'stoo late!" said Marie; "but, believe it or not, my distress aboutEva, and the exertions I have made with that dear child, havedeveloped what I have long suspected."
What the _exertions_ were which Marie referred to, it wouldhave been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentaryto himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of aman as he was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, andEva and Miss Ophelia alighted.
Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to putaway her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before shespoke a word on any subject; while Eva came, at St: Clare's call,and was sitting on his knee, giving him an account of the servicesthey had heard.
They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's room,which, like the one in which they were sitting, opened on to theverandah and violent reproof addressed to somebody.
"What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?" asked St. Clare. "That commotion is of her raising, I'll be bound!"
And, in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation,came dragging the culprit along.
"Come out here, now!" she said. "I _will_ tell your master!"
"What's the case now?" asked Augustine.
"The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child,any longer! It's past all bearing; flesh and blood cannotendure it! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn tostudy; and what does she do, but spy out where I put my key, andhas gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet-trimming, and cut it allto pieces to make dolls'jackets! I never saw anything like it,in my life!"
"I told you, Cousin," said Marie, "that you'd find out thatthese creatures can't be brought up without severity. If I had_my_ way, now," she said, looking reproachfully at St. Clare, "I'dsend that child out, and have her thoroughly whipped; I'd have herwhipped till she couldn't stand!"
"I don't doubt it," said St. Clare. "Tell me of the lovelyrule of woman! I never saw above a dozen women that wouldn't halfkill a horse, or a servant, either, if they had their own way withthem!--let alone a man."
"There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. Clare!"said Marie. "Cousin is a woman of sense, and she sees it now,as plain as I do."
Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that belongsto the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had been prettyactively roused by the artifice and wastefulness of the child; infact, many of my lady readers must own that they should have feltjust so in her circumstances; but Marie's words went beyond her,and she felt less heat.
"I wouldn't have the child treated so, for the world," shesaid; "but, I am sure, Augustine, I don't know what to do. I'vetaught and taught; I've talked till I'm tired; I've whipped her;I've punished her in every way I can think of, and she's just whatshe was at first."
"Come here, Tops, you monkey!" said St. Clare, calling thechild up to him.
Topsy came up; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinkingwith a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery.
"What makes you behave so?" said St. Clare, who could not helpbeing amused with the child's expression.
"Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; "MissFeely says so."
"Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you? She saysshe has done everything she can think of."
"Lor, yes, Mas'r! old Missis used to say so, too. She whippedme a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my headagin the door; but it didn't do me no good! I spects, if they's to pull every spire o' har out o' my head, it wouldn't do nogood, neither,--I 's so wicked! Laws! I 's nothin but a nigger,no ways!"
"Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; "I can'thave that trouble any longer."
"Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare.
"What is it?"
"Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save oneheathen child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself,what's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries off with itamong thousands of just such? I suppose this child is about a fairsample of what thousands of your heathen are."
Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer; and Eva,who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made asilent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass-roomat the corner of the verandah, which St. Clare used as a sort ofreading-room; and Eva and Topsy disappeared into this place.
"What's Eva going about, now?" said St. Clare; "I mean to see."
And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain thatcovered the glass-door, and looked in. In a moment, laying hisfinger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia tocome and look. There sat the two children on the floor, with theirside faces towards them. Topsy, with her usual air of carelessdrollery and unconcern; but, opposite to her, Eva, her whole facefervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes.
"What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won't you try andbe good? Don't you love _anybody_, Topsy?"
"Donno nothing 'bout love; I loves candy and sich, that's all,"said Topsy.
"But you love your father and mother?"
"Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva."
"O, I know," said Eva, sadly; "but hadn't you any brother,or sister, or aunt, or--"
"No, none on 'em,--never had nothing nor nobody."
"But, Topsy, if you'd only try to be good, you might--"
"Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was ever sogood," said Topsy. "If I could be skinned, and come white, I'dtry then."
"But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Opheliawould love you, if you were good."
Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common modeof expressing incredulity.
"Don't you think so?" said Eva.
"No; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger!--she'd 's soonhave a toad touch her! There can't nobody love niggers, and niggerscan't do nothin'! _I_ don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle.
"O, Topsy, poor child, _I_ love you!" said Eva, with a suddenburst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand onTopsy's shoulder; "I love you, because you haven't had any father,or mother, or friends;--because you've been a poor, abused child! I love you, and I want you to be good. I am very unwell, Topsy,and I think I shan't live a great while; and it really grieves me,to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to be good, formy sake;--it's only a little while I shall be with you."
The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast withtears;--large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one,and fell on the little white hand. Yes, in that moment, aray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love, had penetrated thedarkness of her heathen soul! She laid her head down between herknees, and wept and sobbed,--while the beautiful child, bendingover her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping toreclaim a sinner.
"Poor Topsy!" said Eva, "don't you know that Jesus lovesall alike? He is just as willing to love you, as me. He loves youjust as I do,--only more, because he is better. He will help youto be good; and you can go to Heaven at last, and be an angelforever, just as much as if you were white. Only think of it,Topsy!--_you_ can be one of those spirits bright, Uncle Tomsings about."
"O, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; "I will try,I will try; I never did care nothin' about it before."
St. Clare, at this instant, dropped the curtain. "It puts mein mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. "It is true whatshe told me; if we want to give sight to the blind, we must bewilling to do as Christ did,--call them to us, and _put our handson them_."
"I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said MissOphelia, "and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that childtouch me; but, I don't think she knew it."
"Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; "there'sno keeping it from them. But I believe that all the trying in theworld to benefit a child, and all the substantial favors you cando them, will never excite one emotion of gratitude, while thatfeeling of repugnance remains in the heart;--it's a queer kind ofa fact,--but so it is."
"I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia; "they_are_ disagreeable to me,--this child in particular,--how can Ihelp feeling so?"
"Eva does, it seems."
"Well, she's so loving! After all, though, she's no morethan Christ-like," said Miss Ophelia; "I wish I were like her. She might teach me a lesson."
"It wouldn't be the first time a little child had been usedto instruct an old disciple, if it _were_ so," said St. Clare.
CHAPTER XXVI
Death
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes.[1]
[1] "Weep Not for Those," a poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852).
Eva's bed-room was a spacious apartment, which, like all theother robins in the house, opened on to the broad verandah. The room communicated, on one side, with her father and mother'sapartment; on the other, with that appropriated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye and taste, in furnishing thisroom in a style that had a peculiar keeping with the character ofher for whom it was intended. The windows were hung with curtainsof rose-colored and white muslin, the floor was spread with amatting which had been ordered in Paris, to a pattern of his owndevice, having round it a border of rose-buds and leaves, and acentre-piece with full-flown roses. The bedstead, chairs, andlounges, were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful and fancifulpatterns. Over the head of the bed was an alabaster bracket, onwhich a beautiful sculptured angel stood, with drooping wings,holding out a crown of myrtle-leaves. From this depended, overthe bed, light curtains of rose-colored gauze, striped with silver,supplying that protection from mosquitos which is an indispensableaddition to all sleeping accommodation in that climate. The gracefulbamboo lounges were amply supplied with cushions of rose-coloreddamask, while over them, depending from the hands of sculpturedfigures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. A light,fanciful bamboo table stood in the middle of the room, where aParian vase, wrought in the shape of a white lily, with its buds,stood, ever filled with flowers. On this table lay Eva's books andlittle trinkets, with an elegantly wrought alabaster writing-stand,which her father had supplied to her when he saw her trying toimprove herself in writing. There was a fireplace in the room,and on the marble mantle above stood a beautifully wroughtstatuette of Jesus receiving little children, and on either sidemarble vases, for which it was Tom's pride and delight to offerbouquets every morning. Two or three exquisite paintings ofchildren, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. In short,the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of childhood,of beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never opened, in themorning light, without falling on something which suggested to theheart soothing and beautiful thoughts.
The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a littlewhile was fast passing away; seldom and more seldom her lightfootstep was heard in the verandah, and oftener and oftener shewas found reclined on a little lounge by the open window, her large,deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling waters of the lake.
It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was soreclining,--her Bible half open, her little transparent fingerslying listlessly between the leaves,--suddenly she heard her mother'svoice, in sharp tones, in the verandah.
"What now, you baggage!--what new piece of mischief! You've beenpicking the flowers, hey?" and Eva heard the sound of a smart slap.
"Law, Missis! they 's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice say,which she knew belonged to Topsy.
"Miss Eva! A pretty excuse!--you suppose she wants _your_flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger! Get along off with you!"
In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the verandah.
"O, don't, mother! I should like the flowers; do give themto me; I want them!"
"Why, Eva, your room is full now."
"I can't have too many," said Eva. "Topsy, do bring them here."
Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, now cameup and offered her flowers. She did it with a look of hesitationand bashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich boldness and brightnesswhich was usual with her.
"It's a beautiful bouquet!" said Eva, looking at it.
It was rather a singular one,--a brilliant scarlet geranium,and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It was tiedup with an evident eye to the contrast of color, and the arrangementof every leaf had carefully been studied.
Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said,--"Topsy, you arrangeflowers very prettily. Here," she said, "is this vase I haven'tany flowers for. I wish you'd arrange something every day for it."
"Well, that's odd!" said Marie. "What in the world do youwant that for?"
"Never mind, mamma; you'd as lief as not Topsy should doit,--had you not?"
"Of course, anything you please, dear! Topsy, you hear youryoung mistress;--see that you mind."
Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down; and, as sheturned away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek.
"You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do somethingfor me," said Eva to her mother.
"O, nonsense! it's only because she likes to do mischief. She knows she mustn't pick flowers,--so she does it; that's allthere is to it. But, if you fancy to have her pluck them, so be it."
"Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used to be;she's trying to be a good girl."
"She'll have to try a good while before _she_ gets to be good,"said Marie, with a careless laugh.
"Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has alwaysbeen against her."
"Not since she's been here, I'm sure. If she hasn't beentalked to, and preached to, and every earthly thing done thatanybody could do;--and she's just so ugly, and always will be; youcan't make anything of the creature!"
"But, mamma, it's so different to be brought up as I've been,with so many friends, so many things to make me good andhappy; and to be brought up as she's been, all the time, till shecame here!"
"Most likely," said Marie, yawning,--"dear me, how hot it is!"
"Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could become anangel, as well as any of us, if she were a Christian?"
"Topsy! what a ridiculous idea! Nobody but you would everthink of it. I suppose she could, though."
"But, mamma, isn't God her father, as much as ours? Isn'tJesus her Saviour?"
"Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," said Marie. "Where is my smelling-bottle?"
"It's such a pity,--oh! _such_ a pity!" said Eva, lookingout on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself.
"What's a pity?" said Marie.
"Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live withangels, should go all down, down down, and nobody help them!--oh dear!"
"Well, we can't help it; it's no use worrying, Eva! I don'tknow what's to be done; we ought to be thankful for our ownadvantages."
"I hardly can be," said Eva, "I'm so sorry to think of poorfolks that haven't any."
That's odd enough," said Marie;-- "I'm sure my religionmakes me thankful for my advantages."
"Mamma," said Eva, "I want to have some of my hair cutoff,--a good deal of it."
"What for?" said Marie.
"Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while I amable to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty to come andcut it for me?"
Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from theother room.
The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and,shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather playfully,"Come aunty, shear the sheep!"
"What's that?" said St. Clare, who just then entered withsome fruit he had been out to get for her.
"Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair;--there'stoo much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I want to givesome of it away."
Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors.
"Take care,--don't spoil the looks of it!" said her father;"cut underneath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my pride."
"O, papa!" said Eva, sadly.
"Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I takeyou up to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Henrique," saidSt. Clare, in a gay tone.
"I shall never go there, papa;--I am going to a better country. O, do believe me! Don't you see, papa, that I get weaker,every day?"
"Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing,Eva?" said her father.
"Only because it is _true_, papa: and, if you will believeit now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do."
St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the long,beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from the child'shead, were laid, one by one, in her lap. She raised them up,looked earnestly at them, twined them around her thin fingers,and looked from time to time, anxiously at her father.
"It's just what I've been foreboding!" said Marie; "it's justwhat has been preying on my health, from day to day, bringingme downward to the grave, though nobody regards it. I have seenthis, long. St. Clare, you will see, after a while, that I was right."
"Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt!" saidSt. Clare, in a dry, bitter tone.
Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with hercambric handkerchief.
Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the other. It was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half loosed from itsearthly bonds; it was evident she saw, felt, and appreciated, thedifference between the two.
She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came and satdown by her.
"Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I must go. There are some things I want to say and do,--that I ought to do;and you are so unwilling to have me speak a word on this subject. But it must come; there's no putting it off. Do be willing I shouldspeak now!"
"My child, I _am_ willing!" said St. Clare, covering hiseyes with one hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the other.
"Then, I want to see all our people together. I have somethings I _must_ say to them," said Eva.
"_Well_," said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance.
Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole ofthe servants were convened in the room.
Eva lay back on her pillows; her hair hanging loosely abouther face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully with theintense whiteness of her complexion and the thin contour of herlimbs and features, and her large, soul-like eyes fixed earnestlyon every one.
The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The spiritualface, the long locks of hair cut off and lying by her, herfather's averted face, and Marie's sobs, struck at once uponthe feelings of a sensitive and impressible race; and, as they camein, they looked one on another, sighed, and shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a funeral.
Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round atevery one. All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the womenhid their faces in their aprons.
"I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, "because Ilove you. I love you all; and I have something to say to you,which I want you always to remember. . . . I am going to leave you. In a few more weeks you will see me no more--"
Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, andlamentations, which broke from all present, and in which herslender voice was lost entirely. She waited a moment, and then,speaking in a tone that checked the sobs of all, she said,
"If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen to whatI say. I want to speak to you about your souls. . . . Many ofyou, I am afraid, are very careless. You are thinking only aboutthis world. I want you to remember that there is a beautiful world,where Jesus is. I am going there, and you can go there. It is foryou, as much as me. But, if you want to go there, you must notlive idle, careless, thoughtless lives. You must be Christians. You must remember that each one of you can become angels, and beangels forever. . . . If you want to be Christians, Jesus willhelp you. You must pray to him; you must read--"
The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, andsaid, sorrowfully,
"O dear! you _can't_ read--poor souls!" and she hid her face inthe pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob from those shewas addressing, who were kneeling on the floor, aroused her.
"Never mind," she said, raising her face and smiling brightlythrough her tears, "I have prayed for you; and I know Jesus willhelp you, even if you can't read. Try all to do the best you can;pray every day; ask Him to help you, and get the Bible read to youwhenever you can; and I think I shall see you all in heaven."
"Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom andMammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the Methodistchurch. The younger and more thoughtless ones, for the timecompletely overcome, were sobbing, with their heads bowed upontheir knees.
"I know," said Eva, "you all love me."
"Yes; oh, yes! indeed we do! Lord bless her!" was theinvoluntary answer of all.
"Yes, I know you do! There isn't one of you that hasn't alwaysbeen very kind to me; and I want to give you something that,when you look at, you shall always remember me, I'm going to giveall of you a curl of my hair; and, when you look at it, think thatI loved you and am gone to heaven, and that I want to see you all there."
It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and sobs,they gathered round the little creature, and took from her handswhat seemed to them a last mark of her love. They fell ontheir knees; they sobbed, and prayed, and kissed the hem of hergarment; and the elder ones poured forth words of endearment,mingled in prayers and blessings, after the manner of theirsusceptible race.
As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was apprehensivefor the effect of all this excitement on her little patient,signed to each one to pass out of the apartment.
At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy.
"Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, "is a beautiful one for you. O, I amso happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see you in heaven,--forI'm sure I shall; and Mammy,--dear, good, kind Mammy!" she said,fondly throwing her arms round her old nurse,--"I know you'll bethere, too."
"O, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no how!"said the faithful creature. "'Pears like it's just taking everythingoff the place to oncet!" and Mammy gave way to a passion of grief.
Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the apartment,and thought they were all gone; but, as she turned, Topsy wasstanding there.
"Where did you start up from?" she said, suddenly.
"I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. "O, Miss Eva, I've been a bad girl; but won't you give _me_one, too?"
"Yes, poor Topsy! to be sure, I will. There--every timeyou look at that, think that I love you, and wanted you to be agood girl!"
"O, Miss Eva, I _is_ tryin!" said Topsy, earnestly; "but,Lor, it's so hard to be good! 'Pears like I an't used to it,no ways!"
"Jesus knows it, Topsy; he is sorry for you; he will help you."
Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passedfrom the apartment by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she hid theprecious curl in her bosom.
All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthylady had wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene; butconcern for the consequence of such an excitement to her youngcharge was uppermost in her mind.
St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, withhis hand shading his eyes, in the same attitude.
When they were all gone, he sat so still.
"Papa!" said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his.
He gave a sudden start and shiver; but made no answer.
"Dear papa!" said Eva.
"_I cannot_," said St. Clare, rising, "I _cannot_ have it so! The Almighty hath dealt _very bitterly_ with me!" and St. Clarepronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed.
"Augustine! has not God a right to do what he will withhis own?" said Miss Ophelia.
"Perhaps so; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear,"said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned away.
"Papa, you break my heart!" said Eva, rising and throwingherself into his arms; "you must not feel so!" and the child sobbedand wept with a violence which alarmed them all, and turned herfather's thoughts at once to another channel.
"There, Eva,--there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was wrong; Iwas wicked. I will feel any way, do any way,--only don't distressyourself; don't sob so. I will be resigned; I was wicked to speakas I did."
Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms; andhe, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he couldthink of.
Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into herown, when she fell into violent hysterics.
"You didn't give me a curl, Eva," said her father, smiling sadly.
"They are all yours, papa," said she, smiling--"yours andmamma's; and you must give dear aunty as many as she wants. I onlygave them to our poor people myself, because you know, papa, theymight be forgotten when I am gone, and because I hoped it mighthelp them remember. . . . You are a Christian, are you not, papa?"said Eva, doubtfully.
"Why do you ask me?"
"I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you canhelp it."
"What is being a Christian, Eva?"
"Loving Christ most of all," said Eva.
"Do you, Eva?"
"Certainly I do."
"You never saw him," said St. Clare.
"That makes no difference," said Eva. "I believe him, andin a few days I shall _see_ him;" and the young face grew fervent,radiant with joy.
St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seenbefore in his mother; but no chord within vibrated to it.
Eva, after this, declined rapidly; there was no more anydoubt of the event; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick room; and Miss Ophelia dayand night performed the duties of a nurse,--and never did her friendsappreciate her value more than in that capacity. With so well-traineda hand and eye, such perfect adroitness and practice in every artwhich could promote neatness and comfort, and keep out of sightevery disagreeable incident of sickness,--with such a perfect senseof time, such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy inremembering every prescription and direction of the doctors,-- shewas everything to him. They who had shrugged their shoulders ather little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike the carelessfreedom of southern manners, acknowledged that now she was theexact person that was wanted.
Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered much fromnervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried;and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little frail formin his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and down her room, nowout into the verandah; and when the fresh sea-breezes blew fromthe lake,--and the child felt freshest in the morning,--he wouldsometimes walk with her under the orange-trees in the garden,or, sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to her theirfavorite old hymns.
Her father often did the same thing; but his frame wasslighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him,
"O, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him; andyou know it's all he can do now, and he wants to do something!"
"So do I, Eva!" said her father.
"Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. You read to me,--you sit up nights,--and Tom has only thisone thing, and his singing; and I know, too, he does it easier thanyou can. He carries me so strong!"
The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servantin the establishment showed the same feeling, and in their waydid what they could.
Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling; but shefound no opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that thestate of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to rest; and,of course, it was against her principles to let any one else rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be roused to rub her feet, tobathe her head, to find her pocket-handkerchief, to see what thenoise was in Eva's room, to let down a curtain because it was toolight, or to put it up because it was too dark; and, in the daytime,when she longed to have some share in the nursing of her pet, Marieseemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy anywhere and everywhereall over the house, or about her own person; so that stolen interviewsand momentary glimpses were all she could obtain.
"I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, now,"she would say, "feeble as I am, and with the whole care andnursing of that dear child upon me."
"Indeed, my dear," said St. Clare, "I thought our cousinrelieved you of that."
"You talk like a man, St. Clare,--just as if a mother _could_be relieved of the care of a child in that state; but, then,it's all alike,--no one ever knows what I feel! I can't throwthings off, as you do."
St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he couldn't helpit,--for St. Clare could smile yet. For so bright and placid wasthe farewell voyage of the little spirit,--by such sweet and fragrantbreezes was the small bark borne towards the heavenly shores,--thatit was impossible to realize that it was death that was approaching. The child felt no pain,--only a tranquil, soft weakness, daily andalmost insensibly increasing; and she was so beautiful, so loving,so trustful, so happy, that one could not resist the soothinginfluence of that air of innocence and peace which seemed to breathearound her. St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him. It wasnot hope,--that was impossible; it was not resignation; it wasonly a calm resting in the present, which seemed so beautiful thathe wished to think of no future. It was like that hush of spiritwhich we feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, when the brighthectic flush is on the trees, and the last lingering flowers bythe brook; and we joy in it all the more, because we know that soonit will all pass away.
The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings andforeshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she said whatshe would not disturb her father by saying. To him she impartedthose mysterious intimations which the soul feels, as the cordsbegin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay forever.
Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay allnight in the outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call.
"Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhereand everywhere, like a dog, for?" said Miss Ophelia. "I thoughtyou was one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie in bed in aChristian way."
"I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. "I do, but now--"
"Well, what now?"
"We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on 't;but Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin' forthe bridegroom."
"What do you mean, Tom?"
"You know it says in Scripture, `At midnight there was agreat cry made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That's what I'mspectin now, every night, Miss Feely,--and I couldn't sleep out o'hearin, no ways."
"Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?"
"Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his messengerin the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessedchild goes into the kingdom, they'll open the door so wide, we'llall get a look in at the glory, Miss Feely."
"Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell thanusual tonight?"
"No; but she telled me, this morning, she was comingnearer,--thar's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels,--`it's the trumpet sound afore the break o' day,'"said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.
This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, betweenten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had all beenmade for the night, when, on going to bolt her outer door, shefound Tom stretched along by it, in the outer verandah.
She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heart-feltmanner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful,that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over allher little trinkets and precious things, and designated the friendsto whom she would have them given; and her manner was more animated,and her voice more natural, than they had known it for weeks. Herfather had been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appearedmore like her former self than ever she had done since her sickness;and when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia,--"Cousin,we may keep her with us, after all; she is certainly better;" andhe had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he had had therefor weeks.
But at midnight,--strange, mystic hour!--when the veil betweenthe frail present and the eternal future grows thin,--thencame the messenger!
There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who steppedquickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all nightwith her little charge, and who, at the turn of the night, haddiscerned what experienced nurses significantly call "a change." The outer door was quickly opened, and Tom, who was watching outside,was on the alert, in a moment.
"Go for the doctor, Tom! lose not a moment," said Miss Ophelia;and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. Clare's door.
"Cousin," she said, "I wish you would come."
Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did they? He was up and in the room in an instant, and bendingover Eva, who still slept.
What was it he saw that made his heart stand still? Why wasno word spoken between the two? Thou canst say, who hast seenthat same expression on the face dearest to thee;--that lookindescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that says to thee that thybeloved is no longer thine.
On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastlyimprint,--only a high and almost sublime expression,--the overshadowingpresence of spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in thatchildish soul.
They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even theticking of the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments, Tomreturned, with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, and stoodsilent as the rest.
"When did this change take place?" said he, in a low whisper,to Miss Ophelia.
"About the turn of the night," was the reply.
Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared,hurriedly, from the next room.
"Augustine! Cousin!--O!--what!" she hurriedly began.
"Hush!" said St. Clare, hoarsely; _"she is dying!"_
Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. The house was soon roused,--lights were seen, footsteps heard,anxious faces thronged the verandah, and looked tearfully throughthe glass doors; but St. Clare heard and said nothing,--he sawonly _that look_ on the face of the little sleeper.
"O, if she would only wake, and speak once more!" he said;and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear,--"Eva, darling!"
The large blue eyes unclosed--a smile passed over herface;--she tried to raise her head, and to speak.
"Do you know me, Eva?"
"Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing herarms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again; and, asSt. Clare raised his head, he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass overthe face,--she struggled for breath, and threw up her little hands.
"O, God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony,and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. "O, Tom, my boy, it is killing me!"
Tom had his master's hands between his own; and, with tearsstreaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he hadalways been used to look.
"Pray that this may be cut short!" said St. Clare,--"thiswrings my heart."
"O, bless the Lord! it's over,--it's over, dear Master!"said Tom; "look at her."
The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted,--thelarge clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes,that spoke so much of heaven! Earth was past,--and earthly pain;but so solemn, so mysterious, was the triumphant brightness ofthat face, that it checked even the sobs of sorrow. They pressedaround her, in breathless stillness.
"Eva," said St. Clare, gently.
She did not hear.
"O, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?" said her father.
A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and shesaid, brokenly,--"O! love,--joy,--peace!" gave one sigh and passedfrom death unto life!
"Farewell, beloved child! the bright, eternal doors have closedafter thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. O, woe for themwho watched thy entrance into heaven, when they shall wake andfind only the cold gray sky of daily life, and thou gone forever!"
CHAPTER XXVII
"This Is the Last of Earth"[1]
[1] "This is the last of Earth! I am content," last words ofJohn Quincy Adams, uttered February 21, 1848.
The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded inwhite napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled footfallswere heard there, and the light stole in solemnly through windowspartially darkened by closed blinds.
The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the droopingangel-figure, lay a little sleeping form,--sleeping never to waken!
There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she hadbeen wont to wear when living; the rose-colored light throughthe curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a warm glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure cheek; the headwas turned a little to one side, as if in natural steep, butthere was diffused over every lineament of the face that highcelestial expression, that mingling of rapture and repose, whichshowed it was no earthly or temporary sleep, but the long, sacredrest which "He giveth to his beloved."
There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva! neither darknessnor shadow of death; only such a bright fading as when the morningstar fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the victory without thebattle,--the crown without the conflict.
So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stoodthere gazing. Ah! who shall say what he did think? for, from thehour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, "she is gone," ithad been all a dreary mist, a heavy "dimness of anguish." He hadheard voices around him; he had had questions asked, and answeredthem; they had asked him when he would have the funeral, and wherethey should lay her; and he had answered, impatiently, that hecared not.
Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber; volatile, fickleand childish, as they generally were, they were soft-hearted andfull of feeling; and, while Miss Ophelia presided over the generaldetails of order and neatness, it was their hands that added thosesoft, poetic touches to the arrangements, that took from thedeath-room the grim and ghastly air which too often marks a NewEngland funeral.
There were still flowers on the shelves,--all white, delicateand fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's little table,covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase, with a singlewhite moss rose-bud in it. The folds of the drapery, the fall ofthe curtains, had been arranged and rearranged, by Adolph and Rosa,with that nicety of eye which characterizes their race. Even now,while St. Clare stood there thinking, little Rosa tripped softlyinto the chamber with a basket of white flowers. She stepped backwhen she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully; but, seeing thathe did not observe her, she came forward to place them aroundthe dead. St. Clare saw her as in a dream, while she placed inthe small hands a fair cape jessamine, and, with admirable taste,disposed other flowers around the couch.
The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled withcrying, appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa made aquick forbidding gesture; but she took a step into the room.
"You must go out," said Rosa, in a sharp, positive whisper;"_you_ haven't any business here!"
"O, do let me! I brought a flower,--such a pretty one!"said Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. "Do let me putjust one there."
"Get along!" said Rosa, more decidedly.
"Let her stay!" said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his foot. "She shall come."
Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid heroffering at the feet of the corpse; then suddenly, with a wildand bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside the bed,and wept, and moaned aloud.
Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raiseand silence her; but in vain.
"O, Miss Eva! oh, Miss Eva! I wish I 's dead, too,--I do!"
There was a piercing wildness in the cry; the blood flushedinto St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first tears hehad shed since Eva died stood in his eyes.
"Get up, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice;"don't cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven; she is an angel."
"But I can't see her!" said Topsy. "I never shall seeher!" and she sobbed again.
They all stood a moment in silence.
"_She_ said she _loved_ me," said Topsy,-- "she did! O, dear!oh, dear! there an't _nobody_ left now,--there an't!"
"That's true enough" said St. Clare; "but do," he said toMiss Ophelia, "see if you can't comfort the poor creature."
"I jist wish I hadn't never been born," said Topsy. "I didn'twant to be born, no ways; and I don't see no use on 't."
Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her fromthe room; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her eyes.
"Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into herroom, "don't give up! _I_ can love you, though I am not like thatdear little child. I hope I've learnt something of the love ofChrist from her. I can love you; I do, and I'll try to help youto grow up a good Christian girl."
Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and more thanthat were the honest tears that fell down her face. From thathour, she acquired an influence over the mind of the destitutechild that she never lost.
"O, my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much of good,"thought St. Clare, "what account have I to give for my long years?"
There were, for a while, soft whisperings and footfalls in thechamber, as one after another stole in, to look at the dead;and then came the little coffin; and then there was a funeral, andcarriages drove to the door, and strangers came and were seated;and there were white scarfs and ribbons, and crape bands, andmourners dressed in black crape; and there were words read fromthe Bible, and prayers offered; and St. Clare lived, and walked,and moved, as one who has shed every tear;--to the last he saw onlyone thing, that golden head in the coffin; but then he saw thecloth spread over it, the lid of the coffin closed; and he walked,when he was put beside the others, down to a little place at thebottom of the garden, and there, by the mossy seat where she andTom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the little grave. St. Clare stood beside it,--looked vacantly down; he saw them lowerthe little coffin; he heard, dimly, the solemn words, "I am theresurrection and the Life; he that believeth in me, though he weredead, yet shall he live;" and, as the earth was cast in and filledup the little grave, he could not realize that it was his Eva thatthey were hiding from his sight.
Nor was it!--not Eva, but only the frail seed of that bright,immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in theday of the Lord Jesus!
And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to the placewhich should know her no more; and Marie's room was darkened,and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning in uncontrollable grief,and calling every moment for the attentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no time to cry,--why should they? the griefwas _her_ grief, and she was fully convinced that nobody on earthdid, could, or would feel it as she did.
"St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said; "he didn'tsympathize with her; it was perfectly wonderful to think howhard-hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how shesuffered."
So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that manyof the servants really thought that Missis was the principalsufferer in the case, especially as Marie began to have hystericalspasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last declared herself dying;and, in the running and scampering, and bringing up hot bottles,and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing, that ensued,there was quite a diversion.
Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew himto his master. He followed him wherever he walked, wistfullyand sadly; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and quiet, in Eva'sroom, holding before his eyes her little open Bible, though seeingno letter or word of what was in it, there was more sorrow to Tomin that still, fixed, tearless eye, than in all Marie's moans andlamentations.
In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the city;Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for anotherscene, to change the current of his thoughts. So they left thehouse and garden, with its little grave, and came back to NewOrleans; and St. Clare walked the streets busily, and strove tofill up the chasm in his heart with hurry and bustle, and changeof place; and people who saw him in the street, or met him at thecafe, knew of his loss only by the weed on his hat; for there hewas, smiling and talking, and reading the newspaper, and speculatingon politics, and attending to business matters; and who could seethat all this smiling outside was but a hollowed shell over a heartthat was a dark and silent sepulchre?
"Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss Ophelia,in a complaining tone. "I used to think, if there was anythingin the world he did love, it was our dear little Eva; but heseems to be forgetting her very easily. I cannot ever get himto talk about her. I really did think he would show more feeling!"
"Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me," said MissOphelia, oracularly.
"O, I don't believe in such things; it's all talk. If peoplehave feeling, they will show it,--they can't help it; but,then, it's a great misfortune to have feeling. I'd rather havebeen made like St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me so!"
"Sure, Missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shader. They say, he don't never eat nothin'," said Mammy. "I know hedon't forget Miss Eva; I know there couldn't nobody,--dear, little,blessed cretur!" she added, wiping her eyes.
"Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me," saidMarie; "he hasn't spoken one word of sympathy, and he must knowhow much more a mother feels than any man can."
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness," said Miss Ophelia,gravely.
"That's just what I think. I know just what I feel,--nobodyelse seems to. Eva used to, but she is gone!" and Marie lay backon her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately.
Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals,in whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value which itnever had in possession. Whatever she had, she seemed to surveyonly to pick flaws in it; but, once fairly away, there was noend to her valuation of it.
While this conversation was taking place in the parloranother was going on in St. Clare's library.
Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, had seenhim go to his library, some hours before; and, after vainly waitingfor him to come out, determined, at last, to make an errand in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on his lounge, at the furtherend of the room. He was lying on his face, with Eva's Bible openbefore him, at a little distance. Tom walked up, and stood bythe sofa. He hesitated; and, while he was hesitating, St. Claresuddenly raised himself up. The honest face, so full of grief, andwith such an imploring expression of affection and sympathy, struckhis master. He laid his hand on Tom's, and bowed down his foreheadon it.
"O, Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an egg-shell."
"I know it, Mas'r,--I know it," said Tom; "but, oh, if Mas'rcould only look up,--up where our dear Miss Eva is,--up tothe dear Lord Jesus!"
"Ah, Tom! I do look up; but the trouble is, I don't seeanything, when I do, I wish I could."
Tom sighed heavily.
"It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows,like you, to see what we can't," said St. Clare. "How comes it?"
"Thou has `hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed untobabes,'" murmured Tom; "`even so, Father, for so it seemed good inthy sight.'"
"Tom, I don't believe,--I can't believe,--I've got thehabit of doubting," said St. Clare. "I want to believe thisBible,--and I can't."
"Dear Mas'r, pray to the good Lord,--`Lord, I believe; helpthou my unbelief.'"
"Who knows anything about anything?" said St. Clare, his eyeswandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. "Was all thatbeautiful love and faith only one of the ever-shifting phasesof human feeling, having nothing real to rest on, passing awaywith the little breath? And is there no more Eva,--no heaven,--noChrist,--nothing?"
"O, dear Mas'r, there is! I know it; I'm sure of it," saidTom, falling on his knees. "Do, do, dear Mas'r, believe it!"
"How do you know there's any Christ, Tom! You never sawthe Lord."
"Felt Him in my soul, Mas'r,--feel Him now! O, Mas'r, whenI was sold away from my old woman and the children, I was jesta'most broke up. I felt as if there warn't nothin' left; and thenthe good Lord, he stood by me, and he says, `Fear not, Tom;' andhe brings light and joy in a poor feller's soul,--makes all peace;and I 's so happy, and loves everybody, and feels willin' jest tobe the Lord's, and have the Lord's will done, and be put jest wherethe Lord wants to put me. I know it couldn't come from me, causeI 's a poor, complainin'cretur; it comes from the Lord; and I knowHe's willin' to do for Mas'r."
Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St. Clareleaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard, faithful,black hand.
"Tom, you love me," he said.
"I 's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, tosee Mas'r a Christian."
"Poor, foolish boy!" said St. Clare, half-raising himself. "I'm not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like yours."
"O, Mas'r, dere's more than me loves you,--the blessed LordJesus loves you."
"How do you know that Tom?" said St. Clare.
"Feels it in my soul. O, Mas'r! `the love of Christ, thatpasseth knowledge.'"
"Singular!" said St. Clare, turning away, "that the story of aman that lived and died eighteen hundred years ago can affectpeople so yet. But he was no man," he added, suddenly. "No manever had such long and living power! O, that I could believewhat my mother taught me, and pray as I did when I was a boy!"
"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, "Miss Eva used to read thisso beautifully. I wish Mas'r'd be so good as read it. Don't getno readin', hardly, now Miss Eva's gone."
The chapter was the eleventh of John,--the touching accountof the raising of Lazarus, St. Clare read it aloud, often pausingto wrestle down feelings which were roused by the pathos ofthe story. Tom knelt before him, with clasped hands, and with anabsorbed expression of love, trust, adoration, on his quiet face.
"Tom," said his Master, "this is all _real_ to you!"
"I can jest fairly _see_ it Mas'r," said Tom.
"I wish I had your eyes, Tom."
"I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas'r had!"
"But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal more knowledge thanyou; what if I should tell you that I don't believe this Bible?"
"O, Mas'r!" said Tom, holding up his hands, with a deprecating gesture.
"Wouldn't it shake your faith some, Tom?"
"Not a grain," said Tom.
"Why, Tom, you must know I know the most."
"O, Mas'r, haven't you jest read how he hides from the wiseand prudent, and reveals unto babes? But Mas'r wasn't in earnest,for sartin, now?" said Tom, anxiously.
"No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think thereis reason to believe; and still I don't. It's a troublesome badhabit I've got, Tom."
"If Mas'r would only pray!"
"How do you know I don't, Tom?"
"Does Mas'r?"
"I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray; but it'sall speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, Tom, you pray now,and show me how."
Tom's heart was full; he poured it out In prayer, like watersthat have been long suppressed. One thing was plain enough;Tom thought there was somebody to hear, whether there were or not. In fact, St. Clare felt himself borne, on the tide of his faithand feeling, almost to the gates of that heaven he seemed so vividlyto conceive. It seemed to bring him nearer to Eva.
"Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose. "I liketo hear you, Tom; but go, now, and leave me alone; some othertime, I'll talk more."
Tom silently left the room.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Reunion
Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, andthe waves of life settled back to their usual flow, where thatlittle bark had gone down. For how imperiously, how coolly, indisregard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold, uninterestingcourse of daily realities move on! Still must we eat, and drink,and sleep, and wake again,--still bargain, buy, sell, ask and answerquestions,--pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all interestin them be over; the cold mechanical habit of living remaining,after all vital interest in it has fled.
All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life hadunconsciously wound themselves around this child. It was for Evathat he had managed his property; it was for Eva that he had plannedthe disposal of his time; and, to do this and that for Eva,--tobuy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose something for her,--hadbeen so long his habit, that now she was gone, there seemed nothingto be thought of, and nothing to be done.
True, there was another life,--a life which, once believedin, stands as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwiseunmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to orders of mysterious,untold value. St. Clare knew this well; and often, in many a wearyhour, he heard that slender, childish voice calling him to theskies, and saw that little hand pointing to him the way of life;but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him,--he could not arise. He had one of those natures which could better and more clearlyconceive of religious things from its own perceptions andinstincts, than many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. The gift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades andrelations of moral things, often seems an attribute of those whosewhole life shows a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron,Goethe, often speak words more wisely descriptive of the truereligious sentiment, than another man, whose whole life is governedby it. In such minds, disregard of religion is a more fearfultreason,--a more deadly sin.
St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by anyreligious obligation; and a certain fineness of nature gave himsuch an instinctive view of the extent of the requirements ofChristianity, that he shrank, by anticipation, from what he feltwould be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did resolveto assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature, especiallyin the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems betterthan to undertake and come short.
Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He readhis little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly; he thought moresoberly and practically of his relations to his servants,--enoughto make him extremely dissatisfied with both his past and presentcourse; and one thing he did, soon after his return to New Orleans,and that was to commence the legal steps necessary to Tom'semancipation, which was to be perfected as soon as he could getthrough the necessary formalities. Meantime, he attached himselfto Tom more and more, every day. In all the wide world, there wasnothing that seemed to remind him so much of Eva; and he wouldinsist on keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious andunapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings, healmost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one have wondered atit, who had seen the expression of affection and devotion withwhich Tom continually followed his young master.
"Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commencedthe legal formalities for his enfranchisement, "I'm going to makea free man of you;--so have your trunk packed, and get ready toset out for Kentuck."
The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raisedhis hands to heaven, his emphatic "Bless the Lord!" ratherdiscomposed St. Clare; he did not like it that Tom should be soready to leave him.
"You haven't had such very bad times here, that you needbe in such a rapture, Tom," he said drily.
"No, no, Mas'r! 'tan't that,--it's bein' a _freeman!_ that'swhat I'm joyin' for."
"Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've beenbetter off than to be free?"
"_No, indeed_, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a flash of energy. "No, indeed!"
"Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your work,such clothes and such living as I have given you."
"Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare; Mas'r's been too good; but,Mas'r, I'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything,and have 'em _mine_, than have the best, and have 'em any man'selse,--I had _so_, Mas'r; I think it's natur, Mas'r."
"I suppose so, Tom, and you'll be going off and leaving me,in a month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. "Though whyyou shouldn't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone; and,getting up, he began to walk the floor.
"Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. "I'll stay withMas'r as long as he wants me,--so as I can be any use."
"Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?" said St. Clare, looking sadlyout of the window. . . . "And when will _my_ trouble be over?"
"When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom.
"And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?" saidSt. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laidhis hand on Tom's shoulder. "Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy! I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your wife and children,and give my love to all."
"I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, earnestly,and with tears in his eyes; "the Lord has a work for Mas'r."
"A work, hey?" said St. Clare, "well, now, Tom, give meyour views on what sort of a work it is;--let's hear."
"Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord; andMas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends,--howmuch he might do for the Lord!"
"Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal donefor him," said St. Clare, smiling.
"We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," said Tom.
"Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dareswear," said St. Clare.
The conversation was here interrupted by the announcementof some visitors.
Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she couldfeel anything; and, as she was a woman that had a great faculty ofmaking everybody unhappy when she was, her immediate attendantshad still stronger reason to regret the loss of their young mistress,whose winning ways and gentle intercessions had so often been ashield to them from the tyrannical and selfish exactions of hermother. Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed fromall natural domestic ties, had consoled itself with this onebeautiful being, was almost heart-broken. She cried day and night,and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in herministrations of her mistress than usual, which drew down aconstant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.
Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest heart,it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was more softened,more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it waswith a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her ownheart not in vain. She was more diligent in teaching Topsy,--taughther mainly from the Bible,--did not any longer shrink from hertouch, or manifest an ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none. She viewed her now through the softened medium that Eva's hand hadfirst held before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal creature,whom God had sent to be led by her to glory and virtue. Topsy didnot become at once a saint; but the life and death of Eva did worka marked change in her. The callous indifference was gone; therewas now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good,--astrife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed again.
One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, shecame, hastily thrusting something into her bosom.
"What are you doing there, you limb? You've been stealingsomething, I'll be bound," said the imperious little Rosa, who hadbeen sent to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly bythe arm.
"You go 'long, Miss Rosa!" said Topsy, pulling from her;"'tan't none o' your business!"
"None o' your sa'ce!" said Rosa, "I saw you hiding something,--Iknow yer tricks," and Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force herhand into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged, kicked and foughtvaliantly for what she considered her rights. The clamor andconfusion of the battle drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare bothto the spot.
"She's been stealing!" said Rosa.
"I han't, neither!" vociferated Topsy, sobbing with passion.
"Give me that, whatever it is!" said Miss Ophelia, firmly.
Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of herbosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her ownold stockings.
Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, whichhad been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse ofScripture, arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper thecurl of hair that she had given her on that memorable day when shehad taken her last farewell.
St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; thelittle book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, tornfrom the funeral weeds.
"What did you wrap _this_ round the book for?" said St.Clare, holding up the crape.
"Cause,--cause,--cause 't was Miss Eva. O, don't take 'emaway, please!" she said; and, sitting flat down on the floor, andputting her apron over her head, she began to sob vehemently.
It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,--thelittle old stockings,--black crape,--text-book,--fair, soft curl,--andTopsy's utter distress.
St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said,
"Come, come,--don't cry; you shall have them!" and, puttingthem together, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Opheliawith him into the parlor.
"I really think you can make something of that concern,"he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. "Any mind that is capable of a _real sorrow_ is capable of good. You must try and do something with her."
"The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. "I havegreat hopes of her; but, Augustine," she said, laying her handon his arm, "one thing I want to ask; whose is this child tobe?--yours or mine?"
"Why, I gave her to you, " said Augustine.
"But not legally;--I want her to be mine legally," saidMiss Ophelia.
"Whew! cousin," said Augustine. "What will the AbolitionSociety think? They'll have a day of fasting appointed for thisbacksliding, if you become a slaveholder!"
"O, nonsense! I want her mine, that I may have a right totake her to the free States, and give her her liberty, that all Iam trying to do be not undone."
"O, cousin, what an awful `doing evil that good may come'! I can't encourage it."
"I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia. "There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child,unless I save her from all the chances and reverses of slavery;and, if you really are willing I should have her, I want you togive me a deed of gift, or some legal paper."
"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will;" and he sat down,and unfolded a newspaper to read.
"But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia.
"What's your hurry?"
"Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thingin," said Miss Ophelia. "Come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink;just write a paper."
St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordiallyhated the present tense of action, generally; and, therefore, hewas considerably annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness.
"Why, what's the matter?" said he. "Can't you take my word? One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming ata fellow so!"
"I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. "You may die,or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite ofall I can do."
"Really, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I'm in thehands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;" andSt. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was wellversed in the forms of law, he could easily do, and signed his nameto it in sprawling capitals, concluding by a tremendous flourish.
"There, isn't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont?" hesaid, as he handed it to her.
"Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling. "But must it notbe witnessed?"
"O, bother!--yes. Here," he said, opening the door intoMarie's apartment, "Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; just putyour name down here."
"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper. "Ridiculous! I thought Cousin was too pious for such horrid things,"she added, as she carelessly wrote her name; "but, if she has afancy for that article, I am sure she's welcome."
"There, now, she's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare,handing the paper.
"No more mine now than she was before," Miss Ophelia. "Nobody but God has a right to give her to me; but I can protecther now."
"Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare,as he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his paper.
Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, followedhim into the parlor, having first carefully laid away the paper.
"Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have youever made any provision for your servants, in case of your death?"
"No," said St. Clare, as he read on.
"Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty,by and by."
St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but heanswered, negligently.
"Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by."
"When?" said Miss Ophelia.
"O, one of these days."
"What if you should die first?"
"Cousin, what's the matter?" said St. Clare, laying down hispaper and looking at her. "Do you think I show symptomsof yellow fever or cholera, that you are making post mortemarrangements with such zeal?"
"`In the midst of life we are in death,'" said Miss Ophelia.
St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly,walked to the door that stood open on the verandah, to put an endto a conversation that was not agreeable to him. Mechanically, herepeated the last word again,--_"Death!"_--and, as he leaned againstthe railings, and watched the sparkling water as it rose and fellin the fountain; and, as in a dim and dizzy haze, saw flowers andtrees and vases of the courts, he repeated, again the mystic wordso common in every mouth, yet of such fearful power,--"DEATH!""Strange that there should be such a word," he said, "and such athing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warm andbeautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the nextbe gone, utterly gone, and forever!"
It was a warm, golden evening; and, as he walked to the otherend of the verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his Bible,pointing, as he did so, with his finger to each successive word,and whispering them to himself with an earnest air.
"Want me to read to you, Tom?" said St. Clare, seatinghimself carelessly by him.
"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, "Mas'r makes itso much plainer."
St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and beganreading one of the passages which Tom had designated by the heavymarks around it. It ran as follows:
"When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all hisholy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of hisglory: and before him shall be gathered all nations; and he shallseparate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheepfrom the goats." St. Clare read on in an animated voice, till hecame to the last of the verses.
"Then shall the king say unto him on his left hand, Departfrom me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire: for I was an hungered,and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: Iwas a stranger, an ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not:I was sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not. Then shall theyanswer unto Him, Lord when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, ora stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not ministerunto thee? Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it notto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me."
St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read ittwice,--the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving thewords in his mind.
"Tom," he said, "these folks that get such hard measure seemto have been doing just what I have,--living good, easy,respectable lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire how manyof their brethren were hungry or athirst, or sick, or in prison."
Tom did not answer.
St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down theverandah, seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; soabsorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him twice that the teabellhad rung, before he could get his attention.
St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After tea,he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parloralmost in silence.
Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquitocurtain, and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busiedherself with her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the piano, andbegan playing a soft and melancholy movement with the AEolianaccompaniment. He seemed in a deep reverie, and to be soliloquizingto himself by music. After a little, he opened one of the drawers,took out an old music-book whose leaves were yellow with age, andbegan turning it over.
"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother'sbooks,--and here is her handwriting,--come and look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's Requiem." MissOphelia came accordingly.
"It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. "I think I can hear her now."
He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing thatgrand old Latin piece, the "Dies Irae."
Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by thesound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He did notunderstand the words, of course; but the music and manner of singingappeared to affect him strongly, especially when St. Clare sangthe more pathetic parts. Tom would have sympathized more heartily,if he had known the meaning of the beautiful words:
Recordare Jesu pie Quod sum causa tuar viae Ne me perdas, illa die Querens me sedisti lassus Redemisti crucem passus Tantus laor non sit cassus.[1]
[1] These lines have been thus rather inadequately translated:
Think, O Jesus, for what reason Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason, Nor me lose, in that dread season; Seeking me, thy wom feet hasted, On the cross thy soul death tasted, Let not all these toils be wasted. [Mrs. Stowe's note.]
St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the words;for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemedto hear his mother's voice leading his. Voice and instrumentseemed both living, and threw out with vivid sympathy those strainswhich the ethereal Mozart first conceived as his own dying requiem.
When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon hishand a few moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.
"What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!"said he,--"a righting of all the wrongs of ages!--a solving ofall moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom! It is, indeed,a wonderful image."
"It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia.
"It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare stopping,thoughtfully. "I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapterin Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struckwith it. One should have expected some terrible enormities chargedto those who are excluded from Heaven, as the reason; but no,--theyare condemned for _not_ doing positive good, as if that includedevery possible harm."
"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a personwho does no good not to do harm."
"And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but withdeep feeling, "what shall be said of one whose own heart, whoseeducation, and the wants of society, have called in vain to somenoble purpose; who has floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator ofthe struggles, agonies, and wrongs of man, when he should have beena worker?"
"I should say," said Miss Ophelia, "that he ought to repent,and begin now."
"Always practical and to the point!" said St. Clare, his facebreaking out into a smile. "You never leave me any time forgeneral reflections, Cousin; you always bring me short up againstthe actual present; you have a kind of eternal _now_, always inyour mind."
"_Now_ is all the time I have anything to do with," saidMiss Ophelia.
"Dear little Eva,--poor child!" said St. Clare, "she hadset her little simple soul on a good work for me."
It was the first time since Eva's death that he had eversaid as many words as these to her, and he spoke now evidentlyrepressing very strong feeling.
"My view of Christianity is such," he added, "that I think noman can consistently profess it without throwing the whole weightof his being against this monstrous system of injustice that liesat the foundation of all our society; and, if need be, sacrificinghimself in the battle. That is, I mean that _I_ could not be aChristian otherwise, though I have certainly had intercourse witha great many enlightened and Christian people who did no such thing;and I confess that the apathy of religious people on this subject,their want of perception of wrongs that filled me with horror, haveengendered in me more scepticism than any other thing."
"If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't youdo it?"
"O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence whichconsists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy fornot being martyrs and confessors. One can see, you know, veryeasily, how others ought to be martyrs."
"Well, are you going to do differently now?" said Miss Ophelia.
"God only knows the future," said St. Clare. "I am braver thanI was, because I have lost all; and he who has nothing to losecan afford all risks."
"And what are you going to do?"
"My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I findit out," said St. Clare, "beginning with my own servants, for whomI have yet done nothing; and, perhaps, at some future day, it mayappear that I can do something for a whole class; something to savemy country from the disgrace of that false position in which shenow stands before all civilized nations."
"Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever willvoluntarily emancipate?" said Miss Ophelia.
"I don't know," said St. Clare. "This is a day of great deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and there,in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs,at an immense pecuniary loss; and, perhaps, among us may befound generous spirits, who do not estimate honor and justiceby dollars and cents."
"I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia.
"But, suppose we should rise up tomorrow and emancipate, who wouldeducate these millions, and teach them how to use their freedom? They never would rise to do much among us. The fact is, we aretoo lazy and unpractical, ourselves, ever to give them much ofan idea of that industry and energy which is necessary to formthem into men. They will have to go north, where labor is thefashion,--the universal custom; and tell me, now, is there enoughChristian philanthropy, among your northern states, to bear withthe process of their education and elevation? You send thousandsof dollars to foreign missions; but could you endure to have theheathen sent into your towns and villages, and give your time, andthoughts, and money, to raise them to the Christian standard? That's what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willingto educate? How many families, in your town, would take a negroman and woman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to makethem Christians? How many merchants would take Adolph, if I wantedto make him a clerk; or mechanics, if I wanted him taught a trade? If I wanted to put Jane and Rosa to a school, how many schools arethere in the northern states that would take them in? how many familiesthat would board them? and yet they are as white as many a woman,north or south. You see, Cousin, I want justice done us. We arein a bad position. We are the more _obvious_ oppressors of thenegro; but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressoralmost equally severe."
"Well, Cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia,--"I know itwas so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to overcome it;but, I trust I have overcome it; and I know there are many goodpeople at the north, who in this matter need only to be _taught_what their duty is, to do it. It would certainly be a greaterself-denial to receive heathen among us, than to send missionariesto them; but I think we would do it."
"_You_ would I know," said St. Clare. "I'd like to seeanything you wouldn't do, if you thought it your duty!"
"Well, I'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia. "Otherswould, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take Topsy home,when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at first; but I thinkthey will be brought to see as I do. Besides, I know there aremany people at the north who do exactly what you said."
"Yes, but they are a minority; and, if we should begin toemancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you."
Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some moments;and St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad, dreamy expression.
"I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much, tonight,"he said." I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she werenear me. I keep thinking of things she used to say. Strange, whatbrings these past things so vividly back to us, sometimes!"
St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutesmore, and then said,
"I believe I'll go down street, a few moments, and hearthe news, tonight."
He took his hat, and passed out.
Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, andasked if he should attend him.
"No, my boy," said St. Clare. "I shall be back in an hour."
Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moonlightevening, and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of thefountain, and listening to its murmur. Tom thought of his home,and that he should soon be a free man, and able to return to itat will. He thought how he should work to buy his wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his brawny arms with a sort of joy, as hethought they would soon belong to himself, and how much they coulddo to work out the freedom of his family. Then he thought of hisnoble young master, and, ever second to that, came the habitualprayer that he had always offered for him; and then his thoughtspassed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought of among theangels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that bright faceand golden hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming boundingtowards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath of jessaminein her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant with delight;but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the ground; her cheekswore a paler hue,--her eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a goldenhalo seemed around her head,--and she vanished from his sight; andTom was awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices atthe gate.
He hastened to undo it; and, with smothered voices and heavytread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak,and lying on a shutter. The light of the lamp fell full on theface; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement and despair, that rungthrough all the galleries, as the men advanced, with their burden,to the open parlor door, where Miss Ophelia still sat knitting.
St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in theroom, who were both partially intoxicated. St. Clare and oneor two others made an effort to separate them, and St. Clarereceived a fatal stab in the side with a bowie-knife, which he wasattempting to wrest from one of them.
The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks andscreams, servants frantically tearing their hair, throwingthemselves on the ground, or running distractedly about, lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have any presence of mind;for Marie was in strong hysteric convulsions. At Miss Ophelia'sdirection, one of the lounges in the parlor was hastily prepared,and the bleeding form laid upon it. St. Clare had fainted,through pain and loss of blood; but, as Miss Ophelia appliedrestoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly on them,looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling wistfullyover every object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture.
The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It wasevident, from the expression of his face, that there was no hope;but he applied himself to dressing the wound, and he and MissOphelia and Tom proceeded composedly with this work, amid thelamentations and sobs and cries of the affrighted servants, whohad clustered about the doors and windows of the verandah.
"Now," said the physician, "we must turn all these creaturesout; all depends on his being kept quiet."
St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressedbeings, whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urgefrom the apartment. "Poor creatures!" he said, and an expressionof bitter self-reproach passed over his face. Adolph absolutelyrefused to go. Terror had deprived him of all presence of mind;he threw himself along the floor, and nothing could persuade himto rise. The rest yielded to Miss Ophelia's urgent representations,that their master's safety depended on their stillness and obedience.
St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, butit was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After awhile, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling beside him,and said, "Tom! poor fellow!"
"What, Mas'r?" said Tom, earnestly.
"I am dying!" said St. Clare, pressing his hand; "pray!"
"If you would like a clergyman--" said the physician.
St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom,more earnestly, "Pray!"
And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soulthat was passing,--the soul that seemed looking so steadilyand mournfully from those large, melancholy blue eyes. It wasliterally prayer offered with strong crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand,looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes,but still retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity,the black hand and the white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at broken intervals,
"Recordare Jesu pie-- * * * * Ne me perdas--illa die Querens me--sedisti lassus."
It was evident that the words he had been singing that eveningwere passing through his mind,--words of entreaty addressedto Infinite Pity. His lips moved at intervals, as parts of thehymn fell brokenly from them.
"His mind is wandering," said the doctor.
"No! it is coming HOME, at last!" said St. Clare, energetically;"at last! at last!"
The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking palenessof death fell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from thewings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, likethat of a wearied child who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty handwas on him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes, witha sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and said _"Mother!"_and then he was gone!
CHAPTER XXIX
The Unprotected
We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, onthe loss of a kind master; and with good reason, for no creatureon God's earth is left more utterly unprotected and desolate thanthe slave in these circumstances.
The child who has lost a father has still the protection offriends, and of the law; he is something, and can do something,--hasacknowledged rights and position; the slave has none. The lawregards him, in every respect, as devoid of rights as a bale ofmerchandise. The only possible ackowledgment of any of the longingsand wants of a human and immortal creature, which are given to him,comes to him through the sovereign and irresponsible will of hismaster; and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains.
The number of those men who know how to use wholly irresponsiblepower humanely and generously is small. Everybody knows this,and the slave knows it best of all; so that he feels that thereare ten chances of his finding an abusive and tyrannical master,to one of his finding a considerate and kind one. Therefore isit that the wail over a kind master is loud and long, as wellit may be.
When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternationtook hold of all his household. He had been stricken down so ina moment, in the flower and strength of his youth! Every roomand gallery of the house resounded with sobs and shrieks of despair.
Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a constantcourse of self-indulgence, had nothing to support the terror ofthe shock, and, at the time her husband breathed his last, waspassing from one fainting fit to another; and he to whom she hadbeen joined in the mysterious tie of marriage passed from herforever, without the possibility of even a parting word.
Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control,had remained with her kinsman to the last,--all eye, all ear, allattention; doing everything of the little that could be done, andjoining with her whole soul in the tender and impassioned prayerswhich the poor slave had poured forth for the soul of his dying master.
When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found uponhis bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with a spring. It was the miniature of a noble and beautiful female face; and onthe reverse, under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. They laid themback on the lifeless breast,--dust to dust,--poor mournful relicsof early dreams, which once made that cold heart beat so warmly!
Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and whilehe ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once thinkthat the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He feltat peace about his master; for in that hour, when he had pouredforth his prayer into the bosom of his Father, he had found ananswer of quietness and assurance springing up within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature, he felt able toperceive something of the fulness of Divine love; for an old oraclehath thus written,--"He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, andGod in him." Tom hoped and trusted, and was at peace.
But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape,and prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool,muddy waves of every-day life; and up came the everlastinghard inquiry of "What is to be done next?"
It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes,and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a greateasy-chair, and inspected samples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her thoughts towardsher northern home. It rose, in silent terrors, to the minds ofthe servants, who well knew the unfeeling, tyrannical character ofthe mistress in whose hands they were left. All knew, very well,that the indulgences which had been accorded to them were not fromtheir mistress, but from their master; and that, now he was gone,there would be no screen between them and every tyrannous inflictionwhich a temper soured by affliction might devise.
It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia,busied one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon,whom we have before often noticed, her hair in disorder,and her eyes swelled with crying.
"O, Miss Feeley," she said, falling on her knees, and catchingthe skirt of her dress, "_do, do go_ to Miss Marie for me! doplead for me! She's goin' to send me out to be whipped--look there!" And she handed to Miss Ophelia a paper.
It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, to themaster of a whipping-establishment to give the bearer fifteen lashes.
"What have you been doing?" said Miss Ophelia.
"You know, Miss Feely, I've got such a bad temper; it's verybad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, and she slappedmy face; and I spoke out before I thought, and was saucy; and shesaid that she'd bring me down, and have me know, once for all, thatI wasn't going to be so topping as I had been; and she wrote this,and says I shall carry it. I'd rather she'd kill me, right out."
Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand.
"You see, Miss Feely," said Rosa, "I don't mind the whippingso much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it; but, to be sent to a_man!_ and such a horrid man,--the shame of it, Miss Feely!"
Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to sendwomen and young girls to whipping-houses, to the hands of thelowest of men,--men vile enough to make this their profession,--thereto be subjected to brutal exposure and shameful correction. She had_known_ it before; but hitherto she had never realized it, tillshe saw the slender form of Rosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest blood of womanhood, the strong New England blood ofliberty, flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in herindignant heart; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, shemastered herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, shemerely said to Rosa,
"Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress."
"Shameful! monstrous! outrageous!" she said to herself, asshe was crossing the parlor.
She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammystanding by her, combing her hair; Jane sat on the ground beforeher, busy in chafing her feet.
"How do you find yourself, today?" said Miss Ophelia.
A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply, fora moment; and then Marie answered, "O, I don't know, Cousin;I suppose I'm as well as I ever shall be!" and Marie wiped her eyeswith a cambric handkerchief, bordered with an inch deep of black.
"I came," said Miss Ophelia, with a short, dry cough, such ascommonly introduces a difficult subject,--"I came to speak withyou about poor Rosa."
Marie's eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush roseto her sallow cheeks, as she answered, sharply,
"Well, what about her?"
"She is very sorry for her fault."
"She is, is she? She'll be sorrier, before I've done with her! I've endured that child's impudence long enough; and now I'llbring her down,--I'll make her lie in the dust!"
"But could not you punish her some other way,--some waythat would be less shameful?"
"I mean to shame her; that's just what I want. She has allher life presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and herlady-like airs, till she forgets who she is;--and I'll give herone lesson that will bring her down, I fancy!"
"But, Cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy anda sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast."
"Delicacy!" said Marie, with a scornful laugh,--"a fine wordfor such as she! I'll teach her, with all her airs, that she'sno better than the raggedest black wench that walks the streets! She'll take no more airs with me!"
"You will answer to God for such cruelty!" said Miss Ophelia,with energy.
"Cruelty,--I'd like to know what the cruelty is! I wrote ordersfor only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on lightly. I'm sure there's no cruelty there!"
"No cruelty!" said Miss Ophelia. "I'm sure any girl mightrather be killed outright!"
"It might seem so to anybody with your feeling; but all thesecreatures get used to it; it's the only way they can be keptin order. Once let them feel that they are to take any airs aboutdelicacy, and all that, and they'll run all over you, just as myservants always have. I've begun now to bring them under; and I'llhave them all to know that I'll send one out to be whipped, as soonas another, if they don't mind themselves!" said Marie, lookingaround her decidedly.
Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if itwas particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment,as if she had swallowed some explosive mixture, and were readyto burst. Then, recollecting the utter uselessness of contentionwith such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely, gathered herselfup, and walked out of the room.
It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do nothingfor her; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants came to saythat her mistress had ordered him to take Rosa with him to thewhipping-house, whither she was hurried, in spite of her tearsand entreaties.
A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the balconies,when he was joined by Adolph, who, since the death of his master,had been entirely crest-fallen and disconsolate. Adolph knew thathe had always been an object of dislike to Marie; but while hismaster lived he had paid but little attention to it. Now that hewas gone, he had moved about in daily dread and trembling, notknowing what might befall him next. Marie had held severalconsultations with her lawyer; after communicating with St. Clare'sbrother, it was determined to sell the place, and all the servants,except her own personal property, and these she intended to takewith her, and go back to her father's plantation.
"Do ye know, Tom, that we've all got to be sold?" saidAdolph, and go back to her father's plantation.
"How did you hear that?" said Tom.
"I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking withthe lawyer. In a few days we shall be sent off to auction, Tom."
"The Lord's will be done!" said Tom, folding his arms andsighing heavily.
"We'll never get another such a master, said Adolph,apprehensively; "but I'd rather be sold than take my chanceunder Missis."
Tom turned away; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, thethought of distant wife and children, rose up before his patientsoul, as to the mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises the visionof the church-spire and loving roofs of his native village, seenover the top of some black wave only for one last farewell. He drewhis arms tightly over his bosom, and choked back the bitter tears,and tried to pray. The poor old soul had such a singular,unaccountable prejudice in favor of liberty, that it was a hardwrench for him; and the more he said, "Thy will be done," the worsehe felt.
He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva's death, hadtreated him with marked and respectful kindness.
"Miss Feely," he said, "Mas'r St. Clare promised me my freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for me; and now,perhaps, if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak bout itto Missis, she would feel like goin' on with it, was it as Mas'rSt. Clare's wish."
"I'll speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss Ophelia;"but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much foryou;--nevertheless, I will try."
This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, whileMiss Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north.
Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that perhapsshe had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her formerinterview with Marie; and she resolved that she would now endeavorto moderate her zeal, and to be as conciliatory as possible. Sothe good soul gathered herself up, and, taking her knitting, resolvedto go into Marie's room, be as agreeable as possible, and negotiateTom's case with all the diplomatic skill of which she was mistress.
She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, supportingherself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been outshopping, was displaying before her certain samples of thin blackstuffs.
"That will do," said Marie, selecting one; "only I'm notsure about its being properly mourning."
"Laws, Missis," said Jane, volubly, "Mrs. General Derbennonwore just this very thing, after the General died, last summer; itmakes up lovely!"
"What do you think?" said Marie to Miss Ophelia.
"It's a matter of custom, I suppose," said Miss Ophelia. "You can judge about it better than I."
"The fact is," said Marie, "that I haven't a dress in the worldthat I can wear; and, as I am going to break up the establishment,and go off, next week, I must decide upon something."
"Are you going so soon?"
"Yes. St. Clare's brother has written, and he and the lawyerthink that the servants and furniture had better be put upat auction, and the place left with our lawyer."
"There's one thing I wanted to speak with you about," saidMiss Ophelia. "Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began thelegal forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your influenceto have it perfected."
"Indeed, I shall do no such thing!" said Marie, sharply. "Tom isone of the most valuable servants on the place,--it couldn't beafforded, any way. Besides, what does he want of liberty? He's agreat deal better off as he is."
"But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his masterpromised it," said Miss Ophelia.
"I dare say he does want it," said Marie; "they all want it,just because they are a discontented set,--always wanting whatthey haven't got. Now, I'm principled against emancipating, inany case. Keep a negro under the care of a master, and he doeswell enough, and is respectable; but set them free, and they getlazy, and won't work, and take to drinking, and go all down tobe mean, worthless fellows, I've seen it tried, hundreds of times. It's no favor to set them free."
"But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious."
"O, you needn't tell me! I've see a hundred like him. He'll do very well, as long as he's taken care of,--that's all."
"But, then, consider," said Miss Ophelia, "when you sethim up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master."
"O, that's all humbug!" said Marie; "it isn't one time ina hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master; most masters aregood, for all the talk that is made. I've lived and grown up here,in the South, and I never yet was acquainted with a master thatdidn't treat his servants well,--quite as well as is worth while. I don't feel any fears on that head."
"Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, "I know it wasone of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have hisliberty; it was one of the promises that he made to dear littleEva on her death-bed, and I should not think you would feel atliberty to disregard it."
Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal,and began sobbing and using her smelting-bottle, with greatvehemence.
"Everybody goes against me!" she said. "Everybody is soinconsiderate! I shouldn't have expected that _you_ would bring upall these remembrances of my troubles to me,--it's so inconsiderate! But nobody ever does consider,--my trials are so peculiar! It's sohard, that when I had only one daughter, she should have beentaken!--and when I had a husband that just exactly suited me,--andI'm so hard to be suited!--he should be taken! And you seem to haveso little feeling for me, and keep bringing it up to me socarelessly,--when you know how it overcomes me! I suppose you meanwell; but it is very inconsiderate,--very!" And Marie sobbed,and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to open the window, and tobring her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her head, and unhookher dress. And, in the general confusion that ensued, Miss Opheliamade her escape to her apartment.
She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything more;for Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; and,after this, whenever her husband's or Eva's wishes with regard tothe servants were alluded to, she always found it convenient toset one in operation. Miss Ophelia, therefore, did the next bestthing she could for Tom,--she wrote a letter to Mrs. Shelby forhim, stating his troubles, and urging them to send to his relief.
The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other servants,were marched down to a slave-warehouse, to await the convenienceof the trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction.
CHAPTER XXX
The Slave Warehouse
A slave warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up horriblevisions of such a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, somehorrible _Tartarus "informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum."_ But no, innocent friend; in these days men have learned the art ofsinning expertly and genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes andsenses of respectable society. Human property is high in themarket; and is, therefore, well fed, well cleaned, tended, andlooked after, that it may come to sale sleek, and strong, andshining. A slave-warehouse in New Orleans is a house externallynot much unlike many others, kept with neatness; and where everyday you may see arranged, under a sort of shed along the outside,rows of men and women, who stand there as a sign of the propertysold within.
Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine,and shall find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers, sisters,fathers, mothers, and young children, to be "sold separately, orin lots to suit the convenience of the purchaser;" and that soulimmortal, once bought with blood and anguish by the Son of God,when the earth shook, and the rocks rent, and the graves wereopened, can be sold, leased, mortgaged, exchanged for groceries ordry goods, to suit the phases of trade, or the fancy of the purchaser.
It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie and MissOphelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen others of theSt. Clare estate, were turned over to the loving kindness of Mr.Skeggs, the keeper of a depot on ---- street, to await the auction,next day.
Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, ashad most others of them. They were ushered, for the night, intoa long room, where many other men, of all ages, sizes, and shadesof complexion, were assembled, and from which roars of laughterand unthinking merriment were proceeding.
"Ah, ha! that's right. Go it, boys,--go it!" said Mr. Skeggs,the keeper. "My people are always so merry! Sambo, I see!"he said, speaking approvingly to a burly negro who was performingtricks of low buffoonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tomhad heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join theseproceedings; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possiblefrom the noisy group, he sat down on it, and leaned his faceagainst the wall.
The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and systematicefforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a means ofdrowning reflection, and rendering them insensible to theircondition. The whole object of the training to which the negro isput, from the time he is sold in the northern market till he arrivessouth, is systematically directed towards making him callous,unthinking, and brutal. The slave-dealer collects his gang inVirginia or Kentucky, and drives them to some convenient, healthyplace,--often a watering place,--to be fattened. Here they arefed full daily; and, because some incline to pine, a fiddle is keptcommonly going among them, and they are made to dance daily; andhe who refuses to be merry--in whose soul thoughts of wife, orchild, or home, are too strong for him to be gay--is marked assullen and dangerous, and subjected to all the evils which the illwill of an utterly irresponsible and hardened man can inflictupon him. Briskness, alertness, and cheerfulness of appearance,especially before observers, are constantly enforced upon them,both by the hope of thereby getting a good master, and the fear ofall that the driver may bring upon them if they prove unsalable.
"What dat ar nigger doin here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom,after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was a full black,of great size, very lively, voluble, and full of trick and grimace.
"What you doin here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom, andpoking him facetiously in the side. "Meditatin', eh?"
"I am to be sold at the auction, tomorrow!" said Tom, quietly.
"Sold at auction,--haw! haw! boys, an't this yer fun? I wish'tI was gwine that ar way!--tell ye, wouldn't I make em laugh? But how is it,--dis yer whole lot gwine tomorrow?" said Sambo,laying his hand freely on Adolph's shoulder.
"Please to let me alone!" said Adolph, fiercely, straighteninghimself up, with extreme disgust.
"Law, now, boys! dis yer's one o' yer white niggers,--kindo' cream color, ye know, scented!" said he, coming up to Adolphand snuffing. "O Lor! he'd do for a tobaccer-shop; they could keephim to scent snuff! Lor, he'd keep a whole shope agwine,--he would!"
"I say, keep off, can't you?" said Adolph, enraged.
"Lor, now, how touchy we is,--we white niggers! Look atus now!" and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Adolph's manner;"here's de airs and graces. We's been in a good family, I specs."
"Yes," said Adolph; "I had a master that could have boughtyou all for old truck!"
"Laws, now, only think," said Sambo, "the gentlemens thatwe is!"
"I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph, proudly.
"Lor, you did! Be hanged if they ar'n't lucky to get shet of ye. Spects they's gwine to trade ye off with a lot o' crackedtea-pots and sich like!" said Sambo, with a provoking grin.
Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary,swearing and striking on every side of him. The rest laughedand shouted, and the uproar brought the keeper to the door.
"What now, boys? Order,--order!" he said, coming in andflourishing a large whip.
All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who,presuming on the favor which the keeper had to him as a licensedwag, stood his ground, ducking his head with a facetious grin,whenever the master made a dive at him.
"Lor, Mas'r, 'tan't us,--we 's reglar stiddy,--it's theseyer new hands; they 's real aggravatin',--kinder pickin' at us,all time!"
The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, anddistributing a few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, andleaving general orders for all to be good boys and go to sleep,left the apartment.
While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room,the reader may be curious to take a peep at the correspondingapartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various attitudesover the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms of every shadeof complexion, from the purest ebony to white, and of all years,from childhood to old age, lying now asleep. Here is a fine brightgirl, of ten years, whose mother was sold out yesterday, and whotonight cried herself to sleep when nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose thin arms and callous fingers tellof hard toil, waiting to be sold tomorrow, as a cast-off article,for what can be got for her; and some forty or fifty others, withheads variously enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, liestretched around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from therest, are two females of a more interesting appearance than common. One of these is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman between fortyand fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleasing physiognomy. She has on her head a high-raised turban, made of a gay red Madrashandkerchief, of the first quality, her dress is neatly fitted,and of good material, showing that she has been provided for witha careful hand. By her side, and nestling closely to her, is ayoung girl of fifteen,--her daughter. She is a quadroon, as maybe seen from her fairer complexion, though her likeness to hermother is quite discernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, withlonger lashes, and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. Shealso is dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate handsbetray very little acquaintance with servile toil. These two areto be sold tomorrow, in the same lot with the St. Clare servants;and the gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the money fortheir sale is to be transmitted, is a member of a Christian churchin New York, who will receive the money, and go thereafter to thesacrament of his Lord and theirs, and think no more of it.
These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had been thepersonal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of New Orleans,by whom they had been carefully and piously instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and write, diligently instructed inthe truths of religion, and their lot had been as happy an one asin their condition it was possible to be. But the only son oftheir protectress had the management of her property; and, bycarelessness and extravagance involved it to a large amount, andat last failed. One of the largest creditors was the respectablefirm of B. & Co., in New York. B. & Co. wrote to their lawyer inNew Orleans, who attached the real estate (these two articles anda lot of plantation hands formed the most valuable part of it),and wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B., being, aswe have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a free State, feltsome uneasiness on the subject. He didn't like trading in slavesand souls of men,--of course, he didn't; but, then, there were thirtythousand dollars in the case, and that was rather too much moneyto be lost for a principle; and so, after much considering, andasking advice from those that he knew would advise to suit him,Brother B. wrote to his lawyer to dispose of the business in theway that seemed to him the most suitable, and remit the proceeds.
The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan andEmmeline were attached, and sent to the depot to await a generalauction on the following morning; and as they glimmer faintly uponus in the moonlight which steals through the grated window, we maylisten to their conversation. Both are weeping, but each quietly,that the other may not hear.
"Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can'tsleep a little," says the girl, trying to appear calm.
"I haven't any heart to sleep, Em; I can't; it's the lastnight we may be together!"
"O, mother, don't say so! perhaps we shall get soldtogether,--who knows?"
"If 't was anybody's else case, I should say so, too, Em,"said the woman; "but I'm so feard of losin' you that I don't seeanything but the danger."
"Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and wouldsell well."
Susan remembered the man's looks and words. With a deadlysickness at her heart, she remembered how he had looked at Emmeline'shands, and lifted up her curly hair, and pronounced her a first-ratearticle. Susan had been trained as a Christian, brought up in thedaily reading of the Bible, and had the same horror of her child'sbeing sold to a life of shame that any other Christian mother mighthave; but she had no hope,--no protection.
"Mother, I think we might do first rate, if you could get a placeas cook, and I as chambermaid or seamstress, in some family. I dare say we shall. Let's both look as bright and livelyas we can, and tell all we can do, and perhaps we shall," saidEmmeline.
"I want you to brush your hair all back straight, tomorrow,"said Susan.
"What for, mother? I don't look near so well, that way."
"Yes, but you'll sell better so."
"I don't see why!" said the child.
"Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if theysaw you looked plain and decent, as if you wasn't trying tolook handsome. I know their ways better 'n you do," said Susan.
"Well, mother, then I will."
"And, Emmeline, if we shouldn't ever see each other again,after tomorrow,--if I'm sold way up on a plantation somewhere, andyou somewhere else,--always remember how you've been brought up,and all Missis has told you; take your Bible with you, and yourhymn-book; and if you're faithful to the Lord, he'll be faithfulto you."
So speaks the poor soul, in sore discouragement; for sheknows that tomorrow any man, however vile and brutal, howevergodless and merciless, if he only has money to pay for her, maybecome owner of her daughter, body and soul; and then, how is thechild to be faithful? She thinks of all this, as she holds herdaughter in her arms, and wishes that she were not handsome andattractive. It seems almost an aggravation to her to remember howpurely and piously, how much above the ordinary lot, she has beenbrought up. But she has no resort but to _pray_; and many suchprayers to God have gone up from those same trim, neatly-arranged,respectable slave-prisons,--prayers which God has not forgotten,as a coming day shall show; for it is written, "Who causeth one ofthese little ones to offend, it were better for him that a millstonewere hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depthsof the sea."
The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, markingthe bars of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms. The mother and daughter are singing together a wild and melancholydirge, common as a funeral hymn among the slaves:
"O, where is weeping Mary? O, where is weeping Mary? 'Rived in the goodly land. She is dead and gone to Heaven; She is dead and gone to Heaven; 'Rived in the goodly land."
These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholysweetness, in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthy despairafter heavenly hope, floated through the dark prison rooms with apathetic cadence, as verse after verse was breathed out:
"O, where are Paul and Silas? O, where are Paul and Silas? Gone to the goodly land. They are dead and gone to Heaven; They are dead and gone to Heaven; 'Rived in the goodly land."
Sing on poor souls! The night is short, and the morningwill part you forever!
But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the worthyMr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to befitted out for auction. There is a brisk lookout on the toilet;injunctions passed around to every one to put on their best faceand be spry; and now all are arranged in a circle for a last review,before they are marched up to the Bourse.
Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his mouth,walks around to put farewell touches on his wares.
"How's this?" he said, stepping in front of Susan and Emmeline. "Where's your curls, gal?"
The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smoothadroitness common among her class, answers,
"I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smoothand neat, and not havin' it flying about in curls; looks morerespectable so."
"Bother!" said the man, peremptorily, turning to the girl;"you go right along, and curl yourself real smart!" He added,giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand, "And be back inquick time, too!"
"You go and help her," he added, to the mother. "Them curlsmay make a hundred dollars difference in the sale of her."
Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to andfro, over the marble pave. On every side of the circular areawere little tribunes, or stations, for the use of speakers andauctioneers. Two of these, on opposite sides of the area, werenow occupied by brilliant and talented gentlemen, enthusiasticallyforcing up, in English and French commingled, the bids of connoisseursin their various wares. A third one, on the other side, stillunoccupied, was surrounded by a group, waiting the moment of saleto begin. And here we may recognize the St. Clare servants,--Tom,Adolph, and others; and there, too, Susan and Emmeline, awaitingtheir turn with anxious and dejected faces. Various spectators,intending to purchase, or not intending, examining, and commentingon their various points and faces with the same freedom that a setof jockeys discuss the merits of a horse.
"Hulloa, Alf! what brings you here?" said a young exquisite,slapping the shoulder of a sprucely-dressed young man, who wasexamining Adolph through an eye-glass.
"Well! I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare'slot was going. I thought I'd just look at his--"
"Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare's people! Spoilt niggers,every one. Impudent as the devil!" said the other.
"Never fear that!" said the first. "If I get 'em, I'll soonhave their airs out of them; they'll soon find that they'veanother kind of master to deal with than Monsieur St. Clare. 'Pon my word, I'll buy that fellow. I like the shape of him."
"You'll find it'll take all you've got to keep him. He'sdeucedly extravagant!"
"Yes, but my lord will find that he _can't_ be extravagantwith _me_. Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, andthoroughly dressed down! I'll tell you if it don't bring him to asense of his ways! O, I'll reform him, up hill and down,--you'llsee. I buy him, that's flat!"
Tom had been standing wistfully examining the multitude offaces thronging around him, for one whom he would wish to callmaster. And if you should ever be under the necessity, sir, ofselecting, out of two hundred men, one who was to become yourabsolute owner and disposer, you would, perhaps, realize, just asTom did, how few there were that you would feel at all comfortablein being made over to. Tom saw abundance of men,--great, burly,gruff men; little, chirping, dried men; long-favored, lank, hardmen; and every variety of stubbed-looking, commonplace men, whopick up their fellow-men as one picks up chips, putting them intothe fire or a basket with equal unconcern, according to theirconvenience; but he saw no St. Clare.
A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscular man,in a checked shirt considerably open at the bosom, and pantaloonsmuch the worse for dirt and wear, elbowed his way through the crowd,like one who is going actively into a business; and, coming up tothe group, began to examine them systematically. From the momentthat Tom saw him approaching, he felt an immediate and revoltinghorror at him, that increased as he came near. He was evidently,though short, of gigantic strength. His round, bullet head, large,light-gray eyes, with their shaggy, sandy eyebrows, and stiff,wiry, sun-burned hair, were rather unprepossessing items, it is tobe confessed; his large, coarse mouth was distended with tobacco,the juice of which, from time to time, he ejected from him withgreat decision and explosive force; his hands were immensely large,hairy, sun-burned, freckled, and very dirty, and garnished withlong nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded to a veryfree personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom by the jaw,and pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth; made him strip uphis sleeve, to show his muscle; turned him round, made him jumpand spring, to show his paces.
"Where was you raised?" he added, briefly, to these investigations.
"In Kintuck, Mas'r," said Tom, looking about, as if for deliverance.
"What have you done?"
"Had care of Mas'r's farm," said Tom.
"Likely story!" said the other, shortly, as he passed on. He paused a moment before Dolph; then spitting a discharge oftobacco-juice on his well-blacked boots, and giving a contemptuousumph, he walked on. Again he stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, dirty hand, and drew the girl towards him;passed it over her neck and bust, felt her arms, looked at herteeth, and then pushed her back against her mother, whose patientface showed the suffering she had been going through at every motionof the hideous stranger.
The girl was frightened, and began to cry.
"Stop that, you minx!" said the salesman; "no whimperinghere,--the sale is going to begin." And accordingly the sale begun.
Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to the young gentlemenwho had previously stated his intention of buying him; and theother servants of the St. Clare lot went to various bidders.
"Now, up with you, boy! d'ye hear?" said the auctioneer to Tom.
Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round;all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise,--the clatter ofthe salesman crying off his qualifications in French and English,the quick fire of French and English bids; and almost in a momentcame the final thump of the hammer, and the clear ring on the lastsyllable of the word _"dollars,"_ as the auctioneer announced hisprice, and Tom was made over.--He had a master!
He was pushed from the block;--the short, bullet-headed manseizing him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one side,saying, in a harsh voice, "Stand there, _you!_"
Tom hardly realized anything; but still the bidding wenton,--ratting, clattering, now French, now English. Down goes thehammer again,--Susan is sold! She goes down from the block, stops,looks wistfully back,--her daughter stretches her hands towards her. She looks with agony in the face of the man who has boughther,--a respectable middle-aged man, of benevolent countenance.
"O, Mas'r, please do buy my daughter!"
"I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't afford it!" said thegentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young girl mountedthe block, and looked around her with a frightened and timid glance.
The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless cheek,her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans to seethat she looks more beautiful than she ever saw her before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates volubly inmingled French and English, and bids rise in rapid succession.
"I'll do anything in reason," said the benevolent-lookinggentleman, pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few momentsthey have run beyond his purse. He is silent; the auctioneer growswarmer; but bids gradually drop off. It lies now between anaristocratic old citizen and our bullet-headed acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, contemptuously measuring hisopponent; but the bullet-head has the advantage over him, both inobstinacy and concealed length of purse, and the controversy lastsbut a moment; the hammer falls,--he has got the girl, body and soul,unless God help her!
Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation on theRed river. She is pushed along into the same lot with Tom andtwo other men, and goes off, weeping as she goes.
The benevolent gentleman is sorry; but, then, the thing happensevery day! One sees girls and mothers crying, at these sales,_always!_ it can't be helped, &c.; and he walks off, with hisacquisition, in another direction.
Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. & Co.,New York, send on their money to them. On the reverse of thatdraft, so obtained, let them write these words of the great Paymaster,to whom they shall make up their account in a future day: _"Whenhe maketh inquisition for blood, he forgetteth not the cry of thehumble!"_
CHAPTER XXXI
The Middle Passage
"Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not lookupon iniquity: wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously,and holdest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that ismore righteous than he?" --HAB. 1: 13.
On the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red river,Tom sat,--chains on his wrists, chains on his feet, and a weightheavier than chains lay on his heart. All had faded from hissky,--moon and star; all had passed by him, as the trees and bankswere now passing, to return no more. Kentucky home, with wife andchildren, and indulgent owners; St. Clare home, with all itsrefinements and splendors; the golden head of Eva, with its saint-likeeyes; the proud, gay, handsome, seemingly careless, yet ever-kindSt. Clare; hours of ease and indulgent leisure,--all gone! and inplace thereof, _what_ remains?
It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery,that the negro, sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring,in a refined family, the tastes and feelings which form theatmosphere of such a place, is not the less liable to becomethe bond-slave of the coarsest and most brutal,--just as a chairor table, which once decorated the superb saloon, comes, at last,battered and defaced, to the barroom of some filthy tavern, or somelow haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great difference is, that thetable and chair cannot feel, and the _man_ can; for even a legalenactment that he shall be "taken, reputed, adjudged in law, to bea chattel personal," cannot blot out his soul, with its own privatelittle world of memories, hopes, loves, fears, and desires.
Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at oneplace and another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, anddriven them, handcuffed, in couples of two and two, down to thegood steamer Pirate, which lay at the levee, ready for a trip upthe Red river.
Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he cameround, with that air of efficiency which ever characterized him,to take a review of them. Stopping opposite to Tom, who had beenattired for sale in his best broadcloth suit, with well-starchedlinen and shining boots, he briefly expressed himself as follows:
"Stand up."
Tom stood up.
"Take off that stock!" and, as Tom, encumbered by his fetters,proceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with nogentle hand, from his neck, and putting it in his pocket.
Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this, hehad been ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of old pantaloonsand dilapidated coat, which Tom had been wont to put on about hisstable-work, he said, liberating Tom's hands from the handcuffs,and pointing to a recess in among the boxes,
"You go there, and put these on."
Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned.
"Take off your boots," said Mr. Legree.
Tom did so.
"There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, stoutshoes, such as were common among the slaves, "put these on."
In Tom's hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to transferhis cherished Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so; for Mr. Legree, having refitted Tom's handcuffs, proceeded deliberately toinvestigate the contents of his pockets. He drew out a silkhandkerchief, and put it into his own pocket. Several littletrifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly because they had amusedEva, he looked upon with a contemptuous grunt, and tossed them overhis shoulder into the river.
Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he hadforgotten, he now held up and turned over.
Humph! pious, to be sure. So, what's yer name,--you belongto the church, eh?"
"Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, firmly.
"Well, I'll soon have _that_ out of you. I have none o' yerbawling, praying, singing niggers on my place; so remember. Now, mind yourself," he said, with a stamp and a fierce glanceof his gray eye, directed at Tom, "_I'm_ your church now! You understand,--you've got to be as _I_ say."
Something within the silent black man answered _No!_ and, as ifrepeated by an invisible voice, came the words of an old propheticscroll, as Eva had often read them to him,--"Fear not! for I haveredeemed thee. I have called thee by name. Thou art MINE!"
But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he nevershall hear. He only glared for a moment on the downcast faceof Tom, and walked off. He took Tom's trunk, which contained avery neat and abundant wardrobe, to the forecastle, where it wassoon surrounded by various hands of the boat. With much laughing,at the expense of niggers who tried to be gentlemen, the articlesvery readily were sold to one and another, and the empty trunkfinally put up at auction. It was a good joke, they all thought,especially to see how Tom looked after his things, as they weregoing this way and that; and then the auction of the trunk, thatwas funnier than all, and occasioned abundant witticisms.
This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again tohis property.
"Now, Tom, I've relieved you of any extra baggage, you see. Take mighty good care of them clothes. It'll be long enough 'foreyou get more. I go in for making niggers careful; one suit has todo for one year, on my place."
Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was sitting,chained to another woman.
"Well, my dear," he said, chucking her under the chin,"keep up your spirits."
The involuntary look of horror, fright and aversion, with whichthe girl regarded him, did not escape his eye. He frowned fiercely.
"None o' your shines, gal! you's got to keep a pleasant face,when I speak to ye,--d'ye hear? And you, you old yellow pocomoonshine!" he said, giving a shove to the mulatto woman to whomEmmeline was chained, "don't you carry that sort of face! You'sgot to look chipper, I tell ye!"
"I say, all on ye," he said retreating a pace or two back,"look at me,--look at me,--look me right in the eye,--_straight_,now!" said he, stamping his foot at every pause.
As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to theglaring greenish-gray eye of Simon.
"Now," said he, doubling his great, heavy fist into somethingresembling a blacksmith's hammer, "d'ye see this fist? Heft it!"he said, bringing it down on Tom's hand. "Look at these yer bones! Well, I tell ye this yer fist has got as hard as iron _knockingdown niggers_. I never see the nigger, yet, I couldn't bring downwith one crack," said he, bringing his fist down so near to theface of Tom that he winked and drew back. "I don't keep none o'yer cussed overseers; I does my own overseeing; and I tell youthings _is_ seen to. You's every one on ye got to toe the mark,I tell ye; quick,--straight,--the moment I speak. That's the wayto keep in with me. Ye won't find no soft spot in me, nowhere. So, now, mind yerselves; for I don't show no mercy!"
The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the wholegang sat with downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile, Simon turnedon his heel, and marched up to the bar of the boat for a dram.
"That's the way I begin with my niggers," he said, to agentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his speech. "It's my system to begin strong,--just let 'em know whatto expect."
"Indeed!" said the stranger, looking upon him with thecuriosity of a naturalist studying some out-of-the-way specimen.
"Yes, indeed. I'm none o' yer gentlemen planters, with lilyfingers, to slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of anoverseer! Just feel of my knuckles, now; look at my fist. Tell ye, sir, the flesh on 't has come jest like a stone,practising on nigger--feel on it."
The stranger applied his fingers to the implement inquestion, and simply said,
"'T is hard enough; and, I suppose," he added, "practicehas made your heart just like it."
"Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh. "I reckon there's as little soft in me as in any one going. Tell you, nobody comes it over me! Niggers never gets round me,neither with squalling nor soft soap,--that's a fact."
"You have a fine lot there."
"Real," said Simon. "There's that Tom, they telled me he wassuthin' uncommon. I paid a little high for him, tendin' himfor a driver and a managing chap; only get the notions out thathe's larnt by bein' treated as niggers never ought to be, he'lldo prime! The yellow woman I got took in on. I rayther think she'ssickly, but I shall put her through for what she's worth; shemay last a year or two. I don't go for savin' niggers. Use up,and buy more, 's my way;-makes you less trouble, and I'm quitesure it comes cheaper in the end;" and Simon sipped his glass.
"And how long do they generally last?" said the stranger.
"Well, donno; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout fellerslast six or seven years; trashy ones gets worked up in twoor three. I used to, when I fust begun, have considerable troublefussin' with 'em and trying to make 'em hold out,--doctorin' on'em up when they's sick, and givin' on 'em clothes and blankets,and what not, tryin' to keep 'em all sort o' decent and comfortable. Law, 't wasn't no sort o' use; I lost money on 'em, and 't washeaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I just put 'em straight through,sick or well. When one nigger's dead, I buy another; and I findit comes cheaper and easier, every way."
The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gentleman,who had been listening to the conversation with represseduneasiness.
"You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of Southernplanters," said he.
"I should hope not," said the young gentleman, with emphasis.
"He is a mean, low, brutal fellow!" said the other.
"And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of humanbeings subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow ofprotection; and, low as he is, you cannot say that there are notmany such."
"Well," said the other, "there are also many considerateand humane men among planters."
"Granted," said the young man; "but, in my opinion, it is youconsiderate, humane men, that are responsible for all thebrutality and outrage wrought by these wretches; because, if itwere not for your sanction and influence, the whole system couldnot keep foothold for an hour. If there were no planters exceptsuch as that one," said he, pointing with his finger to Legree,who stood with his back to them, "the whole thing would go down likea millstone. It is your respectability and humanity that licensesand protects his brutality."
"You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature," said theplanter, smiling, "but I advise you not to talk quite so loud,as there are people on board the boat who might not be quite sotolerant to opinion as I am. You had better wait till I get up tomy plantation, and there you may abuse us all, quite at your leisure."
The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two were soonbusy in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, another conversationwas going on in the lower part of the boat, between Emmeline andthe mulatto woman with whom she was confined. As was natural, theywere exchanging with each other some particulars of their history.
"Who did you belong to?" said Emmeline.
"Well, my Mas'r was Mr. Ellis,--lived on Levee-street. P'raps you've seen the house."
"Was he good to you?" said Emmeline.
"Mostly, till he tuk sick. He's lain sick, off and on, morethan six months, and been orful oneasy. 'Pears like he warntwillin' to have nobody rest, day or night; and got so curous, therecouldn't nobody suit him. 'Pears like he just grew crosser, everyday; kep me up nights till I got farly beat out, and couldn't keepawake no longer; and cause I got to sleep, one night, Lors, he talkso orful to me, and he tell me he'd sell me to just the hardestmaster he could find; and he'd promised me my freedom, too, whenhe died."
"Had you any friends?" said Emmeline.
"Yes, my husband,--he's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly hiredhim out. They took me off so quick, I didn't even have time tosee him; and I's got four children. O, dear me!" said the woman,covering her face with her hands.
It is a natural impulse, in every one, when they hear a taleof distress, to think of something to say by way of consolation. Emmeline wanted to say something, but she could not think of anythingto say. What was there to be said? As by a common consent, theyboth avoided, with fear and dread, all mention of the horrible manwho was now their master.
True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour. The mulatto woman was a member of the Methodist church, and had anunenlightened but very sincere spirit of piety. Emmeline had beeneducated much more intelligently,--taught to read and write, anddiligently instructed in the Bible, by the care of a faithful andpious mistress; yet, would it not try the faith of the firmestChristian, to find themselves abandoned, apparently, of God, inthe grasp of ruthless violence? How much more must it shake thefaith of Christ's poor little ones, weak in knowledge and tenderin years!
The boat moved on,--freighted with its weight of sorrow,--up thered, muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt tortuous windingsof the Red river; and sad eyes gazed wearily on the steep red-claybanks, as they glided by in dreary sameness. At last the boatstopped at a small town, and Legree, with his party, disembarked.
CHAPTER XXXII
Dark Places
"The dark places of the earth are full of the habitationsOf cruelty."[1]
[1] Ps. 74:20.
Trailing wearily behind a rude wagon, and over a ruder road,Tom and his associates faced onward.
In the wagon was seated Simon Legree and the two women, stillfettered together, were stowed away with some baggage in theback part of it, and the whole company were seeking Legree'splantation, which lay a good distance off.
It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary pinebarrens, where the wind whispered mournfully, and now over logcauseways, through long cypress swamps, the doleful trees risingout of the slimy, spongy ground, hung with long wreaths of funeralblack moss, while ever and anon the loathsome form of the mocassinsnake might be seen sliding among broken stumps and shatteredbranches that lay here and there, rotting in the water.
It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who,with well-filled pocket and well-appointed horse, threads thelonely way on some errand of business; but wilder, drearier,to the man enthralled, whom every weary step bears further fromall that man loves and prays for.
So one should have thought, that witnessed the sunken anddejected expression on those dark faces; the wistful, patientweariness with which those sad eyes rested on object after objectthat passed them in their sad journey.
Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionallypulling away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket.
"I say, _you!_" he said, as he turned back and caught aglance at the dispirited faces behind him. "Strike up a song,boys,--come!"
The men looked at each other, and the "_come_" was repeated,with a smart crack of the whip which the driver carried inhis hands. Tom began a Methodist hymn.
"Jerusalem, my happy home, Name ever dear to me! When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall--"[2]
[2] "_Jerusalem, my happy home_," anonymous hymn dating fromthe latter part of the sixteenth century, sung to the tune of"St. Stephen." Words derive from St. Augustine's _Meditations_.
"Shut up, you black cuss!" roared Legree; "did ye think Iwanted any o' yer infernal old Methodism? I say, tune up,now, something real rowdy,--quick!"
One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning songs,common among the slaves.
"Mas'r see'd me cotch a coon, High boys, high! He laughed to split,--d'ye see the moon, Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho! Ho! yo! hi--e! oh!"_
The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleasure,generally hitting on rhyme, without much attempt at reason; andthe party took up the chorus, at intervals,
"Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho! High--e--oh! high--e--oh!"
It was sung very boisterouly, and with a forced attempt atmerriment; but no wail of despair, no words of impassioned prayer,could have had such a depth of woe in them as the wild notes ofthe chorus. As if the poor, dumb heart, threatened,--prisoned,--tookrefuge in that inarticulate sanctuary of music, and found there alanguage in which to breathe its prayer to God! There was a prayerin it, which Simon could not hear. He only heard the boys singingnoisily, and was well pleased; he was making them "keep up their spirits."
"Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, andlaying his hand on her shoulder, "we're almost home!"
When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified; butwhen he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did, she feltas if she had rather he would strike her. The expression of hiseyes made her soul sick, and her flesh creep. Involuntarily sheclung closer to the mulatto woman by her side, as if she wereher mother.
"You didn't ever wear ear-rings," he said, taking hold ofher small ear with his coarse fingers.
"No, Mas'r!" said Emmeline, trembling and looking down.
"Well, I'll give you a pair, when we get home, if you'rea good girl. You needn't be so frightened; I don't mean to makeyou work very hard. You'll have fine times with me, and live likea lady,--only be a good girl."
Legree had been drinking to that degree that he was inclining tobe very gracious; and it was about this time that the enclosuresof the plantation rose to view. The estate had formerly belongedto a gentleman of opulence and taste, who had bestowed someconsiderable attention to the adornment of his grounds. Having diedinsolvent, it had been purchased, at a bargain, by Legree, who usedit, as he did everything else, merely as an implement formoney-making. The place had that ragged, forlorn appearance, whichis always produced by the evidence that the care of the formerowner has been left to go to utter decay.
What was once a smooth-shaven lawn before the house, dottedhere and there with ornamental shrubs, was now covered with frowsytangled grass, with horseposts set up, here and there, in it, wherethe turf was stamped away, and the ground littered with brokenpails, cobs of corn, and other slovenly remains. Here and there,a mildewed jessamine or honeysuckle hung raggedly from some ornamentalsupport, which had been pushed to one side by being used as ahorse-post. What once was a large garden was now all grown overwith weeds, through which, here and there, some solitary exoticreared its forsaken head. What had been a conservatory had now nowindow-shades, and on the mouldering shelves stood some dry, forsakenflower-pots, with sticks in them, whose dried leaves showed theyhad once been plants.
The wagon rolled up a weedy gravel walk, under a noble avenueof China trees, whose graceful forms and ever-springing foliageseemed to be the only things there that neglect could not dauntor alter,--like noble spirits, so deeply rooted in goodness,as to flourish and grow stronger amid discouragement and decay.
The house had been large and handsome. It was built in a mannercommon at the South; a wide verandah of two stories running roundevery part of the house, into which every outer door opened, thelower tier being supported by brick pillars.
But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable; some windowsstopped up with boards, some with shattered panes, and shuttershanging by a single hinge,--all telling of coarse neglectand discomfort.
Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, garnishedthe ground in all directions; and three or four ferocious-lookingdogs, roused by the sound of the wagon-wheels, came tearing out,and were with difficulty restrained from laying hold of Tom andhis companions, by the effort of the ragged servants who cameafter them.
"Ye see what ye'd get!" said Legree, caressing the dogswith grim satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions. "Ye see what ye'd get, if ye try to run off. These yer dogs hasbeen raised to track niggers; and they'd jest as soon chaw one onye up as eat their supper. So, mind yerself! How now, Sambo!"he said, to a ragged fellow, without any brim to his hat, who wasofficious in his attentions. "How have things been going?"
Fust rate, Mas'r."
"Quimbo," said Legree to another, who was making zealousdemonstrations to attract his attention, "ye minded what Itelled ye?"
"Guess I did, didn't I?"
These two colored men were the two principal hands on theplantation. Legree had trained them in savageness and brutalityas systematically as he had his bull-dogs; and, by long practicein hardness and cruelty, brought their whole nature to about thesame range of capacities. It is a common remark, and one that isthought to militate strongly against the character of the race,that the negro overseer is always more tyrannical and cruel thanthe white one. This is simply saying that the negro mind has beenmore crushed and debased than the white. It is no more true ofthis race than of every oppressed race, the world over. The slaveis always a tyrant, if he can get a chance to be one.
Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governedhis plantation by a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and Quimbocordially hated each other; the plantation hands, one and all,cordially hated them; and, by playing off one against another, hewas pretty sure, through one or the other of the three parties, toget informed of whatever was on foot in the place.
Nobody can live entirely without social intercourse; andLegree encouraged his two black satellites to a kind of coarsefamiliarity with him,--a familiarity, however, at any moment liableto get one or the other of them into trouble; for, on the slightestprovocation, one of them always stood ready, at a nod, to be aminister of his vengeance on the other.
As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt illustrationof the fact that brutal men are lower even than animals. Their coarse, dark, heavy features; their great eyes, rollingenviously on each other; their barbarous, guttural, half-bruteintonation; their dilapidated garments fluttering in the wind,--wereall in admirable keeping with the vile and unwholesome characterof everything about the place.
"Here, you Sambo," said Legree, "take these yer boys down tothe quarters; and here's a gal I've got for _you_," said he, ashe separated the mulatto woman from Emmeline, and pushed her towardshim;--"I promised to bring you one, you know."
The woman gave a start, and drawing back, said, suddenly,
"O, Mas'r! I left my old man in New Orleans."
"What of that, you--; won't you want one here? None o' yourwords,--go long!" said Legree, raising his whip.
"Come, mistress," he said to Emmeline, "you go in here with me."
A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at thewindow of the house; and, as Legree opened the door, a female voicesaid something, in a quick, imperative tone. Tom, who was looking,with anxious interest, after Emmeline, as she went in, noticedthis, and heard Legree answer, angrily, "You may hold your tongue! I'll do as I please, for all you!"
Tom heard no more; for he was soon following Sambo to the quarters. The quarters was a little sort of street of rude shanties,in a row, in a part of the plantation, far off from the house. They had a forlorn, brutal, forsaken air. Tom's heart sunk whenhe saw them. He had been comforting himself with the thought ofa cottage, rude, indeed, but one which he might make neat and quiet,and where he might have a shelf for his Bible, and a place to bealone out of his laboring hours. He looked into several; they weremere rude shells, destitute of any species of furniture, except aheap of straw, foul with dirt, spread confusedly over the floor,which was merely the bare ground, trodden hard by the tramping ofinnumerable feet.
"Which of these will be mine?" said he, to Sambo, submissively.
"Dunno; ken turn in here, I spose," said Sambo; "spects thar'sroom for another thar; thar's a pretty smart heap o' niggersto each on 'em, now; sure, I dunno what I 's to do with more."
It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of theshanties came flocking home,--men and women, in soiled and tatteredgarments, surly and uncomfortable, and in no mood to look pleasantlyon new-comers. The small village was alive with no inviting sounds;hoarse, guttural voices contending at the hand-mills where theirmorsel of hard corn was yet to be ground into meal, to fit it forthe cake that was to constitute their only supper. From the earliestdawn of the day, they had been in the fields, pressed to workunder the driving lash of the overseers; for it was now in the veryheat and hurry of the season, and no means was left untried topress every one up to the top of their capabilities. "True," saysthe negligent lounger; "picking cotton isn't hard work." Isn't it? And it isn't much inconvenience, either, to have one drop of waterfall on your head; yet the worst torture of the inquisition isproduced by drop after drop, drop after drop, falling moment aftermoment, with monotonous succession, on the same spot; and work, initself not hard, becomes so, by being pressed, hour after hour,with unvarying, unrelenting sameness, with not even the consciousnessof free-will to take from its tediousness. Tom looked in vainamong the gang, as they poured along, for companionable faces. He saw only sullen, scowling, imbruted men, and feeble, discouragedwomen, or women that were not women,--the strong pushing away theweak,--the gross, unrestricted animal selfishness of human beings,of whom nothing good was expected and desired; and who, treated inevery way like brutes, had sunk as nearly to their level as it waspossible for human beings to do. To a late hour in the night thesound of the grinding was protracted; for the mills were few innumber compared with the grinders, and the weary and feeble oneswere driven back by the strong, and came on last in their turn.
"Ho yo!" said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, andthrowing down a bag of corn before her; "what a cuss yo name?"
"Lucy," said the woman.
"Wal, Lucy, yo my woman now. Yo grind dis yer corn, andget _my_ supper baked, ye har?"
"I an't your woman, and I won't be!" said the woman, withthe sharp, sudden courage of despair; "you go long!"
"I'll kick yo, then!" said Sambo, raising his footthreateningly.
"Ye may kill me, if ye choose,--the sooner the better! Wish't I was dead!" said she.
"I say, Sambo, you go to spilin' the hands, I'll tell Mas'ro' you," said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which he hadviciously driven two or three tired women, who were waiting togrind their corn.
"And, I'll tell him ye won't let the women come to the mills,yo old nigger!" said Sambo. "Yo jes keep to yo own row."
Tom was hungry with his day's journey, and almost faintfor want of food.
"Thar, yo!" said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, whichcontained a peck of corn; "thar, nigger, grab, take car on 't,--yowon't get no more, _dis_ yer week."
Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills; andthen, moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he sawtrying to grind their corn there, he ground for them, put togetherthe decaying brands of the fire, where many had baked cakes beforethem, and then went about getting his own supper. It was a newkind of work there,--a deed of charity, small as it was; but itwoke an answering touch in their hearts,--an expression of womanlykindness came over their hard faces; they mixed his cake for him,and tended its baking; and Tom sat down by the light of the fire,and drew out his Bible,--for he had need for comfort.
"What's that?" said one of the woman.
"A Bible," said Tom.
"Good Lord! han't seen un since I was in Kentuck."
"Was you raised in Kentuck?" said Tom, with interest.
"Yes, and well raised, too; never 'spected to come to disyer!" said the woman, sighing.
"What's dat ar book, any way?" said the other woman.
"Why, the Bible."
"Laws a me! what's dat?" said the woman.
"Do tell! you never hearn on 't?" said the other woman. "I used to har Missis a readin' on 't, sometimes, in Kentuck; but,laws o' me! we don't har nothin' here but crackin' and swarin'."
"Read a piece, anyways!" said the first woman, curiously,seeing Tom attentively poring over it.
Tom read,-- "Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavyladen, and I will give you rest."
"Them's good words, enough," said the woman; "who says 'em?"
"The Lord," said Tom.
"I jest wish I know'd whar to find Him," said the woman. "I would go; 'pears like I never should get rested again. My fleshis fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every day, and Sambo'sallers a jawin' at me, 'cause I doesn't pick faster; and nightsit's most midnight 'fore I can get my supper; and den 'pears likeI don't turn over and shut my eyes, 'fore I hear de horn blow toget up, and at it agin in de mornin'. If I knew whar de Lor was,I'd tell him."
"He's here, he's everywhere," said Tom.
"Lor, you an't gwine to make me believe dat ar! I know deLord an't here," said the woman; "'tan't no use talking, though. I's jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I ken."
The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, bythe smouldering fire, that flickered up redly in his face.
The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, andlooked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene of miseryand oppression,--looked calmly on the lone black man, as he sat,with his arms folded, and his Bible on his knee.
"Is God HERE?" Ah, how is it possible for the untaught heartto keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule,and palpable, unrebuked injustice? In that simple heart wageda fierce conflict; the crushing sense of wrong, the foreshadowing,of a whole life of future misery, the wreck of all past hopes,mournfully tossing in the soul's sight, like dead corpses ofwife, and child, and friend, rising from the dark wave, andsurging in the face of the half-drowned mariner! Ah, was it easy_here_ to believe and hold fast the great password of Christianfaith, that "God IS, and is the REWARDER of them that diligentlyseek Him"?
Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that hadbeen allotted to him. The floor was already strewn with wearysleepers, and the foul air of the place almost repelled him; butthe heavy night-dews were chill, and his limbs weary, and, wrappingabout him a tattered blanket, which formed his only bed-clothing,he stretched himself in the straw and fell asleep.
In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ear; he was sittingon the mossy seat in the garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and Eva,with her serious eyes bent downward, was reading to him from theBible; and he heard her read.
"When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee,and the rivers they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkestthrough the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flamekindle upon thee; for I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel,thy Saviour."
Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a divinemusic; the child raised her deep eyes, and fixed them lovingly onhim, and rays of warmth and comfort seemed to go from them to hisheart; and, as if wafted on the music, she seemed to rise on shiningwings, from which flakes and spangles of gold fell off like stars,and she was gone.
Tom woke. Was it a dream? Let it pass for one. But whoshall say that that sweet young spirit, which in life soyearned to comfort and console the distressed, was forbiddenof God to assume this ministry after death?
It is a beautiful belief, That ever round our head Are hovering, on angel wings, The spirits of the dead.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Cassy
"And behold, the tears of such as were oppressed, and theyhad no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there waspower, but they had no comforter."
--ECCL. 4:1
It took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all that was tobe hoped or feared in his new way of life. He was an expert andefficient workman in whatever he undertook; and was, both fromhabit and principle, prompt and faithful. Quiet and peaceable inhis disposition, he hoped, by unremitting diligence, to avert fromhimself at least a portion of the evils of his condition. He sawenough of abuse and misery to make him sick and weary; but hedetermined to toil on, with religious patience, committing himselfto Him that judgeth righteously, not without hope that some way ofescape might yet be opened to him.
Legree took a silent note of Tom's availability. He ratedhim as a first-class hand; and yet he felt a secret dislike tohim,--the native antipathy of bad to good. He saw, plainly, thatwhen, as was often the case, his violence and brutality fell onthe helpless, Tom took notice of it; for, so subtle is the atmosphereof opinion, that it will make itself felt, without words; and theopinion even of a slave may annoy a master. Tom in various waysmanifested a tenderness of feeling, a commiseration for hisfellow-sufferers, strange and new to them, which was watched witha jealous eye by Legree. He had purchased Tom with a view ofeventually making him a sort of overseer, with whom he might,at times, intrust his affairs, in short absences; and, in his view,the first, second, and third requisite for that place, was _hardness_. Legree made up his mind, that, as Tom was not hard to his hand,he would harden him forthwith; and some few weeks after Tom hadbeen on the place, he determined to commence the process.
One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field, Tomnoticed, with surprise, a new comer among them, whose appearanceexcited his attention. It was a woman, tall and slenderly formed,with remarkably delicate hands and feet, and dressed in neat andrespectable garments. By the appearance of her face, she mighthave been between thirty-five and forty; and it was a face that,once seen, could never be forgotten,--one of those that, at a glance,seem to convey to us an idea of a wild, painful, and romantic history. Her forehead was high, and her eyebrows marked with beautiful clearness. Her straight, well-formed nose, her finely-cut mouth, and thegraceful contour of her head and neck, showed that she must oncehave been beautiful; but her face was deeply wrinkled with linesof pain, and of proud and bitter endurance. Her complexion wassallow and unhealthy, her cheeks thin, her features sharp, andher whole form emaciated. But her eye was the most remarkablefeature,--so large, so heavily black, overshadowed by long lashesof equal darkness, and so wildly, mournfully despairing. There wasa fierce pride and defiance in every line of her face, in everycurve of the flexible lip, in every motion of her body; but in hereye was a deep, settled night of anguish,--an expression so hopelessand unchanging as to contrast fearfully with the scorn and prideexpressed by her whole demeanor.
Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know. The firsthe did know, she was walking by his side, erect and proud, in thedim gray of the dawn. To the gang, however, she was known; forthere was much looking and turning of heads, and a smothered yetapparent exultation among the miserable, ragged, half-starvedcreatures by whom she was surrounded.
"Got to come to it, at last,--grad of it!" said one.
"He! he! he!" said another; "you'll know how good it is, Misse!"
"We'll see her work!"
"Wonder if she'll get a cutting up, at night, like the restof us!"
"I'd be glad to see her down for a flogging, I'll bound!"said another.
The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked on, withthe same expression of angry scorn, as if she heard nothing. Tom had always lived among refined, and cultivated people, and hefelt intuitively, from her air and bearing, that she belonged tothat class; but how or why she could be fallen to those degradingcircumstances, he could not tell. The women neither looked at himnor spoke to him, though, all the way to the field, she kept closeat his side.
Tom was soon busy at his work; but, as the woman was at no greatdistance from him, he often glanced an eye to her, at her work. He saw, at a glance, that a native adroitness and handiness madethe task to her an easier one than it proved to many. She pickedvery fast and very clean, and with an air of scorn, as if shedespised both the work and the disgrace and humiliation of thecircumstances in which she was placed.
In the course of the day, Tom was working near the mulattowoman who had been bought in the same lot with himself. She wasevidently in a condition of great suffering, and Tom often heard herpraying, as she wavered and trembled, and seemed about to fall down. Tom silently as he came near to her, transferred several handfulsof cotton from his own sack to hers.
"O, don't, don't!" said the woman, looking surprised; "it'llget you into trouble."
Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special spiteagainst this woman; and, flourishing his whip, said, in brutal,guttural tones, "What dis yer, Luce,--foolin' a'" and, with theword, kicking the woman with his heavy cowhide shoe, he struck Tomacross the face with his whip.
Tom silently resumed his task; but the woman, before atthe last point of exhaustion, fainted.
"I'll bring her to!" said the driver, with a brutal grin. "I'll give her something better than camphire!" and, taking a pinfrom his coat-sleeve, he buried it to the head in her flesh. The woman groaned, and half rose. "Get up, you beast, and work,will yer, or I'll show yer a trick more!"
The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments, to anunnatural strength, and worked with desperate eagerness.
"See that you keep to dat ar," said the man, "or yer'llwish yer's dead tonight, I reckin!"
"That I do now!" Tom heard her say; and again he heard hersay, "O, Lord, how long! O, Lord, why don't you help us?"
At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came forwardagain, and put all the cotton in his sack into the woman's.
"O, you mustn't! you donno what they'll do to ye!" saidthe woman.
"I can bar it!" said Tom, "better 'n you;" and he was athis place again. It passed in a moment.
Suddenly, the stranger woman whom we have described, and whohad, in the course of her work, come near enough to hear Tom'slast words, raised her heavy black eyes, and fixed them, for asecond, on him; then, taking a quantity of cotton from her basket,she placed it in his.
"You know nothing about this place," she said, "or you wouldn'thave done that. When you've been here a month, you'll be donehelping anybody; you'll find it hard enough to take care of yourown skin!"
"The Lord forbid, Missis!" said Tom, using instinctively to hisfield companion the respectful form proper to the high bredwith whom he had lived.
"The Lord never visits these parts," said the woman, bitterly,as she went nimbly forward with her work; and again thescornful smile curled her lips.
But the action of the woman had been seen by the driver,across the field; and, flourishing his whip, he came up to her.
"What! what!" he said to the woman, with an air of triumph,"You a foolin'? Go along! yer under me now,--mind yourself, oryer'll cotch it!"
A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly flashed from thoseblack eyes; and, facing about, with quivering lip and dilatednostrils, she drew herself up, and fixed a glance, blazing withrage and scorn, on the driver.
"Dog!" she said, "touch _me_, if you dare! I've power enough,yet, to have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to inches! I've only to say the word!"
"What de devil you here for, den?" said the man, evidentlycowed, and sullenly retreating a step or two. "Didn't mean noharm, Misse Cassy!"
"Keep your distance, then!" said the woman. And, in truth, theman seemed greatly inclined to attend to something at the otherend of the field, and started off in quick time.
The woman suddenly turned to her work, and labored with adespatch that was perfectly astonishing to Tom. She seemed towork by magic. Before the day was through, her basket was filled,crowded down, and piled, and she had several times put largelyinto Tom's. Long after dusk, the whole weary train, with theirbaskets on their heads, defiled up to the building appropriated to thestoring and weighing the cotton. Legree was there, busily conversingwith the two drivers.
"Dat ar Tom's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble; kepta puttin' into Lucy's basket.--One o' these yer dat will getall der niggers to feelin' bused, if Masir don't watch him!"said Sambo.
"Hey-dey! The black cuss!" said Legree. "He'll have toget a breakin' in, won't he, boys?"
Both negroes grinned a horrid grin, at this intimation.
"Ay, ay! Let Mas'r Legree alone, for breakin' in! De debilheself couldn't beat Mas'r at dat!" said Quimbo.
"Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to do,till he gets over his notions. Break him in!"
"Lord, Mas'r'll have hard work to get dat out o' him!"
"It'll have to come out of him, though!" said Legree, ashe rolled his tobacco in his mouth.
"Now, dar's Lucy,--de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on deplace!" pursued Sambo.
"Take care, Sam; I shall begin to think what's the reasonfor your spite agin Lucy."
"Well, Mas'r knows she sot herself up agin Mas'r, andwouldn't have me, when he telled her to."
"I'd a flogged her into 't," said Legree, spitting, onlythere's such a press o' work, it don't seem wuth a while to upsether jist now. She's slender; but these yer slender gals will bearhalf killin' to get their own way!"
"Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round;wouldn't do nothin,--and Tom he tuck up for her."
"He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure offlogging her. It'll be a good practice for him, and he won't putit on to the gal like you devils, neither."
"Ho, ho! haw! haw! haw!" laughed both the sooty wretches;and the diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not unaptexpression of the fiendish character which Legree gave them.
"Wal, but, Mas'r, Tom and Misse Cassy, and dey among 'em,filled Lucy's basket. I ruther guess der weight 's in it, Mas'r!"
"_I do the weighing!_" said Legree, emphatically.
Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh.
"So!" he added, "Misse Cassy did her day's work."
"She picks like de debil and all his angels!"
"She's got 'em all in her, I believe!" said Legree; and,growling a brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room.
Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures, wound their wayinto the room, and, with crouching reluctance, presented theirbaskets to be weighed.
Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasteda list of names, the amount.
Tom's basket was weighed and approved; and he looked, with ananxious glance, for the success of the woman he had befriended.
Tottering with weakness, she came forward, and deliveredher basket. It was of full weight, as Legree well perceived; but,affecting anger, he said,
"What, you lazy beast! short again! stand aside, you'llcatch it, pretty soon!"
The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down ona board.
The person who had been called Misse Cassy now came forward, and,with a haughty, negligent air, delivered her basket. As she deliveredit, Legree looked in her eyes with a sneering yet inquiring glance.
She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved slightly,and she said something in French. What it was, no one knew; butLegree's face became perfectly demoniacal in its expression, asshe spoke; he half raised his hand, as if to strike,--a gesturewhich she regarded with fierce disdain, as she turned and walked away.
"And now," said Legree, "come here, you Tom. You see, Itelled ye I didn't buy ye jest for the common work; I mean topromote ye, and make a driver of ye; and tonight ye may jest aswell begin to get yer hand in. Now, ye jest take this yer gal andflog her; ye've seen enough on't to know how."
I beg Mas'r's pardon," said Tom; "hopes Mas'r won't set meat that. It's what I an't used to,--never did,--and can't do,no way possible."
"Ye'll larn a pretty smart chance of things ye never did know,before I've done with ye!" said Legree, taking up a cowhide,and striking Tom a heavy blow cross the cheek, and following upthe infliction by a shower of blows.
"There!" he said, as he stopped to rest; "now, will ye tellme ye can't do it?"
"Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, putting up his hand, to wipe the blood,that trickled down his face. "I'm willin' to work, nightand day, and work while there's life and breath in me; but thisyer thing I can't feel it right to do;--and, Mas'r, I _never_ shalldo it,--_never_!"
Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and a habituallyrespectful manner, that had given Legree an idea that he would becowardly, and easily subdued. When he spoke these last words, athrill of amazement went through every one; the poor woman claspedher hands, and said, "O Lord!" and every one involuntarily lookedat each other and drew in their breath, as if to prepare for thestorm that was about to burst.
Legree looked stupefied and confounded; but at last burstforth,--"What! ye blasted black beast! tell _me_ ye don'tthink it _right_ to do what I tell ye! What have any of you cussedcattle to do with thinking what's right? I'll put a stop to it! Why, what do ye think ye are? May be ye think ye'r a gentlemanmaster, Tom, to be a telling your master what's right, and what ain't! So you pretend it's wrong to flog the gal!"
"I think so, Mas'r," said Tom; "the poor crittur's sick and feeble;'t would be downright cruel, and it's what I never will do, norbegin to. Mas'r, if you mean to kill me, kill me; but, as to myraising my hand agin any one here, I never shall,--I'll die first!"
Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could notbe mistaken. Legree shook with anger; his greenish eyes glaredfiercely, and his very whiskers seemed to curl with passion; but,like some ferocious beast, that plays with its victim before hedevours it, he kept back his strong impulse to proceed to immediateviolence, and broke out into bitter raillery.
"Well, here's a pious dog, at last, let down among ussinners!--a saint, a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us sinnersabout our sins! Powerful holy critter, he must be! Here, you rascal,you make believe to be so pious,--didn't you never hear, out of yerBible, `Servants, obey yer masters'? An't I yer master? Didn't Ipay down twelve hundred dollars, cash, for all there is insideyer old cussed black shell? An't yer mine, now, body and soul?" hesaid, giving Tom a violent kick with his heavy boot; "tell me!"
In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutaloppression, this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph throughTom's soul. He suddenly stretched himself up, and, looking earnestlyto heaven, while the tears and blood that flowed down his facemingled, he exclaimed,
"No! no! no! my soul an't yours, Mas'r! You haven't boughtit,--ye can't buy it! It's been bought and paid for, by one thatis able to keep it;--no matter, no matter, you can't harm me!"
"I can't!" said Legree, with a sneer; "we'll see,--we'll see! Here, Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a breakin' in as hewon't get over, this month!"
The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, withfiendish exultation in their faces, might have formed no unaptpersonification of powers of darkness. The poor woman screamedwith apprehension, and all rose, as by a general impulse, whilethey dragged him unresisting from the place.
CHAPTER XXXIV
The Quadroon's Story
And behold the tears of such as are oppressed; and on the sideof their oppressors there was power. Wherefore I praised thedead that are already dead more than the living that are yet alive.
--ECCL. 4:1.
It was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleeding alone, inan old forsaken room of the gin-house, among pieces of brokenmachinery, piles of damaged cotton, and other rubbish which hadthere accumulated.
The night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed withmyriads of mosquitos, which increased the restless torture of hiswounds; whilst a burning thirst--a torture beyond all others--filledup the uttermost measure of physical anguish.
"O, good Lord! _Do_ look down,--give me the victory!--giveme the victory over all!" prayed poor Tom, in his anguish.
A footstep entered the room, behind him, and the light ofa lantern flashed on his eyes.
"Who's there? O, for the Lord's massy, please give me some water!"
The woman Cassy--for it was she,--set down her lantern, and,pouring water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave him drink. Another and another cup were drained, with feverish eagerness.
"Drink all ye want," she said; "I knew how it would be. It isn'tthe first time I've been out in the night, carrying water tosuch as you."
"Thank you, Missis," said Tom, when he had done drinking.
"Don't call me Missis! I'm a miserable slave, like yourself,--alower one than you can ever be!" said she, bitterly; "but now,"said she, going to the door, and dragging in a small pallaise, overwhich she had spread linen cloths wet with cold water, "try, mypoor fellow, to roll yourself on to this."
Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time inaccomplishing this movement; but, when done, he felt a sensiblerelief from the cooling application to his wounds.
The woman, whom long practice with the victims of brutality hadmade familiar with many healing arts, went on to make manyapplications to Tom's wounds, by means of which he was soonsomewhat relieved.
"Now," said the woman, when she had raised his head on a rollof damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, "there's thebest I can do for you."
Tom thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the floor, drewup her knees, and embracing them with her arms, looked fixedlybefore her, with a bitter and painful expression of countenance. Her bonnet fell back, and long wavy streams of black hair fellaround her singular and melancholy-face.
"It's no use, my poor fellow!" she broke out, at last, "it's ofno use, this you've been trying to do. You were a bravefellow,--you had the right on your side; but it's all in vain, andout of the question, for you to struggle. You are in the devil'shands;--he is the strongest, and you must give up!"
Give up! and, had not human weakness and physical agony whisperedthat, before? Tom started; for the bitter woman, with her wildeyes and melancholy voice, seemed to him an embodiment of thetemptation with which he had been wrestling.
"O Lord! O Lord!" he groaned, "how can I give up?"
"There's no use calling on the Lord,--he never hears," saidthe woman, steadily; "there isn't any God, I believe; or, if thereis, he's taken sides against us. All goes against us, heavenand earth. Everything is pushing us into hell. Why shouldn't we go?"
Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic words.
"You see," said the woman, "_you_ don't know anything aboutit--I do. I've been on this place five years, body and soul,under this man's foot; and I hate him as I do the devil! Here youare, on a lone plantation, ten miles from any other, in the swamps;not a white person here, who could testify, if you were burnedalive,--if you were scalded, cut into inch-pieces, set up for thedogs to tear, or hung up and whipped to death. There's no lawhere, of God or man, that can do you, or any one of us, the leastgood; and, this man! there's no earthly thing that he's too goodto do. I could make any one's hair rise, and their teeth chatter,if I should only tell what I've seen and been knowing to, here,--andit's no use resisting! Did I _want_ to live with him? Wasn't I awoman delicately bred; and he,--God in heaven! what was he, andis he? And yet, I've lived with him, these five years, and cursedevery moment of my life,--night and day! And now, he's got a newone,--a young thing, only fifteen, and she brought up, she says, piously. Her good mistress taught her to read the Bible; and she's broughther Bible here--to hell with her!"--and the woman laughed a wildand doleful laugh, that rung, with a strange, supernatural sound,through the old ruined shed.
Tom folded his hands; all was darkness and horror.
"O Jesus! Lord Jesus! have you quite forgot us poor critturs?"burst forth, at last;-- "help, Lord, I perish!"
The woman sternly continued:
"And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, that youshould suffer on their account? Every one of them would turnagainst you, the first time they got a chance. They are all of'em as low and cruel to each other as they can be; there's no usein your suffering to keep from hurting them."
"Poor critturs!" said Tom,-- "what made 'em cruel?--and, ifI give out, I shall get used to 't, and grow, little by little,just like 'em! No, no, Missis! I've lost everything,--wife, andchildren, and home, and a kind Mas'r,--and he would have set mefree, if he'd only lived a week longer; I've lost everything in_this_ world, and it's clean gone, forever,--and now I _can't_ loseHeaven, too; no, I can't get to be wicked, besides all!"
"But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account,"said the woman; "he won't charge it to us, when we're forced toit; he'll charge it to them that drove us to it."
"Yes," said Tom; "but that won't keep us from growing wicked. If I get to be as hard-hearted as that ar' Sambo, and as wicked,it won't make much odds to me how I come so; it's the bein'so,--that ar's what I'm a dreadin'."
The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if a newthought had struck her; and then, heavily groaning, said,
"O God a' mercy! you speak the truth! O--O--O!"--and, withgroans, she fell on the floor, like one crushed and writhing underthe extremity of mental anguish.
There was a silence, a while, in which the breathing of bothparties could be heard, when Tom faintly said, "O, please, Missis!"
The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to itsusual stern, melancholy expression.
"Please, Missis, I saw 'em throw my coat in that ar' corner,and in my coat-pocket is my Bible;--if Missis would please get itfor me."
Cassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavilymarked passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of Himby whose stripes we are healed.
"If Missis would only be so good as read that ar',--it'sbetter than water."
Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked overthe passage. She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with abeauty of intonation that was peculiar, that touching account ofanguish and of glory. Often, as she read, her voice faltered, andsometimes failed her altogether, when she would stop, with an airof frigid composure, till she had mastered herself. When she cameto the touching words, "Father forgive them, for they know not whatthey do," she threw down the book, and, burying her face in the heavymasses of her hair, she sobbed aloud, with a convulsive violence.
Tom was weeping, also, and occasionally uttering a smotheredejaculation.
"If we only could keep up to that ar'!" said Tom;--"it seemedto come so natural to him, and we have to fight so hard for 't! O Lord, help us! O blessed Lord Jesus, do help us!"
"Missis," said Tom, after a while, "I can see that, some how,you're quite 'bove me in everything; but there's one thing Missismight learn even from poor Tom. Ye said the Lord took sidesagainst us, because he lets us be 'bused and knocked round; but yesee what come on his own Son,--the blessed Lord of Glory,--wan'the allays poor? and have we, any on us, yet come so low as he come? The Lord han't forgot us,--I'm sartin' o' that ar'. If we sufferwith him, we shall also reign, Scripture says; but, if we deny Him,he also will deny us. Didn't they all suffer?--the Lord andall his? It tells how they was stoned and sawn asunder, and wanderedabout in sheep-skins and goat-skins, and was destitute, afflicted,tormented. Sufferin' an't no reason to make us think the Lord'sturned agin us; but jest the contrary, if only we hold on to him,and doesn't give up to sin."
"But why does he put us where we can't help but sin?" saidthe woman.
"I think we _can_ help it," said Tom.
"You'll see," said Cassy; "what'll you do? Tomorrow they'llbe at you again. I know 'em; I've seen all their doings; I can'tbear to think of all they'll bring you to;--and they'll make yougive out, at last!"
"Lord Jesus!" said Tom, "you _will_ take care of my soul? O Lord, do!--don't let me give out!"
"O dear!" said Cassy; "I've heard all this crying and prayingbefore; and yet, they've been broken down, and brought under. There's Emmeline, she's trying to hold on, and you'retrying,--but what use? You must give up, or be killed by inches."
"Well, then, I _will_ die!" said Tom. "Spin it out as long asthey can, they can't help my dying, some time!--and, after that,they can't do no more. I'm clar, I'm set! I _know_ the Lord'llhelp me, and bring me through."
The woman did not answer; she sat with her black eyesintently fixed on the floor.
"May be it's the way," she murmured to herself; "but those that_have_ given up, there's no hope for them!--none! We live infilth, and grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves! And we longto die, and we don't dare to kill ourselves!--No hope! no hope! nohope?--this girl now,--just as old as I was!
"You see me now," she said, speaking to Tom very rapidly;"see what I am! Well, I was brought up in luxury; the first Iremember is, playing about, when I was a child, in splendidparlors,--when I was kept dressed up like a doll, and company andvisitors used to praise me. There was a garden opening from thesaloon windows; and there I used to play hide-and-go-seek, underthe orange-trees, with my brothers and sisters. I went to aconvent, and there I learned music, French and embroidery, andwhat not; and when I was fourteen, I came out to my father's funeral. He died very suddenly, and when the property came to be settled,they found that there was scarcely enough to cover the debts; andwhen the creditors took an inventory of the property, I was set downin it. My mother was a slave woman, and my father had always meantto set me free; but he had not done it, and so I was set down inthe list. I'd always known who I was, but never thought much about it. Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is going to die. My father was a well man only four hours before he died;--it wasone of the first cholera cases in New Orleans. The day after thefuneral, my father's wife took her children, and went up to herfather's plantation. I thought they treated me strangely, butdidn't know. There was a young lawyer who they left to settle thebusiness; and he came every day, and was about the house, and spokevery politely to me. He brought with him, one day, a young man,whom I thought the handsomest I had ever seen. I shall never forgetthat evening. I walked with him in the garden. I was lonesome andfull of sorrow, and he was so kind and gentle to me; and he told methat he had seen me before I went to the convent, and that he hadloved me a great while, and that he would be my friend andprotector;--in short, though he didn't tell me, he had paid twothousand dollars for me, and I was his property,--I became hiswillingly, for I loved him. Loved!" said the woman, stopping. "O, how I _did_ love that man! How I love him now,--and alwaysshall, while I breathe! He was so beautiful, so high, so noble! He put me into a beautiful house, with servants, horses, andcarriages, and furniture, and dresses. Everything that moneycould buy, he gave me; but I didn't set any value on all that,--Ionly cared for him. I loved him better than my God and my own soul,and, if I tried, I couldn't do any other way from what he wanted me to.
"I wanted only one thing--I did want him to _marry_ me. I thought,if he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what he seemedto think I was, he would be willing to marry me and set me free. But he convinced me that it would be impossible; and he toldme that, if we were only faithful to each other, it was marriagebefore God. If that is true, wasn't I that man's wife? Wasn't Ifaithful? For seven years, didn't I study every look and motion,and only live and breathe to please him? He had the yellow fever,and for twenty days and nights I watched with him. I alone,--andgave him all his medicine, and did everything for him; and then hecalled me his good angel, and said I'd saved his life. We had twobeautiful children. The first was a boy, and we called him Henry. He was the image of his father,--he had such beautiful eyes, sucha forehead, and his hair hung all in curls around it; and he hadall his father's spirit, and his talent, too. Little Elise, hesaid, looked like me. He used to tell me that I was the mostbeautiful woman in Louisiana, he was so proud of me and the children. He used to love to have me dress them up, and take them and meabout in an open carriage, and hear the remarks that people wouldmake on us; and he used to fill my ears constantly with the finethings that were said in praise of me and the children. O, thosewere happy days! I thought I was as happy as any one could be; butthen there came evil times. He had a cousin come to New Orleans,who was his particular friend,--he thought all the world of him;--but,from the first time I saw him, I couldn't tell why, I dreaded him;for I felt sure he was going to bring misery on us. He got Henryto going out with him, and often he would not come home nights tilltwo or three o'clock. I did not dare say a word; for Henry was sohigh spirited, I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming-houses; andhe was one of the sort that, when he once got a going there, therewas no holding back. And then he introduced him to another lady,and I saw soon that his heart was gone from me. He never told me,but I saw it,--I knew it, day after day,--I felt my heart breaking,but I could not say a word! At this, the wretch offered to buy meand the children of Henry, to clear off his gamblng debts, whichstood in the way of his marrying as he wished;--and _he sold us_. He told me, one day, that he had business in the country, and shouldbe gone two or three weeks. He spoke kinder than usual, and saidhe should come back; but it didn't deceive me. I knew that thetime had come; I was just like one turned into stone; I couldn'tspeak, nor shed a tear. He kissed me and kissed the children, agood many times, and went out. I saw him get on his horse, and Iwatched him till he was quite out of sight; and then I fell down,and fainted.
"Then _he_ came, the cursed wretch! he came to take possession. He told me that he had bought me and my children; and showed methe papers. I cursed him before God, and told him I'd die soonerthan live with him."
"`Just as you please,' said he; `but, if you don't behavereasonably, I'll sell both the children, where you shall never seethem again.' He told me that he always had meant to have me, fromthe first time he saw me; and that he had drawn Henry on, and gothim in debt, on purpose to make him willing to sell me. That hegot him in love with another woman; and that I might know, afterall that, that he should not give up for a few airs and tears, andthings of that sort.
"I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children;--wheneverI resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about selling them,and he made me as submissive as he desired. O, what a life it was!to live with my heart breaking, every day,--to keep on, on, on,loving, when it was only misery; and to be bound, body and soul,to one I hated. I used to love to read to Henry, to play to him,to waltz with him, and sing to him; but everything I did for thisone was a perfect drag,--yet I was afraid to refuse anything. He was very imperious, and harsh to the children. Elise was a timidlittle thing; but Henry was bold and high-spirited, like his father,and he had never been brought under, in the least, by any one. He wasalways finding fault, and quarrelling with him; and I used to livein daily fear and dread. I tried to make the child respectful;--Itried to keep them apart, for I held on to those children likedeath; but it did no good. _He sold both those children_. He tookme to ride, one day, and when I came home, they were nowhere tobe found! He told me he had sold them; he showed me the money,the price of their blood. Then it seemed as if all good forsook me. I raved and cursed,--cursed God and man; and, for a while, I believe,he really was afraid of me. But he didn't give up so. He told methat my children were sold, but whether I ever saw their facesagain, depended on him; and that, if I wasn't quiet, they shouldsmart for it. Well, you can do anything with a woman, when you'vegot her children. He made me submit; he made me be peaceable; heflattered me with hopes that, perhaps, he would buy them back; andso things went on, a week or two. One day, I was out walking, andpassed by the calaboose; I saw a crowd about the gate, and hearda child's voice,--and suddenly my Henry broke away from two orthree men who were holding the poor boy screamed and looked intomy face, and held on to me, until, in tearing him off, they torethe skirt of my dress half away; and they carried him in, screaming`Mother! mother! mother!' There was one man stood there seemed topity me. I offered him all the money I had, if he'd only interfere. He shook his head, and said that the boy had been impudent anddisobedient, ever since he bought him; that he was going to breakhim in, once for all. I turned and ran; and every step of the way,I thought that I heard him scream. I got into the house; ran, allout of breath, to the parlor, where I found Butler. I told him,and begged him to go and interfere. He only laughed, and told methe boy had got his deserts. He'd got to be broken in,--the soonerthe better; `what did I expect?' he asked.
"It seemed to me something in my head snapped, at that moment. I felt dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great sharpbowie-knife on the table; I remember something about catching it,and flying upon him; and then all grew dark, and I didn't know anymore,--not for days and days.
"When I came to myself, I was in a nice room,--but not mine. An old black woman tended me; and a doctor came to see me, andthere was a great deal of care taken of me. After a while, Ifound that he had gone away, and left me at this house to be sold;and that's why they took such pains with me.
"I didn't mean to get well, and hoped I shouldn't; but, in spiteof me the fever went off and I grew healthy, and finally got up. Then, they made me dress up, every day; and gentlemen used tocome in and stand and smoke their cigars, and look at me, and askquestions, and debate my price. I was so gloomy and silent, thatnone of them wanted me. They threatened to whip me, if I wasn'tgayer, and didn't take some pains to make myself agreeable. At length,one day, came a gentleman named Stuart. He seemed to have somefeeling for me; he saw that something dreadful was on my heart,and he came to see me alone, a great many times, and finallypersuaded me to tell him. He bought me, at last, and promisedto do all he could to find and buy back my children. He wentto the hotel where my Henry was; they told him he had been soldto a planter up on Pearl river; that was the last that I ever heard. Then he found where my daughter was; an old woman was keeping her. He offered an immense sum for her, but they would not sell her. Butler found out that it was for me he wanted her; and he sent meword that I should never have her. Captain Stuart was very kindto me; he had a splendid plantation, and took me to it. In thecourse of a year, I had a son born. O, that child!--how I loved it! How just like my poor Henry the little thing looked! But I hadmade up my mind,--yes, I had. I would never again let a childlive to grow up! I took the little fellow in my arms, whenhe was two weeks old, and kissed him, and cried over him; and thenI gave him laudanum, and held him close to my bosom, while he sleptto death. How I mourned and cried over it! and who ever dreamedthat it was anything but a mistake, that had made me give it thelaudanum? but it's one of the few things that I'm glad of, now. I am not sorry, to this day; he, at least, is out of pain. Whatbetter than death could I give him, poor child! After a while, thecholera came, and Captain Stuart died; everybody died that wantedto live,--and I,--I, though I went down to death's door,--_I lived!_ Then I was sold, and passed from hand to hand, till I grew fadedand wrinkled, and I had a fever; and then this wretch bought me,and brought me here,--and here I am!"
The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her story, witha wild, passionate utterance; sometimes seeming to address itto Tom, and sometimes speaking as in a soliloquy. So vehement andoverpowering was the force with which she spoke, that, for a season,Tom was beguiled even from the pain of his wounds, and, raising himselfon one elbow, watched her as she paced restlessly up and down, herlong black hair swaying heavily about her, as she moved.
"You tell me," she said, after a pause, "that there is a God,--aGod that looks down and sees all these things. May be it's so. The sisters in the convent used to tell me of a day of judgment,when everything is coming to light;--won't there be vengeance, then!
"They think it's nothing, what we suffer,--nothing, what ourchildren suffer! It's all a small matter; yet I've walked thestreets when it seemed as if I had misery enough in my one heartto sink the city. I've wished the houses would fall on me, or thestones sink under me. Yes! and, in the judgment day, I will standup before God, a witness against those that have ruined me and mychildren, body and soul!
"When I was a girl, I thought I was religious; I used to loveGod and prayer. Now, I'm a lost soul, pursued by devils thattorment me day and night; they keep pushing me on and on--and I'lldo it, too, some of these days!" she said, clenching her hand,while an insane light glanced in her heavy black eyes. "I'll sendhim where he belongs,--a short way, too,--one of these nights, ifthey burn me alive for it!" A wild, long laugh rang through thedeserted room, and ended in a hysteric sob; she threw herself onthe floor, in convulsive sobbing and struggles.
In a few moments, the frenzy fit seemed to pass off; sherose slowly, and seemed to collect herself.
"Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow?" she said,approaching where Tom lay; "shall I give you some more water?"
There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her voiceand manner, as she said this, that formed a strange contrastwith the former wildness.
Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifullyinto her face.
"O, Missis, I wish you'd go to him that can give you living waters!"
"Go to him! Where is he? Who is he?" said Cassy.
"Him that you read of to me,--the Lord."
"I used to see the picture of him, over the altar, when Iwas a girl," said Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in anexpression of mournful reverie; "but, _he isn't here!_ there'snothing here, but sin and long, long, long despair! O!" She laidher land on her breast and drew in her breath, as if to lift aheavy weight.
Tom looked as if he would speak again; but she cut him short,with a decided gesture.
"Don't talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can." And, placing water in his reach, and making whatever littlearrangements for his comforts she could, Cassy left the shed.
CHAPTER XXXV
The Tokens
"And slight, withal, may be the things that bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside forever; it may be a sound, A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,-- Striking the electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound." CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, CAN. 4.
The sitting-room of Legree's establishment was a large, longroom, with a wide, ample fireplace. It had once been hung witha showy and expensive paper, which now hung mouldering, tornand discolored, from the damp walls. The place had that peculiarsickening, unwholesome smell, compounded of mingled damp, dirt anddecay, which one often notices in close old houses. The wall-paperwas defaced, in spots, by slops of beer and wine; or garnished withchalk memorandums, and long sums footed up, as if somebody had beenpractising arithmetic there. In the fireplace stood a brazier fullof burning charcoal; for, though the weather was not cold, theevenings always seemed damp and chilly in that great room; andLegree, moreover, wanted a place to light his cigars, and heat hiswater for punch. The ruddy glare of the charcoal displayed theconfused and unpromising aspect of the room,--saddles, bridles,several sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats, and variousarticles of clothing, scattered up and down the room in confusedvariety; and the dogs, of whom we have before spoken, had encampedthemselves among them, to suit their own taste and convenience.
Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring hishot water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grumbling,as he did so,
"Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me andthe new hands! The fellow won't be fit to work for a week,now,--right in the press of the season!"
"Yes, just like you," said a voice, behind his chair. It wasthe woman Cassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy.
"Hah! you she-devil! you've come back, have you?"
"Yes, I have," she said, coolly; "come to have my own way, too!"
"You lie, you jade! I'll be up to my word. Either behaveyourself, or stay down to the quarters, and fare and work withthe rest."
"I'd rather, ten thousand times," said the woman, "live inthe dirtiest hole at the quarters, than be under your hoof!"
"But you _are_ under my hoof, for all that," said he, turningupon her, with a savage grin; "that's one comfort. So, sitdown here on my knee, my dear, and hear to reason," said he,laying hold on her wrist.
"Simon Legree, take care!" said the woman, with a sharp flashof her eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as tobe almost appalling. "You're afraid of me, Simon," she said,deliberately; "and you've reason to be! But be careful, for I'vegot the devil in me!"
The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close tohis ear.
"Get out! I believe, to my soul, you have!" said Legree,pushing her from him, and looking uncomfortably at her. "After all, Cassy," he said, "why can't you be friends with me,as you used to?"
"Used to!" said she, bitterly. She stopped short,--a wordof choking feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent.
Cassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence thata strong, impassioned woman can ever keep over the most brutalman; but, of late, she had grown more and more irritable andrestless, under the hideous yoke of her servitude, and herirritability, at times, broke out into raving insanity; and thisliability made her a sort of object of dread to Legree, who hadthat superstitious horror of insane persons which is common tocoarse and uninstructed minds. When Legree brought Emmeline tothe house, all the smouldering embers of womanly feeling flashedup in the worn heart of Cassy, and she took part with the girl;and a fierce quarrel ensued between her and Legree. Legree, in afury, swore she should be put to field service, if she would notbe peaceable. Cassy, with proud scorn, declared she _would_ go tothe field. And she worked there one day, as we have described, toshow how perfectly she scorned the threat.
Legree was secretly uneasy, all day; for Cassy had an influenceover him from which he could not free himself. When she presentedher basket at the scales, he had hoped for some concession,and addressed her in a sort of half conciliatory, half scornfultone; and she had answered with the bitterest contempt.
The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her stillmore; and she had followed Legree to the house, with no particularintention, but to upbraid him for his brutality.
"I wish, Cassy," said Legree, "you'd behave yourself decently."
"_You_ talk about behaving decently! And what have you beendoing?--you, who haven't even sense enough to keep from spoilingone of your best hands, right in the most pressing season, justfor your devilish temper!"
"I was a fool, it's a fact, to let any such brangle come up,"said Legree; "but, when the boy set up his will, he had to bebroke in."
"I reckon you won't break _him_ in!"
"Won't I?" said Legree, rising, passionately. "I'd like toknow if I won't? He'll be the first nigger that ever came itround me! I'll break every bone in his body, but he _shall_give up!"
Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He cameforward, bowing, and holding out something in a paper.
"What's that, you dog?" said Legree.
"It's a witch thing, Mas'r!"
"A what?"
"Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps 'em fromfeelin' when they 's flogged. He had it tied round his neck, witha black string."
Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious. He took the paper, and opened it uneasily.
There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long, shiningcurl of fair hair,--hair which, like a living thing, twined itselfround Legree's fingers.
"Damnation!" he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping on thefloor, and pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned him. "Where did this come from? Take it off!--burn it up!--burn it up!"he screamed, tearing it off, and throwing it into the charcoal. "What did you bring it to me for?"
Sambo stood, with his heavy mouth wide open, and aghast withwonder; and Cassy, who was preparing to leave the apartment,stopped, and looked at him in perfect amazement.
"Don't you bring me any more of your devilish things!" said he,shaking his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily towards the door;and, picking up the silver dollar, he sent it smashing throughthe window-pane, out into the darkness.
Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone, Legreeseemed a little ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat doggedlydown in his chair, and began sullenly sipping his tumblerof punch.
Cassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him; andslipped away to minister to poor Tom, as we have already related.
And what was the matter with Legree? and what was there in asimple curl of fair hair to appall that brutal man, familiar withevery form of cruelty? To answer this, we must carry the readerbackward in his history. Hard and reprobate as the godless manseemed now, there had been a time when he had been rocked on thebosom of a mother,--cradled with prayers and pious hymns,--his nowseared brow bedewed with the waters of holy baptism. In earlychildhood, a fair-haired woman had led him, at the sound of Sabbathbell, to worship and to pray. Far in New England that mother hadtrained her only son, with long, unwearied love, and patient prayers. Born of a hard-tempered sire, on whom that gentle woman had wasteda world of unvalued love, Legree had followed in the steps ofhis father. Boisterous, unruly, and tyrannical, he despised all hercounsel, and would none of her reproof; and, at an early age, brokefrom her, to seek his fortunes at sea. He never came home butonce, after; and then, his mother, with the yearning of a heartthat must love something, and has nothing else to love, clung tohim, and sought, with passionate prayers and entreaties, to winhim from a life of sin, to his soul's eternal good.
That was Legree's day of grace; then good angels called him;then he was almost persuaded, and mercy held him by the hand. His heart inly relented,--there was a conflict,--but sin got thevictory, and he set all the force of his rough nature against theconviction of his conscience. He drank and swore,--was wilder andmore brutal than ever. And, one night, when his mother, in thelast agony of her despair, knelt at his feet, he spurned her fromhim,--threw her senseless on the floor, and, with brutal curses,fled to his ship. The next Legree heard of his mother was, when,one night, as he was carousing among drunken companions, a letterwas put into his hand. He opened it, and a lock of long, curlinghair fell from it, and twined about his fingers. The letter toldhim his mother was dead, and that, dying, she blest and forgave him.
There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turnsthings sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and affright. That pale, loving mother,--her dying prayers, her forgivinglove,--wrought in that demoniac heart of sin only as a damningsentence, bringing with it a fearful looking for of judgment andfiery indignation. Legree burned the hair, and burned the letter;and when he saw them hissing and crackling in the flame, inlyshuddered as he thought of everlasting fires. He tried to drink,and revel, and swear away the memory; but often, in the deep night,whose solemn stillness arraigns the bad soul in forced communionwith herself, he had seen that pale mother rising by his bedside,and felt the soft twining of that hair around his fingers, tillthe cold sweat would roll down his face, and he would spring fromhis bed in horror. Ye who have wondered to hear, in the sameevangel, that God is love, and that God is a consuming fire, seeye not how, to the soul resolved in evil, perfect love is the mostfearful torture, the seal and sentence of the direst despair?
"Blast it!" said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor;"where did he get that? If it didn't look just like--whoo! I thoughtI'd forgot that. Curse me, if I think there's any such thing asforgetting anything, any how,--hang it! I'm lonesome! I mean tocall Em. She hates me--the monkey! I don't care,--I'll _make_her come!"
Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went up stairs,by what had formerly been a superb winding staircase; but thepassage-way was dirty and dreary, encumbered with boxes andunsightly litter. The stairs, uncarpeted, seemed winding up,in the gloom, to nobody knew where! The pale moonlightstreamed through a shattered fanlight over the door; theair was unwholesome and chilly, like that of a vault.
Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voicesinging. It seemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old house,perhaps because of the already tremulous state of his nerves. Hark! what is it?
A wild, pathetic voice, chants a hymn common among theslaves:
"O there'll be mourning, mourning, mourning, O there'll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!"
"Blast the girl!" said Legree. "I'll choke her.--Em! Em!" hecalled, harshly; but only a mocking echo from the walls answered him. The sweet voice still sung on:
"Parents and children there shall part! Parents and children there shall part! Shall part to meet no more!"
And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the refrain,
"O there'll be mourning, mourning, mourning, O there'll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!"
Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of it,but large drops of sweat stood on his forehead, his heart beatheavy and thick with fear; he even thought he saw something whiterising and glimmering in the gloom before him, and shuddered tothink what if the form of his dead mother should suddenly appearto him.
"I know one thing," he said to himself, as he stumbled backin the sitting-room, and sat down; "I'll let that fellow alone,after this! What did I want of his cussed paper? I b'lieveI am bewitched, sure enough! I've been shivering and sweating,ever since! Where did he get that hair? It couldn't havebeen _that!_ I burnt _that_ up, I know I did! It would be a joke,if hair could rise from the dead!"
Ah, Legree! that golden tress _was_ charmed; each hair hadin it a spell of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by amightier power to bind thy cruel hands from inflicting uttermostevil on the helpless!
"I say," said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs,"wake up, some of you, and keep me company!" but the dogs onlyopened one eye at him, sleepily, and closed it again.
"I'll have Sambo and Quimbo up here, to sing and dance oneof their hell dances, and keep off these horrid notions," saidLegree; and, putting on his hat, he went on to the verandah, andblew a horn, with which he commonly summoned his two sable drivers.
Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humor, to get thesetwo worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming them upwith whiskey, amuse himself by setting them to singing, dancingor fighting, as the humor took him.
It was between one and two o'clock at night, as Cassy wasreturning from her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard thesound of wild shrieking, whooping, halloing, and singing, from thesitting-room, mingled with the barking of dogs, and other symptomsof general uproar.
She came up on the verandah steps, and looked in. Legree andboth the drivers, in a state of furious intoxication, weresinging, whooping, upsetting chairs, and making all manner ofludicrous and horrid grimaces at each other.
She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind, andlooked fixedly at them;--there was a world of anguish, scorn,and fierce bitterness, in her black eyes, as she did so. "Would it be a sin to rid the world of such a wretch?"she said to herself.
She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a backdoor, glided up stairs, and tapped at Emmeline's door.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Emmeline and Cassy
Cassy entered the room, and found Emmeline sitting, pale withfear, in the furthest corner of it. As she came in, the girlstarted up nervously; but, on seeing who it was, rushed forward,and catching her arm, said, "O Cassy, is it you? I'm so glad you'vecome! I was afraid it was--. O, you don't know what a horrid noisethere has been, down stairs, all this evening!"
"I ought to know," said Cassy, dryly. "I've heard it often enough."
"O Cassy! do tell me,--couldn't we get away from this place? I don't care where,--into the swamp among the snakes,--anywhere! _Couldn't_ we get _somewhere_ away from here?"
"Nowhere, but into our graves," said Cassy.
"Did you ever try?"
"I've seen enough of trying and what comes of it," said Cassy.
"I'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the barkfrom trees. I an't afraid of snakes! I'd rather have one near methan him," said Emmeline, eagerly.
"There have been a good many here of your opinion," said Cassy;"but you couldn't stay in the swamps,--you'd be tracked bythe dogs, and brought back, and then--then--"
"What would he do?" said the girl, looking, with breathlessinterest, into her face.
"What _wouldn't_ he do, you'd better ask," said Cassy. "He's learned his trade well, among the pirates in the West Indies. You wouldn't sleep much, if I should tell you things I've seen,--thingsthat he tells of, sometimes, for good jokes. I've heard screamshere that I haven't been able to get out of my head for weeksand weeks. There's a place way out down by the quarters, where youcan see a black, blasted tree, and the ground all covered withblack ashes. Ask anyone what was done there, and see if they willdare to tell you."
"O! what do you mean?"
"I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, theLord only knows what we may see tomorrow, if that poor fellowholds out as he's begun."
"Horrid!" said Emmeline, every drop of blood receding fromher cheeks. "O, Cassy, do tell me what I shall do!"
"What I've done. Do the best you can,--do what you must,--andmake it up in hating and cursing."
"He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy,"said Emmeline; "and I hate it so--"
"You'd better drink," said Cassy. "I hated it, too; andnow I can't live without it. One must have something;--thingsdon't look so dreadful, when you take that."
"Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing,"said Emmeline.
"_Mother_ told you!" said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitteremphasis on the word mother. "What use is it for mothers to sayanything? You are all to be bought and paid for, and your soulsbelong to whoever gets you. That's the way it goes. I say, _drink_brandy; drink all you can, and it'll make things come easier."
"O, Cassy! do pity me!"
"Pity you!--don't I? Haven't I a daughter,--Lord knowswhere she is, and whose she is, now,--going the way her motherwent, before her, I suppose, and that her children must go,after her! There's no end to the curse--forever!"
"I wish I'd never been born!" said Emmeline, wringing her hands.
"That's an old wish with me," said Cassy. "I've got used towishing that. I'd die, if I dared to," she said, looking outinto the darkness, with that still, fixed despair which was thehabitual expression of her face when at rest.
"It would be wicked to kill one's self," said Emmeline.
"I don't know why,--no wickeder than things we live and do,day after day. But the sisters told me things, when I was inthe convent, that make me afraid to die. If it would only be theend of us, why, then--"
Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands.
While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree,overcome with his carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room below. Legree was not an habitual drunkard. His coarse, strong naturecraved, and could endure, a continual stimulation, that would haveutterly wrecked and crazed a finer one. But a deep, underlyingspirit of cautiousness prevented his often yielding to appetite insuch measure as to lose control of himself
This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from hismind those fearful elements of woe and remorse which woke withinhim, he had indulged more than common; so that, when he had dischargedhis sable attendants, he fell heavily on a settle in the room, andwas sound asleep.
O! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world ofsleep?--that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to themystic scene of retribution! Legree dreamed. In his heavy andfeverish sleep, a veiled form stood beside him, and laid a cold,soft hand upon him. He thought he knew who it was; and shuddered,with creeping horror, though the face was veiled. Then hethought he felt _that hair_ twining round his fingers; and then,that it slid smoothly round his neck, and tightened and tightened,and he could not draw his breath; and then he thought voices_whispered_ to him,--whispers that chilled him with horror. Thenit seemed to him he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holdingon and struggling in mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up,and were pulling him over; and Cassy came behind him laughing, andpushed him. And then rose up that solemn veiled figure, and drewaside the veil. It was his mother; and she turned away from him,and he fell down, down, down, amid a confused noise of shrieks,and groans, and shouts of demon laughter,--and Legree awoke.
Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room. The morning star stood, with its solemn, holy eye of light, lookingdown on the man of sin, from out the brightening sky. O, with whatfreshness, what solemnity and beauty, is each new day born; as ifto say to insensate man, "Behold! thou hast one more chance! _Strive_ for immortal glory!" There is no speech nor language wherethis voice is not heard; but the bold, bad man heard it not. He wokewith an oath and a curse. What to him was the gold and purple,the daily miracle of morning! What to him the sanctity of the starwhich the Son of God has hallowed as his own emblem? Brute-like,he saw without perceiving; and, stumbling forward, poured out atumbler of brandy, and drank half of it.
"I've had a h--l of a night!" he said to Cassy, who justthen entered from an opposite door.
"You'll get plenty of the same sort, by and by," said she, dryly.
"What do you mean, you minx?"
"You'll find out, one of these days," returned Cassy, in thesame tone. "Now Simon, I've one piece of advice to give you."
"The devil, you have!"
"My advice is," said Cassy, steadily, as she began adjustingsome things about the room, "that you let Tom alone."
"What business is 't of yours?"
"What? To be sure, I don't know what it should be. If youwant to pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him right up inthe press of the season, just to serve your own spite, it's nobusiness of mine, I've done what I could for him."
"You have? What business have you meddling in my matters?"
"None, to be sure. I've saved you some thousands of dollars,at different times, by taking care of your hands,--that's all thethanks I get. If your crop comes shorter into market than any oftheirs, you won't lose your bet, I suppose? Tompkins won't lord itover you, I suppose,--and you'll pay down your money like a lady,won't you? I think I see you doing it!"
Legree, like many other planters, had but one form ofambition,--to have in the heaviest crop of the season,--and he hadseveral bets on this very present season pending in the next town. Cassy, therefore, with woman's tact, touched the only string thatcould be made to vibrate.
"Well, I'll let him off at what he's got," said Legree;"but he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions."
"That he won't do," said Cassy.
"Won't,-- eh?"
"No, he won't," said Cassy.
"I'd like to know _why_, Mistress," said Legree, in theextreme of scorn.
"Because he's done right, and he knows it, and won't sayhe's done wrong."
"Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say whatI please, or--"
"Or, you'll lose your bet on the cotton crop, by keepinghim out of the field, just at this very press."
"But he _will_ give up,--course, he will; don't I know whatniggers is? He'll beg like a dog, this morning."
He won't, Simon; you don't know this kind. You may kill himby inches,--you won't get the first word of confession out of him."
"We'll see,--where is he?" said Legree, going out.
"In the waste-room of the gin-house," said Cassy.
Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied forthfrom the house with a degree of misgiving which was not commonwith him. His dreams of the past night, mingled with Cassy'sprudential suggestions, considerably affected his mind. He resolvedthat nobody should be witness of his encounter with Tom; anddetermined, if he could not subdue him by bullying, to defer hisvengeance, to be wreaked in a more convenient season.
The solemn light of dawn--the angelic glory of themorning-star--had looked in through the rude window of the shedwhere Tom was lying; and, as if descending on that star-beam, camethe solemn words, "I am the root and offspring of David, and thebright and morning star." The mysterious warnings and intimationsof Cassy, so far from discouraging his soul, in the end had rousedit as with a heavenly call. He did not know but that the day ofhis death was dawning in the sky; and his heart throbbed with solemnthroes of joy and desire, as he thought that the wondrous _all_,of which he had often pondered,--the great white throne, with itsever radiant rainbow; the white-robed multitude, with voices asmany waters; the crowns, the palms, the harps,--might all breakupon his vision before that sun should set again. And, therefore,without shuddering or trembling, he heard the voice of his persecutor,as he drew near.
"Well, my boy," said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, "how doyou find yourself? Didn't I tell yer I could larn yer a thingor two? How do yer like it--eh?
How did yer whaling agree with yer, Tom? An't quite so crank as yewas last night. Ye couldn't treat a poor sinner, now, to a bit ofsermon, could ye,--eh?"
Tom answered nothing.
"Get up, you beast!" said Legree, kicking him again.
This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint;and, as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.
"What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom? Cotched cold,may be, last night."
Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confrontinghis master with a steady, unmoved front.
"The devil, you can!" said Legree, looking him over. "I believeyou haven't got enough yet. Now, Tom, get right down on yerknees and beg my pardon, for yer shines last night."
Tom did not move.
"Down, you dog!" said Legree, striking him with hisriding-whip.
"Mas'r Legree," said Tom, "I can't do it. I did only whatI thought was right. I shall do just so again, if ever thetime comes. I never will do a cruel thing, come what may."
"Yes, but ye don't know what may come, Master Tom. Ye thinkwhat you've got is something. I tell you 'tan't anything,--nothing't all. How would ye like to be tied to a tree, and have a slowfire lit up around ye;--wouldn't that be pleasant,--eh, Tom?"
"Mas'r," said Tom, "I know ye can do dreadful things;but,"--he stretched himself upward and clasped his hands,--"but,after ye've killed the body, there an't no more ye can do. And O,there's all ETERNITY to come, after that!"
ETERNITY,--the word thrilled through the black man's soul withlight and power, as he spoke; it thrilled through the sinner'ssoul, too, like the bite of a scorpion. Legree gnashed on himwith his teeth, but rage kept him silent; and Tom, like a mandisenthralled, spoke, in a clear and cheerful voice,
"Mas'r Legree, as ye bought me, I'll be a true and faithfulservant to ye. I'll give ye all the work of my hands, all my time,all my strength; but my soul I won't give up to mortal man. I willhold on to the Lord, and put his commands before all,--die or live;you may be sure on 't. Mas'r Legree, I ain't a grain afeard to die. I'd as soon die as not. Ye may whip me, starve me, burn me,--it'llonly send me sooner where I want to go."
"I'll make ye give out, though, 'fore I've done!" saidLegree, in a rage.
"I shall have _help_," said Tom; "you'll never do it."
"Who the devil's going to help you?" said Legree, scornfully.
"The Lord Almighty," said Tom.
"D--n you!" said Legree, as with one blow of his fist hefelled Tom to the earth.
A cold soft hand fell on Legree's at this moment. He turned,--itwas Cassy's; but the cold soft touch recalled his dream of thenight before, and, flashing through the chambers of his brain,came all the fearful images of the night-watches, with aportion of the horror that accompanied them.
"Will you be a fool?" said Cassy, in French. "Let him go! Let me alone to get him fit to be in the field again. Isn't itjust as I told you?"
They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though enclosed inbullet-proof mail, have each a spot where they are vulnerable; andfierce, reckless, unbelieving reprobates, have commonly this pointin superstitious dread.
Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the time.
"Well, have it your own way," he said, doggedly, to Cassy.
"Hark, ye!" he said to Tom; "I won't deal with ye now,because the business is pressing, and I want all my hands;but I _never_ forget. I'll score it against ye, and sometimeI'll have my pay out o' yer old black hide,--mind ye!"
Legree turned, and went out.
"There you go," said Cassy, looking darkly after him; "yourreckoning's to come, yet!--My poor fellow, how are you?"
"The Lord God hath sent his angel, and shut the lion'smouth, for this time," said Tom.
"For this time, to be sure," said Cassy; "but now you've gothis ill will upon you, to follow you day in, day out, hanginglike a dog on your throat,--sucking your blood, bleeding away yourlife, drop by drop. I know the man."
CHAPTER XXXVII
Liberty
"No matter with what solemnities he may have been devotedupon the altar of slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soilof Britain, the altar and the God sink together in the dust, andhe stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistiblegenius of universal emancipation."
CURRAN.[1]
[1] John Philpot Curran (1750-1817), Irish orator and judgewho worked for Catholic emancipation.
A while we must leave Tom in the hands of his persecutors,while we turn to pursue the fortunes of George and his wife, whomwe left in friendly hands, in a farmhouse on the road-side.
Tom Loker we left groaning and touzling in a most immaculatelyclean Quaker bed, under the motherly supervision of Aunt Dorcas,who found him to the full as tractable a patient as a sick bison.
Imagine a tall, dignified, spiritual woman, whose clear muslincap shades waves of silvery hair, parted on a broad, clear forehead,which overarches thoughtful gray eyes. A snowy handkerchief oflisse crape is folded neatly across her bosom; her glossy brownsilk dress rustles peacefully, as she glides up and down the chamber.
"The devil!" says Tom Loker, giving a great throw to the bedclothes.
"I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such language,"says Aunt Dorcas, as she quietly rearranged the bed.
"Well, I won't, granny, if I can help it," says Tom; "butit is enough to make a fellow swear,--so cursedly hot!"
Dorcas removed a comforter from the bed, straightened theclothes again, and tucked them in till Tom looked something likea chrysalis; remarking, as she did so,
"I wish, friend, thee would leave off cursing and swearing,and think upon thy ways."
"What the devil," said Tom, "should I think of _them_ for? Last thing ever _I_ want to think of--hang it all!" And Tomflounced over, untucking and disarranging everything, in amanner frightful to behold.
"That fellow and gal are here, I 'spose," said he, sullenly,after a pause.
"They are so," said Dorcas.
"They'd better be off up to the lake," said Tom; "thequicker the better."
"Probably they will do so," said Aunt Dorcas, knitting peacefully.
"And hark ye," said Tom; "we've got correspondents in Sandusky,that watch the boats for us. I don't care if I tell, now. I hope they _will_ get away, just to spite Marks,--the cursedpuppy!--d--n him!"
"Thomas!" said Dorcas.
"I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I shallsplit," said Tom. "But about the gal,--tell 'em to dress her upsome way, so's to alter her. Her description's out in Sandusky."
"We will attend to that matter," said Dorcas, withcharacteristic composure.
As we at this place take leave of Tom Loker, we may as wellsay, that, having lain three weeks at the Quaker dwelling,sick with a rheumatic fever, which set in, in company withhis other afflictions, Tom arose from his bed a somewhatsadder and wiser man; and, in place of slave-catching, betookhimself to life in one of the new settlements, where his talentsdeveloped themselves more happily in trapping bears, wolves, andother inhabitants of the forest, in which he made himself quite aname in the land. Tom always spoke reverently of the Quakers. "Nice people," he would say; "wanted to convert me, but couldn'tcome it, exactly. But, tell ye what, stranger, they do fix up asick fellow first rate,--no mistake. Make jist the tallest kindo' broth and knicknacks."
As Tom had informed them that their party would be looked forin Sandusky, it was thought prudent to divide them. Jim, withhis old mother, was forwarded separately; and a night or two after,George and Eliza, with their child, were driven privately intoSandusky, and lodged beneath a hospital roof, preparatory to takingtheir last passage on the lake.
Their night was now far spent, and the morning star of libertyrose fair before them!--electric word! What is it? Is thereanything more in it than a name--a rhetorical flourish? Why, menand women of America, does your heart's blood thrill at that word,for which your fathers bled, and your braver mothers were willingthat their noblest and best should die?
Is there anything in it glorious and dear for a nation, thatis not also glorious and dear for a man? What is freedom toa nation, but freedom to the individuals in it? What is freedom tothat young man, who sits there, with his arms folded over his broadchest, the tint of African blood in his cheek, its dark fires inhis eyes,--what is freedom to George Harris? To your fathers,freedom was the right of a nation to be a nation. To him, it isthe right of a man to be a man, and not a brute; the right to callthe wife of his bosom is wife, and to protect her from lawlessviolence; the right to protect and educate his child; the right tohave a home of his own, a religion of his own, a character of hisown, unsubject to the will of another. All these thoughts wererolling and seething in George's breast, as he was pensively leaninghis head on his hand, watching his wife, as she was adapting to herslender and pretty form the articles of man's attire, in which itwas deemed safest she should make her escape.
"Now for it," said she, as she stood before the glass, and shookdown her silky abundance of black curly hair. "I say, George,it's almost a pity, isn't it," she said, as she held up some ofit, playfully,--"pity it's all got to come off?"
George smiled sadly, and made no answer.
Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered asone long lock after another was detached from her head.
"There, now, that'll do," she said, taking up a hair-brush;"now for a few fancy touches."
"There, an't I a pretty young fellow?" she said, turningaround to her husband, laughing and blushing at the same time.
"You always will be pretty, do what you will," said George.
"What does make you so sober?" said Eliza, kneeling on one knee,and laying her hand on his. "We are only within twenty-fourhours of Canada, they say. Only a day and a night on the lake,and then--oh, then!--"
"O, Eliza!" said George, drawing her towards him; "that is it! Now my fate is all narrowing down to a point. To come so near,to be almost in sight, and then lose all. I should never liveunder it, Eliza."
"Don't fear," said his wife, hopefully. "The good Lord wouldnot have brought us so far, if he didn't mean to carry us through. I seem to feel him with us, George."
"You are a blessed woman, Eliza!" said George, clasping her witha convulsive grasp. "But,--oh, tell me! can this great mercy befor us? Will these years and years of misery come to an end?--shallwe be free?
"I am sure of it, George," said Eliza, looking upward, whiletears of hope and enthusiasm shone on her long, dark lashes. "I feel it in me, that God is going to bring us out of bondage,this very day."
"I will believe you, Eliza," said George, rising suddenly up,"I will believe,--come let's be off. Well, indeed," said he,holding her off at arm's length, and looking admiringly at her,"you _are_ a pretty little fellow. That crop of little, shortcurls, is quite becoming. Put on your cap. So--a little toone side. I never saw you look quite so pretty. But, it's almosttime for the carriage;--I wonder if Mrs. Smyth has got Harry rigged?"
The door opened, and a respectable, middle-aged womanentered, leading little Harry, dressed in girl's clothes.
"What a pretty girl he makes," said Eliza, turning him round. "We call him Harriet, you see;--don't the name come nicely?"
The child stood gravely regarding his mother in her new andstrange attire, observing a profound silence, and occasionallydrawing deep sighs, and peeping at her from under his dark curls.
"Does Harry know mamma?" said Eliza, stretching her handstoward him.
The child clung shyly to the woman.
"Come Eliza, why do you try to coax him, when you know thathe has got to be kept away from you?"
"I know it's foolish," said Eliza; "yet, I can't bear to havehim turn away from me. But come,--where's my cloak? Here,--howis it men put on cloaks, George?"
"You must wear it so," said her husband, throwing it overhis shoulders.
"So, then," said Eliza, imitating the motion,--"and I must stamp,and take long steps, and try to look saucy."
"Don't exert yourself," said George. "There is, now and then,a modest young man; and I think it would be easier for youto act that character."
"And these gloves! mercy upon us!" said Eliza; "why, myhands are lost in them."
"I advise you to keep them on pretty strictly," said George. "Your slender paw might bring us all out. Now, Mrs. Smyth, youare to go under our charge, and be our aunty,--you mind."
"I've heard," said Mrs. Smyth, "that there have been men down,warning all the packet captains against a man and woman, witha little boy."
"They have!" said George. "Well, if we see any such people,we can tell them."
A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family who hadreceived the fugitives crowded around them with farewell greetings.
The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance withthe hints of Tom Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable woman from thesettlement in Canada, whither they were fleeing, being fortunatelyabout crossing the lake to return thither, had consented to appearas the aunt of little Harry; and, in order to attach him to her,he had been allowed to remain, the two last days, under her solecharge; and an extra amount of petting, jointed to an indefiniteamount of seed-cakes and candy, had cemented a very close attachmenton the part of the young gentleman.
The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as they appeared,walked up the plank into the boat, Eliza gallantly giving her armto Mrs. Smyth, and George attending to their baggage.
George was standing at the captain's office, settling forhis party, when he overheard two men talking by his side.
"I've watched every one that came on board," said one, "andI know they're not on this boat."
The voice was that of the clerk of the boat. The speakerwhom he addressed was our sometime friend Marks, who, with thatvaluable perservance which characterized him, had come on toSandusky, seeking whom he might devour.
"You would scarcely know the woman from a white one," said Marks. "The man is a very light mulatto; he has a brand in one ofhis hands."
The hand with which George was taking the tickets and changetrembled a little; but he turned coolly around, fixed an unconcernedglance on the face of the speaker, and walked leisurely towardanother part of the boat, where Eliza stood waiting for him.
Mrs. Smyth, with little Harry, sought the seclusion of theladies' cabin, where the dark beauty of the supposed little girldrew many flattering comments from the passengers.
George had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its farewellpeal, to see Marks walk down the plank to the shore; and drewa long sigh of relief, when the boat had put a returnlessdistance between them.
It was a superb day. The blue waves of Lake Erie danced,rippling and sparkling, in the sun-light. A fresh breeze blew fromthe shore, and the lordly boat ploughed her way right gallantlyonward.
O, what an untold world there is in one human heart! Who thought,as George walked calmly up and down the deck of the steamer,with his shy companion at his side, of all that was burning inhis bosom? The mighty good that seemed approaching seemed too good,too fair, even to be a reality; and he felt a jealous dread, everymoment of the day, that something would rise to snatch it from him.
But the boat swept on. Hours fleeted, and, at last, clear andfull rose the blessed English shores; shores charmed by a mightyspell,--with one touch to dissolve every incantation of slavery,no matter in what language pronounced, or by what nationalpower confirmed.
George and his wife stood arm in arm, as the boat nearedthe small town of Amherstberg, in Canada. His breath grew thickand short; a mist gathered before his eyes; he silently pressedthe little hand that lay trembling on his arm. The bell rang; theboat stopped. Scarcely seeing what he did, he looked out hisbaggage, and gathered his little party. The little company werelanded on the shore. They stood still till the boat had cleared;and then, with tears and embracings, the husband and wife, withtheir wondering child in their arms, knelt down and lifted up theirhearts to God!
"'T was something like the burst from death to life; From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven; From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife, To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven; Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven, And mortal puts on immortality, When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key, And Mercy's voice hath said, _Rejoice, thy soul is free."_
The little party were soon guided, by Mrs. Smyth, to thehospitable abode of a good missionary, whom Christian charity hasplaced here as a shepherd to the outcast and wandering, who areconstantly finding an asylum on this shore.
Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom? Is not the _sense_ of liberty a higher and a finer one than any ofthe five? To move, speak and breathe,--go out and come in unwatched,and free from danger! Who can speak the blessings of that restwhich comes down on the free man's pillow, under laws which insureto him the rights that God has given to man? How fair and preciousto that mother was that sleeping child's face, endeared by the memoryof a thousand dangers! How impossible was it to sleep, in theexuberant posession of such blessedness! And yet, these two hadnot one acre of ground,--not a roof that they could call theirown,--they had spent their all, to the last dollar. They hadnothing more than the birds of the air, or the flowers of thefield,--yet they could not sleep for joy. "O, ye who take freedomfrom man, with what words shall ye answer it to God?"
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The Victory
"Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory."[1]
[1] I Cor. 15:57.
Have not many of us, in the weary way of life, felt, insome hours, how far easier it were to die than to live?
The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish andhorror, finds in the very terror of his doom a strong stimulantand tonic. There is a vivid excitement, a thrill and fervor, whichmay carry through any crisis of suffering that is the birth-hourof eternal glory and rest.
But to live,--to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter, low,harassing servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed, everypower of feeling gradually smothered,--this long and wastingheart-martyrdom, this slow, daily bleeding away of the inward life,drop by drop, hour after hour,--this is the true searching test ofwhat there may be in man or woman.
When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard histhreats, and thought in his very soul that his hour was come,his heart swelled bravely in him, and he thought he could beartorture and fire, bear anything, with the vision of Jesus and heavenbut just a step beyond; but, when he was gone, and the presentexcitement passed off, came back the pain of his bruised and wearylimbs,--came back the sense of his utterly degraded, hopeless,forlorn estate; and the day passed wearily enough.
Long before his wounds were healed, Legree insisted that heshould be put to the regular field-work; and then came day afterday of pain and weariness, aggravated by every kind of injusticeand indignity that the ill-will of a mean and malicious mind coulddevise. Whoever, in _our_ circumstances, has made trial of pain,even with all the alleviations which, for us, usually attend it,must know the irritation that comes with it. Tom no longer wonderedat the habitual surliness of his associates; nay, he found theplacid, sunny temper, which had been the habitude of his life,broken in on, and sorely strained, by the inroads of the same thing. He had flattered himself on leisure to read his Bible; but therewas no such thing as leisure there. In the height of the season,Legree did not hesitate to press all his hands through, Sundaysand week-days alike. Why shouldn't he?--he made more cotton byit, and gained his wager; and if it wore out a few more hands, hecould buy better ones. At first, Tom used to read a verse or twoof his Bible, by the flicker of the fire, after he had returnedfrom his daily toil; but, after the cruel treatment he received,he used to come home so exhausted, that his head swam and his eyesfailed when he tried to read; and he was fain to stretch himselfdown, with the others, in utter exhaustion.
Is it strange that the religious peace and trust, which hadupborne him hitherto, should give way to tossings of soul anddespondent darkness? The gloomiest problem of this mysterious lifewas constantly before his eyes,--souls crushed and ruined, eviltriumphant, and God silent. It was weeks and months that Tomwrestled, in his own soul, in darkness and sorrow. He thought ofMiss Ophelia's letter to his Kentucky friends, and would prayearnestly that God would send him deliverance. And then he wouldwatch, day after day, in the vague hope of seeing somebody sent toredeem him; and, when nobody came, he would crush back to his soulbitter thoughts,--that it was vain to serve God, that God hadforgotten him. He sometimes saw Cassy; and sometimes, when summonedto the house, caught a glimpse of the dejected form of Emmeline,but held very little communion with either; in fact, there was notime for him to commune with anybody.
One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and prostration,by a few decaying brands, where his coarse supper was baking. He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire, and strove toraise the light, and then drew his worn Bible from his pocket. There were all the marked passages, which had thrilled his soul sooften,--words of patriarchs and seers, poets and sages, who fromearly time had spoken courage to man,--voices from the great cloudof witnesses who ever surround us in the race of life. Had theword lost its power, or could the failing eye and weary sense nolonger answer to the touch of that mighty inspiration? Heavilysighing, he put it in his pocket. A coarse laugh roused him; helooked up,--Legree was standing opposite to him.
"Well, old boy," he said, "you find your religion don't work,it seems! I thought I should get that through your wool, at last!"
The cruel taunt was more than hunger and cold and nakedness. Tom was silent.
"You were a fool," said Legree; "for I meant to do well by you,when I bought you. You might have been better off than Sambo,or Quimbo either, and had easy times; and, instead of getting cutup and thrashed, every day or two, ye might have had liberty tolord it round, and cut up the other niggers; and ye might have had,now and then, a good warming of whiskey punch. Come, Tom, don'tyou think you'd better be reasonable?--heave that ar old pack oftrash in the fire, and join my church!"
"The Lord forbid!" said Tom, fervently.
"You see the Lord an't going to help you; if he had been, hewouldn't have let _me_ get you! This yer religion is all a messof lying trumpery, Tom. I know all about it. Ye'd better hold tome; I'm somebody, and can do something!"
"No, Mas'r," said Tom; "I'll hold on. The Lord may help me,or not help; but I'll hold to him, and believe him to the last!"
"The more fool you!" said Legree, spitting scornfully at him,and spurning him with his foot. "Never mind; I'll chase you down,yet, and bring you under,--you'll see!" and Legree turned away.
When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level atwhich endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperateeffort of every physical and moral nerve to throw off the weight;and hence the heaviest anguish often precedes a return tide of joyand courage. So was it now with Tom. The atheistic taunts of hiscruel master sunk his before dejected soul to the lowest ebb; and,though the hand of faith still held to the eternal rock, it was anumb, despairing grasp. Tom sat, like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly everything around him seemed to fade, and a vision rosebefore him of one crowned with thorns, buffeted and bleeding. Tom gazed, in awe and wonder, at the majestic patience of the face;the deep, pathetic eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart; his soulwoke, as, with floods of emotion, he stretched out his hands andfell upon his knees,--when, gradually, the vision changed: thesharp thorns became rays of glory; and, in splendor inconceivable,he saw that same face bending compassionately towards him, and avoice said, "He that overcometh shall sit down with me on my throne,even as I also overcome, and am set down with my Father on his throne."
How long Tom lay there, he knew not. When he came to himself,the fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the chill anddrenching dews; but the dread soul-crisis was past, and, in thejoy that filled him, he no longer felt hunger, cold, degradation,disappointment, wretchedness. From his deepest soul, he thathour loosed and parted from every hope in life that now is, andoffered his own will an unquestioning sacrifice to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, ever-living stars,--types of theangelic hosts who ever look down on man; and the solitude of thenight rung with the triumphant words of a hymn, which he had sungoften in happier days, but never with such feeling as now:
"The earth shall be dissolved like snow, The sun shall cease to shine; But God, who called me here below, Shall be forever mine.
"And when this mortal life shall fail, And flesh and sense shall cease, I shall possess within the veil A life of joy and peace.
"When we've been there ten thousand years, Bright shining like the sun, We've no less days to sing God's praise Than when we first begun."
Those who have been familiar with the religious histories ofthe slave population know that relations like what we havenarrated are very common among them. We have heard some from theirown lips, of a very touching and affecting character. The psychologisttells us of a state, in which the affections and images of the mindbecome so dominant and overpowering, that they press into theirservice the outward imagining. Who shall measure what an all-pervadingSpirit may do with these capabilities of our mortality, or the waysin which He may encourage the desponding souls of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave believes that Jesus hath appeared andspoken to him, who shall contradict him? Did He not say that his,mission, in all ages, was to bind up the broken-hearted, and setat liberty them that are bruised?
When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go forth to thefield, there was among those tattered and shivering wretches onewho walked with an exultant tread; for firmer than the ground hetrod on was his strong faith in Almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree,try all your forces now! Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want,and loss of all things, shall only hasten on the process by whichhe shall be made a king and a priest unto God!
From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed thelowly heart of the oppressed one,--an ever-present Saviourhallowed it as a temple. Past now the bleeding of earthly regrets;past its fluctuations of hope, and fear, and desire; the humanwill, bent, and bleeding, and struggling long, was now entirelymerged in the Divine. So short now seemed the remaining voyage oflife,--so near, so vivid, seemed eternal blessedness,--that life'suttermost woes fell from him unharming.
All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness andalertness seemed to return to him, and a quietness which noinsult or injury could ruffle seemed to possess him.
"What the devil's got into Tom?" Legree said to Sambo. "A whileago he was all down in the mouth, and now he's peart as a cricket."
"Dunno, Mas'r; gwine to run off, mebbe."
"Like to see him try that," said Legree, with a savage grin,"wouldn't we, Sambo?"
"Guess we would! Haw! haw! ho!" said the sooty gnome,laughing obsequiously. "Lord, de fun! To see him stickin' in demud,--chasin' and tarin' through de bushes, dogs a holdin' on tohim! Lord, I laughed fit to split, dat ar time we cotched Molly. I thought they'd a had her all stripped up afore I could get 'em off. She car's de marks o' dat ar spree yet."
"I reckon she will, to her grave," said Legree. "But now,Sambo, you look sharp. If the nigger's got anything of this sortgoing, trip him up."
"Mas'r, let me lone for dat," said Sambo, "I'll tree de coon. Ho, ho, ho!"
This was spoken as Legree was getting on his horse, to go tothe neighboring town. That night, as he was returning, hethought he would turn his horse and ride round the quarters, andsee if all was safe.
It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the gracefulChina trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below, andthere was that transparent stillness in the air which it seemsalmost unholy to disturb. Legree was a little distance from thequarters, when he heard the voice of some one singing. It was nota usual sound there, and he paused to listen. A musical tenorvoice sang,
"When I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies, I'll bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes
"Should earth against my soul engage, And hellish darts be hurled, Then I can smile at Satan's rage, And face a frowning world.
"Let cares like a wild deluge come, And storms of sorrow fall, May I but safely reach my home, My god, my Heaven, my All."[2]
[2] "On My Journey Home," hymn by Isaac Watts, found in manyof the southern country songbooks of the ante bellum period.
"So ho!" said Legree to himself, "he thinks so, does he? How I hatethese cursed Methodist hymns! Here, you nigger," said he, comingsuddenly out upon Tom, and raising his riding-whip, "how dare yoube gettin' up this yer row, when you ought to be in bed? Shut yerold black gash, and get along in with you!"
"Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he roseto to in.
Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom's evident happiness;and riding up to him, belabored him over his head and shoulders.
"There, you dog," he said, "see if you'll feel so comfortable,after that!"
But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, asbefore, on the heart. Tom stood perfectly submissive; and yetLegree could not hide from himself that his power over his bondthrall was somehow gone. And, as Tom disappeared in his cabin,and he wheeled his horse suddenly round, there passed through hismind one of those vivid flashes that often send the lightning ofconscience across the dark and wicked soul. He understood fullwell that it was GOD who was standing between him and his victim,and he blasphemed him. That submissive and silent man, whom taunts,nor threats, nor stripes, nor cruelties, could disturb, roused avoice within him, such as of old his Master roused in the demoniacsoul, saying, "What have we to do with thee, thou Jesus ofNazareth?--art thou come to torment us before the time?"
Tom's whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy forthe poor wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it seemedas if his life-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of that strangetreasury of peace and joy, with which he had been endowed fromabove, he longed to pour out something for the relief of theirwoes. It is true, opportunities were scanty; but, on the way tothe fields, and back again, and during the hours of labor, chancesfell in his way of extending a helping-hand to the weary, thedisheartened and discouraged. The poor, worn-down, brutalizedcreatures, at first, could scarce comprehend this; but, when itwas continued week after week, and month after month, it began toawaken long-silent chords in their benumbed hearts. Gradually andimperceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready tobear every one's burden, and sought help from none,--who stoodaside for all, and came last, and took least, yet was foremost toshare his little all with any who needed,--the man who, in coldnights, would give up his tattered blanket to add to the comfortof some woman who shivered with sickness, and who filled the basketsof the weaker ones in the field, at the terrible risk of comingshort in his own measure,--and who, though pursued with unrelentingcruelty by their common tyrant, never joined in uttering a word ofreviling or cursing,--this man, at last, began to have a strangepower over them; and, when the more pressing season was past, andthey were allowed again their Sundays for their own use, many wouldgather together to hear from him of Jesus. They would gladly havemet to hear, and pray, and sing, in some place, together; but Legreewould not permit it, and more than once broke up such attempts,with oaths and brutal execrations,--so that the blessed news hadto circulate from individual to individual. Yet who can speak thesimple joy with which some of those poor outcasts, to whom lifewas a joyless journey to a dark unknown, heard of a compassionateRedeemer and a heavenly home? It is the statement of missionaries,that, of all races of the earth, none have received the Gospel withsuch eager docility as the African. The principle of reliance andunquestioning faith, which is its foundation, is more a nativeelement in this race than any other; and it has often been foundamong them, that a stray seed of truth, borne on some breeze ofaccident into hearts the most ignorant, has sprung up into fruit,whose abundance has shamed that of higher and more skilful culture.
The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been well-nighcrushed and overwhelmed, by the avalanche of cruelty and wrongwhich had fallen upon her, felt her soul raised up by the hymnsand passages of Holy Writ, which this lowly missionary breathedinto her ear in intervals, as they were going to and returning fromwork; and even the half-crazed and wandering mind of Cassy wassoothed and calmed by his simple and unobtrusive influences.
Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of a life,Cassy had often resolved in her soul an hour of retribution,when her hand should avenge on her oppressor all the injustice andcruelty to which she had been witness, or which _she_ had in herown person suffered.
One night, after all in Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he wassuddenly aroused by seeing her face at the hole between the logs,that served for a window. She made a silent gesture for himto come out.
Tom came out the door. It was between one and two o'clock atnight,--broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom remarked, as the lightof the moon fell upon Cassy's large, black eyes, that there wasa wild and peculiar glare in them, unlike their wonted fixed despair.
"Come here, Father Tom," she said, laying her small hand onhis wrist, and drawing him forward with a force as if the handwere of steel; "come here,--I've news for you."
"What, Misse Cassy?" said Tom, anxiously.
"Tom, wouldn't you like your liberty?"
"I shall have it, Misse, in God's time," said Tom. "Ay, butyou may have it tonight," said Cassy, with a flash of suddenenergy. "Come on."
Tom hesitated.
"Come!" said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on him. "Come along! He's asleep--sound. I put enough into his brandyto keep him so. I wish I'd had more,--I shouldn't have wanted you. But come, the back door is unlocked; there's an axe there, I putit there,--his room door is open; I'll show you the way.
I'd a done it myself, only my arms are so weak. Come along!"
"Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse!" said Tom, firmly,stopping and holding her back, as she was pressing forward.
"But think of all these poor creatures," said Cassy. "We mightset them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and find anisland, and live by ourselves; I've heard of its being done. Any life is better than this."
"No!" said Tom, firmly. "No! good never comes of wickedness. I'd sooner chop my right hand off!"
"Then _I_ shall do it," said Cassy, turning.
"O, Misse Cassy!" said Tom, throwing himself before her, "for thedear Lord's sake that died for ye, don't sell your precious soulto the devil, that way! Nothing but evil will come of it. The Lordhasn't called us to wrath. We must suffer, and wait his time."
"Wait!" said Cassy. "Haven't I waited?--waited till my headis dizzy and my heart sick? What has he made me suffer? What hashe made hundreds of poor creatures suffer? Isn't he wringing thelife-blood out of you? I'm called on; they call me! His time'scome, and I'll have his heart's blood!"
"No, no, no!" said Tom, holding her small hands, which wereclenched with spasmodic violence. "No, ye poor, lost soul, thatye mustn't do. The dear, blessed Lord never shed no blood but hisown, and that he poured out for us when we was enemies. Lord, helpus to follow his steps, and love our enemies."
"Love!" said Cassy, with a fierce glare; "love _such_ enemies! It isn't in flesh and blood."
"No, Misse, it isn't," said Tom, looking up; "but _He_ gives itto us, and that's the victory. When we can love and pray overall and through all, the battle's past, and the victory'scome,--glory be to God!" And, with streaming eyes and choking voice,the black man looked up to heaven.
And this, oh Africa! latest called of nations,--called to thecrown of thorns, the scourge, the bloody sweat, the cross ofagony,--this is to be _thy_ victory; by this shalt thou reign withChrist when his kingdom shall come on earth.
The deep fervor of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice,his tears, fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of thepoor woman. A softness gathered over the lurid fires of her eye;she looked down, and Tom could feel the relaxing muscles of herhands, as she said,
"Didn't I tell you that evil spirits followed me? O! FatherTom, I can't pray,--I wish I could. I never have prayed since mychildren were sold! What you say must be right, I know it must;but when I try to pray, I can only hate and curse. I can't pray!"
"Poor soul!" said Tom, compassionately. "Satan desires tohave ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. O! MisseCassy, turn to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind up thebroken-hearted, and comfort all that mourn."
Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped fromher downcast eyes.
"Misse Cassy," said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after surveyingher in silence, "if ye only could get away from here,--if thething was possible,--I'd 'vise ye and Emmeline to do it; thatis, if ye could go without blood-guiltiness,--not otherwise."
"Would you try it with us, Father Tom?"
"No," said Tom; "time was when I would; but the Lord's givenme a work among these yer poor souls, and I'll stay with 'emand bear my cross with 'em till the end. It's different with you;it's a snare to you,--it's more'n you can stand,--and you'd bettergo, if you can."
"I know no way but through the grave," said Cassy. "There's nobeast or bird but can find a home some where; even the snakesand the alligators have their places to lie down and be quiet; butthere's no place for us. Down in the darkest swamps, their dogswill hunt us out, and find us. Everybody and everything is againstus; even the very beasts side against us,--and where shall we go?"
Tom stood silent; at length he said,
"Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions,--that saves thechildren in the fiery furnace,--Him that walked on the sea,and bade the winds be still,--He's alive yet; and I've faith tobelieve he can deliver you. Try it, and I'll pray, with all mymight, for you."
By what strange law of mind is it that an idea longoverlooked, and trodden under foot as a useless stone, suddenlysparkles out in new light, as a discovered diamond?
Cassy had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probableschemes of escape, and dismissed them all, as hopeless andimpracticable; but at this moment there flashed through her minda plan, so simple and feasible in all its details, as to awaken aninstant hope.
"Father Tom, I'll try it!" she said, suddenly.
"Amen!" said Tom; "the Lord help ye!"
CHAPTER XXXIX
The Stratagem
"The way of the wicked is as darkness; he knoweth not at what hestumbleth."[1]
[1] Prov. 4:19.
The garret of the house that Legree occupied, like most othergarrets, was a great, desolate space, dusty, hung with cobwebs,and littered with cast-off lumber. The opulent family that hadinhabited the house in the days of its splendor had imported agreat deal of splendid furniture, some of which they had taken awaywith them, while some remained standing desolate in mouldering,unoccupied rooms, or stored away in this place. One or two immensepacking-boxes, in which this furniture was brought, stood againstthe sides of the garret. There was a small window there, whichlet in, through its dingy, dusty panes, a scanty, uncertain lighton the tall, high-backed chairs and dusty tables, that had onceseen better days. Altogether, it was a weird and ghostly place;but, ghostly as it was, it wanted not in legends among thesuperstitious negroes, to increase it terrors. Some few yearsbefore, a negro woman, who had incurred Legree's displeasure, wasconfined there for several weeks. What passed there, we do notsay; the negroes used to whisper darkly to each other; but it wasknown that the body of the unfortunate creature was one day takendown from there, and buried; and, after that, it was said thatoaths and cursings, and the sound of violent blows, used to ringthrough that old garret, and mingled with wailings and groans ofdespair. Once, when Legree chanced to overhear something of thiskind, he flew into a violent passion, and swore that the next onethat told stories about that garret should have an opportunity ofknowing what was there, for he would chain them up there for a week. This hint was enough to repress talking, though, of course, it didnot disturb the credit of the story in the least.
Gradually, the staircase that led to the garret, and even thepassage-way to the staircase, were avoided by every one in thehouse, from every one fearing to speak of it, and the legend wasgradually falling into desuetude. It had suddenly occurred toCassy to make use of the superstitious excitability, which was sogreat in Legree, for the purpose of her liberation, and that ofher fellow-sufferer.
The sleeping-room of Cassy was directly under the garret. One day, without consulting Legree, she suddenly took it upon her,with some considerable ostentation, to change all the furnitureand appurtenances of the room to one at some considerable distance. The under-servants, who were called on to effect this movement,were running and bustling about with great zeal and confusion, whenLegree returned from a ride.
"Hallo! you Cass!" said Legree, "what's in the wind now?"
"Nothing; only I choose to have another room," said Cassy, doggedly.
"And what for, pray?" said Legree.
"I choose to," said Cassy.
"The devil you do! and what for?"
"I'd like to get some sleep, now and then."
"Sleep! well, what hinders your sleeping?"
"I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear," said Cassy, dryly.
"Speak out, you minx!" said Legree.
"O! nothing. I suppose it wouldn't disturb _you!_ Only groans,and people scuffing, and rolling round on the garre, floor, halfthe night, from twelve to morning!"
"People up garret!" said Legree, uneasily, but forcing alaugh; "who are they, Cassy?"
Cassy raised her sharp, black eyes, and looked in the face ofLegree, with an expression that went through his bones, as shesaid, "To be sure, Simon, who are they? I'd like to have _you_tell me. You don't know, I suppose!"
With an oath, Legree struck at her with his riding-whip; butshe glided to one side, and passed through the door, and lookingback, said, "If you'll sleep in that room, you'll know all about it. Perhaps you'd better try it!" and then immediately she shut andlocked the door.
Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break down thedoor; but apparently thought better of it, and walked uneasilyinto the sitting-room. Cassy perceived that her shaft had struckhome; and, from that hour, with the most exquisite address, shenever ceased to continue the train of influences she had begun.
In a knot-hole of the garret, that had opened, she hadinserted the neck of an old bottle, in such a manner that whenthere was the least wind, most doleful and lugubrious wailing soundsproceeded from it, which, in a high wind, increased to a perfectshriek, such as to credulous and superstitious ears might easilyseem to be that of horror and despair.
These sounds were, from time to time, heard by the servants,and revived in full force the memory of the old ghost legend. A superstitious creeping horror seemed to fill the house; andthough no one dared to breathe it to Legree, he found himselfencompassed by it, as by an atmosphere.
No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. The Christian is composed by the belief of a wise, all-rulingFather, whose presence fills the void unknown with light and order;but to the man who has dethroned God, the spirit-land is, indeed,in the words of the Hebrew poet, "a land of darkness and the shadowof death," without any order, where the light is as darkness. Life and death to him are haunted grounds, filled with goblin formsof vague and shadowy dread.
Legree had had the slumbering moral elements in him rousedby his encounters with Tom,--roused, only to be resisted by thedeterminate force of evil; but still there was a thrill and commotionof the dark, inner world, produced by every word, or prayer, orhymn, that reacted in superstitious dread.
The influence of Cassy over him was of a strange and singular kind. He was her owner, her tyrant and tormentor. She was, as he knew,wholly, and without any possibility of help or redress, in hishands; and yet so it is, that the most brutal man cannot livein constant association with a strong female influence, and not begreatly controlled by it. When he first bought her, she was, asshe said, a woman delicately bred; and then he crushed her, withoutscruple, beneath the foot of his brutality. But, as time, anddebasing influences, and despair, hardened womanhood within her,and waked the fires of fiercer passions, she had become in a measurehis mistress, and he alternately tyrannized over and dreaded her.
This influence had become more harassing and decided, sincepartial insanity had given a strange, weird, unsettled cast to allher words and language.
A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the oldsitting-room, by the side of a flickering wood fire, thatthrew uncertain glances round the room. It was a stormy,windy night, such as raises whole squadrons of nondescript noisesin rickety old houses. Windows were rattling, shutters flapping,and wind carousing, rumbling, and tumbling down the chimney, and,every once in a while, puffing out smoke and ashes, as if a legionof spirits were coming after them. Legree had been casting upaccounts and reading newspapers for some hours, while Cassy sat inthe corner; sullenly looking into the fire. Legree laid down hispaper, and seeing an old book lying on the table, which he hadnoticed Cassy reading, the first part of the evening, took it up,and began to turn it over. It was one of those collections ofstories of bloody murders, ghostly legends, and supernaturalvisitations, which, coarsely got up and illustrated, have a strangefascination for one who once begins to read them.
Legree poohed and pished, but read, turning page after page,till, finally, after reading some way, he threw down the book,with an oath.
"You don't believe in ghosts, do you, Cass?" said he, takingthe tongs and settling the fire. "I thought you'd more sense thanto let noises scare _you_."
"No matter what I believe," said Cassy, sullenly.
"Fellows used to try to frighten me with their yarns at sea,"said Legree. "Never come it round me that way. I'm too toughfor any such trash, tell ye."
Cassy sat looking intensely at him in the shadow of the corner. There was that strange light in her eyes that always impressedLegree with uneasiness.
"Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind," said Legree. "Rats will make a devil of a noise. I used to hear 'emsometimes down in the hold of the ship; and wind,--Lord's sake! yecan make anything out o' wind."
Cassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and, therefore,she made no answer, but sat fixing them on him, with that strange,unearthly expression, as before.
"Come, speak out, woman,--don't you think so?" said Legree.
"Can rats walk down stairs, and come walking through the entry,and open a door when you've locked it and set a chair againstit?" said Cassy; "and come walk, walk, walking right up to yourbed, and put out their hand, so?"
Cassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Legree, as she spoke,and he stared at her like a man in the nightmare, till, whenshe finished by laying her hand, icy cold, on his, he sprung back,with an oath.
"Woman! what do you mean? Nobody did?"
"O, no,--of course not,--did I say they did?" said Cassy,with a smile of chilling derision.
"But--did--have you really seen?--Come, Cass, what is it,now,--speak out!"
"You may sleep there, yourself," said Cassy, "if you wantto know."
"Did it come from the garret, Cassy?"
"_It_,--what?" said Cassy.
"Why, what you told of--"
"I didn't tell you anything," said Cassy, with dogged sullenness.
Legree walked up and down the room, uneasily.
"I'll have this yer thing examined. I'll look into it,this very night. I'll take my pistols--"
"Do," said Cassy; "sleep in that room. I'd like to seeyou doing it. Fire your pistols,--do!"
Legree stamped his foot, and swore violently.
"Don't swear," said Cassy; "nobody knows who may be hearing you. Hark! What was that?"
"What?" said Legree, starting.
A heavy old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of theroom, began, and slowly struck twelve.
For some reason or other, Legree neither spoke nor moved;a vague horror fell on him; while Cassy, with a keen, sneeringglitter in her eyes, stood looking at him, counting the strokes.
"Twelve o'clock; well _now_ we'll see," said she, turning,and opening the door into the passage-way, and standing as iflistening.
"Hark! What's that?" said she, raising her finger.
"It's only the wind," said Legree. "Don't you hear howcursedly it blows?"
"Simon, come here," said Cassy, in a whisper, laying her handon his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs: "do youknow what _that_ is? Hark!"
A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came fromthe garret. Legree's knees knocked together; his face grew whitewith fear.
"Hadn't you better get your pistols?" said Cassy, with a sneerthat froze Legree's blood. "It's time this thing was lookedinto, you know. I'd like to have you go up now; _they're at it_."
"I won't go!" said Legree, with an oath.
"Why not? There an't any such thing as ghosts, you know! Come!" and Cassy flitted up the winding stairway, laughing, andlooking back after him. "Come on."
"I believe you _are_ the devil!" said Legree. "Come backyou hag,--come back, Cass! You shan't go!"
But Cassy laughed wildly, and fled on. He heard her open theentry doors that led to the garret. A wild gust of wind sweptdown, extinguishing the candle he held in his hand, and with itthe fearful, unearthly screams; they seemed to be shrieked in hisvery ear.
Legree fled frantically into the parlor, whither, in a fewmoments, he was followed by Cassy, pale, calm, cold as an avengingspirit, and with that same fearful light in her eye.
"I hope you are satisfied," said she.
"Blast you, Cass!" said Legree.
"What for?" said Cassy. "I only went up and shut the doors. _What's the matter with that garret_, Simon, do you suppose?"said she.
"None of your business!" said Legree.
"O, it an't? Well," said Cassy, "at any rate, I'm glad _I_ don'tsleep under it."
Anticipating the rising of the wind, that very evening, Cassyhad been up and opened the garret window. Of course, themoment the doors were opened, the wind had drafted down, andextinguished the light.
This may serve as a specimen of the game that Cassy playedwith Legree, until he would sooner have put his head into a lion'smouth than to have explored that garret. Meanwhile, in the night,when everybody else was asleep, Cassy slowly and carefully accumulatedthere a stock of provisions sufficient to afford subsistence forsome time; she transferred, article by article, a greater part ofher own and Emmeline's wardrobe. All things being arranged, theyonly waited a fitting opportunity to put their plan in execution.
By cajoling Legree, and taking advantage of a good-naturedinterval, Cassy had got him to take her with him to the neighboringtown, which was situated directly on the Red river. With a memorysharpened to almost preternatural clearness, she remarked everyturn in the road, and formed a mental estimate of the time to beoccupied in traversing it.
At the time when all was matured for action, our readers may,perhaps, like to look behind the scenes, and see the final_coup d'etat_.
It was now near evening, Legree had been absent, on a rideto a neighboring farm. For many days Cassy had been unusuallygracious and accommodating in her humors; and Legree and she hadbeen, apparently, on the best of terms. At present, we may beholdher and Emmeline in the room of the latter, busy in sorting andarranging two small bundles.
"There, these will be large enough," said Cassy. Now put onyour bonnet, and let's start; it's just about the right time."
"Why, they can see us yet," said Emmeline.
"I mean they shall," said Cassy, coolly. "Don't you know thatthey must have their chase after us, at any rate? The way ofthe thing is to be just this:--We will steal out of the back door,and run down by the quarters. Sambo or Quimbo will be sureto see us. They will give chase, and we will get into the swamp;then, they can't follow us any further till they go up and givethe alarm, and turn out the dogs, and so on; and, while they areblundering round, and tumbling over each other, as they always do,you and I will slip along to the creek, that runs back of the house,and wade along in it, till we get opposite the back door. That willput the dogs all at fault; for scent won't lie in the water. Every one will run out of the house to look after us, and thenwe'll whip in at the back door, and up into the garret, where I'vegot a nice bed made up in one of the great boxes. We must stay inthat garret a good while, for, I tell you, he will raise heavenand earth after us. He'll muster some of those old overseers onthe other plantations, and have a great hunt; and they'll go overevery inch of ground in that swamp. He makes it his boast thatnobody ever got away from him. So let him hunt at his leisure."
"Cassy, how well you have planned it!" said Emmeline. "Who everwould have thought of it, but you?"
There was neither pleasure nor exultation in Cassy'seyes,--only a despairing firmness.
"Come," she said, reaching her hand to Emmeline.
The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, andflitted, through the gathering shadows of evening, along bythe quarters. The crescent moon, set like a silver signet in thewestern sky, delayed a little the approach of night. As Cassyexpected, when quite near the verge of the swamps that encircledthe plantation, they heard a voice calling to them to stop. It wasnot Sambo, however, but Legree, who was pursuing them withviolent execrations. At the sound, the feebler spirit of Emmelinegave way; and, laying hold of Cassy's arm, she said, "O, Cassy,I'm going to faint!"
"If you do, I'll kill you!" said Cassy, drawing a small,glittering stiletto, and flashing it before the eyes of the girl.
The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline did notfaint, and succeeded in plunging, with Cassy, into a part of thelabyrinth of swamp, so deep and dark that it was perfectly hopelessfor Legree to think of following them, without assistance.
"Well," said he, chuckling brutally; "at any rate, they've gotthemselves into a trap now--the baggage! They're safe enough. They shall sweat for it!"
"Hulloa, there! Sambo! Quimbo! All hands!" called Legree,coming to the quarters, when the men and women were just returningfrom work. "There's two runaways in the swamps. I'll give fivedollars to any nigger as catches 'em. Turn out the dogs! Turn outTiger, and Fury, and the rest!"
The sensation produced by this news was immediate. Many of themen sprang forward, officiously, to offer their services, eitherfrom the hope of the reward, or from that cringing subserviencywhich is one of the most baleful effects of slavery. Some ran oneway, and some another. Some were for getting flambeaux of pine-knots. Some were uncoupling the dogs, whose hoarse, savage bay added nota little to the animation of the scene.
"Mas'r, shall we shoot 'em, if can't cotch 'em?" said Sambo,to whom his master brought out a rifle.
"You may fire on Cass, if you like; it's time she was gone tothe devil, where she belongs; but the gal, not," said Legree. "And now, boys, be spry and smart. Five dollars for him that gets'em; and a glass of spirits to every one of you, anyhow."
The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and whoop,and shout, and savage yell, of man and beast, proceeded downto the swamp, followed, at some distance, by every servant inthe house. The establishment was, of a consequence, wholly deserted,when Cassy and Emmeline glided into it the back way. The whooping andshouts of their pursuers were still filling the air; and, lookingfrom the sitting-room windows, Cassy and Emmeline could see thetroop, with their flambeaux, just dispersing themselves along theedge of the swamp.
"See there!" said Emmeline, pointing to Cassy; "the hunt is begun! Look how those lights dance about! Hark! the dogs! Don't you hear? If we were only _there_, our chances wouldn't be worth a picayune. O, for pity's sake, do let's hide ourselves. Quick!"
"There's no occasion for hurry," said Cassy, coolly; "they areall out after the hunt,--that's the amusement of the evening! We'll go up stairs, by and by. Meanwhile," said she, deliberatelytaking a key from the pocket of a coat that Legree had thrown downin his hurry, "meanwhile I shall take something to pay our passage.
She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, whichshe counted over rapidly.
"O, don't let's do that!" said Emmeline.
"Don't!" said Cassy; "why not? Would you have us starve inthe swamps, or have that that will pay our way to the free states. Money will do anything, girl." And, as she spoke, she put the moneyin her bosom.
"It would be stealing," said Emmeline, in a distressed whisper.
"Stealing!" said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. "They whosteal body and soul needn't talk to us. Every one of these billsis stolen,--stolen from poor, starving, sweating creatures, whomust go to the devil at last, for his profit. Let _him_ talkabout stealing! But come, we may as well go up garret; I've got astock of candles there, and some books to pass away the time. You may be pretty sure they won't come _there_ to inquire after us. If they do, I'll play ghost for them."
When Emmeline reached the garret, she found an immense box,in which some heavy pieces of furniture had once been brought,turned on its side, so that the opening faced the wall, orrather the eaves. Cassy lit a small lamp, and creeping roundunder the eaves, they established themselves in it. It wasspread with a couple of small mattresses and some pillows; abox near by was plentifully stored with candles, provisions, andall the clothing necessary to their journey, which Cassy had arrangedinto bundles of an astonishingly small compass.
"There," said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp into a small hook,which she had driven into the side of the box for that purpose;"this is to be our home for the present. How do you like it?"
"Are you sure they won't come and search the garret?"
"I'd like to see Simon Legree doing that," said Cassy. "No, indeed; he will be too glad to keep away. As to the servants,they would any of them stand and be shot, sooner than show theirfaces here."
Somewhat reassured, Emmeline settled herself back on her pillow.
"What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill me?"she said, simply.
"I meant to stop your fainting," said Cassy, "and I did do it. And now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up your mind _not_to faint, let what will come; there's no sort of need of it. If I had not stopped you, that wretch might have had his handson you now."
Emmeline shuddered.
The two remained some time in silence. Cassy busied herselfwith a French book; Emmeline, overcome with the exhaustion, fellinto a doze, and slept some time. She was awakened by loud shoutsand outcries, the tramp of horses' feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up, with a faint shriek.
"Only the hunt coming back," said Cassy, coolly; "never fear. Look out of this knot-hole. Don't you see 'em all down there? Simon has to give up, for this night. Look, how muddy his horseis, flouncing about in the swamp; the dogs, too, look rathercrestfallen. Ah, my good sir, you'll have to try the race againand again,--the game isn't there."
"O, don't speak a word!" said Emmeline; "what if they shouldhear you?"
"If they do hear anything, it will make them very particularto keep away," said Cassy. "No danger; we may make any noise weplease, and it will only add to the effect."
At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the house. Legree, cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire vengeance onthe morrow, went to bed.
CHAPTER XL
The Martyr
"Deem not the just by Heaven forgot! Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart, And spurned of man, he goes to die! For God hath marked each sorrowing day, And numbered every bitter tear, And heaven's long years of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here." BRYANT.[1]
[1] This poem does not appear in the collected works of WilliamCullen Bryant, nor in the collected poems of his brother, JohnHoward Bryant. It was probably copied from a newspaper or magazine.
The longest way must have its close,--the gloomiest night willwear on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of momentsis ever hurrying the day of the evil to an eternal night, and thenight of the just to an eternal day. We have walked with our humblefriend thus far in the valley of slavery; first through floweryfields of ease and indulgence, then through heart-breaking separationsfrom all that man holds dear. Again, we have waited with him ina sunny island, where generous hands concealed his chains withflowers; and, lastly, we have followed him when the last ray ofearthly hope went out in night, and seen how, in the blackness ofearthly darkness, the firmament of the unseen has blazed with starsof new and significant lustre.
The morning-star now stands over the tops of the mountains,and gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates of dayare unclosing.
The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before surlytemper of Legree to the last degree; and his fury, as was to beexpected, fell upon the defenceless head of Tom. When he hurriedlyannounced the tidings among his hands, there was a sudden light inTom's eye, a sudden upraising of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he did not join the muster of the pursuers. He thoughtof forcing him to do it; but, having had, of old, experience ofhis inflexibility when commanded to take part in any deed ofinhumanity, he would not, in his hurry, stop to enter into anyconflict with him.
Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had learnedof him to pray, and offered up prayers for the escape ofthe fugitives.
When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all thelong-working hatred of his soul towards his slave began to gatherin a deadly and desperate form. Had not this man braved him,--steadily,powerfully, resistlessly,--ever since he bought him? Was there nota spirit in him which, silent as it was, burned on him like thefires of perdition?
"I _hate_ him!" said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his bed;"I _hate_ him! And isn't he MINE? Can't I do what I likewith him? Who's to hinder, I wonder?" And Legree clenched his fist,and shook it, as if he had something in his hands that he couldrend in pieces.
But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and,although Legree hated him the more for that, yet the considerationwas still somewhat of a restraint to him.
The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet; toassemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, withdogs and guns; to surround the swamp, and go about thehunt systematically. If it succeeded, well and good; if not,he would summon Tom before him, and--his teeth clenched and hisblood boiled--_then_ he would break the fellow down, or--therewas a dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented.
Ye say that the _interest_ of the master is a sufficientsafeguard for the slave. In the fury of man's mad will, he willwittingly, and with open eye, sell his own soul to the devil togain his ends; and will he be more careful of his neighbor's body?
"Well," said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as shereconnoitred through the knot-hole, "the hunt's going to beginagain, today!"
Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on thespace in front of the house; and one or two leashes of strangedogs were struggling with the negroes who held them, baying andbarking at each other.
The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in thevicinity; and others were some of Legree's associates at thetavern-bar of a neighboring city, who had come for the interest ofthe sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps, could not be imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, round among them, as alsoamong the negroes, who had been detailed from the various plantationsfor this service; for it was an object to make every service ofthis kind, among the negroes, as much of a holiday as possible.
Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole; and, as the morning airblew directly towards the house, she could overhear a good dealof the conversation. A grave sneer overcast the dark, severegravity of her face, as she listened, and heard them divide outthe ground, discuss the rival merits of the dogs, give orders aboutfiring, and the treatment of each, in case of capture.
Cassy drew back; and, clasping her hands, looked upward,and said, "O, great Almighty God! we are _all_ sinners; butwhat have _we_ done, more than all the rest of the world, thatwe should be treated so?"
There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, asshe spoke.
"If it wasn't for _you_, child," she said, looking at Emmeline,"I'd _go_ out to them; and I'd thank any one of them that _would_shoot me down; for what use will freedom be to me? Can itgive me back my children, or make me what I used to be?"
Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of thedark moods of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made no answer. She only took her hand, with a gentle, caressing movement.
"Don't!" said Cassy, trying to draw it away; "you'll getme to loving you; and I never mean to love anything, again!"
"Poor Cassy!" said Emmeline, "don't feel so! If the Lordgives us liberty, perhaps he'll give you back your daughter; atany rate, I'll be like a daughter to you. I know I'll never seemy poor old mother again! I shall love you, Cassy, whether you loveme or not!"
The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down by her,put her arm round her neck, stroked her soft, brown hair; andEmmeline then wondered at the beauty of her magnificent eyes, nowsoft with tears.
"O, Em!" said Cassy, "I've hungered for my children, andthirsted for them, and my eyes fail with longing for them! Here! here!" she said, striking her breast, "it's all desolate,all empty! If God would give me back my children, then I could pray."
"You must trust him, Cassy," said Emmeline; "he is our Father!"
"His wrath is upon us," said Cassy; "he has turned away in anger."
"No, Cassy! He will be good to us! Let us hope in Him,"said Emmeline,--"I always have had hope."
The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful;and, with grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on Legree,as, weary and dispirited, he alighted from his horse.
"Now, Quimbo," said Legree, as he stretched himself down in thesitting-room, "you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I'llhave it out of his old black hide, or I'll know the reason why!"
Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were joinedin one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree hadtold them, at first, that he had bought him for a general overseer,in his absence; and this had begun an ill will, on their part,which had increased, in their debased and servile natures, asthey saw him becoming obnoxious to their master's displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a will, to execute his orders.
Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knewall the plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of theirpresent concealment;--he knew the deadly character of the man hehad to deal with, and his despotic power. But he felt strong inGod to meet death, rather than betray the helpless.
He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said,"Into thy hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, oh LordGod of truth!" and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutalgrasp with which Quimbo seized him.
"Ay, ay!" said the giant, as he dragged him along; ye'll cotchit, now! I'll boun' Mas'r's back 's up _high!_ No sneakingout, now! Tell ye, ye'll get it, and no mistake! See how ye'lllook, now, helpin' Mas'r's niggers to run away! See what ye'll get!"
The savage words none of them reached that ear!--a highervoice there was saying, "Fear not them that kill the body, and,after that, have no more that they can do." Nerve and bone of thatpoor man's body vibrated to those words, as if touched by the fingerof God; and he felt the strength of a thousand souls in one. As hepassed along, the trees. and bushes, the huts of his servitude,the whole scene of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as thelandscape by the rushing ear. His soul throbbed,--his home wasin sight,--and the hour of release seemed at hand.
"Well, Tom!" said Legree, walking up, and seizing him grimlyby the collar of his coat, and speaking through his teeth, in aparoxysm of determined rage, "do you know I've made up my mind toKILL YOU?"
"It's very likely, Mas'r," said Tom, calmly.
"I _have_," said Legree, with a grim, terrible calmness,"_done--just--that--thing_, Tom, unless you'll tell me what youknow about these yer gals!"
Tom stood silent.
"D'ye hear?" said Legree, stamping, with a roar like thatof an incensed lion. "Speak!"
"_I han't got nothing to tell, Mas'r_," said Tom, with aslow, firm, deliberate utterance.
"Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't_know_?" said Legree.
Tom was silent.
"Speak!" thundered Legree, striking him furiously. Do youknow anything?"
"I know, Mas'r; but I can't tell anything. _I can die!_"
Legree drew in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, tookTom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said,in a terrible voice, "Hark 'e, Tom!--ye think, 'cause I've let youoff before, I don't mean what I say; but, this time, _I've made upmy mind_, and counted the cost. You've always stood it out again'me: now, _I'll conquer ye, or kill ye!_--one or t' other. I'll countevery drop of blood there is in you, and take 'em, one by one,till ye give up!"
Tom looked up to his master, and answered, "Mas'r, if you wassick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I'd _give_ye my heart's blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in thispoor old body would save your precious soul, I'd give 'em freely,as the Lord gave his for me. O, Mas'r! don't bring this great sinon your soul! It will hurt you more than 't will me! Do the worstyou can, my troubles'll be over soon; but, if ye don't repent,yours won't _never_ end!"
Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lullof a tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment's blank pause. Legree stood aghast, and looked at Tom; and there was such a silence,that the tick of the old clock could be heard, measuring, withsilent touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to thathardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause,--oneirresolute, relenting thrill,--and the spirit of evil came back,with seven-fold vehemence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smotehis victim to the ground.
Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart. What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear. Whatbrother-man and brother-Christian must suffer, cannot be told us,even in our secret chamber, it so harrows the soul! And yet, oh mycountry! these things are done under the shadow of thy laws! O, Christ! thy church sees them, almost in silence!
But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed aninstrument of torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol ofglory, honor, and immortal life; and, where His spirit is, neitherdegrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can make the Christian'slast struggle less than glorious.
Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit wasbearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?
Nay! There stood by him ONE,--seen by him alone,--"likeunto the Son of God."
The tempter stood by him, too,--blinded by furious, despoticwill,--every moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayalof the innocent. But the brave, true heart was firm on the EternalRock. Like his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himselfhe could not save; nor could utmost extremity wring from him words,save of prayers and holy trust.
"He's most gone, Mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite ofhimself, by the patience of his victim.
"Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to him!--give it tohim!" shouted Legree. I'll take every drop of blood he has, unlesshe confesses!"
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. "Ye poormiserable critter!" he said, "there ain't no more ye can do! I forgive ye, with all my soul!" and he fainted entirely away.
"I b'lieve, my soul, he's done for, finally," said Legree,stepping forward, to look at him. "Yes, he is! Well, his mouth'sshut up, at last,--that's one comfort!"
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul?that soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom thefire that never shall be quenched is already burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words and piousprayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted blacks, who hadbeen the instruments of cruelty upon him; and, the instant Legreewithdrew, they took him down, and, in their ignorance, sought tocall him back to life,--as if _that_ were any favor to him.
"Sartin, we 's been doin' a drefful wicked thing!" saidSambo; "hopes Mas'r'll have to 'count for it, and not we."
They washed his wounds,--they provided a rude bed, of somerefuse cotton, for him to lie down on; and one of them, stealingup to the house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree, pretendingthat he was tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought it back,and poured it down Tom's throat.
"O, Tom!" said Quimbo, "we's been awful wicked to ye!"
"I forgive ye, with all my heart!" said Tom, faintly.
"O, Tom! do tell us who is _Jesus_, anyhow?" said Sambo;--"Jesus,that's been a standin' by you so, all this night!--Who is he?"
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He pouredforth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One,--his life,his death, his everlasting presence, and power to save.
They wept,--both the two savage men.
"Why didn't I never hear this before?" said Sambo; "but Ido believe!--I can't help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on us!"
"Poor critters!" said Tom, "I'd be willing to bar' all Ihave, if it'll only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these twomore souls, I pray!"
That prayer was answered!
CHAPTER XLI
The Young Master
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up throughthe avenue of China trees, and, throwing the reins hastily on thehorse's neck, sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to be there,we must go back in our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by someunfortunate accident, been detained, for a month or two, at someremote post-office, before it reached its destination; and, ofcourse, before it was received, Tom was already lost to view amongthe distant swamps of the Red river.
Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest concern;but any immediate action upon it was an impossibility. She wasthen in attendance on the sick-bed of her husband, who lay deliriousin the crisis of a fever. Master George Shelby, who, in theinterval, had changed from a boy to a tall young man, was herconstant and faithful assistant, and her only reliance in superintendinghis father's affairs. Miss Ophelia had taken the precaution tosend them the name of the lawyer who did business for the St.Clares; and the most that, in the emergency, could be done, was toaddress a letter of inquiry to him. The sudden death of Mr.Shelby, a few days after, brought, of course, an absorbing pressureof other interests, for a season.
Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife's ability, byappointing her sole executrix upon his estates; and thus immediatelya large and complicated amount of business was brought upon her hands.
Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself tothe work of straightening the entangled web of affairs; and sheand George were for some time occupied with collecting and examiningaccounts, selling property and settling debts; for Mrs. Shelby wasdetermined that everything should be brought into tangible andrecognizable shape, let the consequences to her prove what theymight. In the mean time, they received a letter from the lawyerto whom Miss Ophelia had referred them, saying that he knew nothingof the matter; that the man was sold at a public auction, and that,beyond receiving the money, he knew nothing of the affair.
Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result;and, accordingly, some six months after, the latter, having businessfor his mother, down the river, resolved to visit New Orleans, inperson, and push his inquiries, in hopes of discovering Tom'swhereabouts, and restoring him.
After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merestaccident, George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who happenedto be possessed of the desired information; and with his money inhis pocket, our hero took steamboat for Red river, resolving tofind out and re-purchase his old friend.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legreein the sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality,
"I understand," said the young man, "that you bought, inNew Orleans, a boy, named Tom. He used to be on my father's place,and I came to see if I couldn't buy him back."
Legree's brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately: "Yes, I did buy such a fellow,--and a h--l of a bargain Ihad of it, too! The most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Set upmy niggers to run away; got off two gals, worth eight hundred ora thousand apiece. He owned to that, and, when I bid him tell mewhere they was, he up and said he knew, but he wouldn't tell; andstood to it, though I gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gavenigger yet. I b'lieve he's trying to die; but I don't know ashe'll make it out."
"Where is he?" said George, impetuously. "Let me see him."The cheeks of the young man were crimson, and his eyes flashedfire; but he prudently said nothing, as yet.
"He's in dat ar shed," said a little fellow, who stoodholding George's horse.
Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him; but George, withoutsaying another word, turned and strode to the spot.
Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night, not suffering,for every nerve of suffering was blunted and destroyed. He lay,for the most part, in a quiet stupor; for the laws of a powerfuland well-knit frame would not at once release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there had been there, in the darkness of the night,poor desolated creatures, who stole from their scanty hours'rest, that they might repay to him some of those ministrations oflove in which he had always been so abundant. Truly, those poordisciples had little to give,--only the cup of cold water; but itwas given with full hearts.
Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face,--tearsof late repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dyinglove and patience had awakened to repentance, and bitter prayers,breathed over him to a late-found Saviour, of whom they scarce knewmore than the name, but whom the yearning ignorant heart of mannever implores in vain.
Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, and,by overhearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made forher and Emmeline, had been there, the night before, defyingthe danger of detection; and, moved by the last few words whichthe affectionate soul had yet strength to breathe, the long winterof despair, the ice of years, had given way, and the dark, despairingwoman had wept and prayed.
When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy andhis heart sick.
"Is it possible,,--is it possible?" said he, kneeling downby him. "Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!"
Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He moved his head gently, smiled, and said,
"Jesus can make a dying-bed Feel soft as down pillows are."
Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from theyoung man's eyes, as he bent over his poor friend.
"O, dear Uncle Tom! do wake,--do speak once more! Look up! Here's Mas'r George,--your own little Mas'r George. Don't youknow me?"
"Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speakingin a feeble voice; "Mas'r George!" He looked bewildered.
Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacanteye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, thehard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks.
"Bless the Lord! it is,--it is,--it's all I wanted! They haven'tforgot me. It warms my soul; it does my heart good! Now I shalldie content! Bless the Lord, on my soul!"
"You shan't die! you _mustn't_ die, nor think of it! I've cometo buy you, and take you home," said George, with impetuous vehemence.
"O, Mas'r George, ye're too late. The Lord's bought me, and isgoing to take me home,--and I long to go. Heaven is betterthan Kintuck."
"O, don't die! It'll kill me!--it'll break my heart tothink what you've suffered,--and lying in this old shed, here! Poor, poor fellow!"
"Don't call me poor fellow!" said Tom, solemnly, "I _have_ beenpoor fellow; but that's all past and gone, now. I'm right inthe door, going into glory! O, Mas'r George! _Heaven has come!_I've got the victory!--the Lord Jesus has given it to me! Glory beto His name!"
George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the power,with which these broken sentences were uttered. He satgazing in silence.
Tom grasped his hand, and continued,--"Ye mustn't, now, tellChloe, poor soul! how ye found me;--'t would be so drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into glory; and that I couldn'tstay for no one. And tell her the Lord's stood by me everywhereand al'ays, and made everything light and easy. And oh, the poorchil'en, and the baby;--my old heart's been most broke for 'em,time and agin! Tell 'em all to follow me--follow me! Give my loveto Mas'r, and dear good Missis, and everybody in the place! Ye don'tknow! 'Pears like I loves 'em all! I loves every creatureeverywhar!--it's nothing _but_ love! O, Mas'r George! what a thing't is to be a Christian!"
At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of the shed,looked in, with a dogged air of affected carelessness, andturned away.
"The old satan!" said George, in his indignation. "It's a comfortto think the devil will pay _him_ for this, some of these days!"
"O, don't!,--oh, ye mustn't!" said Tom, grasping his hand;"he's a poor mis'able critter! it's awful to think on 't! Oh, ifhe only could repent, the Lord would forgive him now; but I'm'feared he never will!"
"I hope he won't!" said George; "I never want to see _him_in heaven!"
"Hush, Mas'r George!--it worries me! Don't feel so! He an'tdone me no real harm,--only opened the gate of the kingdom for me;that's all!"
At this moment, the sudden flush of strength which the joy ofmeeting his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and thatmysterious and sublime change passed over his face, that told theapproach of other worlds.
He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations;and his broad chest rose and fell, heavily. The expression of hisface was that of a conqueror.
"Who,--who,--who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and, witha smile, he fell asleep.
George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that theplace was holy; and, as he closed the lifeless eyes, and roseup from the dead, only one thought possessed him,--that expressedby his simple old friend,--"What a thing it is to be a Christian!"
He turned: Legree was standing, sullenly, behind him.
Something in that dying scene had checked the naturalfierceness of youthful passion. The presence of the man was simplyloathsome to George; and he felt only an impulse to get away fromhim, with as few words as possible.
Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, pointingto the dead, "You have got all you ever can of him. What shall Ipay you for the body? I will take it away, and bury it decently."
"I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly. "You arewelcome to bury him where and when you like."
"Boys," said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or threenegroes, who were looking at the body, "help me lift him up,and carry him to my wagon; and get me a spade."
One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted Georgeto carry the body to the wagon.
George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did notcountermand his orders, but stood, whistling, with an air offorced unconcern. He sulkily followed them to where the wagonstood at the door.
George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the bodycarefully disposed of in it,--moving the seat, so as to giveit room. Then he turned, fixed his eyes on Legree, and said,with forced composure,
"I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this mostatrocious affair;--this is not the time and place. But, sir, thisinnocent blood shall have justice. I will proclaim this murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, and expose you."
"Do!" said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully. "I'd liketo see you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses?--howyou going to prove it?--Come, now!"
George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There wasnot a white person on the place; and, in all southern courts,the testimony of colored blood is nothing. He felt, at that moment,as if he could have rent the heavens with his heart's indignantcry for justice; but in vain.
"After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger!" said Legree.
The word was as a spark to a powder magazine. Prudence wasnever a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George turned,and, with one indignant blow, knocked Legree flat upon his face;and, as he stood over him, blazing with wrath and defiance, hewould have formed no bad personification of his great namesaketriumphing over the dragon.
Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being knocked down. If a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, they seemimmediately to conceive a respect for him; and Legree was one ofthis sort. As he rose, therefore, and brushed the dust from hisclothes, he eyed the slowly-retreating wagon with some evidentconsideration; nor did he open his mouth till it was out of sight.
Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed a dry,sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made the grave.
"Shall we take off the cloak, Mas'r?" said the negroes,when the grave was ready.
"No, no,--bury it with him! It's all I can give you, now,poor Tom, and you shall have it."
They laid him in; and the men shovelled away, silently. They banked it up, and laid green turf over it.
"You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter intothe hand of each. They lingered about, however.
"If young Mas'r would please buy us--" said one.
"We'd serve him so faithful!" said the other.
"Hard times here, Mas'r!" said the first. "Do, Mas'r, buyus, please!"
"I can't!--I can't!" said George, with difficulty, motioningthem off; "it's impossible!"
The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence.
"Witness, eternal God!" said George, kneeling on the graveof his poor friend; "oh, witness, that, from this hour, I will do_what one man can_ to drive out this curse of slavery from my land!"
There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of our friend. He needs none! His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up,immortal, to appear with him when he shall appear in his glory.
Pity him not! Such a life and death is not for pity! Not in theriches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God; but in self-denying,suffering love! And blessed are the men whom he calls to fellowshipwith him, bearing their cross after him with patience. Of such itis written, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."
CHAPTER XLII
An Authentic Ghost Story
For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonlyrife, about this time, among the servants on Legree's place.
It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of night,had been heard descending the garret stairs, and patrollingthe house. In vain the doors of the upper entry had been locked;the ghost either carried a duplicate key in its pocket, or availeditself of a ghost's immemorial privilege of coming through thekeyhole, and promenaded as before, with a freedom that was alarming.
Authorities were somewhat divided, as to the outward form ofthe spirit, owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes,--and,for aught we know, among whites, too,--of invariably shutting theeyes, and covering up heads under blankets, petticoats, or whateverelse might come in use for a shelter, on these occasions. Of course,as everybody knows, when the bodily eyes are thus out of thelists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly vivacious and perspicuous;and, therefore, there were abundance of full-length portraits ofthe ghost, abundantly sworn and testified to, which, as if oftenthe case with portraits, agreed with each other in no particular,except the common family peculiarity of the ghost tribe,--thewearing of a _white sheet_. The poor souls were not versed inancient history, and did not know that Shakspeare hadauthenticated this costume, by telling how
"The sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome."[1]
[1] _Hamlet_, Act I, scene 1, lines 115-116
And, therefore, their all hitting upon this is a striking fact inpneumatology, which we recommend to the attention of spiritualmedia generally.
Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing thata tall figure in a white sheet did walk, at the most approvedghostly hours, around the Legree premises,--pass out the doors,glide about the house,--disappear at intervals, and, reappearing,pass up the silent stairway, into that fatal garret; and that, inthe morning, the entry doors were all found shut and locked as firmas ever.
Legree could not help overhearing this whispering; and it wasall the more exciting to him, from the pains that were takento conceal it from him. He drank more brandy than usual; held uphis head briskly, and swore louder than ever in the daytime; buthe had bad dreams, and the visions of his head on his bed wereanything but agreeable. The night after Tom's body had been carriedaway, he rode to the next town for a carouse, and had a high one. Got home late and tired; locked his door, took out the key, andwent to bed.
After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down,a human soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession, for abad man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it? Who knowsall its awful perhapses,--those shudderings and tremblings, whichit can no more live down than it can outlive its own eternity! What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who hasin his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone,--whose voice,smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness,is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom!
But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it; he seta night-lamp at the head of his bed; and put his pistols there. He examined the catches and fastenings of the windows, and thenswore he "didn't care for the devil and all his angels," and wentto sleep.
Well, he slept, for he was tired,--slept soundly. But, finally,there came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehensionof something dreadful hanging over him. It was his mother's shroud,he thought; but Cassy had it, holding it up, and showing it to him. He heard a confused noise of screams and groanings; and, with itall, he knew he was asleep, and he struggled to wake himself. He was half awake. He was sure something was coming into his room. He knew the door was opening, but he could not stir hand or foot. At last he turned, with a start; the door _was_ open, and he sawa hand putting out his light.
It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it!--somethingwhite, gliding in! He heard the still rustle of its ghostly garments. It stood still by his bed;--a cold hand touched his; a voice said,three times, in a low, fearful whisper, "Come! come! come!" And, while he lay sweating with terror, he knew not when or how,the thing was gone. He sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut and locked, and the man fell down in a swoon.
After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever before. He no longer drank cautiously, prudently, but imprudently andrecklessly.
There were reports around the country, soon after that he wassick and dying. Excess had brought on that frightful diseasethat seems to throw the lurid shadows of a coming retribution backinto the present life. None could bear the horrors of that sickroom, when he raved and screamed, and spoke of sights which almoststopped the blood of those who heard him; and, at his dying bed,stood a stern, white, inexorable figure, saying, "Come! come! come!"
By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this visionappeared to Legree, the house-door was found open in the morning,and some of the negroes had seen two white figures gliding downthe avenue towards the high-road.
It was near sunrise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for amoment, in a little knot of trees near the town.
Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanishladies,--wholly in black. A small black bonnet on her head, coveredby a veil thick with embroidery, concealed her face. It had beenagreed that, in their escape, she was to personate the characterof a Creole lady, and Emmeline that of her servant.
Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highestsociety, the language, movements and air of Cassy, were all inagreement with this idea; and she had still enough remaining withher, of a once splendid wardrobe, and sets of jewels, to enableher to personate the thing to advantage.
She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had noticedtrunks for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This sherequested the man to send along with her. And, accordingly, thusescorted by a boy wheeling her trunk, and Emmeline behind her,carrying her carpet-bag and sundry bundles, she made her appearanceat the small tavern, like a lady of consideration.
The first person that struck her, after her arrival, wasGeorge Shelby, who was staying there, awaiting the next boat.
Cassy had remarked the young man from her loophole in thegarret, and seen him bear away the body of Tom, and observed withsecret exultation, his rencontre with Legree. Subsequently shehad gathered, from the conversations she had overheard among thenegroes, as she glided about in her ghostly disguise, afternightfall, who he was, and in what relation he stood to Tom. She, therefore, felt an immediate accession of confidence, whenshe found that he was, like herself, awaiting the next boat.
Cassy's air and manner, address, and evident command of money,prevented any rising disposition to suspicion in the hotel. People never inquire too closely into those who are fair onthe main point, of paying well,--a thing which Cassy hadforeseen when she provided herself with money.
In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along,and George Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness whichcomes naturally to every Kentuckian, and exerted himself to provideher with a good state-room.
Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, duringthe whole time they were on Red river; and was waited on, withobsequious devotion, by her attendant.
When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, havinglearned that the course of the strange lady was upward, like hisown, proposed to take a state-room for her on the same boat withhimself,--good-naturedly compassionating her feeble health, anddesirous to do what he could to assist her.
Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred tothe good steamer Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under apowerful head of steam.
Cassy's health was much better. She sat upon the guards, cameto the table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a lady thatmust have been very handsome.
From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her face,he was troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinitelikenesses, which almost every body can remember, and has been, attimes, perplexed with. He could not keep himself from looking ather, and watchin her perpetually. At table, or sitting at herstate-room door, still she would encounter the young man's eyesfixed on her, and politely withdrawn, when she showed, by hercountenance, that she was sensible to the observation.
Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspectedsomething; and finally resolved to throw herself entirely on hisgenerosity, and intrusted him with her whole history.
George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one whohad escaped from Legree's plantation,--a place that he couldnot remember or speak of with patience,--and, with the courageousdisregard of consequences which is characteristic of his age andstate, he assured her that he would do all in his power to protectand bring them through.
The next state-room to Cassy's was occupied by a French lady,named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little daughter,a child of some twelve summers.
This lady, having gathered, from George's conversation, thathe was from Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to cultivatehis acquaintance; in which design she was seconded by the gracesof her little girl, who was about as pretty a plaything as everdiverted the weariness of a fortnight's trip on a steamboat.
George's chair was often placed at her state-room door; andCassy, as she sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation.
Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to Kentucky,where she said she had resided in a former period of her life. George discovered, to his surprise, that her former residencemust have been in his own vicinity; and her inquiries showed aknowledge of people and things in his vicinity, that was perfectlysurprising to him.
"Do you know," said Madame de Thoux to him, one day, "ofany man, in your neighborhood, of the name of Harris?"
"There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from myfather's place," said George. "We never have had much intercoursewith him, though."
"He is a large slave-owner, I believe," said Madame de Thoux,with a manner which seemed to betray more interest than shewas exactly willing to show.
"He is," said George, looking rather surprised at her manner.
"Did you ever know of his having--perhaps, you may haveheard of his having a mulatto boy, named George?"
"O, certainly,--George Harris,--I know him well; he marrieda servant of my mother's, but has escaped, now, to Canada."
"He has?" said Madame de Thoux, quickly. "Thank God!"
George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing.
Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst into tears.
"He is my brother," she said.
"Madame!" said George, with a strong accent of surprise.
"Yes," said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly,and wiping her tears, "Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my brother!"
"I am perfectly astonished," said George, pushing back hischair a pace or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux.
"I was sold to the South when he was a boy," said she. "I wasbought by a good and generous man. He took me with him to theWest Indies, set me free, and married me. It is but lately thathe died; and I was going up to Kentucky, to see if I could findand redeem my brother."
"I heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold South,"said George.
"Yes, indeed! I am the one," said Madame de Thoux;--"tellme what sort of a--"
"A very fine young man," said George, "notwithstanding thecurse of slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first ratecharacter, both for intelligence and principle. I know, you see,"he said; "because he married in our family."
"What sort of a girl?" said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.
"A treasure," said George; "a beautiful, intelligent,amiable girl. Very pious. My mother had brought her up, andtrained her as carefully, almost, as a daughter. She could readand write, embroider and sew, beautifully; and was a beautiful singer."
"Was she born in your house?" said Madame de Thoux.
"No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New Orleans,and brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eightor nine years old, then. Father would never tell mother whathe gave for her; but, the other day, in looking over his old papers,we came across the bill of sale. He paid an extravagant sum for her,to be sure. I suppose, on account of her extraordinary beauty."
George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the absorbedexpression of her countenance, as he was giving these details.
At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and, witha face perfectly white with interest, said, "Do you know the namesof the people he bought her of?"
"A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the principalin the transaction. At least, I think that was the name on thebill of sale."
"O, my God!" said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floorof the cabin.
George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux. Though neither of them could conjecture what was the cause ofCassy's fainting, still they made all the tumult which is properin such cases;--George upsetting a wash-pitcher, and breaking twotumblers, in the warmth of his humanity; and various ladies inthe cabin, hearing that somebody had fainted, crowded the state-roomdoor, and kept out all the air they possibly could, so that, on thewhole, everything was done that could be expected.
Poor Cassy! when she recovered, turned her face to the wall,and wept and sobbed like a child,--perhaps, mother, you cantell what she was thinking of! Perhaps you cannot,--but she feltas sure, in that hour, that God had had mercy on her, and that sheshould see her daughter,--as she did, months afterwards,--when--butwe anticipate.
CHAPTER XLIII
Results
The rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby, interested,as any other young man might be, by the romance of the incident,no less than by feelings of humanity, was at the pains to sendto Cassy the bill of sale of Eliza; whose date and name allcorresponded with her own knowledge of facts, and felt no doubtupon her mind as to the identity of her child. It remained nowonly for her to trace out the path of the fugitives.
Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the singularcoincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately to Canada,and began a tour of inquiry among the stations, where the numerousfugitives from slavery are located. At Amherstberg they found themissionary with whom George and Eliza had taken shelter, on theirfirst arrival in Canada; and through him were enabled to trace thefamily to Montreal.
George and Eliza had now been five years free. George hadfound constant occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist, wherehe had been earning a competent support for his family, which, inthe mean time, had been increased by the addition of another daughter.
Little Harry--a fine bright boy--had been put to a good school,and was making rapid proficiency in knowledge.
The worthy pastor of the station, in Amherstberg, where Georgehad first landed, was so much interested in the statements ofMadame de Thoux and Cassy, that he yielded to the solicitationsof the former, to accompany them to Montreal, in their search,--shebearing all the expense of the expedition.
The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in theoutskirts of Montreal; the time, evening. A cheerful fire blazeson the hearth; a tea-table, covered with a snowy cloth, standsprepared for the evening meal. In one corner of the room was atable covered with a green cloth, where was an open writing-desk,pens, paper, and over it a shelf of well-selected books.
This was George's study. The same zeal for self-improvement,which led him to steal the much coveted arts of reading and writing,amid all the toil and discouragements of his early life, still ledhim to devote all his leisure time to self-cultivation.
At this present time, he is seated at the table, making notesfrom a volume of the family library he has been reading.
"Come, George," says Eliza, "you've been gone all day. Do putdown that book, and let's talk, while I'm getting tea,--do."
And little Eliza seconds the effort, by toddling up to herfather, and trying to pull the book out of his hand, and installherself on his knee as a substitute.
"O, you little witch!" says George, yielding, as, in suchcircumstances, man always must.
"That's right," says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of bread. A little older she looks; her form a little fuller; her air morematronly than of yore; but evidently contented and happy as womanneed be.
"Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum, today?"says George, as he laid his land on his son's head.
Harry has lost his long curls; but he can never lose thoseeyes and eyelashes, and that fine, bold brow, that flusheswith triumph, as he answers, "I did it, every bit of it, _myself_,father; and _nobody_ helped me!"
"That's right," says his father; "depend on yourself, my son. You have a better chance than ever your poor father had."
At this moment, there is a rap at the door; and Eliza goes andopens it. The delighted--"Why! this you?"--calls up her husband;and the good pastor of Amherstberg is welcomed. There are two morewomen with him, and Eliza asks them to sit down.
Now, if the truth must be told, the honest pastor had arrangeda little programme, according to which this affair was todevelop itself; and, on the way up, all had very cautiously andprudently exhorted each other not to let things out, except accordingto previous arrangement.
What was the good man's consternation, therefore, just ashe had motioned to the ladies to be seated, and was taking out hispocket-handkerchief to wipe his mouth, so as to proceed to hisintroductory speech in good order, when Madame de Thoux upset thewhole plan, by throwing her arms around George's neck, and lettingall out at once, by saying, "O, George! don't you know me? I'm yoursister Emily."
Cassy had seated herself more composedly, and would have carriedon her part very well, had not little Eliza suddenly appearedbefore her in exact shape and form, every outline and curl, justas her daughter was when she saw her last. The little thing peeredup in her face; and Cassy caught her up in her arms, pressed herto her bosom, saying, what, at the moment she really believed,"Darling, I'm your mother!"
In fact, it was a troublesome matter to do up exactly in properorder; but the good pastor, at last, succeeded in gettingeverybody quiet, and delivering the speech with which he had intendedto open the exercises; and in which, at last, he succeeded so well,that his whole audience were sobbing about him in a manner that oughtto satisfy any orator, ancient or modern.
They knelt together, and the good man prayed,--for there aresome feelings so agitated and tumultuous, that they can findrest only by being poured into the bosom of Almighty love,--andthen, rising up, the new-found family embraced each other, with aholy trust in Him, who from such peril and dangers, and by suchunknown ways, had brought them together.
The note-book of a missionary, among the Canadian fugitives,contains truth stranger than fiction. How can it be otherwise,when a system prevails which whirls families and scatters theirmembers, as the wind whirls and scatters the leaves of autumn? These shores of refuge, like the eternal shore, often unite again,in glad communion, hearts that for long years have mourned eachother as lost. And affecting beyond expression is the earnestnesswith which every new arrival among them is met, if, perchance, itmay bring tidings of mother, sister, child or wife, still lost toview in the shadows of slavery.
Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of romance,when defying torture, and braving death itself, the fugitivevoluntarily threads his way back to the terrors and perils of thatdark land, that he may bring out his sister, or mother, or wife.
One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twicere-captured, and suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, hadescaped again; and, in a letter which we heard read, tells hisfriends that he is going back a third time, that he may, at last,bring away his sister. My good sir, is this man a hero, or acriminal? Would not you do as much for your sister? And can youblame him?
But, to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their eyes,and recovering themselves from too great and sudden a joy. They are now seated around the social board, and are gettingdecidedly companionable; only that Cassy, who keeps littleEliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes the little thing, ina manner that rather astonishes her, and obstinately refuses tohave her mouth stuffed with cake to the extent the little onedesires,--alleging, what the child rather wonders at, that she hasgot something better than cake, and doesn't want it.
And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has passed overCassy, that our readers would scarcely know her. The despairing,haggard expression of her face had given way to one of gentle trust. She seemed to sink, at once, into the bosom of the family, and takethe little ones into her heart, as something for which it longhad waited. Indeed, her love seemed to flow more naturally to thelittle Eliza than to her own daughter; for she was the exact imageand body of the child whom she had lost. The little one was aflowery bond between mother and daughter, through whom grew upacquaintanceship and affection. Eliza's steady, consistent piety,regulated by the constant reading of the sacred word, made her aproper guide for the shattered and wearied mind of her mother. Cassy yielded at once, and with her whole soul, to every goodinfluence, and became a devout and tender Christian.
After a day or two, Madame de Thoux told her brother moreparticularly of her affairs. The death of her husband had lefther an ample fortune, which she generously offered to share withthe family. When she asked George what way she could best applyit for him, he answered, "Give me an education, Emily; that hasalways been my heart's desire. Then, I can do all the rest."
On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole familyshould go, for some years, to France; whither they sailed, carryingEmmeline with them.
The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first mateof the vessel; and, shortly after entering the port, she becamehis wife.
George remained four years at a French university, and, applyinghimself with an unintermitted zeal, obtained a very thorougheducation.
Political troubles in France, at last, led the family againto seek an asylum in this country.
George's feelings and views, as an educated man, may bebest expressed in a letter to one of his friends.
"I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True, asyou have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of the whites,in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and that of mywife and family scarce perceptible. Well, perhaps, on sufferance,I might. But, to tell you the truth, I have no wish to.
"My sympathies are not for my father's race, but for my mother's. To him I was no more than a fine dog or horse: to my poorheart-broken mother I was a _child_; and, though I never sawher, after the cruel sale that separated us, till she died, yet I_know_ she always loved me dearly. I know it by my own heart. When I think of all she suffered, of my own early sufferings, ofthe distresses and struggles of my heroic wife, of my sister, soldin the New Orleans slave-market,--though I hope to have no unchristiansentiments, yet I may be excused for saying, I have no wish to passfor an American, or to identify myself with them.
"It is with the oppressed, enslaved African race that I castin my lot; and, if I wished anything, I would wish myself twoshades darker, rather than one lighter.
"The desire and yearning of my soul is for an African _nationality_. I want a people that shall have a tangible, separate existenceof its own; and where am I to look for it? Not in Hayti; for inHayti they had nothing to start with. A stream cannot rise aboveits fountain. The race that formed the character of the Haytienswas a worn-out, effeminate one; and, of course, the subject racewill be centuries in rising to anything.
"Where, then, shall I look? On the shores of Africa I seea republic,--a republic formed of picked men, who, by energy andself-educating force, have, in many cases, individually, raisedthemselves above a condition of slavery. Having gone through apreparatory stage of feebleness, this republic has, at last, becomean acknowledged nation on the face of the earth,--acknowledged byboth France and England. There it is my wish to go, and find myselfa people.
"I am aware, now, that I shall have you all against me; but,before you strike, hear me. During my stay in France, I havefollowed up, with intense interest, the history of my peoplein America. I have noted the struggle between abolitionist andcolonizationist, and have received some impressions, as a distantspectator, which could never have occurred to me as a participator.
"I grant that this Liberia may have subserved all sorts ofpurposes, by being played off, in the hands of our oppressors,against us. Doubtless the scheme may have been used, in unjustifiableways, as a means of retarding our emancipation. But the questionto me is, Is there not a God above all man's schemes? May He nothave over-ruled their designs, and founded for us a nation by them?
"In these days, a nation is born in a day. A nation starts, now,with all the great problems of republican life and civilizationwrought out to its hand;--it has not to discover, but only to apply. Let us, then, all take hold together, with all our might, and seewhat we can do with this new enterprise, and the whole splendidcontinent of Africa opens before us and our children. _Our nation_shall roll the tide of civilization and Christianity along itsshores, and plant there mighty republics, that, growing with therapidity of tropical vegetation, shall be for all coming ages.
"Do you say that I am deserting my enslaved brethren? I think not. If I forget them one hour, one moment of my life, so may Godforget me! But, what can I do for them, here? Can I breaktheir chains? No, not as an individual; but, let me go and formpart of a nation, which shall have a voice in the councils ofnations, and then we can speak. A nation has a right to argue,remonstrate, implore, and present the cause of its race,--which anindividual has not.
"If Europe ever becomes a grand council of free nations,--asI trust in God it will,--if, there, serfdom, and all unjust andoppressive social inequalities, are done away; and if they, asFrance and England have done, acknowledge our position,--then, inthe great congress of nations, we will make our appeal, and presentthe cause of our enslaved and suffering race; and it cannot be thatfree, enlightened America will not then desire to wipe from herescutcheon that bar sinister which disgraces her among nations,and is as truly a curse to her as to the enslaved.
"But, you will tell me, our race have equal rights to minglein the American republic as the Irishman, the German, the Swede. Granted, they have. We _ought_ to be free to meet and mingle,--torise by our individual worth, without any consideration of casteor color; and they who deny us this right are false to their ownprofessed principles of human equality. We ought, in particular,to be allowed _here_. We have _more_ than the rights of commonmen;--we have the claim of an injured race for reparation. But, then,_I do not want it_; I want a country, a nation, of my own. I thinkthat the African race has peculiarities, yet to be unfolded in thelight of civilization and Christianity, which, if not the same withthose of the Anglo-Saxon, may prove to be, morally, of even ahigher type.
"To the Anglo-Saxon race has been intrusted the destinies ofthe world, during its pioneer period of struggle and conflict. To that mission its stern, inflexible, energetic elements, werewell adapted; but, as a Christian, I look for another era to arise. On its borders I trust we stand; and the throes that now convulsethe nations are, to my hope, but the birth-pangs of an hour ofuniversal peace and brotherhood.
"I trust that the development of Africa is to be essentially aChristian one. If not a dominant and commanding race, they are,at least, an affectionate, magnanimous, and forgiving one. Havingbeen called in the furnace of injustice and oppression, they haveneed to bind closer to their hearts that sublime doctrine of loveand forgiveness, through which alone they are to conquer, which itis to be their mission to spread over the continent of Africa.
"In myself, I confess, I am feeble for this,--full half theblood in my veins is the hot and hasty Saxon; but I have aneloquent preacher of the Gospel ever by my side, in the person ofmy beautiful wife. When I wander, her gentler spirit ever restoresme, and keeps before my eyes the Christian calling and mission ofour race. As a Christian patriot, as a teacher of Christianity,I go to _my country_,--my chosen, my glorious Africa!--and to her,in my heart, I sometimes apply those splendid words of prophecy:`Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated, so that no man wentthrough thee; _I_ will make thee an eternal excellence, a joy ofmany generations!'
"You will call me an enthusiast: you will tell me that I havenot well considered what I am undertaking. But I haveconsidered, and counted the cost. I go to _Liberia_, not as anElysium of romance, but as to _a field of work_. I expect to workwith both hands,--to work _hard_; to work against all sorts ofdifficulties and discouragements; and to work till I die. This iswhat I go for; and in this I am quite sure I shall not be disappointed.
"Whatever you may think of my determination, do not divorceme from your confidence; and think that, in whatever I do,I act with a heart wholly given to my people.
"GEORGE HARRIS."
George, with his wife, children, sister and mother, embarkedfor Africa, some few weeks after. If we are not mistaken, theworld will yet hear from him there.
Of our other characters we have nothing very particular towrite, except a word relating to Miss Ophelia and Topsy, and afarewell chapter, which we shall dedicate to George Shelby.
Miss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, much to thesurprise of the grave deliberative body whom a New Englanderrecognizes under the term "_Our folks_." "Our folks," at first,thought it an odd and unnecessary addition to their well-traineddomestic establishment; but, so thoroughly efficient was MissOphelia in her conscientious endeavor to do her duty by her eleve,that the child rapidly grew in grace and in favor with the familyand neighborhood. At the age of womanhood, she was, by her ownrequest, baptized, and became a member of the Christian church inthe place; and showed so much intelligence, activity and zeal, anddesire to do good in the world, that she was at last recommended,and approved as a missionary to one of the stations in Africa; andwe have heard that the same activity and ingenuity which, when achild, made her so multiform and restless in her developments, isnow employed, in a safer and wholesomer manner, in teaching thechildren of her own country.
P.S.--It will be a satisfaction to some mother, also, to state,that some inquiries, which were set on foot by Madame de Thoux,have resulted recently in the discovery of Cassy's son. Being ayoung man of energy, he had escaped, some years before his mother,and been received and educated by friends of the oppressed inthe north. He will soon follow his family to Africa.
CHAPTER XLIV
The Liberator
George Shelby had written to his mother merely a line, statingthe day that she might expect him home. Of the death sceneof his old friend he had not the heart to write. He had triedseveral times, and only succeeded in half choking himself; andinvariably finished by tearing up the paper, wiping his eyes, andrushing somewhere to get quiet.
There was a pleased bustle all though the Shelby mansion,that day, in expectation of the arrival of young Mas'r George.
Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlor, where acheerful hickory fire was dispelling the chill of the late autumnevening. A supper-table, glittering with plate and cut glass, wasset out, on whose arrangements our former friend, old Chloe, waspresiding.
Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron,and high, well-starched turban, her black polished face glowingwith satisfaction, she lingered, with needless punctiliousness,around the arrangements of the table, merely as an excuse fortalking a little to her mistress.
"Laws, now! won't it look natural to him?" she said. "Thar,--I set his plate just whar he likes it,round by the fire. Mas'r George allers wants de warm seat. O, go way!--why didn'tSally get out de _best_ tea-pot,--de little new one, Mas'r Georgegot for Missis, Christmas? I'll have it out! And Missis has heardfrom Mas'r George?" she said, inquiringly.
"Yes, Chloe; but only a line, just to say he would be hometonight, if he could,--that's all."
"Didn't say nothin' 'bout my old man, s'pose?" said Chloe,still fidgeting with the tea-cups.
"No, he didn't. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. He saidhe would tell all, when he got home."
"Jes like Mas'r George,--he's allers so ferce for tellin'everything hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas'r George. Don't see, for my part, how white people gen'lly can bar to hevto write things much as they do, writin' 's such slow, oneasy kindo' work."
Mrs. Shelby smiled.
"I'm a thinkin' my old man won't know de boys and de baby. Lor'! she's de biggest gal, now,--good she is, too, and peart,Polly is. She's out to the house, now, watchin' de hoe-cake. I 's got jist de very pattern my old man liked so much, a bakin'. Jist sich as I gin him the mornin' he was took off. Lord blessus! how I felt, dat ar morning!"
Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart, atthis allusion. She had felt uneasy, ever since she receivedher son's letter, lest something should prove to be hidden behindthe veil of silence which he had drawn.
"Missis has got dem bills?" said Chloe, anxiously.
"Yes, Chloe."
"'Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bills de_perfectioner_ gave me. `And,' say he, `Chloe, I wish you'd staylonger.' `Thank you, Mas'r,' says I, `I would, only my old man'scoming home, and Missis,--she can't do without me no longer.' There's jist what I telled him. Berry nice man, dat Mas'r Jones was."
Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills inwhich her wages had been paid should be preserved, to show herhusband, in memorial of her capability. And Mrs. Shelby hadreadily consented to humor her in the request.
"He won't know Polly,--my old man won't. Laws, it's fiveyear since they tuck him! She was a baby den,--couldn't butjist stand. Remember how tickled he used to be, cause she wouldkeep a fallin' over, when she sot out to walk. Laws a me!"
The rattling of wheels now was heard.
"Mas'r George!" said Aunt Chloe, starting to the window.
Mrs. Shelby ran to the entry door, and was folded in the armsof her son. Aunt Chloe stood anxiously straining her eyesout into the darkness.
"O, _poor_ Aunt Chloe!" said George, stopping compassionately,and taking her hard, black hand between both his; "I'd have givenall my fortune to have brought him with me, but he's gone to abetter country."
There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, butAunt Chloe said nothing.
The party entered the supper-room. The money, of whichChloe was so proud, was still lying on the table.
"Thar," said she, gathering it up, and holding it, with atrembling hand, to her mistress, "don't never want to see nor hearon 't again. Jist as I knew 't would be,--sold, and murdered ondem ar' old plantations!"
Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room. Mrs. Shelby followed her softly, and took one of her hands, drewher down into a chair, and sat down by her.
"My poor, good Chloe!" said she.
Chloe leaned her head on her mistress' shoulder, and sobbedout, "O Missis! 'scuse me, my heart's broke,--dat's all!"
"I know it is," said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast;"and _I_ cannot heal it, but Jesus can. He healeth the brokenhearted, and bindeth up their wounds."
There was a silence for some time, and all wept together. At last, George, sitting down beside the mourner, took her hand,and, with simple pathos, repeated the triumphant scene of herhusband's death, and his last messages of love.
About a month after this, one morning, all the servants of theShelby estate were convened together in the great hall thatran through the house, to hear a few words from their young master.
To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a bundle ofpapers in his hand, containing a certificate of freedom to everyone on the place, which he read successively, and presented, amidthe sobs and tears and shouts of all present.
Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging him notto send them away; and, with anxious faces, tendering backtheir free papers.
"We don't want to be no freer than we are. We's allers had allwe wanted. We don't want to leave de ole place, and Mas'rand Missis, and de rest!"
"My good friends," said George, as soon as he could get a silence,"there'll be no need for you to leave me. The place wants as manyhands to work it as it did before. We need the same about thehouse that we did before. But, you are now free men andfree women. I shall pay you wages for your work, such as we shallagree on. The advantage is, that in case of my getting in debt, ordying,--things that might happen,--you cannot now be taken up andsold. I expect to carry on the estate, and to teach you what,perhaps, it will take you some time to learn,--how to use the rightsI give you as free men and women. I expect you to be good, andwilling to learn; and I trust in God that I shall be faithful, andwilling to teach. And now, my friends, look up, and thank God forthe blessing of freedom."
An aged, partriarchal negro, who had grown gray and blind on theestate, now rose, and, lifting his trembling hand said, "Let usgive thanks unto the Lord!" As all kneeled by one consent, a moretouching and hearty Te Deum never ascended to heaven, though borneon the peal of organ, bell and cannon, than came from that honestold heart.
On rising, another struck up a Methodist hymn, of whichthe burden was,
"The year of Jubilee is come,-- Return, ye ransomed sinners, home."
"One thing more," said George, as he stopped the congratulationsof the throng; "you all remember our good old Uncle Tom?"
George here gave a short narration of the scene of his death,and of his loving farewell to all on the place, and added,
"It was on his grave, my friends, that I resolved, before God,that I would never own another slave, while it was possibleto free him; that nobody, through me, should ever run the risk ofbeing parted from home and friends, and dying on a lonely plantation,as he died. So, when you rejoice in your freedom, think that youowe it to that good old soul, and pay it back in kindness to hiswife and children. Think of your freedom, every time you see UNCLETOM'S CABIN; and let it be a memorial to put you all in mind tofollow in his steps, and be honest and faithful and Christian ashe was."
CHAPTER XLV
Concluding Remarks
The writer has often been inquired of, by correspondents fromdifferent parts of the country, whether this narrative is atrue one; and to these inquiries she will give one general answer.
The separate incidents that compose the narrative are, toa very great extent, authentic, occurring, many of them, eitherunder her own observation, or that of her personal friends. She or her friends have observed characters the counterpart ofalmost all that are here introduced; and many of the sayings areword for word as heard herself, or reported to her.
The personal appearance of Eliza, the character ascribed to her,are sketches drawn from life. The incorruptible fidelity,piety and honesty, of Uncle Tom, had more than one development, toher personal knowledge. Some of the most deeply tragic and romantic,some of the most terrible incidents, have also their parallein reality. The incident of the mother's crossing the Ohio riveron the ice is a well-known fact. The story of "old Prue," in thesecond volume, was an incident that fell under the personalobservation of a brother of the writer, then collecting-clerk toa large mercantile house, in New Orleans. From the same sourcewas derived the character of the planter Legree. Of him her brotherthus wrote, speaking of visiting his plantation, on a collectingtour; "He actually made me feel of his fist, which was like ablacksmith's hammer, or a nodule of iron, telling me that it was`calloused with knocking down niggers.' When I left the plantation,I drew a long breath, and felt as if I had escaped from an ogre's den."
That the tragical fate of Tom, also, has too many times hadits parallel, there are living witnesses, all over our land,to testify. Let it be remembered that in all southern states itis a principle of jurisprudence that no person of colored lineagecan testify in a suit against a white, and it will be easy to seethat such a case may occur, wherever there is a man whose passionsoutweigh his interests, and a slave who has manhood or principleenough to resist his will. There is, actually, nothing to protectthe slave's life, but the _character_ of the master. Facts tooshocking to be contemplated occasionally force their way to thepublic ear, and the comment that one often hears made on them ismore shocking than the thing itself. It is said, "Very likely suchcases may now and then occur, but they are no sample of generalpractice." If the laws of New England were so arranged that a mastercould _now and then_ torture an apprentice to death, would it bereceived with equal composure? Would it be said, "These cases arerare, and no samples of general practice"? This injustice is an_inherent_ one in the slave system,--it cannot exist without it.
The public and shameless sale of beautiful mulatto and quadroongirls has acquired a notoriety, from the incidents following thecapture of the Pearl. We extract the following from the speechof Hon. Horace Mann, one of the legal counsel for the defendantsin that case. He says: "In that company of seventy-six persons,who attempted, in 1848, to escape from the District of Columbia inthe schooner Pearl, and whose officers I assisted in defending,there were several young and healthy girls, who had those peculiarattractions of form and feature which connoisseurs prize so highly. Elizabeth Russel was one of them. She immediately fell into theslave-trader's fangs, and was doomed for the New Orleans market. The hearts of those that saw her were touched with pity forher fate. They offered eighteen hundred dollars to redeem her;and some there were who offered to give, that would not have muchleft after the gift; but the fiend of a slave-trader was inexorable. She was despatched to New Orleans; but, when about half way there,God had mercy on her, and smote her with death. There were twogirls named Edmundson in the same company. When about to be sentto the same market, an older sister went to the shambles, to pleadwith the wretch who owned them, for the love of God, to spare hisvictims. He bantered her, telling what fine dresses and finefurniture they would have. `Yes,' she said, `that may do very wellin this life, but what will become of them in the next?' They toowere sent to New Orleans; but were afterwards redeemed, at anenormous ransom, and brought back." Is it not plain, from this,that the histories of Emmeline and Cassy may have many counterparts?
Justice, too, obliges the author to state that the fairnessof mind and generosity attributed to St. Clare are not without aparallel, as the following anecdote will show. A few years since,a young southern gentleman was in Cincinnati, with a favoriteservant, who had been his personal attendant from a boy. The youngman took advantage of this opportunity to secure his own freedom,and fled to the protection of a Quaker, who was quite noted inaffairs of this kind. The owner was exceedingly indignant. He hadalways treated the slave with such indulgence, and his confidencein his affection was such, that he believed he must have beenpractised upon to induce him to revolt from him. He visited theQuaker, in high anger; but, being possessed of uncommon candor andfairness, was soon quieted by his arguments and representations. It was a side of the subject which he never had heard,--never hadthought on; and he immediately told the Quaker that, if his slavewould, to his own face, say that it was his desire to be free,he would liberate him. An interview was forthwith procured, andNathan was asked by his young master whether he had ever had anyreason to complain of his treatment, in any respect.
"No, Mas'r," said Nathan; "you've always been good to me."
"Well, then, why do you want to leave me?"
"Mas'r may die, and then who get me?--I'd rather be a free man."
After some deliberation, the young master replied, "Nathan, in yourplace, I think I should feel very much so, myself. You are free."
He immediately made him out free papers; deposited a sum ofmoney in the hands of the Quaker, to be judiciously used inassisting him to start in life, and left a very sensible and kindletter of advice to the young man. That letter was for some timein the writer's hands.
The author hopes she has done justice to that nobility, generosity,and humanity, which in many cases characterize individuals at the,South. Such instances save us from utter despair of our kind. But, she asks any person, who knows the world, are such characters_common_, anywhere?
For many years of her life, the author avoided all readingupon or allusion to the subject of slavery, considering it as toopainful to be inquired into, and one which advancing light andcivlization would certainly live down. But, since the legislativeact of 1850, when she heard, with perfect surprise and consternation,Christian and humane people actually recommending the remandingescaped fugitives into slavery, as a duty binding on goodcitizens,--when she heard, on all hands, from kind, compassionateand estimable people, in the free states of the North, deliberationsand discussions as to what Christian duty could be on this head,--shecould only think, These men and Christians cannot know what slaveryis; if they did, such a question could never be open for discussion. And from this arose a desire to exhibit it in a _living dramaticreality_. She has endeavored to show it fairly, in its best andits worst phases. In its _best_ aspect, she has, perhaps, beensuccessful; but, oh! who shall say what yet remains untold in thatvalley and shadow of death, that lies the other side?
To you, generous, noble-minded men and women, of theSouth,--you, whose virtue, and magnanimity and purity of character,are the greater for the severer trial it has encountered,--to youis her appeal. Have you not, in your own secret souls, in yourown private conversings, felt that there are woes and evils, inthis accursed system, far beyond what are here shadowed, or canbe shadowed? Can it be otherwise? Is _man_ ever a creature to betrusted with wholly irresponsible power? And does not the slavesystem, by denying the slave all legal right of testimony, makeevery individual owner an irresponsible despot? Can anybody fallto make the inference what the practical result will be? If thereis, as we admit, a public sentiment among you, men of honor, justiceand humanity, is there not also another kind of public sentimentamong the ruffian, the brutal and debased? And cannot the ruffian,the brutal, the debased, by slave law, own just as many slaves asthe best and purest? Are the honorable, the just, the high-mindedand compassionate, the majority anywhere in this world?
The slave-trade is now, by American law, considered as piracy. But a slave-trade, as systematic as ever was carried on on thecoast of Africa, is an inevitable attendant and result ofAmerican slavery. And its heart-break and its horrors, can theybe told?
The writer has given only a faint shadow, a dim picture, ofthe anguish and despair that are, at this very moment, rivingthousands of hearts, shattering thousands of families, and drivinga helpless and sensitive race to frenzy and despair. There arethose living who know the mothers whom this accursed traffic hasdriven to the murder of their children; and themselves seeking indeath a shelter from woes more dreaded than death. Nothing oftragedy can be written, can be spoken, can be conceived, that equalsthe frightful reality of scenes daily and hourly acting on ourshores, beneath the shadow of American law, and the shadow of thecross of Christ.
And now, men and women of America, is this a thing to betrifled with, apologized for, and passed over in silence? Farmers of Massachusetts, of New Hampshire, of Vermont, ofConnecticut, who read this book by the blaze of your winter-eveningfire,--strong-hearted, generous sailors and ship-owners of Maine,--isthis a thing for you to countenance and encourage? Brave and generousmen of New York, farmers of rich and joyous Ohio, and ye of thewide prairie states,--answer, is this a thing for you to protectand countenance? And you, mothers of America,--you who have learned,by the cradles of your own children, to love and feel for allmankind,--by the sacred love you bear your child; by your joy inhis beautiful, spotless infancy; by the motherly pity and tendernesswith which you guide his growing years; by the anxieties of hiseducation; by the prayers you breathe for his soul's eternal good;--Ibeseech you, pity the mother who has all your affections, and not onelegal right to protect, guide, or educate, the child of her bosom! By the sick hour of your child; by those dying eyes, which youcan never forget; by those last cries, that wrung your heart whenyou could neither help nor save; by the desolation of that emptycradle, that silent nursery,--I beseech you, pity those mothersthat are constantly made childless by the American slave-trade! And say, mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended,sympathized with, passed over in silence?
Do you say that the people of the free state have nothingto do with it, and can do nothing? Would to God this were true! But it is not true. The people of the free states have defended,encouraged, and participated; and are more guilty for it, beforeGod, than the South, in that they have not the apology of educationor custom.
If the mothers of the free states had all felt as they should,in times past, the sons of the free states would not have beenthe holders, and, proverbially, the hardest masters of slaves;the sons of the free states would not have connived at the extensionof slavery, in our national body; the sons of the free states wouldnot, as they do, trade the souls and bodies of men as an equivalentto money, in their mercantile dealings. There are multitudes ofslaves temporarily owned, and sold again, by merchants in northerncities; and shall the whole guilt or obloquy of slavery fall onlyon the South?
Northern men, northern mothers, northern Christians, havesomething more to do than denounce their brethren at the South;they have to look to the evil among themselves.
But, what can any individual do? Of that, every individualcan judge. There is one thing that every individual can do,--theycan see to it that _they feel right_. An atmosphere of sympatheticinfluence encircles every human being; and the man or woman who_feels_ strongly, healthily and justly, on the great interests ofhumanity, is a constant benefactor to the human race. See, then,to your sympathies in this matter! Are they in harmony with thesympathies of Christ? or are they swayed and perverted by thesophistries of worldly policy?
Christian men and women of the North! still further,--you haveanother power; you can _pray!_ Do you believe in prayer? or hasit become an indistinct apostolic tradition? You pray for theheathen abroad; pray also for the heathen at home. And pray forthose distressed Christians whose whole chance of religiousimprovement is an accident of trade and sale; from whom anyadherence to the morals of Christianity is, in many cases, animpossibility, unless they have given them, from above, the courageand grace of martyrdom.
But, still more. On the shores of our free states are emergingthe poor, shattered, broken remnants of families,--men and women,escaped, by miraculous providences from the surges ofslavery,--feeble in knowledge, and, in many cases, infirm in moralconstitution, from a system which confounds and confuses everyprinciple of Christianity and morality. They come to seek a refugeamong you; they come to seek education, knowledge, Christianity.
What do you owe to these poor unfortunates, oh Christians? Does not every American Christian owe to the African race someeffort at reparation for the wrongs that the American nation hasbrought upon them? Shall the doors of churches and school-housesbe shut upon them? Shall states arise and shake them out? Shall the church of Christ hear in silence the taunt that is thrownat them, and shrink away from the helpless hand that they stretch out;and, by her silence, encourage the cruelty that would chase themfrom our borders? If it must be so, it will be a mournful spectacle. If it must be so, the country will have reason to tremble, when itremembers that the fate of nations is in the hands of One who isvery pitiful, and of tender compassion.
Do you say, "We don't want them here; let them go to Africa"?
That the providence of God has provided a refuge in Africa, is,indeed, a great and noticeable fact; but that is no reason whythe church of Christ should throw off that responsibility to thisoutcast race which her profession demands of her.
To fill up Liberia with an ignorant, inexperienced,half-barbarized race, just escaped from the chains of slavery,would be only to prolong, for ages, the period of struggle andconflict which attends the inception of new enterprises. Let thechurch of the north receive these poor sufferers in the spirit ofChrist; receive them to the educating advantages of Christianrepublican society and schools, until they have attained to somewhatof a moral and intellectual maturity, and then assist them in theirpassage to those shores, where they may put in practice the lessonsthey have learned in America.
There is a body of men at the north, comparatively small,who have been doing this; and, as the result, this country hasalready seen examples of men, formerly slaves, who have rapidlyacquired property, reputation, and education. Talent has beendeveloped, which, considering the circumstances, is certainlyremarkable; and, for moral traits of honesty, kindness, tendernessof feeling,--for heroic efforts and self-denials, endured for theransom of brethren and friends yet in slavery,--they have beenremarkable to a degree that, considering the influence under whichthey were born, is surprising.
The writer has lived, for many years, on the frontier-lineof slave states, and has had great opportunities of observationamong those who formerly were slaves. They have been in her familyas servants; and, in default of any other school to receive them,she has, in many cases, had them instructed in a family school,with her own children. She has also the testimony of missionaries,among the fugitives in Canada, in coincidence with her own experience;and her deductions, with regard to the capabilities of the race,are encouraging in the highest degree.
The first desire of the emancipated slave, generally, isfor _education_. There is nothing that they are not willing togive or do to have their children instructed, and, so far as thewriter has observed herself, or taken the testimony of teachersamong them, they are remarkably intelligent and quick to learn. The results of schools, founded for them by benevolent individualsin Cincinnati, fully establish this.
The author gives the following statement of facts, on theauthority of Professor C. E. Stowe, then of Lane Seminary, Ohio,with regard to emancipated slaves, now resident in Cincinnati;given to show the capability of the race, even without any veryparticular assistance or encouragement.
The initial letters alone are given. They are all residentsof Cincinnati.
"B----. Furniture maker; twenty years in the city; worthten thousand dollars, all his own earnings; a Baptist.
"C----. Full black; stolen from Africa; sold in New Orleans;been free fifteen years; paid for himself six hundred dollars; afarmer; owns several farms in Indiana; Presbyterian; probably worthfifteen or twenty thousand dollars, all earned by himself.
"K----. Full black; dealer in real estate; worth thirtythousand dollars; about forty years old; free six years; paideighteen hundred dollars for his family; member of the Baptistchurch; received a legacy from his master, which he has taken goodcare of, and increased.
"G----. Full black; coal dealer; about thirty years old; wortheighteen thousand dollars; paid for himself twice, being oncedefrauded to the amount of sixteen hundred dollars; made all hismoney by his own efforts--much of it while a slave, hiring his timeof his master, and doing business for himself; a fine, gentlemanlyfellow.
"W----. Three-fourths black; barber and waiter; from Kentucky;nineteen years free; paid for self and family over threethousand dollars; deacon in the Baptist church.
"G. D----. Three-fourths black; white-washer; from Kentucky;nine years free; paid fifteen hundred dollars for self and family;recently died, aged sixty; worth six thousand dollars."
Professor Stowe says, "With all these, except G----, I have been,for some years, personally acquainted, and make my statementsfrom my own knowledge."
The writer well remembers an aged colored woman, who was employedas a washerwoman in her father's family. The daughter of thiswoman married a slave. She was a remarkably active and capableyoung woman, and, by her industry and thrift, and the most perseveringself-denial, raised nine hundred dollars for her husband's freedom,which she paid, as she raised it, into the hands of his master. She yet wanted a hundred dollars of the price, when he died. She never recovered any of the money.
These are but few facts, among multitudes which might beadduced, to show the self-denial, energy, patience, and honesty,which the slave has exhibited in a state of freedom.
And let it be remembered that these individuals have thusbravely succeeded in conquering for themselves comparative wealthand social position, in the face of every disadvantage anddiscouragement. The colored man, by the law of Ohio, cannot be avoter, and, till within a few years, was even denied the right oftestimony in legal suits with the white. Nor are these instancesconfined to the State of Ohio. In all states of the Union we seemen, but yesterday burst from the shackles of slavery, who, by aself-educating force, which cannot be too much admired, have risento highly respectable stations in society. Pennington, amongclergymen, Douglas and Ward, among editors, are well known instances.
If this persecuted race, with every discouragement anddisadvantage, have done thus much, how much more they might do ifthe Christian church would act towards them in the spirit of her Lord!
This is an age of the world when nations are trembling and convulsed. A mighty influence is abroad, surging and heaving the world,as with an earthquake. And is America safe? Every nationthat carries in its bosom great and unredressed injustice has init the elements of this last convulsion.
For what is this mighty influence thus rousing in all nationsand languages those groanings that cannot be uttered, forman's freedom and equality?
O, Church of Christ, read the signs of the times! Is notthis power the spirit of Him whose kingdom is yet to come, andwhose will to be done on earth as it is in heaven?
But who may abide the day of his appearing? "for that dayshall burn as an oven: and he shall appear as a swift witnessagainst those that oppress the hireling in his wages, the widowand the fatherless, and that _turn aside the stranger in his right_:and he shall break in pieces the oppressor."
Are not these dread words for a nation bearing in her bosomso mighty an injustice? Christians! every time that you pray thatthe kingdom of Christ may come, can you forget that prophecyassociates, in dread fellowship, the _day of vengeance_ with theyear of his redeemed?
A day of grace is yet held out to us. Both North and South havebeen guilty before God; and the _Christian church_ has a heavyaccount to answer. Not by combining together, to protect injusticeand cruelty, and making a common capital of sin, is this Union tobe saved,--but by repentance, justice and mercy; for, not surer isthe eternal law by which the millstone sinks in the ocean, thanthat stronger law, by which injustice and cruelty shall bring onnations the wrath of Almighty God!
