CHAPTER XVIII.

OUR WORLD:

OR, The Slaveholder's Daughter.

"An honest tale speeds best being plainly told."

NEW YORK AND AUBURN:

1855.

PREFACE.

IN presenting this work to the public, we are fully conscious of the

grave charges of misrepresenting society, and misconstruing facts,

which will be made by our friends of the South, and its very

peculiar institution; but earnestly do we enjoin all such champions

of "things as they are," to read and well digest what is here set

before them, believing that they will find the TRUTH even "stranger

than fiction." And, as an incentive to the noble exertions of those,

either North or South, who would rid our country of its "darkest,

foulest blot," we would say, that our attempt has been to give a

true picture of Southern society in its various aspects, and that,

in our judgment, the institution of Slavery is directly chargeable

with the various moral, social and political evils detailed in OUR

WORLD.

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

I. Marston's Plantation,

II. How a Night was spent on Marston's Plantation

III. Things not so bright as they seem

IV. An Unexpected Confession

V. The Marooning Party

VI. Another Scene in Southern Life

VII. "Buckra-Man very Uncertain,"

VIII. A Cloud of Misfortune hangs over the Plantation

IX. Who is Safe against the Power?

X. Another Shade of the Picture,

XI. Mrs. Rosebrook's Project,

XII. Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy Changes his Business,

XIII. A Father tries to be a Father,

XIV. In which Extremes are Presented,

XV. A Scene of Many Lights,

XVI. Another Phase of the Picture,

XVII. Pleasant Dealings with Human Property,

XVIII. A not uncommon Scene slightly changed,

XIX. They are going to be Sold,

XX. Let us follow poor Human Nature to the Man Shambles,

XXI. A Father's Trials,

XXII. We Change with Fortune,

XXIII. The Vicissitudes of a Preacher,

XXIV. How we Manufacture Political Faith,

XXV. Mr. M'Fadden sees Shadows of the Future,

XXVI. How they stole the Preacher,

XXVII. Competition in Human Things,

XXVIII. The Pretty Children are to be Sold,

XXIX. Nature Shames Itself,

XXX. The Vision of Death is Past,

XXXI. A Friend is Woman,

XXXII. Marston in Prison,

XXXIII. Venders of Human Property are not Responsible for its

Mental Caprices,

XXXIV. A Common Incident shortly told,

XXXV. The Children are Improving,

XXXVI. Workings of the Slave System,

XXXVII. An Item in the Common Calendar,

XXXVIII. In which Regrets are shown of little Worth,

XXXIX. How we should all be Forgiving,

XL. Containing Various Matters,

XLI. Nicholas's Simple Story,

XLII. He would Deliver her from Bondage,

XLIII. Other Phases of the Subject,

XLIV. How Daddy Bob Departed,

XLV. How Slaveholders Fear each other,

XLVI. Southern Administration of Justice,

XLVII. Prosperity the Result of Justice,

XLVIII. In which the Fate of Franconia is seen,

XLIX. In which is a Sad Recognition,

L. In which a Dangerous Principle is Illustrated,

LI. A Continuation of the Last Chapter,

LII. In which are Pleasures and Disappointments,

LIII. A Familiar Scene, in which Pringle Blowers has Business,

LIV. In which are Discoveries and Pleasant Scenes,

LV. In which is a Happy Meeting, some Curious Facts Developed,

and Clotild History Disclosed,

LVI. In which a Plot is Disclosed, and the Man-Seller made to

Pay the Penalty of his Crimes,

OUR WORLD.

CHAPTER I

MARSTON'S PLANTATION.

ON the left bank of the Ashly River, in the State of South Carolina,

and a few miles from its principal city, is a plantation once the

property of Hugh Marston. It was near this spot, the brave

Huguenots, fleeing religious and political persecution, founded

their first American colony-invoked Heaven to guard their

liberties-sought a refuge in a new world! And it was here the pious

Huguenot forgot his appeals to high heaven-forgot what had driven

him from his fatherland, and-unlike the pilgrim fathers who planted

their standard on "New England's happy shore,"-became the first to

oppress. It was here, against a fierce tyranny, the gallant

Yamassee,

A tribe of faithful and heroic Indians. loyal to his professed

friend, struggled and died for his liberty. It was here the last

remnant of his tribe fought the fierce battle of right over might!

It was here, in this domain, destined to be the great and powerful

of nations-the asylum of an old world's shelter seeking poor, and

the proud embodiment of a people's sovereignty,-liberty was first

betrayed! It was here men deceived themselves, and freedom

proclaimers became freedom destroyers. And, too, it was here Spanish

cupidity, murderous in its search for gold, turned a deaf ear to

humanity's cries, slaughtered the friendly Indian, and drenched the

soil with his innocent blood. And it is here, at this moment,

slavery-fierce monster, threatening the peace of a happy people-runs

riot in all its savage vicissitudes, denying man his commonest

birthright.

If history did but record the barbarous scenes yet enacted on the

banks of this lovely stream, the contrast with its calm surface

sweeping gently onward to mingle its waters with the great deep,

would be strange indeed. How mellowed by the calm beauty of a summer

evening, the one!-how stained with scenes of misery, torment, and

death, the other!

Let us beg the reader to follow us back to the time when Marston is

found in possession of the plantation, and view it as it is when his

friends gather round him to enjoy his bounteous hospitality.

We have ascended the Ashly on a bright spring morning, and are at a

jut covered with dark jungle, where the river, about twenty rods

wide, sweeps slowly round ;-flowering brakes, waving their tops to

and fro in the breeze, bedeck the river banks, and far in the

distance, on the left, opens the broad area of the plantation. As we

near it, a beautifully undulating slope presents itself, bounded on

its upper edge by a long line of sombre-looking pines. Again we

emerge beneath clustering foliage overhanging the river; and from

out this-sovereign of a southern clime-the wild azalia and fair

magnolia diffuse their fragrance to perfume the air. From the pine

ridge the slope recedes till it reaches a line of jungle, or hedge,

that separates it from the marshy bottom, extending to the river,

against which it is protected by a dyke. Most of the slope is under

a high state of cultivation, and on its upper edge is a newly

cleared patch of ground, which negroes are preparing for the

cotton-seed.

Smoking piles burn here and there, burned stumps and trees point

their black peaks upward in the murky atmosphere, half-clad negroes

in coarse osnaburgs are busy among the smoke and fire: the scene

presents a smouldering volcano inhabited by semi-devils. Among the

sombre denizens are women, their only clothing being osnaburg

frocks, made loose at the neck and tied about the waist with a

string: with hoes they work upon the "top surface," gather charred

wood into piles, and waddle along as if time were a drug upon life.

Far away to the right the young corn shoots its green sprouts in a

square plat, where a few negroes are quietly engaged at the first

hoeing. Being tasked, they work with system, and expect, if they

never receive, a share of the fruits. All love and respect Marston,

for he is generous and kind to them; but system in business is at

variance with his nature. His overseer, however, is just the

reverse: he is a sharp fellow, has an unbending will, is proud of

his office, and has long been reckoned among the very best in the

county. Full well he knows what sort of negro makes the best driver;

and where nature is ignorant of itself, the accomplishment is

valuable. That he watches Marston's welfare, no one doubts; that he

never forgets his own, is equally certain. From near mid-distance of

the slope we see him approaching on a bay-coloured horse. The sun's

rays are fiercely hot, and, though his features are browned and

haggard, he holds a huge umbrella in one hand and the inseparable

whip in the other. The former is his protector; the latter, his

sceptre. John Ryan, for such is his name, is a tall, athletic man,

whose very look excites terror. Some say he was born in Limerick, on

the Emerald Isle, and only left it because his proud spirit would

not succumb to the unbending rod England held over his poor bleeding

country.

Running along the centre of the slope is a line of cotton-fields, in

which the young plants, sickly in spots, have reached a stage when

they require much nursing. Among them are men, women, and children,

crouched on the ground like so many sable spectres, picking and

pulling at the roots to give them strength. John Ryan has been

keeping a sharp eye on them. He will salute you with an air of

independence, tell you how he hated oppression and loved freedom,

and how, at the present day, he is a great democrat. Now, whether

John left his country for his country's good, is a question; but

certain it is he dearly delights to ply the lash,-to whip mankind

merely for amusement's sake. In a word, John has a good Irish heart

within him, and he always lays particular emphasis on the good, when

he tells us of its qualities; but let us rather charge to the State

that spare use he makes of its gentler parts.

John Ryan, his face indicating tyranny stereotyped, has just been

placing drivers over each gang of workmen. How careful he was to

select a trustworthy negro, whose vanity he has excited, and who

views his position as dearly important. Our driver not unfrequently

is the monster tyrant of his circle; but whether from inclination to

serve the interests of his master, or a knowledge of the fierce

system that holds him alike abject, we know not. At times he is more

than obedient to his master's will.

Excuse, reader, this distant view of the plantation at early spring,

and follow us back to the Ashly. Here we will still continue along

the river-bank, pass borders of thick jungle, flowering vines, and

rows of stately pines, their tops moaning in the wind,-and soon find

we have reached Marston's landing. This is situated at the

termination of an elevated plat extending from thence to the

mansion, nearly a mile distant. Three negroes lay basking on the

bank; they were sent to wait our coming. Tonio! Murel! Pompe!-they

ejaculate, calling one another, as we surprise them. They are

cheerful and polite, are dressed in striped shirts and trousers,

receive us with great suavity of manner, present master's

compliments, tell us with an air of welcome that master will be

"right glad" to see us, and conclude by making sundry inquiries

about our passage and our "Missuses." Pompe, the "most important

nigger" of the three, expresses great solicitude lest we get our

feet in the mud. Black as Afric's purest, and with a face of great

good nature, Pompe, in curious jargon, apologises for the bad state

of the landing, tells us he often reminds Mas'r how necessary it is

to have it look genteel. Pompe, more than master, is deeply

concerned lest the dignity of the plantation suffer.

Planks and slabs are lain from the water's edge to the high ground

on the ridge, upon which we ascend to the crown, a piece of natural

soil rising into a beautiful convex of about six rods wide,

extending to the garden gate. We wend our way to the mansion,

leaving Pompe and his assistants in charge of our luggage, which

they will see safely landed. The ridge forms a level walk,

sequestered by long lines of huge oaks, their massive branches

forming an arch of foliage, with long trailing moss hanging like

mourning drapery to enhance its rural beauty. At the extreme of this

festooned walk the mansion is seen dwindling into an almost

imperceptible perspective. There is something grand and impressive

in the still arch above us-something which revives our sense of the

beauty of nature. Through the trunks of the trees, on our right and

left, extensive rice fields are seen stretching far into the

distance. The young blades are shooting above the surface of the

water, giving it the appearance of a frozen sheet clothed with

green, and protected from the river by a serpentine embankment. How

beautiful the expanse viewed from beneath these hoary-headed oaks!

On the surface and along the banks of the river aligators are

sporting; moccason snakes twist their way along, and scouring

kingfishers croak in the balmy air. If a venerable rattlesnake warn

us we need not fear-being an honourable snake partaking of the old

southerner's affected chivalry;-he will not approach disguised;-no!

he will politely give us warning. But we have emerged from the mossy

walk and reached a slab fence, dilapidated and broken, which

encloses an area of an acre of ground, in the centre of which stands

the mansion: the area seems to have been a garden, which, in former

days, may have been cultivated with great care. At present it only

presents a few beds rank with weeds. We are told the gardener has

been dismissed in consideration of his more lucrative services in

the corn-field. That the place is not entirely neglected, we have

only to add that Marston's hogs are exercising an independent right

to till the soil according to their own system. The mansion is a

quadrangular building, about sixty feet long by fifty wide, built of

wood, two stories high, having upper and lower verandas.

We pass the dilapidated gate, and reach it by a narrow passage

through the garden, on each side of which is a piece of antique

statuary, broken and defaced. Entering the lower veranda, we pace

the quadrangle, viewing innumerable cuttings and carvings upon the

posts: they are initials and full names, cut to please the vanity of

those anxious to leave the Marston family a memento. Again we arrive

at the back of the mansion where the quadrangle opens a courtyard

filled with broken vines, blackened cedars, and venerable-looking

leaks;-they were once much valued by the ancient and very

respectable Marston family. A few yards from the left wing of the

mansion are the "yard houses"-little, comely cabins, about twelve

feet by twenty, and proportionately high. One is the kitchen: it has

a dingy look, the smoke issuing from its chinks regardless of the

chimney; while from its door, sable denizens, ragged and greasy, and

straining their curious faces, issue forth. The polished black cook,

with her ample figure, is foaming with excitement, lest the feast

she is preparing for master's guests may fail to sustain her

celebrity. Conspicuous among these cabins are two presenting a much

neater appearance: they are brightly whitewashed, and the little

windows are decorated with flowering plants. Within them there is an

air of simple neatness and freshness we have seldom seen surpassed;

the meagre furniture seems to have been arranged by some careful

hand, and presents an air of cheerfulness in strange contrast with

the dingy cabins around. In each there is a neatly arranged bed,

spread over with a white cover, and by its side a piece of soft

carpet. It is from these we shall draw forth the principal

characters of our story.

Upon a brick foundation, about twenty rods from the right wing of

the mansion, stands a wood cottage, occupied by the overseer. Mr.

John Ryan not being blessed with family, when Marston is not

honoured with company takes his meals at the mansion. In the

distance, to the left, is seen a long line of humble huts, standing

upon piles, and occupied by promiscuous negro families:--we say

promiscuous, for the marriage-tie is of little value to the master,

nor does it give forth specific claim to parentage. The sable

occupants are beings of uncertainty; their toil is for a life-time-a

weary waste of hope and disappointment. Yes! their dreary life is a

heritage, the conditions of which no man would share willingly.

Victors of husbandry, they share not of the spoils; nor is the sweat

of their brows repaid with justice.

Near these cabins, mere specks in the distance, are two large sheds,

under which are primitive mills, wherein negroes grind corn for

their humble meal. Returning from the field at night, hungry and

fatigued, he who gets a turn at the mill first is the luckiest

fellow. Now that the workpeople are busily engaged on the

plantation, the cabins are in charge of two nurses, matronly-looking

old bodies, who are vainly endeavouring to keep in order numerous

growing specimens of the race too young to destroy a grub at the

root of a cotton plant. The task is indeed a difficult one, they

being as unruly as an excited Congress. They gambol round the door,

make pert faces at old mamma, and seem as happy as snakes in the

spring sun. Some are in a nude state, others have bits of frocks

covering hapless portions of their bodies; they are imps of mischief

personified, yet our heart bounds with sympathy for them. Alive with

comicality, they move us, almost unconsciously, to fondle them. And

yet we know not why we would fondle the sable "rascals." One knot is

larking on the grass, running, toddling, yelling, and hooting;

another, ankle-deep in mud, clench together and roll among the

ducks, work their clawy fingers through the tufts of each other's

crispy hair, and enjoy their childish sports with an air of genial

happiness; while a third sit in a circle beside an oak tree, playing

with "Dash," whose tail they pull without stint. "Dash" is the

faithful and favourite dog; he rather likes a saucy young "nigger,"

and, while feeling himself equal to the very best in the clan, will

permit the small fry, without resenting the injury, to pull his

tail.

It being "ration day," we must describe the serving, that being an

interesting phase of plantation life. Negroes have gathered into

motley groups around two weatherbeaten store-houses--the overseer

has retired to his apartment-when they wait the signal from the head

driver, who figures as master of ceremonies. One sings:---"Jim Crack

corn, an' I don't care, Fo'h mas'r's gone away! way! way!" Another

is croaking over the time he saved on his task, a third is trying to

play a trick with the driver (come the possum over him), and a third

unfolds the scheme by which the extra for whiskey and molasses was

raised. Presenting a sable pot pourri, they jibber and croak among

themselves, laugh and whistle, go through the antics of the

"break-down" dance, make the very air echo with the music of their

incomprehensible jargon. We are well nigh deafened by it, and yet it

excites our joy. We are amused and instructed; we laugh because they

laugh, our feelings vibrate with theirs, their quaint humour forces

itself into our very soul, and our sympathy glows with their happy

anticipations. The philosophy of their jargon is catching to our

senses; we listen that we may know their natures, and learn good

from their simplicity. He is a strange mortal who cannot learn

something from a fool!

The happy moment has arrived: "Ho, boys!" is sounded,-the doors

open, the negroes stop their antics and their jargon; stores are

exposed, and with one dinning mutter all press into a half-circle at

the doors, in one of which stands the huge figure of Balam, the head

driver. He gives a scanning look at the circle of anxious faces; he

would have us think the importance of the plantation centred in his

glowing black face. There he stands-a measure in his hand-while

another driver, with an air of less dignity, cries out, with a

stentorian voice, the names of the heads of families, and the number

of children belonging thereto. Thus, one by one, the name being

announced in muddled accents, they step forward, and receive their

corn, or rice, as may be. In pans and pails they receive it, pass it

to the younger members of the family; with running and scampering,

they carry the coarse allotment to their cabin with seeming

cheerfulness. Marston, esteemed a good master, always gives bacon,

and to receive this the negroes will gather round the store a second

time. In this, the all-fascinating bacon is concealed, for which the

children evince more concern; their eyes begin to shine brighter,

their watchfulness becomes more intent. Presently a negro begins to

withdraw the meat, and as he commences action the jargon gets

louder, until we are deafened, and would fain move beyond it. Just

then, the important driver, with hand extended, commands,-"Order!"

at the very top of his loud voice. All is again still; the man

returns to his duty. The meat is somewhat oily and rancid, but Balam

cuts it as if it were choice and scarce. Another driver weighs it in

a pair of scales he holds in his hands; while still another, cutting

the same as before, throws it upon some chaff at the door, as if it

were a bone thrown to a hungry dog. How humbly the recipient picks

it up and carries it to his or her cabin! Not unfrequently the young

"imps" will scramble for it, string it upon skewers, and with great

nonchalance throw it over their shoulders, and walk off. If it bathe

their backs with grease so much more the comfort. Those little

necessaries which add so much to the negro's comfort, and of which

he is so fond, must be purchased with the result of his extra

energy. Even this allowance may serve the boasted hospitality; but

the impression that there is a pennyworth of generosity for every

pound of parsimony, forces itself upon us. On his little spot, by

moonlight or starlight, the negro must cultivate for himself, that

his family may enjoy a few of those fruits of which master has many.

How miserable is the man without a spark of generosity in his soul;

and how much more miserable the man who will not return good for

good's worth! To the negro, kindness is a mite inspiring the

impulses of a simple heart, and bringing forth great good.

Let us again beg the reader to return with us to those conspicuous

cottages near the court-yard, and in which we will find several of

our characters.

We cross the threshold of one, and are accosted by a female who,

speaking in musical accents, invites us to sit down. She has none of

Afric's blood in her veins;-no! her features are beautifully olive,

and the intonation of her voice discovers a different origin. Her

figure is tall and well-formed; she has delicately-formed hands and

feet, long, tapering fingers, well-rounded limbs, and an oval face,

shaded with melancholy. How reserved she seems, and yet how quickly

she moves her graceful figure! Now she places her right hand upon

her finely-arched forehead, parts the heavy folds of glossy hair

that hang carelessly over her brown shoulders, and with a

half-suppressed smile answers our salutation. We are welcome in her

humble cabin; but her dark, languishing eyes, so full of intensity,

watch us with irresistible suspicion. They are the symbols of her

inward soul; they speak through that melancholy pervading her

countenance! The deep purple of her cheek is softened by it, while

it adds to her face that calm beauty which moves the gentle of our

nature. How like a woman born to fill a loftier sphere than that to

which a cruel law subjects her, she seems!

Neither a field nor a house servant, the uninitiated may be at a

loss to know what sphere on the plantation is her's? She is the

mother of Annette, a little girl of remarkable beauty, sitting at

her side, playing with her left hand. Annette is fair, has light

auburn hair-not the first tinge of her mother's olive invades her

features. Her little cheerful face is lit up with a smile, and while

toying with the rings on her mother's fingers, asks questions that

person does not seem inclined to answer. Vivacious and sprightly,

she chatters and lisps until we become eager for her history. "It's

only a child's history," some would say. But the mother displays so

much fondness for it; and yet we become more and more excited by the

strange manner in which she tries to suppress an outward display of

her feelings. At times she pats it gently on the head, runs her

hands through its hair, and twists the ends into tiny ringlets.

In the next cabin we meet the shortish figure of a tawny female,

whose Indian features stand boldly out. Her high cheek bones, long

glossy black hair, and flashing eyes, are the indexes of her

pedigree. "My master says I am a slave:" in broken accents she

answers our question. As she sits in her chair near the fire-place

of bricks, a male issue of the mixed blood toddles round and round

her, tossing her long coarse hair every time he makes a circut. The

little boy is much fairer than the brawny daughter who seems his

mother. Playful, and even mischievous, he delights in pulling the

hair which curls over his head; and when the woman calls him he

answers with a childish heedlessness, and runs for the door. Reader!

this woman's name is Ellen Juvarna; she has youth on her side, and

though she retains the name of her ancient sire, is proud of being

master's mistress. She tells us how comfortable she is; how

Nicholas, for such is his name, resembles his father, how he loves

him, but how he fails to acknowledge him. A feud, with its

consequences, is kept up between the two cabins; and while she makes

many insinuations about her rival, tells us she knows her features

have few charms. Meanwhile, she assures us that neither good looks

nor sweet smiles make good mothers. "Nicholas!" she exclaims, "come

here; the gentlemen want to know all about papa." And, as she

extends her hand, the child answers the summons, runs across the

room, fondles his head in his mother's lap,-seems ashamed!

CHAPTER II.

HOW A NIGHT WAS SPENT ON MARSTON'S PLANTATION.

EARTH is mantled with richest verdure; far away to the west and

south of the mansion the scene stretches out in calm grandeur. The

sun sinks beneath glowing clouds that crimson the horizon and spread

refulgent shadows on the distant hills, as darkness slowly steals

its way on the mellow landscape.

Motley groups of negroes are returned from the field, fires are

lighted in and about the cabins, and men mutter their curious jargon

while moving to prepare the coarse meal. Their anxious countenances

form a picture wild and deeply interesting.

Entering Marston's mansion, we find its interior neater than its

weather-stained and paintless sides portended. Through the centre

runs a broad passage, and on the left and right are large parlours,

comfortably furnished, divided by folding doors of carved walnut. We

are ushered into the one on the right by a yellow servant, who,

neatly dressed in black, has prepared his politeness for the

occasion. With great suavity, accompanied by a figurative grin, he

informs us that master will pay his respects presently. Pieces of

singularly antique furniture are arranged round the room, of which,

he adds, master is proud indeed. Two plaster figures, standing in

dingy niches, he tells us are wonders of the white man's genius. In

his own random style he gives us an essay on the arts, adding a word

here and there to remind us of master's exquisite taste, and

anxiously waits our confirmation of what he says.

A large open fire-place, with fancifully carved framework and

mantel-pieces, in Italian marble of polished blackness, upon which

stood massive silver candlesticks, in chased work, denotes the

ancient character of the mansion. It has many years been the home of

the ever-hospitable Marston family.

In another part of the room is a mahogany side-board of antique

pattern, upon which stand sundry bottles and glasses, indicative of

Marston having entertained company in the morning. While we are

contemplating the furniture around us, and somewhat disappointed at

the want of taste displayed in its arrangement, the door opens, and

Sam, the yellow servant, bows Marston in with a gracious smile. It

is in the south where the polite part is played by the negro. Deacon

Rosebrook and Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, a man of the world,

follow Marston into the room. Marston is rather tall of figure,

robust, and frank of countenance. A florid face, and an extremely

large nose bordering on the red, at times give him an aldermanic

air. He rubs his fingers through the short, sandy-coloured hair that

bristles over a low forehead (Tom, the barber, has just fritted it)

smiles, and introduces us to his friends. He is vain-vanity belongs

to the slave world-is sorry his eyes are grey, but adds an assurance

every now and then that his blood is of the very best stock. Lest a

doubt should hang upon our mind, he asserts, with great confidence,

that grey eyes indicate pure Norman birth. As for phrenology! he

never believed in a single bump, and cites his own contracted

forehead as the very strongest proof against the theory. Indeed,

there is nothing remarkable in our host's countenance, if we except

its floridness; but a blunt nose protruding over a wide mouth and

flat chin gives the contour of his face an expression not the most

prepossessing. He has been heard to say, "A man who didn't love

himself wasn't worth loving:" and, to show his belief in this

principle of nature, he adorns his face with thick red whiskers, not

the most pleasing to those unaccustomed to the hairy follies of a

fashionable southron.

Times are prosperous; the plantation puts forth its bounties, and

Marston withholds nothing that can make time pass pleasantly with

those who honour him with a visit. He is dressed in an elaborately

cut black coat, with sweeping skirts, a white vest, fancy-coloured

pantaloons, and bright boots. About his neck is an enormous shirt

collar, turned carelessly over, and secured with a plain black

ribbon. Elder Praiseworthy is of lean figure, with sharp, craven

features. The people of the parish have a doubtful opinion of him.

Some say he will preach sermons setting forth the divine right of

slavery, or any other institution that has freedom for its foe,

provided always there is no lack of pay. As a divine, he is

particularly sensitive lest anything should be said disparagingly

against the institution he lends his aid to protect. That all

institutions founded in patriarchal usage are of God's creation, he

holds to be indisputable; and that working for their overthrow is a

great crime, as well as an unpardonable sin, he never had the

slightest doubt. He is careful of his clerical dress, which is of

smoothest black; and remembering how essential are gold-framed

spectacles, arranges and re-arranges his with greatest care. He is a

great admirer of large books with gilt edges and very expensive

bindings. They show to best advantage in the southern parlour

library, where books are rarely opened. To say the Elder is not a

man of great parts, is to circulate a libel of the first magnitude.

Indeed, he liked big books for their solidity; they reminded him of

great thoughts well preserved, and sound principles more firmly

established. At times he had thought they were like modern

democratic rights, linked to huge comprehending faculties, such as

was his good fortune to use when expounding state rights and federal

obligations.

Deacon Rosebrook is a comely, fair-faced man, a moderate thinker, a

charitable Christian, a very good man, who lets his deeds of

kindness speak of him. He is not a politician-no! he is a better

quality of man, has filled higher stations. Nor is he of the

modernly pious-that is, as piety professes itself in our democratic

world, where men use it more as a necessary appliance to subdue the

mind than a means to improve civilization. But he was always

cautious in giving expression to his sentiments, knowing the

delicate sensibilities of those he had to deal with, and fearing

lest he might spring a democratic mine of very illiberal

indignation.

"Come, gentlemen guests, you are as welcome as the showers," says

Marston, in a stentorious voice: "Be seated; you are at home under

my roof. Yes, the hospitality of my plantation is at your service."

The yellow man removes a table that stood in the centre of the room,

places chairs around it, and each takes his seat.

"Pardon me, my dear Marston, you live with the comfort of a nabob.

Wealth seems to spring up on all sides," returns the Deacon,

good-naturedly.

"And so I think," joins the Elder: "the pleasures of the plantation

are manifold, swimming along from day to day; but I fear there is

one thing our friend has not yet considered."

"Pray what is that? Let us hear it; let us hear it. Perhaps it is

the very piety of nonsense," rejoined Marston, quickly. "Dead men

and devils are always haunting us." The Elder draws his spectacles

from his pocket, wipes them with his silk handkerchief, adjusts them

on his nose, and replies with some effort, "The Future."

"Nothing more?" Marston inquires, quaintly: "Never contented; riches

all around us, favourable prospects for the next crop, prices stiff,

markets good, advices from abroad exciting. Let the future take care

of itself; you are like all preachers, Elder, borrowing darkness

when you can't see light."

"The Elder, so full of allegory!" whispers the Deacon. "He means a

moral condition, which we all esteem as a source of riches laid up

in store for the future."

"I discover; but it never troubles me while I take care of others. I

pray for my negro property-pray loudly and long. And then, their

piety is a charge of great magnitude; but when I need your

assistance in looking after it, be assured you will receive an extra

fee."

"That's personal-personal, decidedly personal."

"Quite the reverse," returns Marston, suddenly smiling, and, placing

his elbows on the table, rests his face on his hands. "Religion is

well in its place, good on simple minds; just the thing to keep

vassals in their places: that's why I pay to have it talked to my

property. Elder, I get the worth of my money in seeing the

excitement my fellows get into by hearing you preach that old

worn-out sermon. You've preached it to them so long, they have got

it by heart. Only impress the rascals that it's God's will they

should labour for a life, and they'll stick to it like Trojans: they

are just like pigs, sir."

"You don't comprehend me, my friend Marston: I mean that you should

prepare-it's a rule applicable to all-to meet the terrible that may

come upon us at any moment." The Elder is fearful that he is not

quite explicit enough. He continues: "Well, there is something to be

considered;"-he is not quite certain that we should curtail the

pleasures of this life by binding ourselves with the dread of what

is to come. "Seems as if we owed a common duty to ourselves," he

ejaculates.

The conversation became more exciting, Marston facetiously

attempting to be humorous at the Elder's expense: "It isn't the

pleasure, my dear fellow, it's the contentment. We were all born to

an end; and if that end be to labour through life for others, it

must be right. Everything is right that custom has established

right."

"Marston, give us your hand, my friend. 'Twould do to plead so if we

had no enemies, but enemies are upon us, watching our movements

through partizans' eyes, full of fierceness, and evil to

misconstruct."

"I care not," interrupts Marston. "My slaves are my property-I shall

do with them as it pleases me; no insinuations about morality, or I

shall mark you on an old score. Do you sound? Good Elders should be

good men; but they, as well as planters, have their frailties; it

would not do to tell them all, lest high heaven should cry out."

Marston points his finger, and laughs heartily. "I wish we had seven

lives to live, and they were all as happy as most of our planters

could desire to make them."

The Elder understood the delicate hint, but desiring to avoid

placing himself in an awkward position before the Deacon, began to

change the conversation, criticising the merits of several old

pictures hung upon the walls. They were much valued by Marston, as

mementoes of his ancestry: of this the Elder attempted in vain to

make a point. During this conversation, so disguised in meaning, the

mulatto servant stood at the door waiting Marston's commands. Soon,

wine and refreshments were brought in, and spread out in old

plantation style. The company had scarcely filled glasses, when a

rap sounded at the hall door: a servant hastened to announce a

carriage; and in another minute was ushered into the room the

graceful figure of a young lady whose sweet and joyous countenance

bespoke the absence of care. She was followed by a genteelly-dressed

young man of straight person and placid features.

"Oh! Franconia," said Marston, rising from his seat, grasping her

hand affectionately, and bestowing a kiss on her fair cheek, for it

was fair indeed.

Taking her right hand in his left, he added, "My niece, gentlemen;

my brother's only daughter, and nearly spoiled with attentions." A

pleasant smile stole over her face, as gracefully she acknowledged

the compliment. In another minute three or four old negroes, moved

by the exuberance of their affection for her, gathered about her,

contending with anxious faces for the honour of seeing her

comfortable.

"I love her!" continued Marston; "and, as well as she could a

father, she loves me, making time pass pleasantly with her

cheerfulness." She was the child of his affections; and as he spoke

his face glowed with animation. Scarce seventeen summers had bloomed

upon his fair niece, who, though well developed in form, was of a

delicate constitution, and had inherited that sensitiveness so

peculiar to the child of the South, especially she who has been

cradled in the nursery of ease and refinement. As she spoke, smiled,

and raised her jewelled fingers, the grace accompanying the words

was expressive of love and tenderness. Turning to the gentleman who

accompanied her, "My friend!" she added, simply, with a frolicsome

laugh. A dozen anxious black faces were now watching in the hall,

ready to scamper round her ere she made her appearance to say, "How

de'h!" to young Missus, and get a glimpse at her stranger friend.

After receiving a happy salute from the old servants, she re-enters

the room. "Uncle's always drinking wine when I come;-but Uncle

forgets me; he has not so much as once asked me to join him!" She

lays her hand on his arm playfully, smiles cunningly, points

reproachfully at the Elder, and takes a seat at her uncle's side.

The wine has seized the Elder's mind; he stares at her through his

spectacles, and holds his glass with his left hand.

"Come, Dandy," said Marston, addressing himself to the mulatto

attendant, "bring a glass; she shall join us." The glass is brought,

Marston fills it, she bows, they drink to her and to the buoyant

spirits of the noble southern lady. "I don't admire the habit; but I

do like to please so," she whispers, and, excusing herself, skips

into the parlour on the right, where she is again beset by the old

servants, who rush to her, shake her hand, cling playfully to her

dress: some present various new-plucked flowers others are become

noisy with their chattering jargon. At length she is so beset with

the display of their affection as to be compelled to break away from

them, and call for Clotilda. "I must have Clotilda!" she says: "Tell

her to come soon, Dandy: she alone can arrange my dress." Thus

saying, she disappeared up a winding stair leading from the hall

into the second story.

We were anxious to know who Clotilda was, and why Franconia should

summon her with so much solicitude. Presently a door opened:

Franconia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face glowing with

vivacity, her hair dishevelled waving in beautiful confusion, giving

a fascination to her person. "I do wish she would come, I do!" she

mutters, resting her hands upon the banisters, and looking intently

into the passage: "she thinks more of fussing over Annette's hair,

than she does about taking care of mine. Well, I won't get cross-I

won't! Poor Clotilda, I do like her; I can't help it; it is no more

than natural that she should evince so much solicitude for her

child: we would do the same." Scarcely had she uttered these words,

when the beautiful female we have described in the foregoing chapter

ran from her cabin, across the yard, into the mansion. "Where is

young Miss Franconia?" she inquires; looks hastily around, ascends

the stairs, greets Franconia with a fervent shake of the hand,

commences adjusting her hair. There is a marked similarity in their

countenances: it awakens our reflections. Had Clotilda exhibited

that exactness of toilet for which Franconia is become celebrated,

she would excel in her attractions. There was the same oval face,

the same arched brows; there was the same Grecian contour of

features, the same sharply lined nose; there was the same delicately

cut mouth, disclosing white, pearly teeth; the same eyes, now

glowing with sentiment, and again pensive, indicating thought and

tenderness; there was the same classically moulded bust, a shoulder

slightly converging, of beautiful olive, enriched by a dark mole.

Clotilda would fain have kissed Franconia, but she dare not.

"Clotilda, you must take good care of me while I make my visit. Only

do my hair nicely, and I will see that Uncle gets a new dress for

you when he goes to the city. If Uncle would only get married, how

much happier it would be," says Franconia, looking at Clotilda the

while.

"And me, too,-I would be happier!" Clotilda replies, resting her

arms on the back of Franconia's lolling chair, as her eyes assumed a

melancholy glare. She heaved a sigh.

"You could not be happier than you are; you are well cared for;

Uncle will never see you want; but you must be cheerful when I come,

Clotilda,-you must! To see you unhappy makes me feel unhappy."

"Cheerful!-its better said than felt. Can he or she be cheerful who

is forced to sin against God and himself? There is little to be

cheerful with, where the nature is not its own. Why should I be the

despised wretch at your Uncle's feet: did God, the great God, make

me a slave to his licentiousness?"

"Suppress such feelings, Clotilda; do not let them get the better of

you. God ordains all things: it is well to abide by His will, for it

is sinful to be discontented, especially where everything is so well

provided. Why, Uncle has learned you to read, and even to write."

"Ah! that's just what gave me light; through it I knew that I had a

life, and a soul beyond that, as valuable to me as yours is to you."

"Be careful, Clotilda," she interrupts; "remember there is a wide

difference between us. Do not cross Uncle; he is kind, but he may

get a freak into his head, and sell you."

Clotilda's cheeks brightened; she frowned at the word, and, giving

her black hair a toss from her shoulder, muttered, "To sell me!-Had

you measured the depth of pain in that word, Franconia, your lips

had never given it utterance. To sell me!-'tis that. The difference

is wide indeed, but the point is sharpest. Was it my mother who made

that point so sharp? It could not! a mother would not entail such

misery on her offspring. That name, so full of associations dear to

me-so full of a mother's love and tenderness,-could not reflect

pain. Nay; her affections were bestowed upon me,-I love to treasure

them, I do. To tell me that a mother would entail misery without an

end, is to tell me that the spirit of love is without good!"

"Do not make yourself unhappy, Clotilda. Perhaps you are as well

with us as you would be elsewhere. Even at the free north, in happy

New England, ladies would not take the notice of you we do: many of

your class have died there, poor and wretched, among the most

miserable creatures ever born to a sad end. And you are not black-"

"All is not truth that is told for such," Clotilda interrupts

Franconia. "If I were black, my life would have but one stream: now

it is terrible with uncertainty. As I am, my hopes and affections

are blasted."

"Sit down, Clotilda," rejoins Franconia, quickly.

Clotilda, having lavished her skill on Franconia's hair, seats

herself by her side. Franconia affectionately takes her tapering

hand and presses it with her jewelled fingers. "Remember, Clotilda,"

she continues, "all the negroes on the plantation become unhappy at

seeing you fretful. It is well to seem happy, for its influence on

others. Uncle will always provide for Annette and you; and he is

kind. If he pays more attention to Ellen at times, take no notice of

it. Ellen Juvarna is Indian, moved to peculiarities by the instincts

of her race. Uncle is imprudent, I admit; but society is not with us

as it is elsewhere!"

"I care not so much for myself," speaks the woman, in a desponding

voice; "it is Annette; and when you spoke of her you touched the

chord of all my troubles. I can endure the sin forced upon myself;

but, O heavens! how can I butcher my very thoughts with the unhappy

life that is before her? My poor mother's words haunt me. I know her

feelings now, because I can judge them by my own-can see how her

broken heart was crushed into the grave! She kissed my hand, and

said, 'Clotilda, my child, you are born to a cruel death. Give me

but a heart to meet my friends in judgment!'"

The child with the flaxen hair, humming a tune, came scampering up

the stairs into the room. It recognises Franconia, and, with a

sportive laugh, runs to her and fondles in her lap; then, turning to

its mother, seems anxious to divide its affections between them. Its

features resembled Franconia's-the similarity was unmistakeable; and

although she fondled it, talked with it, and smoothed its little

locks, she resisted its attempts to climb on her knee: she was cold.

"Mother says I look like you, and so does old Aunt Rachel, Miss

Franconia-they do," whispers the child, shyly, as it twisted its

fingers round the rings on Franconia's hand. Franconia blushed,

and cast an inquiring look at Clotilda.

"You must not be naughty," she says; "those black imps you play with

around Aunt Rachel's cabin teach you wrong. You must be careful with

her, Clotilda; never allow her to such things to white people: she

may use such expressions before strangers,-which would be extremely

painful-"

"It seems too plain: if there be no social sin, why fear the

degradation?" she quietly interrupts. "You cannot keep it from the

child. O, how I should like to know my strange history,

Franconia,-to know if it can be that I was born to such cruel

misfortunes, such bitter heart-achings, such gloomy forebodings. If

I were, then am I content with my lot."

Franconia listened attentively, saw the anguish that was bursting

the bounds of the unhappy woman's feelings, and interrupted by

saying, "Speak of it no more, Clotilda. Take your child; go to your

cabin. I shall stay a few days: to-morrow I will visit you there."

As she spoke, she waved her hand, bid Clotilda good night, kissing

Annette as she was led down stairs. Now alone, she begins to

contemplate the subject more deeply. "It must be wrong," she says to

herself: "but few are brought to feel it who have the power to remove

it. The poor creature seems so unhappy; and my feelings are pained

when they tell me how much she looks like me--and it must be so; for

when she sat by my side, looking in the glass the portrait of

similarity touched my feelings deeply. 'Tis not the thing for Uncle

to live in this way. Here am I, loved and beloved, with the luxury

of wealth, and friends at my pleasure; I am caressed: she is but

born a wretch to serve my Uncle's vanity; and, too, were I to

reproach him, he would laugh at what he calls our folly, our sickly

sensitiveness; he would tell me of the pleasures of southern life,

southern scenery, southern chivalry, southern refinement;--yes, he

would tell me how it were best to credit the whole to southern

liberality of custom:--so it continues! There is a principle to be

served after all: he says we are not sent into the world to

excommune ourselves from its pleasures. This may be good logic, for

I own I don't believe with those who want the world screwed up into

a religious vice; but pleasure is divided into so many different

qualities, one hardly knows which suits best now-a-days.

Philosophers say we should avoid making pleasure of that which can

give pain to others; but philosophers say so many things, and give

so much advice that we never think of following. Uncle has a

standard of his own. I do, however, wish southern society would be

more circumspect, looking upon morality in its proper light. Its all

doubtful! doubtful! doubtful! There is Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy;

he preaches, preaches, preaches!--his preaching is to live, not to

die by. I do pity those poor negroes, who, notwithstanding their

impenetrable heads, are bored to death every Sunday with that

selfsame sermon. Such preaching, such strained effort, such

machinery to make men pious,--it's as soulless as a well. I don't

wonder the world has got to be so very wicked, when the wickedness

of the slavery church has become so sublime. And there's Uncle,

too,--he's been affected just in that way; hearing pious discourses

to uphold that which in his soul he knew to be the heaviest

wickedness the world groaned under, he has come to look upon

religion as if it were a commodity too stale for him. He sees the

minister of God's Word a mere machine of task, paid to do a certain

amount of talking to negroes, endeavouring to impress their simple

minds with the belief that it is God's will they should be slaves.

And this is all for necessity's sake!" In this musing mood she sits

rocking in her chair, until at length, overcome with the heat, she

reclines her head against the cushion, resigning herself to the

soothing embrace of sweet sleep.

The moon's silver rays were playing on the calm surface of the

river, the foliage on its banks seemed bathed in quiet repose, the

gentle breeze, bearing its balmy odours, wafted through the arbour

of oaks, as if to fan her crimson cheeks; the azalia and magnolia

combined their fragrance, impregnating the dew falling over the

scene, as if to mantle it with beauty. She slept, a picture of

southern beauty; her auburn tresses in undulating richness playing

to and fro upon her swelling bosom,-how developed in all its

delicacy!-her sensitive nature made more lovely by the warmth and

generosity of her heart. Still she slept, her youthful mind

overflowing with joy and buoyancy: about her there was a ravishing

simplicity more than earthly: a blush upon her cheek became

deeper,-it was the blush of love flashing in a dream, that tells its

tale in nervous vibrations, adding enchantment to sleeping

voluptuousness;-and yet all was sacred, an envied object no rude

hand dare touch!

Franconia had been educated at the north, in a land where--God bless

the name--Puritanism is not quite extinct; and through the force of

principles there inculcated had outgrown much of that feeling which

at the south admits to be right what is basely wrong. She hesitated

to reproach Marston with the bad effect of his life, but resolved on

endeavouring to enlist Clotilda's confidence, and learn how far her

degraded condition affected her feelings. She saw her with the same

proud spirit that burned in her own bosom; the same tenderness, the

same affection for her child, the same hopes and expectations for

the future, and its rewards. The question was, what could be done

for Clotilda? Was it better to reason with her,-to, if possible,

make her happy in her condition? Custom had sanctioned many

unrighteous inconsistencies: they were southern, nothing more! She

would intercede with her Uncle, she would have him sign free papers

for Clotilda and her child; she saw a relationship which the law

could not disguise, though it might crush out the natural

affections. With these thoughts passing in her mind, her imagination

wandered until she dropped into the sleep we have described.

There she slept, the blushes suffusing her cheeks, until old Aunt

Rachel, puffing and blowing like an exhausting engine, entered the

room. Aunty is the pink of a plantation mother: she is as black as

the blackest, has a face embodying all the good-nature of the

plantation, boasts of her dimensions, which she says are six feet,

well as anybody proportioned. Her head is done up in a flashy

bandana, the points nicely crosslain, and extending an elaborate

distance beyond her ears, nearly covering the immense circular rings

that hang from them. Her gingham dress, starched just so, her

whitest white apron, never worn before missus come, sets her off to

great advantage. Aunty is a good piece of property-tells us how many

hundred dollars there is in her-feels that she has been promoted

because Mas'r told somebody he would not take a dollar less for her.

She can superintend the domestic affairs of the mansion just as well

as anybody. In one hand she bears a cup of orange-grove coffee, in

the other a fan, made of palmetto-leaves.

"Gi'h-e-you!" she exclaimed. "If young missus aint nappin' just so

nice! I likes to cotch 'em just so;" and setting her tray upon a

stand, she views Franconia intently, and in the exuberance of her

feelings seats herself in front of her chair, fanning her with the

palmetto. The inquisitive and affectionate nature of the good old

slave was here presented in its purity. Nothing can be stronger,

nothing show the existence of happy associations more forcibly. The

old servant's attachment is proverbial,-his enthusiasm knows no

bounds,-Mas'r's comfort absorbs all his thoughts. Here, Aunt

Rachel's feelings rose beyond her power of restraint: she gazed on

her young missus with admiration, laughed, fanned her more and more;

then grasping her little jewelled hand, pressed it to her spacious

mouth and kissed it. "Young Missus! Franconia, I does lub ye so!"

she whispers.

"Why, Aunt Rachel!" ejaculated Franconia, starting suddenly: "I am

glad you wakened me, for I dreamed of trouble: it made me

weak-nervous. Where is Clotilda?" And she stared vacantly round the

room, as if unconscious of her position. "Guess 'e aint 'bout

nowhere. Ye see, Miss, how she don't take no care on ye,-takes dis

child to stir up de old cook, when ye comes to see us." And stepping

to the stand she brings the salver; and in her excitement to serve

Missus, forgets that the coffee is cold. "Da'h he is; just as nice

as 'em get in de city. Rachel made 'em!"

"I want Clotilda, Rachel; you must bring her to me. I was dreaming

of her and Annette; and she can tell dreams-"

The old slave interrupts her. "If Miss Franconia hab had dream, 'e

bad, sartin. Old Mas'r spoil dat gal, Clotilda,-make her tink she

lady, anyhow. She mos' white, fo'h true; but aint no better den oder

nigger on de plantation," she returns. Franconia sips her coffee,

takes a waf from the plate as the old servant holds it before her,

and orders Dandy to summon Clotilda.

CHAPTER III.

THINGS ARE NOT SO BRIGHT AS THEY SEEM.

THE following morning broke forth bright and serene. Marston and his

guests, after passing a pleasant night, were early at breakfast.

When over, they joined him for a stroll over the plantation, to hear

him descant upon the prospects of the coming crop. Nothing could be

more certain, to his mind, than a bountiful harvest. The rice,

cotton, and corn grounds had been well prepared, the weather was

most favourable, he had plenty of help, a good overseer, and

faithful drivers. "We have plenty,-we live easy, you see, and our

people are contented," he says, directing his conversation to the

young Englishman, who was suspected of being Franconia's friend. "We

do things different from what you do in your country. Your

countrymen will not learn to grow cotton: they manufacture it, and

hence we are connected in firm bonds. Cotton connects many things,

even men's minds and souls. You would like to be a planter, I know

you would: who would not, seeing how we live? Here is the Elder, as

happy a fellow as you'll find in forty. He can be as jolly as an

Englishman over a good dinner: he can think with anybody, preach

with anybody!" Touching the Elder on the shoulder, he smiles, and

with an insinuating leer, smooths his beard. "I am at your service,"

replies the Elder, folding his arms.

"I pay him to preach for my nigger property,-I pay him to teach them

to be good. He preaches just as I wants him to. My boys think him a

little man, but a great divine. You would like to hear the Elder on

Sunday; he's funny then, and has a very funny sermon, which you may

get by heart without much exertion." The young man seems indifferent

to the conversation. He had not been taught to realise how easy it

was to bring religion into contempt.

"Make no grave charges against me, Marston; you carry your practical

jokes a little too far, Sir. I am a quiet man, but the feelings of

quiet men may be disturbed." The Elder speaks moodily, as if

considering whether it were best to resent Marston's trifling

sarcasm. Deacon Rosebrook now interceded by saying, with unruffled

countenance, that the Elder had but one thing funny about him,-his

dignity on Sundays: that he was, at times, half inclined to believe

it the dignity of cogniac, instead of pious sentiment.

"I preach my sermon,-who can do more?" the Elder rejoins, with

seeming concern for his honour. "I thought we came to view the

plantation?"

"Yes, true; but our little repartee cannot stop our sight. You

preach your sermon, Elder,--that is, you preach what there is left

of it. It is one of the best-used sermons ever manufactured. It

would serve as a model for the most stale Oxonian. Do you think you

could write another like it? It has lasted seven years, and served

the means of propitiating the gospel on seven manors. Can they beat

that in your country?" says Marston, again turning to the young

Englishmam, and laughing at the Elder, who was deliberately taking

off his glasses to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.

"Our ministers have a different way of patching up old sermons; but

I'm not quite sure about their mode of getting them," the young man

replies, takes Deacon Rosebrook's arm, and walks ahead.

"The Elder must conform to the doctrines of the South; but they say

he bets at the race-course, which is not an uncommon thing for our

divines," rejoins the Deacon, facetiously.

The Elder, becoming seriously inclined, thinks gentlemen had better

avoid personalities. Personalities are not tolerated in the South,

where gentlemen are removed far above common people, and protect

themselves by the code duello. He will expose Marston.

Marston's good capon sides are proof against jokes. He may crack on,

that individual says.

"My friend," interposed the Elder, "you desired me to preach to your

niggers in one style and for one purpose,-according to the rule of

labour and submission. Just such an one as your niggers would think

the right stripe, I preached, and it made your niggers wonder and

gape. I'll pledge you my religious faith I can preach a different-"

"Oh! oh! oh! Elder," interrupted Marston, "pledge something

valuable."

"To me, my faith is the most sacred thing in the world. I will-as I

was going to say-preach to your moulding and necessities. Pay for

it, and, on my word, it shall be in the cause of the South! With the

landmarks from my planter customers, I will follow to their liking,"

continues Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, not a smile on his hard

face.

Deacon Rosebrook thinks it is well said. Pay is the great

desideratum in everything. The Elder, though not an uncommon

southern clergyman, is the most versatile preacher to be met with in

a day's walk. Having a wonderful opinion of nigger knowledge, he

preaches to it in accordance, receiving good pay and having no

objection to the wine.

"Well, Gentlemen," Marston remarks, coolly, "I think the Elder has

borne our jokes well; we will now go and moisten our lips. The elder

likes my old Madeira-always passes the highest compliments upon it."

Having sallied about the plantation, we return to the mansion, where

Dandy, Enoch, and Sam-three well-dressed mulattoes-their hair

frizzed and their white aprons looking so bright, meet us at the

veranda, and bow us back into the parlour, as we bear our willing

testimony of the prospects of the crop. With scraping of feet,

grins, and bows, they welcome us back, smother us with compliments,

and seem overwilling to lavish their kindness. From the parlour they

bow us into a long room in the right wing, its walls being plain

boarded, and well ventilated with open seams. A table is spread with

substantial edibles,-such as ham, bacon, mutton, and fish. These

represent the southern planter's fare, to which he seldom adds those

pastry delicacies with which the New Englander is prone to decorate

his table. The party become seated as Franconia graces the festive

board with her presence, which, being an incentive of gallantry,

preserves the nicest decorum, smooths the conversation. The wine-cup

flows freely; the Elder dips deeply-as he declares it choice.

Temperance being unpopular in the south, it is little regarded at

Marston's mansion. As for Marston himself, he is merely preparing

the way to play facetious jokes on the Elder, whose arm he touches

every few minutes, reminding him how backward he is in replenishing

his glass.

Not at all backward in such matters, the Elder fills up, asks the

pleasure of drinking his very good health, and empties the liquid

into the safest place nearest at hand. Repeated courses have their

effect; Marston is pleased, the Elder is mellow. With muddled

sensibilities his eyes glare wildly about the table, and at every

fresh invitation to drink he begs pardon for having neglected his

duty, fingers the ends of his cravat, and deposits another

glass,-certainly the very last. Franconia, perceiving her uncle's

motive, begs to be excused, and is escorted out of the room. Mr.

Praiseworthy, attempting to get a last glass of wine to his lips

without spilling, is quite surprised that the lady should leave. He

commences descanting on his own fierce enmity to infidelity and

catholicism. He would that everybody rose up and trampled them into

the dust; both are ruinous to negro property.

Marston coolly suggests that the Elder is decidedly uncatholicised.

"Elder," interrupted Deacon Rosebrook, touching him on the shoulder,

"you are modestly undone-that is, very respectably sold to your

wine."

"Yes," rejoined Marston; "I would give an extra ten dollars to hear

him preach a sermon to my niggers at this moment."

"Villainous inconsistency!" exclaimed the Elder, in an indistinct

voice, his eyes half closed, and the spectacles gradually falling

from his nose. "You are scandalising my excellent character, which

can't be replaced with gold." Making another attempt to raise a

glass of wine to his lips, as he concluded, he unconsciously let the

contents flow into his bosom, instead of his mouth.

"Well, my opinion is, Elder, that if you get my nigger property into

heaven with your preaching, there'll be a chance for the likes of

me," said Marston, watching the Elder intently. It was now evident

the party were all becoming pretty deeply tinctured. Rosebrook

thought a minister of the gospel, to get in such a condition, and

then refer to religious matters, must have a soul empty to the very

core. There could be no better proof of how easily true religion

could be brought into contempt. The Elder foreclosed with the

spirit, considered himself unsafe in the chair, and was about to

relieve it, when Dandy caught him in his arms like a lifeless mass,

and carried him to a settee, upon which he spread him, like a

substance to be bleached in the sun.

"Gentlemen! the Elder is completely unreverenced,-he is the most

versatile individual that ever wore black cloth. I reverence him for

his qualities," says Marston: then, turning to Maxwell, he

continued, "you must excuse this little joviality; it occurs but

seldom, and the southern people take it for what it is worth,

excusing, or forgetting its effects."

"Don't speak of it-it's not unlike our English do at times-nor do

our ministers form exceptions; but they do such things under a

monster protection, without reckoning the effect," the Englishman

replied, looking round as if he missed the presence of Franconia.

The Elder, soon in a profound sleep, was beset by swarms of

mosquitoes preying upon his haggard face, as if it were good food.

"He's a pretty picture," says Marston, looking upon the sleeping

Elder with a frown, and then working his fingers through his crispy

red hair. "A hard subject for the student's knife he'll make, won't

he?" To add to the comical appearance of the reverend gentleman,

Marston, rising from his seat, approached him, drew the spectacles

from his pocket, and placed them on the tip of his nose, adding

piquancy to his already indescribable physiognomy.

"Don't you think this is carrying the joke a point too far?" asked

Deacon Rosebrook, who had been some time silently watching the

prostrate condition of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy.

Marston shrugs his shoulders, whispers a word or two in the ear of

his friend Maxwell, twirls his glass upon the table. He is somewhat

cautious how he gives an opinion on such matters, having previously

read one or two law books; but believes it does'nt portray all

things just right. He has studied ideal good-at least he tells us

so-if he never practises it; finally, he is constrained to admit

that this 'ere's all very well once in a while, but becomes

tiresome--especially when kept up as strong as the Elder does it. He

is free to confess that southern mankind is curiously constituted,

too often giving license to revelries, but condemning those who fall

by them. He feels quite right about the Elder's preaching being just

the chime for his nigger property; but, were he a professing

Christian, it would'nt suit him by fifty per cent. There is

something between the mind of a "nigger" and the mind of a white

man,--something he can't exactly analyse, though he is certain it is

wonderfully different; and though such preaching can do niggers no

harm, he would just as soon think of listening to Infidelity.

Painful as it was to acknowledge the fact, he only appeared at the

"Meet'n House" on Sundays for the looks of the thing, and in the

hope that it might have some influence with his nigger property.

Several times he had been heard to say it was mere

machine-preaching-made according to pattern, delivered according to

price, by persons whose heads and hearts had no sympathy with the

downcast.

"There's my prime fellow Harry; a right good fellow, worth nine

hundred, nothing short, and he is a Christian in conscience. He has

got a kind of a notion into his head about being a divine. He

thinks, in the consequence of his black noddle, that he can preach

just as well as anybody; and, believe me, he can't read a letter in

the book,--at least, I don't see how he can. True, he has heard the

Elder's sermon so often that he has committed every word of it to

memory,--can say it off like a plantation song, and no mistake." Thus

Marston discoursed. And yet he declared that nobody could fool him

with the idea of "niggers" having souls: they were only mortal,--he

would produce abundant proof, if required.

Deacon Rosebrook listened attentively to this part of Marston's

discourse. "The task of proving your theory would be rendered

difficult if you were to transcend upon the scale of blood," he

replied, getting up and spreading his handkerchief over the Elder's

face, to keep off the mosquitoes.

"When our most learned divines and philosophers are the stringent

supporters of the principle, what should make the task difficult?

Nevertheless, I admit, if my fellow Harry could do the preaching for

our plantation, no objections would be interposed by me; on the

contrary, I could make a good speculation by it. Harry would be

worth two common niggers then. Nigger property, christianised, is

the most valuable of property. You may distinguish a christianised

nigger in a moment; and piety takes the stubborn out of their

composition better than all the cowhides you can employ; and, too,

it's a saving of time, considering that it subdues so much quicker,"

says Marston, stretching back in his chair, as he orders Dandy to

bring Harry into his presence. He will tell them what he knows about

preaching, the Elder's sermon, and the Bible!

Maxwell smiles at such singularly out of place remarks on religion.

They are not uncommon in the south, notwithstanding.

A few minutes elapsed, when Dandy opened the door, and entered the

room, followed by a creature-a piece of property!-in which the right

of a soul had been disputed, not alone by Marston, but by southern

ministers and southern philosophers. The thing was very good-

looking, very black;-it had straight features, differing from the

common African, and stood very erect. We have said he differed from

the common African-we mean, as he is recognised through our

prejudices. His forehead was bold and well-developed-his hair short,

thick and crispy, eyes keen and piercing, cheeks regularly declining

into a well-shaped mouth and chin. Dejected and forlorn, the wretch

of chance stood before them, the fires of a burning soul glaring

forth from his quick, wandering eyes. "There!" exclaimed Marston.

"See that," pointing at his extremes; "he has foot enough for a

brick-maker, and a head equal to a deacon-no insinuation, my

friend," bowing to Deacon Rosebrook. "They say it takes a big head

to get into Congress; but I'm afraid, Harry, I'd never get there."

The door again opened, and another clever-looking old negro, anxious

to say "how de do" to mas'r and his visitors, made his appearance,

bowing, and keeping time with his foot. "Oh, here's my old daddy-old

Daddy Bob, one of the best old niggers on the plantation; Harry and

Bob are my deacons. There,--stand there, Harry; tell these

gentlemen,--they are right glad to see you,--what you know about Elder

Praiseworthy's sermon, and what you can do in the way of preaching,"

says Marston, laughing good-naturedly.

"Rather a rough piece of property to make a preacher of," muttered

Maxwell.

The poor fellow's feet were encrusted as hard as an alligator's

back; and there he stood, a picture upon which the sympathies of

Christendom were enlisted-a human object without the rights of man,

in a free republic. He held a red cap in his left hand, a pair of

coarse osnaburg trousers reached a few inches below his knees, and,

together with a ragged shirt of the same material, constituted his

covering.

"You might have dressed yourself before you appeared before

gentlemen from abroad-at least, put on your new jacket," said

Marston.

"Why, mas'r, t'ant de clothes. God neber make Christian wid'e his

clothes on;-den, mas'r, I gin' my new jacket to Daddy Bob. But neber

mind him, mas'r-you wants I to tell you what I tinks ob de Lor. I

tink great site ob the Bible, mas'r, but me don' tink much ob

Elder's sermon, mas'r."

"How is that, Harry?" interrupted the deacon.

"Why, Mas'r Deacon, ye sees how when ye preaches de good tings ob de

Lor', ye mus'nt 'dulge in 'e wicked tings on 'arth. A'h done want

say Mas'r Elder do dem tings-but 'e seem to me t' warn't right wen

'e join de wickedness ob de world, and preach so ebery Sunday. He

may know de varse, and de chapter, but 'e done preach what de Lor'

say, nohow."

"Then you don't believe in a one-sided sermon, Harry?" returned the

deacon, while Marston and Maxwell sat enjoying the negro's simple

opinion of the Elder's sermon.

"No, mas'r. What the Bible teach me is to lob de Lor'-be good

myself, and set example fo'h oders. I an't what big white Christian

say must be good, wen 'e neber practice him,--but I good in me heart

when me tink what de Lor' say be good. Why, mas'r, Elder preach dat

sarmon so many Sundays, dat a' forgot him three times, since me know

'im ebery word," said Harry; and his face began to fill with

animation and fervency.

"Well, now, Harry, I think you are a little too severe on the

Elder's sermon; but if you know so much about it, give these

gentlemen a small portion of it, just to amuse them while the Elder

is taking a nap," said Marston.

"Ay, mas'r, be nap dat way too often for pious man what say he lobe

de Lor'," replied Harry; and drawing himself into a tragic attitude,

making sundry gesticulations, and putting his hand to his forehead,

commenced with the opening portion of the Elder's sermon. "And it

was said-Servants obey your masters, for that is right in the sight

of the Lord," and with a style of native eloquence, and rich

cantation, he continued for about ten minutes, giving every word,

seriatim, of the Elder's sermon; and would have kept it up, in word

and action, to the end, had he not been stopped by Marston. All

seemed astonished at his power of memory. Maxwell begged that he

might be allowed to proceed.

"He's a valuable fellow, that-eh?" said Marston. "He'll be worth

three-sixteenths of a rise on cotton to all the planters in the

neighbourhood, by-and-by. He's larned to read, somehow, on the

sly-isn't it so, Harry? come, talk up!"

"Yes, mas'r, I larn dat when you sleepin'; do Lor' tell me his

spirit warn't in dat sarmon what de Elder preach,--dat me must sarch

de good book, and make me own tinking valuable. Mas'r tink ignorant

nigger lob him best, but t'ant so, mas'r. Good book make heart good,

and make nigger love de Lor', and love mas'r too."

"I'll bet the rascal's got a Bible, or a Prayer-book, hid up

somewhere. He and old Daddy Bob are worse on religion than two old

coons on a fowl-yard," said Marston. Here old Aunt Rachel entered

the room to fuss around a little, and have a pleasant meeting with

mas'r's guests. Harry smiled at Marston's remark, and turned his

eyes upward, as much as to say, "a day will come when God's Word

will not thus be turned into ridicule!"

"And he's made such a good old Christian of this dark sinner, Aunt

Rachel, that I wouldn't take two thousand dollars for her. I expect

she'll be turning preacher next, and going north to join the

abolitionists."

"Mas'r," said Rachel, "'t wouldn't do to mind what you say. Neber

mind, you get old one ob dese days; den you don't make so much fun

ob old Rachel."

"Shut up your corn-trap," Marston says, smiling; and turning to his

guests, continues-"You hear that, gentlemen; she talks just as she

pleases, directs my household as if she were governor." Again, Aunt

Rachel, summoning her dignity, retorts,

"Not so, Mas'r Deacon, (turning to Deacon Rosebrook,) "'t won't

square t' believe all old Boss tell, dat it won't! Mas'r take care

ob de two cabins in de yard yonder, while I tends de big house."

Rachel was more than a match for Marston; she could beat him in

quick retort. The party, recognising Aunt Rachel's insinuation,

joined in a hearty laugh. The conversation was a little too pointed

for Marston, who, changing the subject, turned to Harry, saying,

"now, my old boy, we'll have a little more of your wisdom on

religious matters." Harry had been standing the while like a forlorn

image, with a red cap in his hand.

"I can preach, mas'r; I can do dat, fo'h true," he replied quickly.

"But mas'r, nigger got to preach against his colour; Buckra tink

nigger preachin' ain't good, cus he black."

"Never mind that, Harry," interrupts Marston: "We'll forget the

nigger, and listen just as if it were all white. Give us the very

best specimen of it. Daddy Bob, my old patriarch, must help you; and

after you get through, he must lift out by telling us all about the

time when General Washington landed in the city; and how the people

spread carpets, at the landing, for him to walk upon." The

entertainment was, in Marston's estimation, quite a recherch‚

concern: that his guests should be the better pleased, the venerable

old Daddy Bob, his head white with goodly years of toil, and full of

genuine negro humour, steps forward to perform his part. He makes

his best bows, his best scrapes, his best laughs; and says, "Bob

ready to do anything to please mas'r." He pulls the sleeves of his

jacket, looks vacantly at Harry, is proud to be in the presence of

mas'r's guests. He tells them he is a better nigger "den" Harry,

points to his extremes, which are decorated with a pair of new

russet broghans.

"Daddy's worth his weight in gold," continues Marston, "and can do

as much work as any nigger on the plantation, if he is old."

"No, no, mas'r; I ain't so good what I was. Bob can't tote so much

wid de hoe now. I work first-rate once, mas'r, but 'a done gone

now!"

"Now, Bob, I want you to tell me the truth,--niggers will lie, but

you are an exception, Bob; and can tell the truth when there's no

bacon in the way."

"Gih! Mas'r, I do dat sartin," replied Bob, laughing heartily, and

pulling up the little piece of shirt that peeped out above the

collar of his jacket.

"How did Harry and you come by so much knowledge of the Bible? you

got one somewhere, hav'n't you?" enquired Marston, laconically.

This was rather a "poser" on Bob; and, after stammering and mumbling

for some time-looking at Harry slyly, then at Marston, and again

dropping his eyes on the floor, he ejaculated,

"Well, mas'r, 'spose I might as well own 'im. Harry and me got one,

for sartin!"

"Ah, you black rascals, I knew you had one somewhere. Where did you

get it? That's some of Miss Franconia's doings."

"Can't tell you, mas'r, whar I got him; but he don't stop my hoein'

corn, for' true."

Franconia had observed Harry's tractableness, and heard him wish for

a Bible, that he might learn to read from it,--and she had secretly

supplied him with one. Two years Harry and Daddy Bob had spent hours

of the night in communion over it; the latter had learned to read

from it, the former had imbibed its great truths. The artless girl

had given it to them in confidence, knowing its consolatory

influences and that they, with a peculiar firmness in such cases,

would never betray her trust. Bob would not have refused his master

any other request; but he would never disclose the secret of Miss

Franconia giving it.

"Well, my old faithful," said Marston, "we want you to put the sprit

into Harry; we want to hear a sample of his preaching. Now, Harry,

you can begin; give it big eloquence, none of the new fashion

preaching, give us the old plantation break-down style."

The negro's countenance assumed a look indicative of more than his

lips dare speak. Looking upward pensively, he replied,--"Can't do

dat, mas'r; he ain't what do God justice; but there is something in

de text,--where shall I take 'em from?"

"Ministers should choose their own; I always do," interrupted Deacon

Rosebrook.

Daddy Bob, touching Harry on the arm, looks up innocently,

interposes his knowledge of Scripture. "D'ar, Harry, I tells you

what text to gin 'em. Gin 'em dat one from de fourt' chapter of

Ephes: dat one whar de Lor' say:--'Great mas'r led captivity captive,

and gin gifts unto men.' And whar he say, 'Till we come unto a unity

of the faith of the knowledge of the son of God unto a perfect man,

unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ; that we be

no more children tossed to and fro, and carried about with every

wind of doctrine, by the slight of men, and cunning craftiness,

whereby they lay in wait to deceive.'"

"And you tink dat 'll do,--eh, Daddy?" Harry replies, looking at the

old man, as if to say, were he anything but a slave he would follow

the advice.

"Den, dars t' oder one, away 'long yonder, where 'e say in Isaiah,

fifty-eight chapter--'Wherefore have we fasted, say they, and thou

seest not? Wherefore have we afflicted our soul, and thou takest no

knowledge? Behold ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with

the fist of wickedness." The old man seemed perfectly at home on

matters of Scripture; he had studied it in stolen moments.

The young Englishman seemed surprised at such a show of talent. He

saw the humble position of the old man, his want of early

instruction, and his anxiety to be enlightened. "How singular!" he

ejaculated, "to hear property preach, and know so much of the Bible,

too! People in my country would open their eyes with surprise." The

young man had been educated in an atmosphere where religion was

prized-where it was held as a sacred element for the good of man.

His feelings were tenderly susceptible; the scene before him

awakened his better nature, struck deep into his mind. He viewed it

as a cruel mockery of Christianity, a torture of innocent nature,

for which man had no shame. He saw the struggling spirit of the old

negro contending against wrong,--his yearnings for the teachings of

Christianity, his solicitude for Marston's good. And he saw how man

had cut down the unoffending image of himself-how Christian

ministers had become the tyrant's hand-fellow in the work of

oppression. It incited him to resolution; a project sprung up in his

mind, which, from that day forward, as if it had been a new

discovery in the rights of man, he determined to carry out in

future, for the freedom of his fellows.

Harry, in accordance with Bob's advice, chose the latter text. For

some minutes he expounded the power of divine inspiration, in his

simple but impressive manner, being several times interrupted by the

Deacon, who assumed the right of correcting his philosophy. At

length, Marston interrupted, reminding him that he had lost the

"plantation gauge." "You must preach according to the Elder's rule,"

said he.

With a submissive stare, Harry replied: "Mas'r, a man what lives

fo'h dis world only is a slave to himself; but God says, he dat

lives fo'h de world to come, is the light of life coming forth to

enjoy the pleasures of eternity;" and again he burst into a rhapsody

of eloquence, to the astonishment and admiration of Maxwell, and

even touching the feelings of Marston, who was seldom moved by such

displays. Seeing the man in the thing of merchandise, he inclined to

look upon him as a being worthy of immortality; and yet it seemed

next to impossible that he should bring his natural feelings to

realise the simple nobleness that stood before him,--the man beyond

the increase of dollars and cents in his person! The coloured

winter's hand leaned against the mantel-piece, watching the changes

in Marston's countenance, as Daddy stood at Harry's side, in

patriarchal muteness. A tear stealing down Maxwell's cheek told of

the sensation produced; while Marston, setting his elbow on the

table, supported his head in his hands, and listened. The Deacon,

good man that he was, filled his glass,--as if to say, "I don't stand

nigger preaching." As for the Elder, his pishes and painful

gurglings, while he slept, were a source of much annoyance. Awaking

suddenly-raising himself to a half-bent position-he rubs his little

eyes, adjusts his spectacles on his nose, stares at Harry with

surprise, and then, with quizzical demeanour, leaves us to infer

what sort of a protest he is about to enter. He, however, thinks it

better to say nothing.

"Stop, Harry," says Marston, interrupting him in a point of his

discourse: then turning to his guests, he inquired, with a look of

ridicule, "Gentlemen, what have you got to say against such

preaching? Elder, you old snoring Christian, you have lost all the

best of it. Why didn't you wake up before?"

"Verri-ly, truly! ah, indeed: you have been giving us a monkey-show

with your nigger, I suppose. I thought I'd lost nothing; you should

remember, Marston, there's a future," said the Elder, winking and

blinking sardonically.

"Yes, old boosey," Marston replies, with an air of indifference,

"and you should remember there's a present, which you may lose your

way in. That venerable sermon won't keep you straight-"

The Elder is extremely sensitive on this particular point-anything

but speak disparagingly of that sermon. It has been his stock in

trade for numerous years. He begs they will listen to him for a

minute, excuse this little trifling variation, charge it to the

susceptibility of his constitution. He is willing to admit there is

capital in his example which may be used for bad purposes, and says,

"Somehow, when I take a little, it don't seem to go right." Again he

gives a vacant look at his friends, gets up, resting his hands on

the table, endeavours to keep a perpendicular, but declares himself

so debilitated by his sleep that he must wait a little longer.

Sinking back upon the settee, he exclaims, "You had better send that

nigger to his cabin." This was carrying the amusement a little

beyond Marston's own "gauge," and it being declared time to adjourn,

preparations were made to take care of the Elder, who was soon

placed horizontally in a waggon and driven away for his home. "The

Elder is gone beyond himself, beyond everything," said Marston, as

they carried him out of the door. "You can go, Harry, I like your

preaching; bring it down to the right system for my property, and

I'll make a dollar or two out of it yet," he whispers, shaking his

head, as Harry, bowing submissively, leaves the door.

Just as they were making preparations to retire, a carriage drove to

the gate, and in the next minute a dashing young fellow came rushing

into the house, apparently in great anxiety. He was followed by a

well-dressed man, whose countenance and sharp features, full of

sternness, indicated much mechanical study. He hesitated as the

young man advanced, took Marston by the hand, nervously, led him

aside, whispered something in his ear. Taking a few steps towards a

window, the intruder, for such he seemed, stood almost motionless,

with his eyes firmly and watchfully fixed upon them, a paper in his

right hand. "It is too often, Lorenzo; these things may prove

fatal," said Marston, giving an inquiring glance at the man, still

standing at the window.

"I pledge you my honour, uncle, it shall be the last time," said the

young stranger. "Uncle, I have not forgotten your advice." Marston,

much excited, exhibited changes of countenance peculiar to a man

labouring under the effect of sudden disappointment. Apologising to

his guests, he dismissed them-with the exception of Maxwell-ordered

pen and ink, drew a chair to the table, and without asking the

stranger to be seated, signed his name to a paper. While this was

being done, the man who had waited in silence stepped to the door

and admitted two gentlemanly-looking men, who approached Marston and

authenticated the instrument. It was evident there was something of

deep importance associated with Marston's signature. No sooner had

his pen fulfilled the mission, than Lorenzo's face, which had just

before exhibited the most watchful anxiety, lighted up with joy, as

if it had dismantled its care for some new scene of worldly

prosperity.

CHAPTER IV.

AN UNEXPECTED CONFESSION.

HAVING executed the document, Marston ordered one of the servants to

show Maxwell his room. The persons who had acted the part of

justices, authenticating the instrument, withdrew without further

conversation; while the person who had followed Lorenzo, for such

was the young man's name, remained as if requiring some further

negotiation with Marston. He approached the table sullenly, and with

one hand resting upon it, and the other adjusted in his vest,

deliberately waited the moment to interrupt the conversation. This

man, reader, is Marco Graspum, an immense dealer in human

flesh,--great in that dealing in the flesh and blood of mankind which

brings with it all the wickedness of the demon. It is almost

impossible to conceive the suddenness with which that species of

trade changes man into a craving creature, restless for the dross of

the world. There he was, the heartless dealer in human flesh,

dressed in the garb of a gentleman, and by many would have been

taken as such. Care and anxiety sat upon his countenance; he watched

the chances of the flesh market, stood ready to ensnare the careless

youth, to take advantage of the frailer portions of a Southerner's

noble nature. "A word or two with you, Mr. Marston," said he.

"Sit down, Graspum, sit down," Marston rejoined, ordering Dandy to

give him a chair; which being done he seats himself in front of

Marston, and commences dilating upon his leniency. "You may take me

for an importune feller, in coming this time o'night, but the fact

is I've been-you know my feelings for helpin'

everybody-good-naturedly drawn into a very bad scrape with this

careless young nephew of yourn: he's a dashing devil, and you don't

know it, he is. But I've stood it so long that I was compelled to

make myself sure. This nephew of yourn," said he, turning to

Lorenzo, "thinks my money is made for his gambling propensities, and

if he has used your name improperly, you should have known of it

before." At this Lorenzo's fine open countenance assumed a glow of

indignation, and turning to his uncle, with a nervous tremor, he

said, "Uncle, he has led me into this trouble. You know not the

snares of city life; and were I to tell you him-this monster-yea, I

say monster, for he has drawn me into a snare like one who was

seeking to devour my life-that document, uncle, which he now holds

in his hand saves me from a shame and disgrace which I never could

have withstood before the world."

"Ah! you are just like all gamblers: never consider yourself in the

light of bringing yourself into trouble. Take my advice, young man;

there is a step in a gambler's life to which it is dangerous to

descend, and if you have brought your father and uncle into trouble,

blame neither me nor my money," returned Graspum.

"You do not say that there is forgery connected with this affair, do

you?" inquired Marston, grasping Lorenzo by the arm.

"I wish it were otherwise, uncle," replied Lorenzo, leaning forward

upon the table and covering his face with his hands. "It was my

folly, and the flattery of this man, which have driven me to it," he

continued.

"Oh! cursed inconsistency: and you have now fallen back upon the

last resource, to save a name that, once gone, cannot reinstate

itself. Tell me, Marco Graspum; are you not implicated in this

affair? Your name stands full of dark implications; are you not

following up one of those avenues through which you make so many

victims? What is the amount?" returned Marston.

"You will know that to-morrow. He has given paper in your name to an

uncertain extent. You should have known this before. Your nephew has

been leading a reckless gambler's life-spending whatsoever money

came into his possession, and at length giving bills purporting to

be drawn by you and his father. You must now honour them, or

dishonour him. You see, I am straightforward in business: all my

transactions are conducted with promptness; but I must have what is

due to me. I have a purpose in all my transactions, and I pursue

them to the end. You know the purport of this document, Marston;

save yourself trouble, and do not allow me to call too often." Thus

saying, he took his hat and left the room.

Uncle," said Lorenzo, as soon as Graspum had left, "I have been led

into difficulty. First led away by fashionable associations, into

the allurements with which our city is filled, from small vices I

have been hurried onward, step by step, deeper and deeper, until now

I have arrived at the dark abyss. Those who have watched me through

each sin, been my supposed friends, and hurried me onwards to this

sad climax, have proved my worst enemies. I have but just learned

the great virtue of human nature,--mistrust him who would make

pleasure of vice. I have ruined my father, and have involved you by

the very act which you have committed for my relief to-night. In my

vain struggle to relieve myself from the odium which must attach to

my transactions, I have only added to your sorrows. I cannot ask you

to forgive me, nor can I disclose all my errors-they are manifold."

"This is an unexpected blow-one which I was not prepared to meet. I

am ready to save your honour, but there is something beyond this

which the voice of rumour will soon spread. You know our society,

and the strange manner in which it countenances certain things, yet

shuts out those who fall by them. But what is to be done? Although

we may discharge the obligation with Graspum, it does not follow

that he retains the stigma in his own breast. Tell me, Lorenzo, what

is the amount?" inquired Marston, anxiously.

"My father has already discharged a secret debt of fourteen thousand

dollars for me, and there cannot be less than thirty thousand

remaining. Uncle, do not let it worry you; I will leave the country,

bear the stigma with me, and you can repudiate the obligation," said

he, pleading nervously, as he grasped his uncle's hand firmer and

firmer.

Among the many vices of the south, spreading their corrupting

influence through the social body, that of gambling stands first.

Confined to no one grade of society, it may be found working ruin

among rich and poor, old and young. Labour being disreputable, one

class of men affect to consider themselves born gentlemen, while the

planter is ever ready to indulge his sons with some profession they

seldom practise, and which too often results in idleness and its

attendants. This, coupled to a want of proper society with which the

young may mix for social elevation, finds gratification in drinking

saloons, fashionable billiard rooms, and at the card table. In the

first, gentlemen of all professions meet and revel away the night in

suppers and wine. They must keep up appearances, or fall doubtful

visitors of these fashionable stepping-stones to ruin. Like a

furnace to devour its victims, the drinking saloon first opens its

gorgeous doors, and when the burning liquid has inflamed the mental

and physical man, soon hurries him onward into those fascinating

habitations where vice and voluptuousness mingle their degrading

powers. Once in these whirlpools of sin, the young man finds himself

borne away by every species of vicious allurement-his feelings

become unrestrained, until at length that last spark of filial

advice which had hovered round his consciousness dies out. When this

is gone, vice becomes the great charmer, and with its thousand

snares and resplendent workers never fails to hold out a hope with

each temptation; but while the victim now and then asks hope to be

his guardian, he seldom thinks how surely he is sinking faster and

faster to an irretrievable depth.

Through this combination of snares-all having their life-springs in

slavery-Lorenzo brought ruin upon his father, and involved his

uncle. With an excellent education, a fine person, frank and gentle

demeanour, he made his way into the city, and soon attracted the

attention of those who affect to grace polished society. Had society

laid its restraints upon character and personal worth, it would have

been well for Lorenzo; but the neglect to found this moral

conservator only serves to increase the avenues to vice, and to

bring men from high places into the lowest moral scale. This is the

lamentable fault of southern society; and through the want of that

moral bulwark, so protective of society in the New England

States-personal worth-estates are squandered, families brought to

poverty, young men degraded, and persons once happy driven from

those homes they can only look back upon with pain and regret. The

associations of birth, education, and polished society-so much

valued by the southerner-all become as nothing when poverty sets its

seal upon the victim.

And yet, among some classes in the south there exists a religious

sentiment apparently grateful; but what credit for sincerity shall

we accord to it when the result proves that no part of the

organisation itself works for the elevation of a degraded class? How

much this is to be regretted we leave to the reader's

discrimination. The want of a greater effort to make religious

influence predominant has been, and yet is, a source of great evil.

But let us continue our narrative, and beg the reader's indulgence

for having thus transgressed.

Flattered and caressed among gay assemblages, Lorenzo soon found

himself drawn beyond their social pleasantries into deeper and more

alluring excitements. His frequent visits at the saloon and

gambling-tables did not detract, for a time, from the social

position society had conferred upon him.

His parents, instead of restraining, fostered these associations,

prided themselves on his reception, providing means of maintaining

him in this style of living. Vanity and passion led him captive in

their gratifications; they were inseparable from the whirlpool of

confused society that triumphs at the south,--that leads the proud

heart writhing in the agony of its follies. He cast himself upon

this, like a frail thing upon a rapid stream, and--forgetting the

voyage was short--found his pleasures soon ended in the troubled

waters of misery and disgrace.

There is no fundamental morality in the south, nor is education

invested with the material qualities of social good; in this it

differs from the north, against which it is fast building up a

political and social organisation totally at variance. Instead of

maintaining those great principles upon which the true foundation of

the republic stands, the south allows itself to run into a hyper-

aristocratic vagueness, coupled with an arbitrary determination to

perpetuate its follies for the guidance of the whole Union. And the

effect of this becomes still more dangerous, when it is attempted to

carry it out under the name of democracy,--American democracy! In

this manner it serves the despotic ends of European despots: they

point to the freest government in the world for examples of their

own absolutism, shield their autocracy beneath its democracy, and

with it annihilate the rights of the commoner.

Heedlessly wending his way, the man of rank and station at one side,

the courtesan with his bland smiles at the other, Lorenzo had not

seen the black poniard that was to cut the cord of his downfall,--it

had remained gilded. He drank copious draughts at the house of

licentiousness, became infatuated with the soft music that leads the

way of the unwary, until at length, he, unconsciously at it were,

found himself in the midst of a clan who are forming a plot to put

the black seal upon his dishonour. Monto Graspum, his money playing

through the hands of his minions in the gambling rooms, had

professed to be his friend. He had watched his pliable nature, had

studied the resources of his parents, knew their kindness, felt sure

of his prey while abetting the downfall. Causing him to perpetrate

the crime, from time to time, he would incite him with prospects of

retrieve, guide his hand to consummate the crime again, and watch

the moment when he might reap the harvest of his own infamy. Thus,

when he had brought the young man to that last pitiless issue, where

the proud heart quickens with a sense of its wrongs-when the mind

recurs painfully to the past, imploring that forgiveness which seems

beyond the power of mankind to grant, he left him a poor outcast,

whose errors would be first condemned by his professed friends. That

which seemed worthy of praise was forgotten, his errors were

magnified; and the seducer made himself secure by crushing his

victim, compromising the respectability of his parents, making the

disgrace a forfeiture for life.

Unexpected as the shock was to Marston, he bore it with seeming

coolness, as if dreading the appearance of the man who had taken

advantage of the moment to bring him under obligations, more than he

did the amount to be discharged. Arising from the table, he took

Lorenzo by the hand, saying:--"Veil your trouble, Lorenzo! Let the

past be forgotten, bury the stigma in your own bosom; let it be an

example to your feelings and your actions. Go not upon the world to

wrestle with its ingratitude; if you do, misfortune will befall

you-you will stumble through it the remainder of your life. With me,

I fear the very presence of the man who has found means of

engrafting his avarice upon our misfortunes; he deals with those in

his grasp like one who would cut the flesh and blood of mankind into

fragments of gain. Be firm, Lorenzo; be firm! Remember, it is not

the province of youth to despair; be manly-manliness even in crime

lends its virtue to the falling." At which he bid him good night,

and retired to rest.

The young man, more pained at his uncle's kindness,--kindness

stronger in its effects than reproof,--still lingered, as if to watch

some change of expression on his uncle's countenance, as he left the

door. His face changed into pallid gloominess, and again, as if by

magic influence, filled with the impress of passion; it was despair

holding conflict with a bending spirit. He felt himself a criminal,

marked by the whispers of society; he might not hear the charges

against him, nor be within the sound of scandal's tongue, but he

would see it outlined in faces that once smiled at his seeming

prosperity. He would feel it in the cold hand that had welcomed

him,--that had warmly embraced him; his name would no longer be

respected. The circle of refined society that had kindly received

him, had made him one of its attractions, would now shun him as if

he were contagion. Beyond this he saw the fate that hovered over his

father's and his uncle's estates;-all the filial affection they had

bestowed upon him, blasted; the caresses of his beloved and

beautiful sister; the shame the exposure would bring upon her; the

knave who held him in his grasp, while dragging the last remnants of

their property away to appease dishonest demands, haunted him to

despair. And, yet, to sink under them-to leave all behind him and be

an outcast, homeless and friendless upon the world, where he could

only look back upon the familiar scenes of his boyhood with regret,

would be to carry a greater amount of anguish to his destiny. The

destroyer was upon him; his grasp was firm and painful. He might

live a life of rectitude; but his principles and affections would be

unfixed. It would be like an infectious robe encircling him,--a

disease which he never could eradicate, so that he might feel he was

not an empty vessel among honourable men. When men depicted their

villains, moving in the grateful spheres of life, he would be one of

their models; and though the thoughtlessness of youth had made him

the type haunting himself by day and night, the world never made a

distinction. Right and wrong were things that to him only murmured

in distrust; they would be blemishes exaggerated from simple error;

but the judgment of society would never overlook them. He must now

choose between a resolution to bear the consequences at home, or

turn his back upon all that had been near and dear to him,--be a

wanderer struggling with the eventful trials of life in a distant

land! Turning pale, as if frantic with the thought of what was

before him, the struggle to choose between the two extremes, and the

only seeming alternative, he grasped the candle that flickered

before him, gave a glance round the room, as if taking a last look

at each familiar object that met his eyes, and retired.

CHAPTER V.

THE MAROONING PARTY.

A MAROONING pic-nic had been proposed and arranged by the young

beaux and belles of the neighbouring plantations. The day proposed

for the festive event was that following the disclosure of Lorenzo's

difficulties. Every negro on the plantation was agog long before

daylight: the morning ushered forth bright and balmy, with bustle

and confusion reigning throughout the plantation,--the rendezvous

being Marston's mansion, from which the gay party would be conveyed

in a barge, overspread with an awning, to a romantic spot,

overshaded with luxuriant pines, some ten miles up the stream. Here

gay fˆtes, mirth and joy, the mingling of happy spirits, were to

make the time pass pleasantly. The night passed without producing

any decision in Lorenzo's mind; and when he made his appearance on

the veranda an unusual thoughtfulness pervaded his countenance; all

his attempts to be joyous failed to conceal his trouble. Marston,

too, was moody and reserved even to coldness; that frank, happy, and

careless expression of a genial nature, which had so long marked him

in social gatherings, was departed. When Maxwell, the young

Englishman, with quiet demeanour, attempted to draw him into

conversation about the prospects of the day, his answers were

measured, cold, beyond his power of comprehending, yet inciting.

To appreciate those pleasant scenes-those scenes so apparently

happy, at times adding a charm to plantation life-those innocent

merry-makings in spring time-one must live among them, be born to

the recreations of the soil. Not a negro on the plantation, old or

young, who does not think himself part and parcel of the scene-that

he is indispensably necessary to make Mas'r's enjoyment complete! In

this instance, the lawn, decked in resplendent verdure, the foliage

tinged by the mellow rays of the rising sun, presented a pastoral

loveliness that can only be appreciated by those who have

contemplated that soft beauty which pervades a southern landscape at

morning and evening. The arbour of old oaks, their branches twined

into a panoply of thick foliage, stretching from the mansion to the

landing, seemed like a sleeping battlement, its dark clusters

soaring above redolent brakes and spreading water-leaks. Beneath

their fretted branches hung the bedewed moss like a veil of

sparkling crystals, moving gently to and fro as if touched by some

unseen power. The rice fields, stretching far in the distance,

present the appearance of a mirror decked with shadows of fleecy

clouds, transparent and sublime. Around the cabins of the plantation

people-the human property-the dark sons and daughters of promiscuous

families-are in "heyday glee:" they laughed, chattered, contended,

and sported over the presence of the party;-the overseer had given

them an hour or two to see the party "gwine so;" and they were

overjoyed. Even the dogs, as if incited by an instinctive sense of

some gay scene in which they were to take part, joined their barking

with the jargon of the negroes, while the mules claimed a right to

do likewise. In the cabins near the mansion another scene of fixing,

fussing, toddling, chattering, running here and there with

sun-slouches, white aprons, fans, shades, baskets, and tin pans,

presented itself; any sort of vessel that would hold provender for

the day was being brought forth. Clotilda, her face more cheerful,

is dressed in a nice drab merino, a plain white stomacher, a little

collar neatly turned over: with her plain bodice, her white ruffles

round her wrists, she presents the embodiment of neatness. She is

pretty, very pretty; and yet her beauty has made her the worst

slave-a slave in the sight of Heaven and earth! Her large, meaning

eyes, glow beneath her arched brows, while her auburn hair, laid in

smooth folds over her ears and braided into a heavy circle at the

back of her head, gives her the fascinating beauty of a Norman

peasant. Annette plays around her, is dressed in her very best,--for

Marston is proud of the child's beauty, and nothing is withheld that

can gratify the ambition of the mother, so characteristic, to dress

with fantastic colours: the child gambols at her feet, views its

many-coloured dress, keeps asking various unanswerable questions

about Daddy Bob, Harry, and the pic-nic. Again it scrambles

pettishly, sings snatches of some merry plantation song, pulls its

braided hat about the floor, climbs upon the table to see what is in

the basket.

Passing to the cabin of Ellen Juvarna, we see her in the same

confusion which seems to have beset the plantation: her dark,

piercing eyes, display more of that melancholy which marks

Clotilda's; nor does thoughtfulness pervade her countenance, and yet

there is the restlessness of an Indian about her,--she is Indian by

blood and birth; her look calls up all the sad associations of her

forefathers; her black glossy hair, in heavy folds, hangs carelessly

about her olive shoulders, contrasting strangely with the other.

"And you, Nicholas! remember what your father will say: but you must

not call him such," she says, taking by the hand a child we have

described, who is impatient to join the gay group.

"That ain't no harm, mother! Father always is fondling about me when

nobody's lookin'," the child answers, with a pertness indicating a

knowledge of his parentage rather in advance of his years.

We pass to the kitchen,--a little, dingy cabin, presenting the most

indescribable portion of the scene, the smoke issuing from every

crevice. Here old Peggy, the cook,--an enveloped representative of

smoke and grease,--as if emerging from the regions of Vulcan, moves

her fat sides with the independence of a sovereign. In this

miniature smoke-pit she sweats and frets, runs to the door every few

minutes, adjusts the points of her flashy bandana, and takes a

wistful look at the movements without. Sal, Suke, Rose, and Beck,

young members of Peggy's family, are working at the top of their

energy among stew-pans, griddles, pots and pails, baskets, bottles

and jugs. Wafs, fritters, donjohns and hominy flap-jacks, fine

doused hams, savoury meats, ices, and fruit-cakes, are being

prepared and packed up for the occasion. Negro faces of every shade

seem full of interest and freshness, newly brightened for the

pleasures of the day. Now and then broke upon our ear that plaintive

melody with the words, "Down on the Old Plantation;" and again, "Jim

crack corn, an' I don't care, for Mas'r's gone away." Then came Aunt

Rachel, always persisting in her right to be master of ceremonies,

dressed in her Sunday bombazine, puffed and flounced, her gingham

apron so clean, her head "did up" with the flashiest bandana in her

wardrobe; it's just the colour for her taste-real yellow, red, and

blue, tied with that knot which is the height of plantation toilet:

there is as little restraint in her familiarity with the gentry of

the mansion as there is in her control over the denizens of the

kitchen. Even Dandy and Enoch, dressed in their best black coats,

white pantaloons, ruffled shirts, with collars endangering their

ears, hair crisped with an extra nicety, stand aside at her bidding.

The height of her ambition is to direct the affairs of the mansion:

sometimes she extends it to the overseer. The trait is amiably

exercised: she is the best nigger on the plantation, and Marston

allows her to indulge her feelings, while his guests laugh at her

native pomposity, so generously carried out in all her commands. She

is preparing an elegant breakfast, which "her friends" must partake

of before starting. Everything must be in her nicest: she runs from

the ante-room to the hall, and from thence to the yard, gathering

plates and dishes; she hurries Old Peggy the cook, and again scolds

the waiters.

Daddy Bob and Harry have come into the yard to ask Marston's

permission to join the party as boatmen. They are in Aunt Rachel's

way, and she rushes past them, pushing them aside, and calling Mas'r

to come and attend to their wants. Marston comes forward, greets

them with a familiar shake of the hand, granting their request

without further ceremony. Breakfast is ready; but, anxious for the

amusement of the day, their appetites are despoiled. Franconia, more

lovely than ever, presenting that ease, elegance, and reserve of the

southern lady, makes her appearance in the hall, is escorted to the

table leaning on the arm of Maxwell. Delicacy, sensitiveness,

womanly character full of genial goodness, are traits with which the

true southern lady is blessed:--would she were blessed with another,

an energy to work for the good of the enslaved! Could she add that

to the poetry of her nature, how much greater would be her charm-how

much more fascinating that quiet current of thought with which she

seems blessed! There is a gentleness in her impulses--a pensiveness

in her smile--a softness in her emotions--a grace in her movements--an

ardent soul in her love! She is gay and lightsome in her youth; she

values her beauty, is capricious with her admirers, and yet becomes

the most affectionate mother; she can level her frowns, play with

the feelings, make her mercurial sympathy touching, knows the power

of her smiles: but once her feelings are enlisted, she is sincere

and ardent in her responses. If she cannot boast of the bright

carnatic cheek, she can swell the painter's ideal with her fine

features, her classic face, the glow of her impassioned eyes. But

she seldom carries this fresh picture into the ordinary years of

womanhood: the bloom enlivening her face is but transient; she loses

the freshness of girlhood, and in riper years, fades like a

sensitive flower, withering, unhappy with herself, unadmired by

others.

Franconia sat at the table, a pensiveness pervading her countenance

that bespoke melancholy: as she glanced inquiringly round, her eyes

rested upon Lorenzo fixedly, as if she detected something in his

manner at variance with his natural deportment. She addressed him;

but his cold reply only excited her more: she resolved upon knowing

the cause ere they embarked. Breakfast was scarcely over before the

guests of the party from the neighbouring plantations began to

assemble in the veranda, leaving their servants in charge of the

viands grouped together upon the grass, under a clump of oaks a few

rods from the mansion. Soon the merry-makers, about forty in number,

old and young, their servants following, repaired to the landing,

where a long barge, surrounded by brakes and water-lilies, presented

another picture.

"Him all straight, Mas'r-him all straight, jus so!" said Daddy Bob,

as he strode off ahead, singing "Dis is de way to de jim crack

corn."

Servants of all ages and colour, mammies and daddies, young 'uns and

prime fellows,--"wenches" that had just become hand-maids,--brought

up the train, dancing, singing, hopping, laughing, and sporting:

some discuss the looks of their young mistresses, others are

criticising their dress. Arrived at the landing, Daddy Bob and

Harry, full of cares, are hurrying several prime fellows, giving

orders to subordinate boatmen about getting the substantial on

board,--the baskets of champagne, the demijohns, the sparkling

nectar. The young beaux and belles, mingling with their dark sons

and daughters of servitude, present a motley group indeed-a scene

from which the different issues of southern life may be faithfully

drawn.

A band of five musicians, engaged to enliven the sports of the day

with their music, announce, "All on board!" and give the signal for

starting by striking up "Life on the Ocean Wave." Away they speed,

drawn by horses on the bank, amidst the waving of handkerchiefs, the

soft notes of the music reverberating over the pine-clad hills.

Smoothly and gently, onward they speed upon the still bosom of the

Ashly;-the deep, dark stream, its banks bedecked with blossoms and

richest verdure, is indeed enough to excite the romantic of one's

nature. Wild, yet serene with rural beauty, if ever sensations of

love steal upon us, it is while mingling in the simple

convivialities so expressive of southern life. On, on, the barge

moved, as lovers gathered together, the music dancing upon the

waters. Another party sing the waterman's merry song, still another

trail for lilies, and a third gather into the prow to test champagne

and ice, or regale with choice Havannas. Marston, and a few of the

older members, seated at midships, discuss the all-absorbing

question of State-rights; while the negroes are as merry as larks in

May, their deep jargon sounding high above the clarion notes of the

music. Now it subsides into stillness, broken only by the splashing

of an alligator, whose sports call forth a rapturous shout.

After some three hours' sailing the barge nears a jut of rising

ground on the left bank. Close by it is a grove of noble old pines,

in the centre of which stands a dilapidated brick building, deserted

for some cause not set forth on the door: it is a pretty, shaded

retreat-a spot breathing of romance. To the right are broad lagoons

stretching far into the distance; their dark waters, beneath thick

cypress, presenting the appearance of an inundated grove. The

cypress-trees hang their tufted tops over the water's surface,

opening an area beneath studded with their trunks, like rude columns

supporting a panoply of foliage.

The barge stops, the party land; the shrill music, still dancing

through the thick forest, re-echoes in soft chimes as it steals

back upon the scene. Another minute, and we hear the voices of Daddy

Bob and Harry, Dandy and Enoch: they are exchanging merry laughs,

shouting in great good-nature, directing the smaller fry, who are

fagging away at the larder, sucking the ice, and pocketing the

lemons. "Dat ain't just straight, nohow: got de tings ashore, an' ye

get 'e share whin de white folk done! Don' make 'e nigger ob

yourse'f, now, old Boss, doing the ting up so nice," Daddy says,

frowning on his minions. A vanguard have proceeded in advance to

take possession of the deserted house; while Aunt Rachel, with her

cortŠge of feminines, is fussing over "young missus." Here, a group

are adjusting their sun-shades; there, another are preparing their

fans and nets. Then they follow the train, Clotilda and Ellen

leading their young representatives by the hand, bringing up the

rear among a cluster of smaller fry. Taking peaceable possession of

the house, they commence to clear the rooms, the back ones being

reserved for the sumptuous collation which Rachel and her juniors

are preparing. The musicians are mustered,--the young belles and

beaux, and not a few old bachelors, gather into the front room,

commence the fˆtes with country dances, and conclude with the polka

and schottische.

Rachel's department presents a bustling picture; she is master of

ceremonies, making her sombre minions move at her bidding, adjusting

the various dishes upon the table. None, not even the most favoured

guests, dare intrude themselves into her apartments until she

announces the completion of her tables, her readiness to receive

friends. And yet, amidst all this interest of character, this happy

pleasantry, this seeming contentment, there is one group pauses ere

it arrives at the house,--dare not enter. The distinction seems

undefinable to us; but they, poor wretches, feel it deeply. Shame

rankles deep, to their very heart's core. They doubt their position,

hesitate at the door, and, after several nervous attempts to enter,

fall back,--gather round a pine-tree, where they enjoy the day,

separated from the rest. There is a simplicity-a forlornness, about

this little group, which attracts our attention, excites our

sympathies, unbends our curiosity: we would relieve the burden it

labours under. They are Ellen Juvarna, Clotilda, and their children.

Socially, they are disowned; they are not allowed to join the

festivities with those in the dance, and their feelings revolt at

being compelled to associate with the negroes. They are as white as

many of the whitest, have the same outlines of interest upon their

faces; but their lives are sealed with the black seal of slavery.

Sensible of the injustice that has stripped them of their rights,

they value their whiteness; the blood of birth tinges their face,

and through it they find themselves mere dregs of human

kind,--objects of sensualism in its vilest associations.

Maxwell has taken a deep interest in Clotilda; and the solicitude

she manifests for her child has drawn him still further in her

favour; he is determined to solve the mystery that shrouds her

history. Drawing near to them, he seats himself upon the ground at

their side, inquires why they did not come into the house. "There's

no place there for us,--none for me," Clotilda modestly replies,

holding down her head, placing her arm around Annette's waist.

"You would enjoy it much better, and there is no restraint upon

anyone."

"We know not why the day was not for us to enjoy as well as others;

but it is ordained so. Where life is a dreary pain, pleasure is no

recompense for disgrace enforced upon us. They tell us we are not

what God made us to be; but it is the worst torture to be told so.

There is nothing in it-it is the curse only that remains to enforce

wrong. Those who have gifts to enjoy life, and those who move to

make others happy, can enjoy their separate pleasures; our lives are

between the two, hence there is little pleasure for us," she

answered, her eyes moistening with tears.

"If you will but come with me-"

"Oh, I will go anywhere," she rejoined, quickly; "anywhere from

this; that I may know who I am-may bear my child with me-may lead a

virtuous life, instead of suffering the pangs of shame through a

life of unholy trouble."

"She never knows when she's well off. If Marston was to hear her

talk in that way, I wouldn't stand in her shoes," interrupted Ellen,

with a significant air.

Touched by this anxious reply, Maxwell determined to know more of

her feelings-to solve the anxiety that was hanging upon her mind,

and, if possible, to carry her beyond the power that held her and

her child in such an uncertain position.

"I meant into the house," said he, observing that Ellen was not

inclined to favour Clotilda's feelings; and just at that moment the

shrill sounds of a bugle summoned the party to the collation. Here

another scene was enacted, which is beyond the power of pen to

describe. The tables, decorated with wild flowers, were spread with

meats of all descriptions,--fowl, game, pastry, and fruit, wines, and

cool drinks. Faces wearing the blandest smiles, grave matrons, and

cheerful planters,--all dressed in rustic style and neatness-gathered

around to partake of the feast, while servants were running hither

and thither to serve mas'r and missus with the choicest bits.

Toasts, compliments, and piquant squibs, follow the wine-cup. Then

came that picture of southern life which would be more worthy of

praise if it were carried out in the purity of motive:--as soon as

the party had finished, the older members, in their turn, set about

preparing a repast for the servants. This seemed to elate the

negroes, who sat down to their meal with great pomp, and were not

restrained in the free use of the choicest beverage. While this was

going on, Marston ordered Rachel to prepare fruit and pastry for

Ellen and Clotilda. "See to them; and they must have wine too,"

whispered Marston.

"I know's dat, old Boss," returned Rachel, with a knowing wink.

After the collation, the party divided into different sections. Some

enjoyed the dance, others strolled through the pine-grove,

whispering tales of love. Anglers repaired to the deep pond in quest

of trout, but more likely to find water-snakes and snapping turtles.

Far in the distance, on the right, moving like fairy gondolas

through the cypress-covered lagoon, little barks skim the dark

surface. They move like spectres, carrying their fair freight,

fanned by the gentle breeze pregnant with the magnolia' sweet

perfume. The fair ones in those tiny barks are fishing; they move

from tree to tree trailing their lines to tempt the finny tribe

here, and there breaking the surface with their gambols.

Lorenzo, as we have before informed the reader, exhibited signs of

melancholy during the day. So evident were they that Franconia's

sympathies became enlisted in his behalf, and even carried so far,

that Maxwell mistook her manner for indifference toward himself.

And, as if to confirm his apprehensions, no sooner had the collation

ended than she took Lorenzo's arm and retired to the remains of an

old mill, a few rods above the landing. It was a quiet, sequestered

spot-just such an one as would inspire the emotions of a sensitive

heart, recall the associations of childhood, and give life to our

pent-up enthusiasm. There they seated themselves, the one waiting

for the other to speak.

"Tell me, Lorenzo," said Franconia, laying her hand on his arm, and

watching with nervous anxiety each change of his countenance, "why

are you not joyous? you are gloomy to-day. I speak as a sister-you

are nervous, faltering with trouble-"

"Trouble!" he interrupted, raising his eyes, and accompanying an

affected indifference with a sigh. It is something he hesitates to

disclose. He has erred! his heart speaks, it is high-handed crime!

He looks upon her affectionately, a forced smile spreads itself over

his face. How forcibly it tells its tale. "Speak out," she

continues, tremulously: "I am a sister; a sister cannot betray a

brother's secrets." She removes her hand and lays it gently upon his

shoulder.

Looking imploringly in her face for a few minutes, he replies as if

it were an effort of great magnitude. "Something you must not

know-nor must the world! Many things are buried in the secrets of

time that would make great commotion if the world knew them. It were

well they passed unknown, for the world is like a great stream with

a surface of busy life moving on its way above a troubled current,

lashing and foaming beneath, but only breaking here and there as if

to mark the smothered conflict. And yet with me it is nothing, a

moment of disappointment creeping into my contemplations,

transplanting them with melancholy-"

"Something more!" interrupted Franconia, "something more; it is a

step beyond melancholy, more than disappointment. Uncle feels it

sensibly-it pains him, it wears upon him. I have seen it foremost in

his thoughts." Her anxiety increases, her soft meaning eyes look

upon him imploringly, she fondles him with a sister's tenderness,

the tears trickling down her cheeks as she beholds him downcast and

in sorrow. His reluctance to disclose the secret becomes more

painful to her.

"You may know it soon enough," he replies. "I have erred, and my

errors have brought me to a sad brink. My friends-those who have

indulged my follies-have quickened the canker that will destroy

themselves. Indulgence too often hastens the cup of sorrow, and when

it poisons most, we are least conscious. It is an alluring charmer,

betraying in the gayest livery-"

"Lorenzo," she interrupts, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Tell me

all; remember woman's influence-she can relieve others when she

cannot relieve herself. Make me your confidant--relieve your

feelings."

"This night, Franconia, I shall bid a painful good-bye to those

familiar scenes which have surrounded my life,--to you, my sister, to

those faithful old friends of the plantation, Daddy Bob and Harry.

They have fondled me, protected me, played with me in my childhood,

led me to my boyish sports when all was bright and pleasant, when

the plantation had its merry scenes for slave and master. I must go

upon the world, mingle with strange life, make experience my

guardian. I have committed a crime-one which for ever disgraces the

honourable-"

Crime, crime, crime! weighed itself in her mind. "And what of that?"

she rejoined, suddenly; "a sister can forgive a brother any crime;

and even a lover, if she love truly, can forget them in her

affections. Do not go upon the world; be a man above crime, above

the bar of scandal. Have confidence in yourself; do not let the

injustice overcome you. Once on the world a wanderer, remember the

untold tale of misery, speeding its victims to that death of

conscience burning unseen."

"Nay, Franconia, you mean well; but you have not learned the world.

Take this as my advice, remember it when I am gone, and in years to

come you will acknowledge its truth--Fortune at the south rests on

an unsound foundation! We are lofty in feelings, but poor in

principle, poor in government,--poor in that which has built our

great republic. Uncertainty hangs over us at every step; but,

whatever befall you, stand firm through adversity. Never chide

others for the evils that may befall you; bear your burdens without

casting reflections on others,--it is nobler! Befriend those who have

no power to befriend themselves; and when the world forgets you, do

not forget yourself. There is no step of return for those who falter

in poverty. To-night I shall leave for the city; in a few days you

will know all." Thus saying, he conducted Franconia back to rejoin

the party, already making preparations to return.

He gave her an insight of his troubles, in such a manner as to

create deep agitation; and, although satisfied that an event of more

than ordinary magnitude was at hand, she could not associate it with

the commission of crime. The day, spent with all the conviviality of

southern life, ended amidst the clang of merry voices, and soft

music: a gay group assembled at the bank, ready to return under the

cheering influence of music and moonlight.

The bugle sounded,--the soft notes of "Home, sweet Home!" followed:

the party, forming into double file, gay and grotesque, marched

through the grove to the barge. Servants, old and young, were in

high glee; some joining in chorus with the music; some preparing the

barge, others strewing branches and flowers in the pathway, to the

delight of young "mas'r" and "missus,"-all singing. Aunt Rachel,

high above her minions in authority, is poised on the bank, giving

directions at the very top of her voice. Daddy Bob, Harry, and

Dandy-the latter named after "mas'r's" fleetest horse-are freighting

their young "missusses" in their arms to the boat, shielding their

feet from the damp.

"Now, mas'r, Old Boss," Bob says, directing himself to Marston,

after completing his charge with the young ladies, "Jus' lef' 'um

tote, old mas'r safe da'? So 'e don' mus e' foot." And forthwith he

shoulders Marston, lands him like a bale of cotton on one of the

seats, much to the amusement of those on board, sending forth shouts

of applause. The party are on board; all is quiet for a minute;

again the music strikes up, the barge is gliding over the still

bosom of the fairy-like stream.

The sun has just sunk into a fiery cloud that hangs its crimson

curtains high in the heavens, shedding refulgent beauty over the

dark jungle lining the river's banks. And then, twilight, as if

stealing its way across the hills, follows, softening the scene.

Soon it has gone, the landscape sleeps, tranquilly arched by the

serene vault of a southern sky. Everything seems peaceful, reposing,

and serene; the air breathes warm and balmy, distributing its

invigorating influence. The music has ceased, nothing but the ripple

of the water is heard; then the stars, like pearls suspended over

the dark surface, begin to glimmer and shine. Above all is the moon,

like a silver goddess, rising stealthily and shedding her pale light

upon the calm glow.

Onward, onward, onward, over the still stream, winding its way to

the great deep, they move; and again the music echoes and re-echoes

through the forest, over the lawn; dying away in chimes that faintly

play around us. The sudden changes in the heavens,--monitor of things

divine,--call up in Lorenzo's feelings the reverses of fortune that

will soon take place on the plantation. He had never before

recognised the lesson conveyed by heavenly bodies; and such was the

effect at that moment that it proved a guardian to him in his future

career.

It was near midnight when the barge reached the plantation. Fires

were lighted on the bank, negroes were here and there stretched upon

the ground, sleeping with such superlative comfort that it landed

ere they awoke. One by one the parties returned for their homes;

and, after shaking hands with Marston, taking an affectionate adieu

of Franconia (telling her he would call on the morrow), lisping a

kind word to the old negroes, Lorenzo ordered a horse, and left for

the city. He took leave of the plantation, of its dearest

associations, like one who had the conflict of battle before him,

and the light of friendship behind.

CHAPTER VI.

ANOTHER SCENE IN SOUTHERN LIFE.

IN the city, a few miles from the plantation, a scene which too

often affords those degrading pictures that disgrace a free and

happy country, was being enacted. A low brick building, standing in

an area protected by a high fence, surmounted with spikes and other

dangerous projectiles, formed the place. The upper and lower windows

of this building were strongly secured with iron gratings, and

emitted the morbid air from cells scarcely large enough to contain

human beings of ordinary size. In the rear, a sort of triangular

area opened, along which was a line of low buildings, displaying

single and double cells. Some had iron rings in the floor; some had

rings in the walls; and, again, others had rings over head. Some of

these confines of misery-for here men's souls were goaded by the

avarice of our natures-were solitary; and at night, when the turmoil

of the day had ceased, human wailings and the clank of chains might

be heard breaking through the walls of this charnel-house. These

narrow confines were filled with living beings-beings with souls,

souls sold according to the privileges of a free and happy

country,--a country that fills us with admiration of its greatness.

It is here, O man, the tyrant sways his hand most! it is here the

flesh and blood of the same Maker, in chains of death, yearns for

freedom.

We walk through the corridor, between narrow arches containing the

abodes of misery, while our ears drink the sad melancholy that

sounds in agitated throbs, made painful by the gloom and darkness.

Touching an iron latch, the door of a cell opens, cold and damp, as

if death sat upon its walls; but it discloses no part of the

inmate's person, and excites our sympathies still more. We know the

unfortunate is there,--we hear the murmuring, like a death-bell in

our ears; it is mingled with a dismal chaos of sound, piercing deep

into our feelings. It tells us in terror how gold blasts the very

soul of man-what a dark monster of cruelty he can become,--how he can

forget the grave, and think only of his living self,--how he can

strip reason of its right, making himself an animal with man for his

food. See the monster seeking only for the things that can serve him

on earth-see him stripping man of his best birth-right, see him the

raving fiend, unconscious of his hell-born practices, dissevering

the hope that by a fibre hangs over the ruins of those beings who

will stand in judgment against him. His soul, like their faces, will

be black, when theirs has been whitened for judgment in the world to

come!

Ascending a few steps, leading into a centre building-where the

slave merchant is polished into respectability-we enter a small room

at the right hand. Several men, some having the appearance of

respectable merchants, some dressed in a coarse, red-mixed homespun,

others smoking cigars very leisurely, are seated at a table, upon

which are several bottles and tumblers. They drank every few

minutes, touched glasses, uttered the vilest imprecations.

Conspicuous among them is Marco Graspum: it is enough that we have

before introduced him to the reader at Marston's mansion. His dark

peering eyes glisten as he sits holding a glass of liquor in one

hand, and runs his fingers through his bristly hair with the other.

"The depths of trade are beyond some men," he says, striking his

hand on the table; then, catching up a paper, tears it into pieces.

"Only follow my directions; and there can be no missing your man,"

he continued, addressing one who sat opposite to him; and who up to

that time had been puffing his cigar with great unconcern. His whole

energies seemed roused to action at the word. After keeping his eyes

fixed upon Graspum for more than a minute, he replied, at the same

time replenishing his cigar with a fresh one--

"Yee'h sees, Marco,--you'r just got to take that ar' say back, or

stand an all-fired chaffing. You don't scar' this 'un, on a point a'

business. If I hain't larned to put in the big pins, no fellow has.

When ye wants to 'sap' a tall 'un, like Marston, ye stands shy until

ye thinks he's right for pulling, and then ye'll make a muffin on

him, quicker. But, ye likes to have yer own way in gettin' round

things, so that a fellow can't stick a pinte to make a hundred or

two unless he weaves his way clean through the law-unless he

understands Mr. Justice, and puts a double blinder on his eye.

There's nothing like getting on the right side of a fellow what

knows how to get on the wrong side of the law; and seeing how I've

studied Mr. Justice a little bit better than he's studied his books,

I knows just what can be done with him when a feller's got chink in

his pocket. You can't buy 'em, sir, they're so modest; but you can

coax 'em at a mighty cheaper rate-you can do that!" "And ye can make

him feel as if law and his business warn't two and two," rejoined

Anthony Romescos, a lean, wiry man, whose small indescribable face,

very much sun-scorched, is covered with bright sandy hair, matted

and uncombed. His forehead is low, the hair grows nearly to his

eyebrows, profuse and red; his eyes wander and glisten with

desperation; he is a merciless character. Men fear him, dread him;

he sets the law at defiance, laughs when he is told he is the

cunningest rogue in the county. He owns to the fearful; says it has

served him through many a hard squeeze; but now that he finds law so

necessary to carry out villainy, he's taken to studying it himself.

His dress is of yellow cotton, of which he has a short roundabout

and loose pantaloons. His shirt bosom is open, the collar secured at

the neck with a short black ribbon; he is much bedaubed with

tobacco-juice, which he has deposited over his clothes for the want

of a more convenient place. A gray, slouch hat usually adorns his

head, which, in consequence of the thinking it does, needs a deal of

scratching. Reminding us how careful he is of his feet, he shows

them ensconced in a pair of Indian moccasins ornamented with

bead-work; and, as if we had not become fully conscious of his

power, he draws aside his roundabout, and there, beneath the waist

of his pantaloons, is a girdle, to which a large hunting-knife is

attached, some five inches of the handle protruding above the belt.

"Now, fellers, I tell ye what's what, ye'r point-up at bragin'; but

ye don't come square up to the line when there's anything to put

through what wants pluck. 'Tain't what a knowin' 'un like I can do;

it's just what he can larn to be with a little training in things

requiring spunk. I'm a going to have a square horse, or no horse; if

I don't, by the great Davy, I'll back out and do business on my own

account,--Anthony Romescos always makes his mark and then masters it.

If ye don't give Anthony a fair showin', he'll set up business on

his own account, and pocket the comins in. Now! thar's Dan Bengal

and his dogs; they can do a thing or two in the way of trade now and

then; but it requires the cunnin as well as the plucky part of a

feller. It makes a great go when they're combined, though,--they

ala's makes sure game and slap-up profit."

"Hold a stave, Anthony," interrupted a grim-visaged individual who

had just filled his glass with whiskey, which he declared was only

to counteract the effect of what he had already taken. He begs they

will not think him half so stupid as he seems, says he is always

well behaved in genteel society, and is fully convinced from the

appearance of things that they are all gentlemen. He wears a

semi-bandittical garb, which, with his craven features, presents his

character in all its repulsiveness. "You needn't reckon on that

courage o' yourn, old fellow; this citizen can go two pins above it.

If you wants a showin', just name the mark. I've seed ye times

enough,--how ye would not stand ramrod when a nigger looked lightning

at ye. Twice I seed a nigger make ye show flum; and ye darn't make

the cussed critter toe the line trim up, nohow," he mumbles out,

dropping his tumbler on the table, spilling his liquor. They are

Graspum's "men;" they move as he directs-carry out his plans of

trade in human flesh. Through these promulgators of his plans, his

plots, his desperate games, he has become a mighty man of trade.

They are all his good fellows-they are worth their weight in gold;

but he can purchase their souls for any purpose, at any price! "Ah,

yes, I see-the best I can do don't satisfy. My good fellows, you are

plum up on business, do the square thing; but you're becomin' a

little too familiar. Doing the nigger business is one thing, and

choosing company's another. Remember, gentlemen, I hold a position

in society, I do," says Graspum, all the dignity of his dear self

glowing in his countenance.

"I see! There's no spoilin' a gentleman what's got to be one by his

merits in trade. Thar's whar ye takes the shine out of us. Y'er

gentleman gives ye a right smart chance to walk into them ar' big

bugs what's careless,--don't think yer comin' it over 'em with a sort

o' dignity what don't 'tract no s'picion." rejoined Romescos, taking

up his hat, and placing it carelessly on his head, as if to assure

Graspum that he is no better than the rest.

"Comprehend me, comprehend me, gentlemen! There can, and must be,

dignity in nigger trading; it can be made as honourable as any other

branch of business. For there is an intricacy about our business

requiring more dignity and ability than general folks know. You

fellers couldn't carry out the schemes, run the law down, keep your

finger on people's opinion, and them sort o' things, if I didn't

take a position in society what 'ud ensure puttin' ye straight

through. South's the place where position's worth somethin'; and

then, when we acts independent, and don't look as if we cared two

toss-ups, ah!"

"I wonder you don't set up a dignity shop, and go to selling the

article;-might have it manufactured to sell down south."

"Ah, Romescos," continued Graspum, "you may play the fool; but you

must play it wisely to make it profitable. Here, position puts law

at defiance!-here it puts croakers over humanity to rest-here, when

it has money, it makes lawyers talk round the points, get fat among

themselves, fills the old judge's head with anything; so that he

laughs and thinks he don't know nothin'. Listen to what I'm goin' to

say, because you'll all make somethin' out on't. I've just got the

dignity to do all; and with the coin to back her up, can safe every

chance. When you fellers get into a snarl running off a white 'un,

or a free nigger, I has to bring out the big talk to make it seem

how you didn't understand the thing. 'Tain't the putting the big on,

but it's the keepin' on it on. You'd laugh to see how I does it;

it's the way I keeps you out of limbo, though."

We have said these men were Graspum's "men;" they are more-they are

a band of outlaws, who boast of living in a free country, where its

institutions may be turned into despotism. They carry on a system of

trade in human bodies; they stain the fairest spots of earth with

their crimes. They set law at defiance-they scoff at the depths of

hell that yawn for them,--the blackness of their villainy is known

only in heaven. Earth cares little for it; and those familiar with

the devices of dealers in human bodies shrink from the shame of

making them known to the world. There was a discontent in the party,

a clashing of interests, occasioned by the meagre manner in which

Graspum had divided the spoils of their degradation. He had set his

dignity and position in society at a much higher value than they

were willing to recognise,--especially when it was to share the

spoils in proportion. Dan Bengal, so called from his ferocity of

character, was a celebrated dog-trainer and negro-hunter, "was great

in doing the savager portion of negro business." This, Romescos

contended, did not require so much cunning as his branch of the

business-which was to find "loose places," where doubtful whites see

out remnants of the Indian race, and free negroes could be found

easy objects of prey; to lay plots, do the "sharp," carry out plans

for running all free rubbish down south, where they would sell for

something.

"True! it's all true as sunshine," says Romescos; "we understand Mr.

Graspum inside and out. But ye ain't paid a dime to get me out of

any scrape. I was larned to nigger business afore I got into the

'tarnal thing; and when I just gits me eye on a nigger what nobody

don't own, I comes the sly over him-puts him through a course of

nigger diplomacy. The way he goes down to the Mississippi is a

caution to nigger property!"

He has enlisted their attention, all eyes are set upon him, every

voice calls out to know his process. He begs they will drink round;

they fill their glasses, and demand that he will continue the

interest of his story.

"My plans are worth a fortune to those who follow the business," he

says, giving his glass a twirl as he sets it upon the table, and

commences--

"Born 'cute, you see; trade comes natural. Afore a free 'un don't

know it, I has him bonded and tucked off for eight or nine hundred

dollars, slap-up, cash and all. And then, ye sees, it's worth

somethin' in knowin' who to sell such criturs too-so that the brute

don't git a chance to talk about it without getting his back

troubled. And then, it requires as much knowin' as a senator's got

just to fix things as smooth so nobody won't know it; and just like

ye can jingle the coin in yer pocket, for the nigger, what

everybody's wonderin' where he can be gone to. I tell ye what, it

takes some stameny to keep the price of a prime feller in your

pocket, and wonder along with the rest where the rascal can be. If

you'd just see Bob Osmand doe it up, you'd think his face was made

for a methodist deacon in camp meeting-time. The way he comes it

when he wants to prove a free nigger's a runaway, would beat all the

disciples of Blackstone between here and old Kentuck. And then,

Bob's any sort of a gentleman, what you don't get in town every day,

and wouldn't make a bad senator, if he'd bin in Congress when the

compromise was settled upon,--'cos he can reason right into just

nothin' at all. Ye see it ain't the feelings that makes a feller a

gentleman in our business, it's knowing the human natur o' things;

how to be a statesman, when ye meets the like, how to be a

gentleman, and talk polite things, and sich like; how to be a jolly

fellow, an' put the tall sayings into the things of life; and when

ye gets among the lawyers, to know all about the pintes of the law,

and how to cut off the corners, so they'll think ye're bin a parish

judge. And then, when ye comes before the squire, just to talk

dignity to him-tell him where the law is what he don't seem to

comprehend. You've got to make a right good feller of the squire by

sticking a fee under his vest-pocket when he don't obsarve it. And

then, ye know, when ye make the squire a right good feller, you must

keep him to the point; and when there's any swarin' to be done, he's

just as easily satisfied as the law. It's all business, you see; and

thar's just the same kind a thing in it; because profit rules

principle, and puts a right smart chance o' business into their

hands without troubling their consciences. But then, Bob ain't got

the cunnin' in him like I-nor he can't "rope-in on the sly,"-knock

down and drag out, and just tell a whole possee to come on, as I do.

And that's what ye don't seem to come at, Graspum," said Romescos,

again filling his glass, and drawing a long black pipe from his

pocket prepares it for a smoke.

"Now, the trouble is, you all think you can carry out these matters

on your own hook; but it's no go, and you'll find it so. It's a

scheme that must have larger means at the head of it; and each man's

rights must be stipulated, and paid according to his own enterprise.

But this discontent is monstrous and injurious, and if continued

will prove unprofitable. You see, fellers, you've no responsibility,

and my position is your protection, and if you don't get rich you

must not charge the blame to me; and then just see how you live now

to what you did when ranging the piny woods and catching a stray

nigger here and there, what didn't hardly pay dog money. There's a

good deal in the sport of the thing, too; and ye know it amounts to

a good deal to do the gentleman and associate with big folks, who

puts the business into one's hands, by finding out who's got lean

purses and prime niggers," rejoined Graspum, very coolly.

"Ah, yes; that's the way ye comes it over these haristocrats, by

doin' the modest. Now, Graspum, 'tain't no trouble to leak a sap

like that Lorenzo, and make his friends stand the blunt after we've

roped him into your fixings," replied Romescos.

"No, no; not a bit of it," resounded several voices. "We do all the

dragwork with the niggers, and Graspum gets the tin."

"But he pays for the drink. Come, none of this bickering; we must

agree upon business, and do the thing up brown under the old

system," interrupted another.

"Hold! close that bread trap o' yourn," Romescos shouts at the top

of his voice. "You're only a green croaker from the piny woods,

where gophers crawl independent; you ain't seen life on the borders

of Texas. Fellers, I can whip any man in the crowd,--can maker the

best stump speech, can bring up the best logic; and can prove that

the best frightenin' man is the best man in the nigger business.

Now, if you wants a brief sketch of this child's history, ye can

have it." Here Romescos entered into an interesting account of

himself. He was the descendant of a good family, living in the city

of Charleston; his parents, when a youth, had encouraged his

propensities for bravery. Without protecting them with that medium

of education which assimilates courage with gentlemanly conduct,

carrying out the nobler impulses of our nature, they allowed him to

roam in that sphere which produces its ruffians. At the age of

fifteen he entered a counting-room, when his quick mercurial

temperament soon rendered him expert at its minor functions. Three

years had hardly elapsed when, in a moment of passion, he drew his

dirk, (a weapon he always carried) and, in making a plunge at his

antagonist, inflicted a wound in the breast of a near friend. The

wound was deep, and proved fatal. For this he was arraigned before a

jury, tried for his life. He proved the accident by an existing

friendship-he was honourably acquitted. His employer, after

reproaching him for his proceedings, again admitted him into his

employment. Such, however, was his inclination to display the

desperado, that before the expiration of another year he killed a

negro, shot two balls at one of his fellows, one of which was well

nigh proving fatal, and left the state. His recklessness, his

previous acts of malignity, his want of position, all left him

little hope of escaping the confines of a prison. Fleeing to parts

unknown, his absence relieved the neighbourhood of a responsibility.

For a time, he roamed among farmers and drovers in the mountains of

Tennessee; again he did menial labour, often forced to the direst

necessity to live. One day, when nearly famished, he met a

slave-driver, conducting his coffle towards the Mississippi, to whom

he proffered his services. The coarse driver readily accepted them;

they proceeded on together, and it was not long before they found

themselves fitting companions. The one was desperate-the other

traded in desperation. An ardent nature, full of courage and

adventure, was a valuable acquisition to the dealer, who found that

he had enlisted a youngster capable of relieving him of inflicting

that cruelty so necessary to his profession. With a passion for

inflicting torture, this youth could now gratify it upon those

unfortunate beings of merchandise who were being driven to the

shambles: he could gloat in the exercise of those natural

propensities which made the infliction of pain a pleasant

recreation. In the trade of human flesh all these cruel traits

became valuable; they enabled him to demand a good price for his

services. Initiated in all the mysteries of the trade, he was soon

entrusted with gangs of very considerable extent; then he made

purchases, laid plans to entrap free negroes, performed the various

intricacies of procuring affidavits with which to make slave

property out of free flesh. Nature was nature, and what was hard in

him soon became harder; he could crib "doubtful white stuff" that

was a nuisance among folks, and sell it for something he could put

in his pocket. In this way Romescos accumulated several hundred

dollars; but avarice increased, and with it his ferocity. It

belonged to the trade, a trade of wanton depravity. He became the

terror of those who assumed to look upon a negro's sufferings with

sympathy, scoffing at the finer feelings of mankind. Twice had his

rapacity been let loose-twice had it nearly brought him to the

gallows, or to the tribunal of Judge Lynch. And now, when completely

inured in the traffic of human flesh,--that traffic which transposes

man into a demon, his progress is checked for a while by a false

step.

It was this; and this only to the deep disgrace of the freest and

happiest country on earth. A poor orphan girl, like many of her

class in our hospitable slave world, had been a mere cast-off upon

the community. She knew nothing of the world, was ignorant, could

neither read nor write,--something quite common in the south, but

seldom known in New England. Thus she became the associate of

depraved negroes, and again, served Romescos as a victim. Not

content with this, after becoming tired of her, he secured her in

the slave-pen of one of his fellow traders. Here he kept her for

several weeks, closely confined, feeding her with grits. Eventually

"running" her to Vicksburg, he found an accomplice to sign a bill of

sale, by which he sold her to a notorious planter, who carried her

into the interior. The wretched girl had qualities which the planter

saw might, with a little care, be made extremely valuable in the New

Orleans market,--one was natural beauty. She was not suitable

property for the agricultural department of either a cotton or sugar

plantation, nor was she "the stripe" to increase prime stock; hence

she must be prepared for the general market. When qualified

according to what the planter knew would suit the fancy market, she

was conveyed to New Orleans, a piece of property bright as the very

brightest, very handsome, not very intelligent,--just suited to the

wants of bidders.

Here, at the shambles in the crescent city, she remained guarded,

and for several weeks was not allowed to go beyond the door-sill;

after which a sale was effected of her with the keeper of a brothel,

for the good price of thirteen hundred dollars. In this sink of

iniquity she remained nearly two years. Fearing the ulterior

consequences, she dared not assert her rights to freedom, she dared

not say she was born free in a free country. Her disappearance from

the village in which she had been reared caused some excitement; but

it soon reduced itself to a very trifling affair. Indeed, white

trash like this was considered little else than rubbish, not worth

bringing up respectably. And while suspicion pointed to Romescos, as

the person who could account for her mysterious disappearance, such

was the fear of his revenge that no one dared be the accuser.

Quietly matters rested, poor virtue was mean merchandise, had its

value, could be bought and sold-could be turned to various uses,

except enlisting the sympathies of those who study it as a market

commodity. A few days passed and all was hushed; no one enquired

about the poor orphan, Martha Johnson. In the hands of her creole

owner, who held her as a price for licentious purposes, she

associated with gentlemen of polite manners-of wealth and position.

Even this, though profane, had advantages, which she employed for

the best of purposes; she learned to read and to write,--to

assimilate her feelings with those of a higher class. Society had

degraded her, she had not degraded herself. One night, as the

promiscuous company gathered into the drawing-room, she recognised a

young man from her native village; the familiar face inspired her

with joy, her heart leaped with gladness; he had befriended her poor

mother-she knew he had kind feelings, and would be her friend once

her story was told. The moments passed painfully; she watched him

restlessly through the dance,--sat at his side. Still he did not

recognise her,--toilet had changed her for another being; but she had

courted self-respect rather than yielded to degradation. Again she

made signs to attract his attention; she passed and repassed him,

and failed. Have I thus changed, she thought to herself.

At length she succeeded in attracting his attention; she drew him

aside, then to her chamber. In it she disclosed her touching

narrative, unfolded her sorrows, appealed to him with tears in her

eyes to procure her freedom and restore her to her rights. Her story

enlisted the better feelings of a man, while her self-respect, the

earnestness with which she pleaded her deliverance, and the

heartlessness of the act, strongly rebuked the levity of those who

had made her an orphan outcast in her own village. She was then in

the theatre of vice, surrounded by its allurements, consigned to its

degradation, a prey to libertinism-yet respecting herself. The

object of his visit among the denizens was changed to a higher

mission, a duty which he owed to his moral life,--to his own

manliness. He promised his mediation to better her eventful and

mysterious life, to be a friend to her; and nobly did he keep his

promise. On the following day he took measures for her rescue, and

though several attempts were made to wrest her from him, and the

mendacity of slave-dealers summoned to effect it, he had the

satisfaction of seeing her restored to her native village,--to

freedom, to respectability.

We withhold the details of this too true transaction, lest we should

be classed among those who are endeavouring to create undue

excitement. The orphan girl we here refer to was married to a

respectable mechanic, who afterwards removed to Cincinnati, and with

his wife became much respected citizens.

Proceedings were after some delay commenced against Romescos,

but,--we trust it was not through collusion with officials-he escaped

the merited punishment that would have been inflicted upon him by a

New England tribunal. Again he left the state, and during his

absence it is supposed he was engaged in nefarious practices with

the notorious Murrel, who carried rapine and death into the

unoffending villages of the far west. However, be this as it may,

little was known of him for several years, except in some desperate

encounter. The next step in his career of desperation known, was

joining a band of guerillos led by one of the most intrepid captains

that infested the borders of Mexico, during the internal warfare by

which her Texan provinces struggled for independence. Freebooters,

they espoused the Texan cause because it offered food for their

rapacity, and through it they became formidable and desperate foes

to the enemy. They were the terror of the ranchoes, the inhabitants

fled at their approach; their pillage, rapine, and slaughtering,

would stain the annals of barbarous Africa. They are buried, let us

hope for the name of a great nation, that they may remain beneath

the pale of oblivion.

In their incursions, as mounted riflemen, they besieged villages,

slaughtered the inhabitants, plundered churches, and burned

dwellings; they carried off captive females, drove herds of cattle

to distant markets. Through the auspices of this band, as is now

well known, many young females were carried off and sold into

slavery, where they and their offspring yet remain. While pursuing

this nefarious course of life, Romescos accumulated more than twenty

thousand dollars; and yet,--though ferocity increased with the

daring of his profession,--there was one impulse of his nature,

deeply buried, directing his ambition. Amid the dangers of war, the

tumult of conflict, the passion for daring-this impulse kept alive

the associations of home,--it was love! In early life he had formed

an attachment for a beautiful young lady of his native town; it had

ripened with his years; the thoughts of her, and the hope of

regaining her love if he gained wealth, so worked upon his mind that

he resolved to abandon the life of a guerillo, and return home.

After an absence of fourteen years he found the object of his early

love,--that woman who had refused to requite his affection,--a widow,

having buried her husband, a gentleman of position, some months

previous.

Romescos had money,--the man was not considered; he is not considered

where slavery spreads its vices to corrupt social life. He had been

careful to keep his business a profound secret, and pressing his

affections, soon found the object of his ambition keenly sensitive

to his advances. Rumour recounted his character with mystery and

suspicion; friends remonstrated, but in vain; they were united

despite all opposition, all appeals. For a time he seemed a better

man, the business he had followed harassed his mind, seeming to

haunt him, and poison his progress. He purchased a plantation on the

banks of the Santee; for once resolved to pursue an honest course,

to be a respectable citizen, and enjoy the quiet of home.

A year passed: he might have enjoyed the felicity of domestic life,

the affections of a beautiful bride; but the change was too sudden

for his restless spirit. He was not made to enjoy the quiet of life,

the task stood before him like a mountain without a pass, he could

not wean himself from the vices of a marauder. He had abused the

free offerings of a free country, had set law at defiance; he had

dealt in human flesh, and the task of resistance was more than the

moral element in his nature could effect. Violations of human laws

were mere speculations to him; they had beguiled him, body and soul.

He had no apology for violating personal feeling; what cared he for

that small consideration, when the bodies of men, women, and

children could be sacrificed for that gold which would give him

position among the men of the south. If he carried off poor whites,

and sold them into slavery, he saw no enormity in the performance;

the law invested him with power he made absolute. Society was

chargeable with all his wrongs, with all his crimes, all his

enormities. He had repeatedly told it so, pointing for proof to that

literal observance of the rule by which man is made mere

merchandise. Society had continued in its pedantic folly,

disregarding legal rights, imposing no restraints on the holder of

human property, violating its spirit and pride by neglecting to

enforce the great principles of justice whereby we are bound to

protect the lives of those unjustly considered inferior beings. Thus

ends a sketch of what Romescos gave of his own career.

We now find him associated with the desperadoes of slave-dealing, in

the scene we have presented. After Romescos had related what he

called the romance of his life,--intended, no doubt, to impress the

party with his power and intrepidity, and enable him to set a higher

value upon his services,--he lighted a pipe, threw his hat upon the

floor, commenced pacing up and down the room, as if labouring under

deep excitement. And while each one seemed watching him intently, a

loud knocking was heard at the door,--then the baying of

blood-hounds, the yelps of curs, mingling with the murmurs of those

poor wretches confined in the cells beneath. Then followed the

clanking of chains, cries, and wailings, startling and fearful.

Dan Bengal sprang to the door, as if conscious of its import. A

voice demanded admittance; and as the door opened Bengal exclaimed,

"Halloo!-here's Nath Nimrod: what's the tune of the adventure?"

A short, stout man entered, dressed in a coarse homespun hunting

dress, a profuse black beard and moustache nearly covering his face.

"I is'nt so bad a feller a'ter all-is I?" he says, rushing forward

into the centre of the room, followed by four huge hounds. They were

noble animals, had more instinctive gentleness than their masters,

displayed a knowledge of the importance of the prize they had just

gained.

"Hurrah for Nath! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah, for Nath! You got him,

Nath-did'nt ye?" resounded from several tongues, and was followed by

a variety of expressions highly complimentary to his efficiency.

Romescos, however, remained silent, pacing the floor unconcerned,

except in his own anxiety-as if nothing had occurred to disturb him.

Advancing to the table, the new visitor, his face glowing with

exultation, held forth, by the crispy hair, the blanched and bloody

head of an unfortunate negro who had paid the penalty of the State's

allowance for outlaws. "There: beat that, who can? Four hundred

dollars made since breakfast;" he cries out at the top of his voice.

They cast a measured look at the ghastly object, as if it were a

precious ornament, much valued for the price it would bring,

according to law. The demon expresses his joy, descants on his

expertness and skill, holds up his prize again, turns it round,

smiles upon it as his offering, then throws it into the fire place,

carelessly, like a piece of fuel. The dogs spring upon it, as if the

trophy was for their feast; but he repulses them; dogs are not so

bad after all-the canine is often the better of the two-the morsel

is too precious for canine dogs,--human dogs must devour it. "There

is nothing like a free country, nothing; and good business, when

it's well protected by law," says Nimrod, seating himself at the

table, filling a glass, bowing to his companions, drinking to the

health of his friends. He imagines himself the best fellow of the

lot. Taking Graspum by the hand, he says, "there is a clear hundred

for you, old patron!" pulls an Executive proclamation from his

pocket, and points to where it sets forth the amount of reward for

the outlaw-dead or alive. "I know'd whar the brute had his hole in

the swamp," he continues: "and I summed up the resolution to bring

him out. And then the gal o' Ginral Brinkle's, if I could pin her,

would be a clear fifty more, provided I could catch her without

damage, and twenty-five if the dogs havocked her shins. There was no

trouble in getting the fifty, seeing how my dogs were trained to the

point and call. Taste or no taste, they come square off at the word.

To see the critters trace a nigger, you'd think they had human in

them; they understands it so! But, I tell you what, it's one thing

to hunt a gal nigger, and another to run down an outlaw what has had

two or three years in the swamp. The catching him's not much, but

when ye have to slide the head off, all the pious in yer natur comes

right up to make yer feelings feel kind a' softish. However, the law

protects ye, and the game being only a nigger, different rules and

things govern one's feelings."

Bengal interrupts by laconically insinuating-raising his moody face,

and winking at Graspum-that it was all moonshine to talk about

trouble in that kind of business; "It's the very highest of

exhilarating sport!" he concludes emphatically.

"Dan!" returns the other, with a fierce stare, as he seizes the

bottle and is about to enjoy a glass of whisky uninvited; "let your

liquor stop your mouth. I set the whole pack upon the trail at

daylight, and in less than two hours they came upon him, bolted him,

and put him to the river. The leader nabbed him about half way

across, but the chap, instead of giving in, turned and fought like a

hero. Twice I thought he would whip the whole pack, but the way they

made the rags fly warn't nobody's business. Well, I just come up

with him as he plunged into the stream, lifts old sure mark, as

gives him about a dozen plugs; and then the old feller begged just

so, you'd thought he was a Christian pleadin' forgiveness at the

last moment. But, when I seizes him and gives him three or four

levellers with the butt of the rifle, ye never saw a sarpent plunge,

and struggle, and warp so. Says I, 'It's no use, old feller,--yer

might as well give her up;' and the way his eyes popped, just as if

he expected I war'nt goin to finish him. I tell ye, boys, it

required some spunk about then, for the critter got his claws upon

me with a death grip, and the dogs ripped him like an old corn

stalk, and would'nt keep off. And then there was no fracturin his

skull; and seeing how he was overpowering me, I just seizes him by

the throat and pops his head off quicker than a Chinese executioner."

The author has given the language of the slave-hunter who related

the case personally.

"Now, thar' war'nt so much in takin' the gal, cos jist when she seed

the dogs comin', the critter took to tree and gin right up: but when

I went to muzlin' on her, so she could'nt scream, then she gets

saucy; and I promised to gin her bricks,--which, fellers, I reckon

yer must take a hand in so the brute won't wake the neighbours; and

I'll do'e it afore I sleeps," said Nimrod, getting up from the table

and playfully touching Romescos upon the arm. "I see ye ain't

brightened to-day--Graspum's share don't seem to suit yer, old

feller; ah! ah!!" he continued.

"Just put another ten per cent. upon the out-lining, and running

free 'uns, and I'll stand flint," said Romescos, seeming to be acted

upon by a sudden change of feelings, as he turned to Graspum, with a

look of anxiety.

"Very well," returned Graspum. "Yer see, there's that Marston affair

to be brought to a point; and his affairs are just in such a fix

that he don't know what's what, nor who's who. Ther'll have to be

some tall swearing done in that case afore it's brought to the

hammer. That cunning of yours, Romescos, will just come into play in

this case. It'll be just the thing to do the crooked and get round

the legal points." Thus Graspum, with the dignity and assurance of a

gentleman, gave his opinion, drank with his companions, and withdrew

for the night.

Romescos, Bengal, and Nimrod, soon after descended into the vaults

below, followed by a negro bearing a lantern. Here they unbolted one

of the cells, dragged forth a dejected-looking mulatto woman, her

rags scarcely covering her nakedness. The poor wretch, a child born

to degradation and torture, whose cries were heard in heaven, heaved

a deep sigh, then gave vent to a flood of tears. They told how deep

was her anguish, how she struggled against injustice, how sorrow was

burning her very soul. The outpourings of her feelings might have

aroused the sympathies of savage hearts; but the slave monsters were

unmoved. Humbleness, despair, and even death, sat upon her very

countenance; hope had fled her, left her a wreck for whom man had no

pity. And though her prayers ascended to heaven, the God of mercy

seemed to have abandoned her to her tormentors. She came forward

trembling and reluctantly, her countenance changed; she gave a

frowning look at her tormentors, wild and gloomy, shrank back into

the cell, the folds of straight, black hair hanging about her

shoulders.

"Come out here!" Nimrod commands in an angry tone; then, seizing her

by the arm, dragged her forth, and jerked her prostrate on the

ground. Here, like as many fiends in human form, the rest fell upon

her, held her flat to the floor by the hands and feet, her face

downwards, while Nimrod, with a raw hide, inflicted thirty lashes on

her bare back. Her cries and groans, as she lay writhing, the flesh

hanging in quivering shreds, and lifting with the lash,--her appeals

for mercy, her prayers to heaven, her fainting moans as the agony of

her torture stung into her very soul, would have touched a heart of

stone. But, though her skin had not defiled her in the eyes of the

righteous, there was none to take pity on her, nor to break the

galling chains; no! the punishment was inflicted with the measured

coolness of men engaged in an every-day vocation. It was simply the

right which a democratic law gave men to become lawless, fierce in

the conspiracy of wrong, and where the legal excitement of

trafficking in the flesh and blood of one another sinks them

unconsciously into demons.

CHAPTER VII.

"BUCKRA-MAN VERY UNCERTAIN."

THE caption, a common saying among negroes at the south, had its

origin in a consciousness, on the part of the negro, of the many

liabilities to which his master's affairs are subject, and his own

dependence on the ulterior consequences. It carries with it a deep

significance, opens a field for reflection, comprehends the negro's

knowledge of his own uncertain state, his being a piece of property

the good or evil of which is effected by his master's caprices, the

binding force of the law that makes him merchandise. Nevertheless,

while the negro feels them in all their force, the master values

them only in an abstract light. Ask the negro whose master is kind

to him, if he would prefer his freedom and go north?-At first he

will hesitate, dilate upon his master's goodness, his affection for

him, the kindly feeling evinced for him by the family-they often

look upon him with a patriarchal tenderness-and, finally, he will

conclude by telling you he wishes master and missus would live for

ever. He tells you, in the very simplicity of his nature, that "Eve'

ting so unsartin! and mas'r don't know if he die when he gwine to."

That when he is dying he does not realise it; and though his

intention be good, death may blot out his desires, and he, the

dependent, being only a chattel, must sink into the uncertain stream

of slave-life. Marston's plantation might have been taken as an

illustration of the truth of this saying. Long had it been

considered one of eminent profit; his field slaves were well cared

for; his favourite house servants had every reasonable indulgence

granted them. And, too, Marston's mansion was the pleasant retreat

of many a neighbour, whose visits were welcomed by the kindly

attention he had taught his domestics to bestow. Marston's fault lay

in his belonging to that class of planters who repose too much

confidence in others.

The morning following Lorenzo's departure ushered forth bright and

balmy. A quiet aspect reigned in and about the plantation, servants

moved sluggishly about, the incidents of the preceding night

oppressed Marston's mind; his feelings broke beyond his power of

restraint. Like contagion, the effect seized each member of his

household,--forcibly it spoke in word and action! Marston had

bestowed much care upon Lorenzo and Franconia; he had indulged and

idolised the latter, and given the former some good advice. But

advice without example seldom produces lasting good; in truth,

precept had the very worst effect upon Lorenzo,--it had proved his

ruin! His singular and mysterious departure might for a time be

excused,--even accounted for in some plausible manner, but suspicion

was a stealing monster that would play upon the deeply tinctured

surface, and soar above in disgrace. That the Rovero family were

among the first of the State would not be received as a palliation;

they had suffered reverses of fortune, and, with the addition of

Lorenzo's profligacy, which had been secretly drawing upon their

resources, were themselves well nigh in discredit. And now that this

sudden and unexpected reverse had befallen Marston, he could do

nothing for their relief. Involved, perplexed, and distrusted-with

ever-slaying suspicion staring him in the face-he was a victim

pursued by one who never failed to lay low his object. That man

moved with unerring method, could look around him upon the

destitution made by his avarice, without evincing a shadow of

sympathy. Yes! he was in the grasp of a living Shylock, whose soul,

worn out in the love of gold, had forgotten that there existed a

distinction between right and wrong.

Surrounded by all these dark forebodings, Marston begins to reflect

on his past life. He sees that mercy which overlooks the sins of man

when repentance is pure; but his life is full of moral blemishes; he

has sinned against the innocent, against the God of forgiveness. The

inert of his nature is unfolding itself,--he has lived according to

the tolerated vices of society-he has done no more than the law gave

him a right to do! And yet, that very society, overlooking its own

wrongs, would now strip him of its associations. He lives in a State

where it is difficult to tell what society will approve or

reprobate; where a rich man may do with impunity what would consign

a poor man to the gallows.

If we examine the many rencontres that take place in the south,

especially those proving fatal, we will find that the perpetrator,

if he be a rich man, invariably receives an "honourable acquittal."

Again, when the man of position shoots down his victim in the

streets of a city, he is esteemed brave; but a singular reversion

takes place if the rencontre be between poor men. It is then a

diabolical act, a murder, which nothing short of the gallows can

serve for punishment. The creatures whom he had made mere objects to

serve his sensuality were before him; he traced the gloomy history

of their unfortunate sires; he knew that Ellen and Clotilda were

born free. The cordon that had bound his feelings to the system of

slavery relaxed. For the first time, he saw that which he could not

recognise in his better nature-himself the medium of keeping human

beings in slavery who were the rightful heirs of freedom. The

blackness of the crime-its cruelty, its injustice-haunted him; they

were at that very moment held by Graspum's caprice. He might doom

the poor wretches to irretrievable slavery, to torture and death!

Then his mind wandered to Annette and Nicholas; he saw them of his

own flesh and blood; his natural affections bounded forth; how could

he disown them? The creations of love and right were upon him,

misfortune had unbound his sensations; his own offspring stood

before him clothed in trouble thick and dangerous. His follies have

entailed a life-rent of misery upon others; the fathomless depth of

the future opens its yawning jaws to swallow up those upon whom the

fondness of a father should have been bestowed for their moral and

physical good.

As he sits contemplating this painful picture, Aunt Rachel enters

the room to inquire if Lorenzo breakfasts with them. "Why! old

mas'r, what ail ye dis mornin'? Ye don't seems nohow. Not a stripe

like what ye was yesterday; somethin' gi 'h de wrong way, and mas'r

done know what i' is," she mutters to herself, looking seriously at

Marston.

"Nothing! old bustler; nothing that concerns you. Do not mention

Lorenzo's name again; he has gone on a journey. Send my old faithful

Daddy Bob to me." Rachel hastened to fulfil the command; soon

brought the old servant to the door. His countenance lighted up with

smiles as he stood at the doorway, bowing and scraping, working his

red cap in his hand. There stood the old man, a picture of

attachment.

"Come in, Bob, come in!" Marston says, motioning his hand, "I wish

the world was as faithful as you are. You are worthy the indulgence

I have bestowed upon you; let me hope there is something better in

prospect for you. My life reproves me; and when I turn and review

its crooked path-when I behold each inconsistency chiding me-I

lament what I cannot recall." Taking the old man by the hand, the

tears glistening in his eyes, he looks upon him as a father would

his child.

"In a short time, Bob, you shall be free to go where you please, on

the plantation or off it. But remember, Bob, you are old-you have

grown grey in faithfulness,--the good southerner is the true friend

of the negro! I mean he is the true friend of the negro, because he

has associated with him from childhood, assimilated with his

feelings, made his nature a study. He welcomes him without reserve,

approaches him without that sensitiveness and prejudice which the

northerner too often manifests towards him. You shall be free, Bob!

you shall be free!-free to go where you please; but you must remain

among southerners, southerners are your friends."

"Yes, mas'r, 'im all just so good, if t'warn't dat I so old. Free

nigger, when 'e old, don't gwane to get along much. Old Bob tink on

dat mighty much, he do dat! Lef Bob free win 'e young, den 'e get

tru' de world like Buckra, only lef 'im de chance what Buckra hab.

Freedom ain't wof much ven old Bob worn out, mas'r; and Buckra what

sell nigger,--what make 'e trade on him, run 'im off sartin. He sell

old nigger what got five dollar wof' a work in 'e old bones. Mas'r

set 'um free, bad Buckra catch 'um, old Bob get used up afo' he know

nofin," quaintly replied the old man, seeming to have an instinctive

knowledge of the "nigger trade," but with so much attachment for his

master that he could not be induced to accept his freedom.

"It's not the leaving me, Bob; you may be taken from me. You are

worth but little, 'tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a

bad master. If the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know,

and I will prosecute them," returned Marston.

"Ah! mas'r; dat's just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty! How I

gwane to let mas'r know, when mas'r no larn nigger to read," he

quickly responded. There is something in his simple remark that

Marston has never before condescended to contemplate,--something the

simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted

at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery. Education would be

valuable to the negro, especially in his old age; it would soften

his impulses rather than impair his attachment, unless the master be

a tyrant fearing the results of his own oppression. Marston, a good

master, had deprived the old man of the means of protecting himself

against the avarice of those who would snatch him from freedom, and

while his flesh and blood contained dollars and cents, sell him into

slavery. Freedom, under the best circumstances, could do him little

good in his old age; and yet, a knowledge of the wrong rankled deep

in Marston's feelings: he could relieve it only by giving Daddy Bob

and Harry their freedom if they would accept it.

Relinquishing Daddy's hand, he commanded him to go and bring him

Annette and Nicholas. "Bring them," he says, "without the knowledge

of their mothers." Bob withdrew, hastened to the cabins in the yard

to fulfil the mission. Poor things, thought Marston; they are mine,

how can I disown them? Ah, there's the point to conquer-I cannot! It

is like the mad torrents of hell, stretched out before me to consume

my very soul, to bid me defiance. Misfortune is truly a great

purifier, a great regenerator of our moral being; but how can I make

the wrong right?-how can I live to hope for something beyond the

caprice of this alluring world? My frailties have stamped their

future with shame.

Thus he mused as the children came scampering into the room.

Annette, her flaxen curls dangling about her neck, looking as tidy

and bright as the skill of Clotilda could make her, runs to Marston,

throws herself on his knee, fondles about his bosom, kisses his hand

again and again. She loves him,--she knows no other father. Nicholas,

more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the

while. Looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head

enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too

bashful to approach Annette's position.

Marston has taken Annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls

her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the

toying recognition of a father. He is deeply immersed in thought,

smooths her hair, walks to the glass with her in his arms, holds her

before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the

child. Resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls Nicholas to

him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of

kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at

his hands. He looked upon them again, and again caressed them,

parted their hair with his fingers. And as Annette would open her

eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his

thoughts seemed contending with something fearful. He was in

trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a

sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek

told the tale of his reflections.

"Now, Daddy;" he speaks, directing himself to old Bob, who stands at

the door surprised at Marston's singular movements, "you are my

confidant, what do you think the world-I mean the people about the

district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine? You

know, Bob,--you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have

they features like mine?" he inquires with rapid utterance.

"Mas'r, Bob don' like to say all he feels," meekly muttered the old

man.

"There is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it

recoils upon us when we least think. Unfortunate wretches bear them

unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for

selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer

called right! We sell the most interesting beings for a

price,--beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts."

The old slave's eyes glistened with excitement; he looked on

astonished, as if some extraordinary scene had surprised him. As his

agitation subsided, he continued, "Mas'r, I bin watch 'im dis long

time. Reckon how nobody wouldn't take 'em fo'h nobody else's-fo'h

true! Dar ain't no spozin' bout 'em, 'e so right smart twarn't no

use to guise 'em: da'h just like old Boss. Mas'r, nigger watch dem

tings mighty close; more close den Buckra, cos' Buckra tink 'e all

right when nigger tink 'e all wrong."

Marston is not quite content with this: he must needs put another

question to the old man. "You are sure there can be no mistaking

them for mine?" he rejoins, fixing his eyes upon the children with

an almost death-like stare, as Daddy leads them out of the room. The

door closes after them, he paces the room for a time, seats himself

in his chair again, and is soon absorbed in contemplation. "I must

do something for them-I must snatch them from the jaws of danger.

They are full of interest-they are mine; there is not a drop of

negro blood in their veins, and yet the world asks who are their

mothers, what is their history? Ah! yes; in that history lies the

canker that has eaten out the living springs of many lives. It is

that which cuts deepest. Had I known myself, done what I might have

done before it was too late, kindness would have its rewards; but I

am fettered, and the more I move the worse for them. Custom has laid

the foundation of wrong, the law protects it, and a free government

tolerates a law that shields iniquities blackening earth." In this

train of thought his mind wandered. He would send the children into

a free state, there to be educated; that they may live in the

enjoyment of those rights with which nature had blest them. The

obstacles of the law again stared him in the face; the wrong by

which they were first enslaved, now forgotten, had brought its

climax.

Suddenly arousing from his reverie, he started to his feet, and

walking across the floor, exclaimed in an audible voice, "I will

surmount all difficulties,--I will recognise them as my children; I

will send them where they may become ornaments of society, instead

of living in shame and licentiousness. This is my resolve, and I

will carry it out, or die!"

CHAPTER VIII.

A CLOUD OF MISFORTUNE HANGS OVER THE PLANTATION.

THE document Marston signed for Lorenzo-to release him from the

difficulties into which he had been drawn by Graspum-guaranteed the

holder against all loss. This, in the absence of Lorenzo, and under

such stranger circumstances, implied an amount which might be

increased according to the will of the man into whose hands he had

so unfortunately fallen.

Nearly twelve months had now elapsed since the disclosure of the

crime. Maxwell, our young Englishman, had spent the time among the

neighbouring plantations; and failing to enlist more than friendly

considerations from Franconia, resolved to return to Bermuda and

join his family. He had, however, taken a deep interest in Clotilda

and Annette,--had gone to their apartment unobserved, and in secret

interviews listened to Clotilda's tale of trouble. Its recital

enlisted his sympathies; and being of an ardent and impressible

temper, he determined to carry out a design for her relief. He

realised her silent suffering,--saw how her degraded condition

wrangled with her noble feelings,--how the true character of a woman

loathed at being the slave of one who claimed her as his property.

And this, too, without the hope of redeeming herself, except by some

desperate effort. And, too, he saw but little difference between the

blood of Franconia and the blood of Clotilda; the same outline of

person was there,--her delicate countenance, finely moulded bust,

smoothly converging shoulders. There was the same Grecian cast of

face, the same soft, reflective eyes,--filling a smile with

sweetness, and again with deep-felt sorrow. The same sensitive

nature, ready to yield forth love and tenderness, or to press onward

the more impassioned affections, was visible in both. And yet, what

art had done for Franconia nature had replenished for Clotilda. But,

the servile hand was upon her, she crouched beneath its grasp; it

branded her life, and that of her child, with ignominy and death.

During these interviews he would watch her emotions as she looked

upon her child; when she would clasp it to her bosom, weeping, until

from the slightest emotion her feelings would become frantic with

anguish.

"And you, my child, a mother's hope when all other pleasures are

gone! Are you some day to be torn from me, and, like myself, sent to

writhe under the coarse hand of a slave-dealer, to be stung with

shame enforced while asking God's forgiveness? Sometimes I think it

cannot be so; I think it must all be a dream. But it is so, and we

might as well submit, say as little of the hardship as possible, and

think it's all as they tell us-according to God's will," she would

say, pressing the child closer and closer to her bosom, the

agitation of her feelings rising into convulsions as the tears

coursed down her cheeks. Then she would roll her soft eyes upwards,

her countenance filling with despair. The preservation of her child

was pictured in the depth of her imploring look. For a time her

emotions would recede into quiet,--she would smile placidly upon

Annette, forget the realities that had just swept her mind into such

a train of trouble.

One night, as Maxwell entered her apartment, he found her kneeling

at her bed-side, supplicating in prayer. The word, "Oh, God; not me,

but my child-guide her through the perils that are before her, and

receive her into heaven at last," fell upon his ear. He paused,

gazed upon her as if some angel spirit had touched the tenderest

chord of his feelings-listened unmoved. A lovely woman, an

affectionate mother, the offspring of a noble race,--herself forced

by relentless injustice to become an instrument of

licentiousness-stood before him in all that can make woman an

ornament to her sex. What to Ellen Juvarna seemed the happiness of

her lot, was pain and remorse to Clotilda; and when she arose there

was a nervousness, a shrinking in her manner, betokening

apprehension. "It is not now; it is hereafter. And yet there is no

glimmer of hope!" she whispers, as she seats herself in a chair,

pulls the little curtain around the bed, and prepares to retire.

The scene so worked upon Maxwell's feelings that he could withstand

the effect no longer; he approached her, held out his hand, greeted

her with a smile: "Clotilda, I am your friend," he whispers, "come,

sit down and tell me what troubles you!"

"If what I say be told in confidence?" she replied, as if

questioning his advance.

"You may trust me with any secret; I am ready to serve you, if it be

with my life!"

Clasping her arms round her child, again she wept in silence. The

moment was propitious--the summer sun had just set beneath dark

foliage in the west, its refulgent curtains now fading into mellow

tints; night was closing rapidly over the scene, the serene moon

shone softly through the arbour into the little window at her

bedside. Again she took him by the hand, invited him to sit down at

her side, and, looking imploringly in his face, continued,--"If you

are a friend, you can be a friend in confidence, in purpose. I am a

slave! yes, a slave; there is much in the word, more than most men

are disposed to analyse. It may seem simple to you, but follow it to

its degraded depths-follow it to where it sows the seeds of sorrow,

and there you will find it spreading poison and death, uprooting all

that is good in nature. Worse than that, my child is a slave too. It

is that which makes the wrong more cruel, that mantles the polished

vice, that holds us in that fearful grasp by which we dare not seek

our rights.

"My mother, ah! yes, my mother"-Clotilda shakes her head in sorrow.

"How strange that, by her misfortune, all, all, is misfortune for

ever! from one generation to another, sinking each life down, down,

down, into misery and woe. How oft she clasped my hand and whispered

in my ear: 'If we could but have our rights.' And she, my mother,--as

by that sacred name I called her-was fair; fairer than those who

held her for a hideous purpose, made her existence loathsome to

herself, who knew the right but forced the wrong. She once had

rights, but was stripped of them; and once in slavery who can ask

that right be done?"

"What rights have you beyond these?" he interrupted, suddenly.

"There is mystery in what you have said, in what I have seen;

something I want to solve. The same ardent devotion, tenderness,

affection,--the same touching chasteness, that characterises

Franconia, assimilates in you. You are a slave, a menial-she is

courted and caressed by persons of rank and station. Heavens! here

is the curse confounding the flesh and blood of those in high

places, making slaves of their own kinsmen, crushing out the spirit

of life, rearing up those broken flowers whose heads droop with

shame. And you want your freedom?"

"For my child first," she replied, quickly: "I rest my hopes of her

in the future."

Maxwell hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating some plan for

her escape, ran his fingers through his hair again and again, then

rested his forehead in his hand, as the perspiration stood in heavy

drops upon it. "My child!" There was something inexpressibly

touching in the words of a mother ready to sacrifice her own

happiness for the freedom of her child. And yet an awful

responsibility hung over him; should he attempt to gain their

freedom, and fail in carrying out the project, notwithstanding he

was in a free country, the act might cost him his life. But there

was the mother, her pride beaming forth in every action, a wounded

spirit stung with the knowledge of being a slave, the remorse of her

suffering soul-the vicissitudes of that sin thus forced upon her.

The temptation became irresistible.

"You are English!"-northerners and Englishmen know what liberty is.

Negroes at the South have a very high opinion of Northern cleverness

in devising means of procuring their liberty. The Author here uses

the language employed by a slave girl who frequently implored aid to

devise some plan by which she would be enabled to make her escape.

Northerners could do great things for us, if they would but know us

as we are, study our feelings, cast aside selfish motives, and

sustain our rights!" Clotilda now commenced giving Maxwell a history

of her mother,--which, however, we must reserve for another chapter.

"And my mother gave me this!" she said, drawing from her pocket a

paper written over in Greek characters, but so defaced as to be

almost unintelligible. "Some day you will find a friend who will

secure your freedom through that," she would say. "But freedom-that

which is such a boon to us-is so much feared by others that you must

mark that friend cautiously, know him well, and be sure he will not

betray the liberty you attempt to gain." And she handed him the

defaced paper, telling him to put it in his pocket.

"And where is your mother?"

"There would be a store of balm in that, if I did but know. Her

beauty doomed her to a creature life, which, when she had worn out,

she was sold, as I may be, God knows how soon. Though far away from

me, she is my mother still, in all that recollection can make her;

her countenance seems like a wreath decorating our past

associations. Shrink not when I tell it, for few shrink at such

things now,--I saw her chained; I didn't think much of it then, for I

was too young. And she took me in her arms and kissed me, the tears

rolled down her cheeks; and she said-'Clotilda, Clotilda, farewell!

There is a world beyond this, a God who knows our hearts, who

records our sorrows;' and her image impressed me with feelings I

cannot banish. To look back upon it seems like a rough pilgrimage;

and then when I think of seeing her again my mind gets lost in

hopeless expectations"--

"You saw her chained?" interrupted Maxwell.

"Yes, even chained with strong irons. It need not surprise you.

Slavery is a crime; and they chain the innocent lest the wrong

should break forth upon themselves." And she raised her hands to her

face, shook her head, and laid Annette in the little bed at the foot

of her own.

What is it that in chaining a woman, whether she be black as ebony

or white as snow, degrades all the traits of the southerner's

character, which he would have the world think noble? It is fear!

The monster which the southerner sees by day, tolerates in his

silence, protects as part and parcel of a legal trade, only clothes

him with the disgrace that menials who make themselves mere fiends

are guilty of, Maxwell thought to himself.

"I will set you free, if it cost my life!" he exclaimed.

"Hush, hush!" rejoined Clotilda: "remember those wretches on the

plantation. They, through their ignorance, have learned to wield the

tyranny of petty power; they look upon us with suspicious eyes. They

know we are negroes (white negroes, who are despicable in their

eyes), and feeling that we are more favoured, their envy is excited.

They, with the hope of gaining favour, are first to disclose a

secret. Save my child first, and then save me"--

"I will save you first; rest assured, I will save you;" he

responded, shaking her hand, bidding her good night. On returning to

the mansion he found Marston seated at the table in the

drawing-room, in a meditative mood. Good night, my friend!" he

accosted him.

"Ah, good night!" was the sudden response.

"You seem cast down?"

"No!-all's not as it seems with a man in trouble. How misfortune

quickens our sense of right! O! how it unfolds political and moral

wrongs! how it purges the understanding, and turns the good of our

natures to thoughts of justice. But when the power to correct is

beyond our reach we feel the wrong most painfully," Marston coldly

replied.

"It never is too late to do good; my word for it, friend Marston,

good is always worth its services. I am young and may serve you yet;

rise above trouble, never let trifles trouble a man like you. The

world seems wagging pleasantly for you; everybody on the plantation

is happy; Lorenzo has gone into the world to distinguish himself;

grief should never lay its scalpel in your feelings. Remember the

motto-peace, pleasantry, and plenty; they are things which should

always dispel the foreshadowing of unhappiness," says Maxwell,

jocularly, taking a chair at Marston's request, and seating himself

by the table.

Marston declares such consolation to be refreshing, but too easily

conceived to effect his purpose. The ripest fruits of vice often

produce the best moral reflections: he feels convinced of this

truth; but here the consequences are entailed upon others. The

degradation is sunk too deep for recovery by him,--his reflections

are only a burden to him. The principle that moves him to atone is

crushed by the very perplexity of the law that compels him to do

wrong. "There's what goads me," he says: "it is the system, the

forced condition making one man merchandise, and giving another

power to continue him as such." He arises from the table, his face

flushed with excitement, and in silence paces the room to and fro

for several minutes. Every now and then he watches at the

window,--looks out towards the river, and again at the pine-woods

forming a belt in the background, as if he expected some one from

that direction. The serene scene without, calm and beautiful,

contrasting with the perplexity that surrounded him within,

brought the reality of the change which must soon take place in his

affairs more vividly to his mind.

"Your feelings have been stimulated and modified by education; they

are keenly sensitive to right,--to justice between man and man. Those

are the beautiful results of early instruction. New England

education! It founds a principle for doing good; it needs no

contingencies to rouse it to action. You can view slavery with the

unprejudiced eye of a philosopher. Listen to what I am about to say:

but a few months have passed since I thought myself a man of

affluence, and now nothing but the inroads of penury are upon me.

The cholera (that scourge of a southern plantation) is again

sweeping the district: I cannot expect to escape it, and I am in the

hands of a greater scourge than the cholera,--a slow death-broker. He

will take from you that which the cholera would not deign to touch:

he has no more conscience than a cotton-press," says Marston,

reclining back in his chair, and calling the negro waiter.

The word conscience fell upon Maxwell's ear with strange effect. He

had esteemed Marston according to his habits-not a good test when

society is so remiss of its duties: he could not reconcile the touch

of conscience in such a person, nor could he realise the impulse

through which some sudden event was working a moral regeneration in

his mind. There was something he struggled to keep from notice. The

season had been unpropitious, bad crops had resulted; the cholera

made its appearance, swept off many of the best negroes, spread

consternation, nearly suspended discipline and labour. One by one

his negroes fell victims to its ravages, until it became

imperatively necessary to remove the remainder to the pine-woods.

Families might be seen here and there making their little

preparations to leave for the hills: the direful scourge to them was

an evil spirit, sent as a visitation upon their bad deeds. This they

sincerely believe, coupling it with all the superstition their

ignorance gives rise to. A few miles from the mansion, among the

pines, rude camps are spread out, fires burn to absorb the malaria,

to war against mosquitoes, to cook the evening meal; while, up

lonely paths, ragged and forlorn-looking negroes are quietly

wending their way to take possession. The stranger might view this

forest bivouac as a picture of humble life pleasantly domiciled; but

it is one of those unfortunate scenes, fruitful of evil, which beset

the planter when he is least able to contend against them. Such

events develope the sin of an unrighteous institution, bring its

supporters to the portals of poverty, consign harmless hundreds to

the slave-marts.

In this instance, however, we must give Marston credit for all that

was good in his intentions, and separate him from the system.

Repentance, however produced, is valuable for its example, and if

too late for present utility, seldom fails to have an ultimate

influence. Thus it was with Marston; and now that all these

inevitable disasters were upon him, he resolved to be a father to

Annette and Nicholas,--those unfortunates whom law and custom had

hitherto compelled him to disown.

Drawing his chair close to Maxwell, he lighted a cigar, and resumed

the disclosure his feelings had apparently interrupted a few minutes

before. "Now, my good friend, all these things are upon me; there is

no escaping the issue. My people will soon be separated from me; my

old, faithful servants, Bob and Harry, will regret me, and if they

fall into the hands of a knave, will die thinking of the old

plantation. As for Harry, I have made him a preacher,--his knowledge

is wonderfully up on Scripture; he has demonstrated to me that

niggers are more than mortal, or transitory things. My conscience

was touched while listening to one of his sermons; and then, to

think how I had leased him to preach upon a neighbouring plantation,

just as a man would an ox to do a day's work! Planters paid me so

much per sermon, as if the gospel were merchandise, and he a mere

thing falsifying all my arguments against his knowledge of the Word

of God. Well, it makes me feel as if I were half buried in my own

degradation and blindness. And then, again, they are our property,

and are bestowed upon us by a legal-"

"If that be wrong," interrupted Maxwell, "you have no excuse for

continuing it."

"True! That's just what I was coming at. The evil in its broadest

expanse is there. We look calmly on the external objects of the

system without solving its internal grievances,--we build a right

upon the ruins of ancient wrongs, and we swathe our thoughts with

inconsistency that we may make the curse of a system invulnerable.

It is not that we cannot do good under a bad system, but that we

cannot ameliorate it, lest we weaken the foundation. And yet all

this seems as nothing when I recall a sin of greater magnitude-a sin

that is upon me-a hideous blot, goading my very soul, rising up

against me like a mountain, over which I can see no pass. Again the

impelling force of conscience incites me to make a desperate effort;

but conscience rebukes me for not preparing the way in time. I could

translate my feelings further, but, in doing so, the remedy seems

still further from me-"

"Is it ever too late to try a remedy-to make an effort to surmount

great impediments-to render justice to those who have suffered from

such acts?" inquired Maxwell, interrupting Marston as he proceeded.

"If I could do it without sacrificing my honour, without exposing

myself to the vengeance of the law. We are great sticklers for

constitutional law, while we care little for constitutional justice.

There is Clotilda; you see her, but you don't know her history: if

it were told it would resound through the broad expanse of our land.

Yes, it would disclose a wrong, perpetrated under the smiles of

liberty, against which the vengeance of high Heaven would be

invoked. I know the secret, and yet I dare not disclose it; the

curse handed down from her forefathers has been perpetuated by me.

She seems happy, and yet she is unhappy; the secret recesses of her

soul are poisoned. And what more natural? for, by some unlucky

incident, she has got an inkling of the foul means by which she was

made a slave. To him who knows the right, the wrong is most painful;

but I bought her of him whose trade it was to sell such flesh and

blood! And yet that does not relieve me from the curse: there's the

stain; it hangs upon me, it involves my inclinations, it gloats over

my downfall-"

"You bought her!" again interrupts Maxwell.

"True," rejoins the other, quickly, "'tis a trade well protected by

our democracy. Once bought, we cannot relieve ourselves by giving

them rights in conflict with the claims of creditors. Our will may

be good, but the will without the means falls hopeless. My heart

breaks under the knowledge that those children are mine. It is a sad

revelation to make,--sad in the eyes of heaven and earth. My

participation in wrong has proved sorrow to them: how can I look to

the pains and struggles they must endure in life, when stung with

the knowledge that I am the cause of it? I shall wither under the

torture of my own conscience. And there is even an interest about

them that makes my feelings bound joyfully when I recur them. Can it

be aught but the fruit of natural affection? I think not; and yet I

am compelled to disown them, and even to smother with falsehood the

rancour that might find a place in Franconia's bosom. Clotilda loves

Annette with a mother's fondness; but with all her fondness for her

child she dare not love me, nor I the child."

Maxwell suggests that his not having bought the child would

certainly give him the right to control his own flesh and blood: but

he knows little of slave law, and less of its customs. He, however,

was anxious to draw from Marston full particulars of the secret that

would disclose Clotilda's history, over which the partial exposition

had thrown the charm of mystery. Several times he was on the eve of

proffering his services to relieve the burden working upon Marston's

mind; but his sympathies were enlisted toward the two unfortunate

women, for whom he was ready to render good service, to relieve them

and their children. Again, he remembered how singularly sensitive

Southerners were on matters concerning the peculiar institution,

especially when approached by persons from abroad. Perhaps it was a

plot laid by Marston to ascertain his feelings on the subject, or,

under that peculiar jealousy of Southerners who live in this manner,

he might have discovered his interview with Clotilda, and, in

forming a plan to thwart his project, adopted this singular course

for disarming apprehensions.

At this stage of the proceedings a whispering noise was heard, as if

coming from another part of the room. They stopped at the moment,

looked round with surprise, but not seeing anything, resumed the

conversation.

"Of whom did you purchase?" inquired Maxwell, anxiously.

"One Silenus; a trader who trades in this quality of property only,

and has become rich by the traffic. He is associated with Anthony

Romescos, once a desperado on the Texan frontier. These two coveys

would sell their mossmates without a scruple, and think it no harm

so long as they turned a dime. They know every justice of the peace

from Texas to Fort M'Henry. Romescos is turned the desperado again,

shoots, kills, and otherwise commits fell deeds upon his neighbour's

negroes; he even threatens them with death when they approach him

for reparation. He snaps his fingers at law, lawyers, and judges:

slave law is moonshine to those who have no rights in common law-"

"And he escapes? Then you institute laws, and substitute custom to

make them null. It is a poor apology for a namesake. But do you

assert that in the freest and happiest country-a country that boasts

the observance of its statute laws-a man is privileged to shoot,

maim, and torture a fellow-being, and that public opinion fails to

bring him to justice?" ejaculated Maxwell.

"Yes," returns Marston, seriously; "it is no less shameful than

true. Three of my negroes has he killed very good-naturedly, and yet

I have no proof to convict him. Even were I to seek redress, it

would be against that prejudice which makes the rights of the

enslaved unpopular."

The trouble exists in making the man merchandise, reducing him to an

abject being, without the protection of common law. Presently the

tears began to flow down Marston's cheeks, as he unbuttoned his

shirt-collar with an air of restlessness, approached a desk that

stood in one corner of the room, and drew from it a somewhat defaced

bill of sale. There was something connected with that bit of paper,

which, apart from anything else, seemed to harass him most. "But a

minute before you entered I looked upon that paper," he spoke,

throwing it upon the table, "and thought how much trouble it had

brought me, how through it I had left a curse upon innocent life. I

paid fifteen hundred dollars for the souls and bodies of those two

women, creatures of sense, delicacy, and tenderness. But I am not a

bad man, after all. No, there are worse men than me in the world."

"Gather, gather, ye incubus of misfortune, bearing to me the light

of heaven, with which to see my sins. May it come to turn my heart

in the right way, to seek its retribution on the wrong!" Thus

concluding, Marston covers his face in his hands, and for several

minutes weeps like a child. Again rising from his seat, he throws

the paper on a table near an open window, and himself upon a couch

near by.

Maxwell attempts to quiet him by drawing his attention from the

subject. There is little use, however,--it is a terrible

conflict,--the conflict of conscience awakening to a sense of its

errors; the fate of regrets when it is too late to make amends.

While this was going on, a brawny hand reached into the window, and

quickly withdrew the paper from the table. Neither observed it.

And at the moment, Marston ejaculated, "I will! I will! let it cost

what it may. I will do justice to Clotilda and her child,--to Ellen

and her child; I will free them, send them into a free country to be

educated." In his excitement he forgot the bill of sale.

"Like enough you will!" responds a gruff voice; and a loud rap at

the hall-door followed. Dandy was summoned, opened the door, bowed

Romescos into the room. He pretends to be under the influence of

liquor, which he hopes will excuse his extraordinary familiarity at

such a late hour. Touching the hilt of his knife, he swaggers into

the presence of Marston, looks at him fixedly, impertinently demands

something to drink. He cares not what it be, waits for no ceremony,

tips the decanter, gulps his glass, and deliberately takes a seat.

The reader will perhaps detect the object of his presence; but,

beyond that, there is something deep and desperate in the appearance

of the man, rendering his familiarity exceedingly disagreeable. That

he should present himself at such an untimely hour was strange,

beyond Marston's comprehension. It was, indeed, most inopportune;

but knowing him, he feared him. He could not treat him with

indifference,--there was his connection with Graspum, his power over

the poor servile whites; he must be courteous-so, summoning his

suavity, he orders Dandy to wait upon him.

Romescos amuses himself with sundry rude expressions about the

etiquette of gentlemen,--their rights and associations,--the glorious

freedom of a glorious land. Not heeding Dandy's attention, he fills

another glass copiously, twirls it upon the table, eyes Marston, and

then Maxwell, playfully-drinks his beverage with the air of one

quite at home.

"Marston, old feller," he says, winking at Maxwell, "things don't

jibe so straight as they use't-do they? I wants a stave o'

conversation on matters o' business with ye to-morrow. It's a smart

little property arrangement; but I ain't in the right fix just now;

I can't make the marks straight so we can understand two and two. Ye

take, don't ye? Somethin' touching a genteel business with your fast

young nephew, Lorenzo. Caution to the wise." Romescos, making

several vain attempts, rises, laughing with a half-independent air,

puts his slouch hat on his head, staggers to the door, makes passes

at Dandy, who waits his egress, and bidding them good night,

disappears.

CHAPTER IX.

WHO IS SAFE AGAINST THE POWER?

THE cholera raging on Marston's plantation, had excited Graspum's

fears. His pecuniary interests were above every other

consideration-he knew no higher object than the accumulation of

wealth; and to ascertain the precise nature and extent of the malady

he had sent Romescos to reconnoitre.

Returning to the long-room at Graspum's slave-pen, we must introduce

the reader to scenes which take place on the night following that

upon which Romescos secured the bill of sale at Marston's mansion.

Around the table we have before described sit Graspum and some dozen

of his clan. Conspicuous among them is Dan Bengal, and Nath Nimrod,

whom we described as running into the room unceremoniously, holding

by the hair the head of a negro, and exulting over it as a prize of

much value. They are relating their adventures, speculating over the

prospects of trade, comparing notes on the result of making free

trash human property worth something! They all manifest the happiest

of feelings, have a language of their own, converse freely; at times

sprinkle their conversation with pointed oaths. They are conversant

with the business affairs of every planter in the State, know his

liabilities, the condition of his negroes, his hard cases, his bad

cases, his runaways, and his prime property. Their dilations on the

development of wenches, shades of colour, qualities of stock suited

to the various markets-from Richmond to New Orleans-disclose a

singular foresight into the article of poor human nature.

"There's nothing like pushing our kind of business, specially whin

ye gits it where ye can push profitably," speaks Bengal, his fiery

red eyes glaring over the table as he droops his head sluggishly,

and, sipping his whiskey, lets it drip over his beard upon his

bosom; "if 't warn't for Anthony's cunnin' we'd have a pesky deal of

crooked law to stumble through afore we'd get them rich uns upset."

My reader must know that southern law and justice for the poor

succumb to popular feeling in all slave atmospheres; and happy is

the fellow who can work his way through slavedom without being

dependent upon the one or brought under the influence of the other.

Graspum, in reply to Bengal, feels that gentlemen in the "nigger

business" should respect themselves. He well knows there exists not

the best feeling in the world between them and the more exclusive

aristocracy, whose feelings must inevitably be modified to suit the

democratic spirit of the age. He himself enjoys that most refined

society, which he asserts to be strong proof of the manner in which

democracy is working its way to distinction. Our business, he says,

hath so many avenues that it has become positively necessary that

some of them should be guarded by men of honour, dignity, and

irreproachable conduct. Now, he has sent Anthony Romescos to do some

watching on the sly, at Marston's plantation; but there is nothing

dishonourable in that, inasmuch as the victim is safe in his claws.

Contented with these considerations, Graspum puffs his cigar very

composedly. From slave nature, slave-seeking adventures, and the

intricacies of the human-property-market, they turn to the

discussion of state rights, of freedom in its broadest and most

practical sense. And, upon the principle of the greatest despot

being foremost to discuss what really constitutes freedom, which,

however, he always argues in an abstract sense, Nimrod was loudest

and most lavish in his praises of a protective government--a

government that would grant great good justice to the white man

only. It matters little to Nimrod which is the greater nigger; he

believes in the straight principles of right in the white man. It is

not so much how justice is carried out when menial beings form a

glorious merchandise; but it is the true essence of liberty, giving

men power to keep society all straight, to practice liberty very

liberally. "Ye see, now, Graspum," he quaintly remarks, as he takes

up the candle to light his cigar, "whatever ye do is right, so long

as the law gives a feller a right to do it. 'Tisn't a bit o' use to

think how a man can be too nice in his feelings when a hundred or

two's to be made on nigger property what's delicate, t'aint! A

feller feels sore once in a while, a' cos his conscience is a little

touchy now and then; but it won't do to give way to it-conscience

don't bring cash. When ye launches out in the nigger-trading

business ye must feel vengeance agin the brutes, and think how it's

only trade; how it's perfectly legal-and how it's encouraged by the

Governor's proclamations. Human natur's human natur'; and when ye

can turn a penny at it, sink all the in'ard inclinations. Just let

the shiners slide in, it don't matter a tenpence where ye got 'em.

Trade's everything! you might as well talk about patriotism among

crowned heads,--about the chivalry of commerce: cash makes

consequence, and them's what makes gentlemen, south."

They welcome the spirits, although it has already made them

soulless. The negro listens to a dialogue of singular import to

himself; his eyes glistened with interest, as one by one they

sported over the ignorance enforced upon the weak. One by one they

threw their slouch hats upon the floor, drew closer in conclave,

forming a grotesque picture of fiendish faces. "Now, gentlemen,"

Graspum deigns to say, after a moment's pause, motioning to the

decanter, "pass it along round when ye gets a turn about." He fills

his glass and drinks, as if drink were a necessary accompaniment of

the project before them. "This case of Marston's is a regular

plumper; there's a spec to be made in that stock of stuff; and them

bright bits of his own-they look like him-'ll make right smart

fancy. Ther' developing just in the right sort of way to be valuable

for market."

"There's movin' o' the shrewdest kind to be done there, Graspum!

Where's the dockerment what 'll make 'um property, eh?" interrupted

Nimrod, twisting the hair with which his face is covered into

fantastic points.

"Oh, my good fellows, public opinion's the dockerment; with the

bright side of public opinion! Public opinion whispers about

Clotilda: it says she looks so much like that niece of Marston's,

that you couldn't tell them apart. And they are like two pins,

gentlemen; but then one's property and t'other's anything but

property. One will bring something substantial in the market: I

wouldn't say much about the other. But there's pride in the whole

family, and where it's got into the niggers it's worth a few extra

dollars. The Marstons and Roveros don't think much of we dealers

when they don't want our money; but when they do we are cousins of

the right stripe. However, these ere little aristocratic notions

don't mount to much; they are bin generous blood-mixers, and now

they may wince over it-"

Graspum is interrupted again. Bengal has been analysing his logic,

and rises to dispute the logic of his arguments. He is ready to

stake his political faith, and all his common sense-of which he

never fails to boast-that mixing the blood of the two races destroys

the purity of the nigger, spiles the gauge of the market, detracts

from real plantation property, and will just upset the growin' of

young niggers. He is sure he knows just as much about the thing as

anybody else, has never missed his guess, although folks say he aint

no way clever at selection; and, rubbing his eyes after adjusting

the long black hair that hangs down over his shoulders, he folds his

arms with an independent air, and waits the rejoinder.

The dingy room breathes thick of deleterious fumes; a gloom hangs

over their meditations, deep and treacherous: it excites fear, not

of the men, but of the horrors of their trade. A dim light hangs

suspended from the ceiling: even the sickly shade contrasts

strangely with their black purpose.

"Variety of shade, my dear Bengal, is none of our business. If you

make a division you destroy the property and the principle. We don't

represent the South: if we did, my stars! how the abolitionists

would start up,--eh! Now, there's a right smart chance of big

aristocrat folks in the district, and they think something of their

niggers, and some are fools enough to think niggers have souls just

as white as we. That's where the thing don't strike our morals

alike. It's all right to let such folks represent us-that it is! It

tells down north."

"I goes in for that! It puts a polished face on the brown side of

things. That's the way I puts it on when I gets among the big 'uns

on 'Change. I talks to one, shakes hands with another, touches my

hat to the president of the bank; and then them what don't know

thinks how I do a little in the taking a corner of notes line!" "In

the same sly way that directors of banks do," interrupts a voice,

sullenly and slow. It was long Joe Morphet, the constable's sponge,

who did a little in the line of nigger trailing, and now and then

acted as a contingent of Graspum. Joe had, silently and with great

attention, listened to their consultations, expecting to get a hook

on at some point where his services would play at a profit; but it

all seemed beyond his comprehension-amounted to nothing.

"There's something in Joe, gentlemen! But our genteelest folks don't

alway do the genteelest things, arter all. Right-right! Joe's

right!" Graspum has suddenly comprehended Joe's logic, and brightens

up with the possession of a new idea, that at first was inclined to

get crosswise in his mind, which he has drilled in the minor details

of human nature rather than the political dignity of the state.

Joe's ideas are ranging over the necessity of keeping up a good

outside for the state; Graspum thinks only of keeping up the dignity

of himself. "Well, give in, fellers; Joe's right clever. He's got

head enough to get into Congress, and if polished up wouldn't make

the worst feller that ever was sent: he wouldn't, to my certain

knowledge. Joe's clever! What great men do with impunity little men

have no scruples in following; what the state tolerates, knaves may

play upon to their own advantage. To keep up the dignity of a slave

state, slave dealers must keep up dignity among themselves: the one

cannot live without the other. They must affect, and the state must

put on, the dignity; and northerners what aint gentlemen must be

taught to know that they aint gentlemen." This is the conclusion to

which Graspum has arrived on the maturest reflection of a few

minutes: it conforms with the opinion and dignity of

slaveocracy-must be right, else the glorious Union, with the

free-thinking north unfortunately attached, could never be

preserved. It's the nut of a glorious compact which the south only

must crack, and will crack. Graspum apologised for the thing having

escaped his memory so long. He remembered that southerners left no

stone unturned that could serve the policy of concentrating slave

power; and he remembered that it was equally necessary to keep an

eye to the feeling abroad. There were in America none but southern

nobles,--no affable gentlemen who could do the grace of polite

circles except themselves,--none who, through their bland manners,

could do more to repel the awful descriptions given of southern

society, nor who could not make strangers believe slaves were happy

mortals, happily created to live in all the happiness of slave life.

"There's nothing like putting our learned folks ahead-they're

polished down for the purpose, you see-and letting them represent us

when abroad; they puts a different sort of shine on things what our

institution makes profitable. They don't always set good examples at

home, but we can't control their tastes on small matters of that

kind: and then, what a valuable offset it is, just to have the power

of doing the free and easy gentleman, to be the brilliant companion,

to put on the smooth when you go among nobility what don't

understand the thing!" Graspum adds, with a cunning wink.

"Pooh! pooh! such talk don't jingle. You can't separate our

aristocracy from mistress-keeping. It's a matter of romance with

them,--a matter of romance, gentlemen, that's all. The south couldn't

live without romance, she couldn't!" adds Nimrod, stretching back in

his chair.

"And where did you get that broad idea from, Jakey? I kind o' likes

that sort of philosophy," adds another.

"Philosophy! I reckon how there is deep and strong philosophy in

that ar; but ye can't calc'late much on't when ye haint talents to

bring it out. That point where the soul comes in is a puzzler on

Yankees; but it takes our editors and parsons to put the arguments

where the Yankees can't demolish them. Read the Richmond--, my

grandmother of the day, if ye want to see the philosophy of niggers,

and their souls. That editor is a philosopher; the world's got to

learn his philosophy. Just take that preacher from New Jersey, what

preaches in All Saints; if he don't prove niggers aint no souls I'm

a Dutchman, and dead at that! He gives 'em broadside logic,

gentlemen; and if he hadn't been raised north he wouldn't bin so up

on niggers when he cum south," was the quick rejoinder of our

knowing expounder, who, looking Graspum in the face, demanded to

know if he was not correct. Graspum thinks it better to waste no

more time in words, but to get at the particular piece of business

for which they have been called together. He is a man of money,--a

man of trade, ever willing to admit the philosophy of the

man-market, but don't see the difference of honour between the

aristocrat who sells his bits in the market, and the honourable

dealer who gets but a commission for selling them. And there's

something about the parson who, forgetting the sanctity of his

calling, sanctifies everything pertaining to slavery. Conscience, he

admits, is a wonderful thing fixed somewhere about the heart, and,

in spite of all he can do, will trouble it once in a while.

Marston-poor Marston!-he declares to be foolishly troubled with it,

and it makes him commit grievous errors. And then, there's no

understandin' it, because Marston has a funny way of keeping it

under such a knotty-looking exterior. Graspum declares he had

nothing to do with the breaking out of the cholera, is very sorry

for it,--only wants his own, just like any other honest man. He kind

o' likes Marston, admits he is a sort of good fellow in his way;

mighty careless though, wouldn't cheat anybody if he knew it, and

never gave half a minute's thinking about how uncertain the world

was. But the cholera-a dire disease among niggers-has broke out in

all the fury of its ravages; and it makes him think of his sick

niggers and paying his debts. "You see, gentlemen-we are all

gentlemen here," Graspum continues,--"a man must pay the penalty of

his folly once in a while. It's the fate of great men as well as

smaller ones; all are liable to it. That isn't the thing, though; it

don't do to be chicken-hearted afore niggers, nor when yer dealing

in niggers, nor in any kind o' business what ye want to make coin

at. Marston 'll stick on that point, he will; see if he don't. His

feelins' are troubling him: he knows I've got the assignment; and if

he don't put them ar' white 'uns of his in the schedule, I'll snap

him up for fraud,--I will-"

The conversation is here interrupted by a loud rap at the door,

which is opened by the negro, who stands with his finger on the

latch. Romescos, in his slovenly garb, presents himself with an air

of self-assurance that marks the result of his enterprise. He is a

prominent feature in all Graspum's great operations; he is desperate

in serving his interests. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket-it

is printed with the stars and stripes of freedom-he calls it a New

England rag, disdainfully denounces that area of unbelievers in

slaveocracy, wipes his blistered face with it, advances to the

table-every eye intently watching him-and pauses for breath.

"What success, Anthony? Tell us quickly," Graspum demands, extending

his hand nervously. "Anthony never fails! It's a fool who fails in

our business," was the reply, delivered with great unconcern, and

responded to with unanimous applause. A warrior returned from

victory was Anthony,--a victory of villainy recorded in heaven, where

the rewards will, at some day, be measured out with a just but awful

retribution.

The bosom of his shirt lays broadly open: one by one they shake his

hand, as he hastily unties the chequered cloth about his neck, pours

out his drink of whiskey, seats himself in a chair, and deliberately

places his feet upon the table. "Ther's nothin' like making a

triangle of oneself when ye wants to feel so ye can blow

comfortable," he says. "I done nothin' shorter than put all straight

at Marston's last night. It was science, ye see, gents; and I done

it up strictly according to science. A feller what aint cunnin', and

don't know the nice work o' the law, can't do nothin' in the way o'

science. It's just as you said"-addressing his remarks to Graspum,--

"Marston's slackin' out his conscience because he sees how things

are goin' down hill with him. If that old hoss cholera don't clar

off the nigger property, I'm no prophet. It'll carry 'em into glory;

and glory, I reckon, isn't what you calls good pay, eh, Graspum? I

overheard his intentions: he sees the black page before him; it

troubles the chicken part of his heart. Feels mighty meek and gentle

all at once; and, it's no lie, he begins to see sin in what he has

done; and to make repentance good he's goin' to shove off that nabob

stock of his, so the creditors can't lay paws upon it. Ye got to

spring; Marston 'll get ahead of ye if he don't, old feller. This

child 'll show him how he can't cum some o' them things while Squire

Hobble and I'm on hand." Thus quaintly he speaks, pulling the bill

of sale from a side-pocket, throwing it upon the table with an air

of satisfaction amounting to exultation. "Take that ar; put it where

ye can put yer finger on't when the 'mergency comes." And he smiles

to see how gratefully and anxiously Graspum receives it, reviews it,

re-reviews it,--how it excites the joy of his nature. He has no soul

beyond the love of gold, and the system of his bloody trade. It was

that fatal instrument, great in the atmosphere of ungrateful law,

bending some of nature's noblest beneath its seal of crimes. "It's

from Silenus to Marston; rather old, but just the thing! Ah, you're

a valuable fellow, Anthony." Mr. Graspum manifests his approbation

by certain smiles, grimaces, and shakes of the hand, while word by

word he reads it, as if eagerly relishing its worth. "It's a little

thing for a great purpose; it'll tell a tale in its time;" and he

puts the precious scrip safely in his pocket, and rubbing his hands

together, declares "that deserves a bumper!" They fill up at

Graspum's request, drink with social cheers, followed by a song from

Nimrod, who pitches his tune to the words, "Come, landlord, fill the

flowing bowl."

Nimrod finishes his song: Romescos takes the floor to tell a story

about the old judge what hung the nigger a'cos he didn't want to

spend his patience listening to the testimony, and adjourned the

court to go and take a drink at Sal Stiles's grocery. His

description of the court, its high jurisdiction, the dignity of the

squire what sits as judge, how he drinks the three

jurymen-freeholders-what are going to try a nigger, how they goes

out and takes three drinks when the case gets about half way

through, how the nigger winks and blinks when he sees the jury

drunk, and hears the judge say there's only two things he likes to

hang,--niggers and schoolmasters. But as it's no harm to kill

schoolmasters-speaking in a southern sense-so Romescos thinks the

squire who got the jury inebriated afore he sent the "nigger" to be

hung doesn't mean the least harm when he evinces an abhorrence to

the whole clan of schoolmaster trash. He turns to the old story of

doing everything by system; ends by describing his method of

drinking a whole jury. He has surprised Marston, got him on the hip,

where he can feather him or sciver him, and where things must be

done sly. Public opinion, he whispers, may set folks moving, and

then they'll all be down upon him like hawks after chickens. In his

mind, the feller what pulls first comes off first best-if the law

hounds are not too soon let loose! If they are, there will be a long

drag, a small cage for the flock, and very few birds with feathers

on. Romescos cares for nobody but the judge: he tells us how the

judge and he are right good cronies, and how it's telling a good

many dollars at the end of the year to keep on the best of terms

with him, always taking him to drink when they meet. The judge is a

wonderfully clever fellow, in Romescos' opinion; ranks among

first-class drinkers; can do most anything, from hanging a nigger to

clearing the fellow that killed the schoolmaster, and said he'd

clear a dozen in two two's, if they'd kill off ever so many of the

rubbish. It is well to make his favour a point of interest. The

company are become tired of this sort of cantation; they have heard

enough of high functionaries, know quite enough of judges:--such

things are in their line of business. Romescos must needs turn the

conversation. "Well, taking it how I can entertain ye to most

anything, I'll give ye a story on the secrets of how I used to run

off Ingin remnants of the old tribes. 'Taint but a few years ago, ye

know, when ther was a lot of Ingin and white, mixed stuff-some

called it beautiful-down in Beaufort district. It was temptin'

though, I reckon, and made a feller feel just as if he was runnin'

it off to sell, every time it come in his way. Ye see, most on't was

gal property, and that kind, ollers keeps the whole district in a

hubbub; everybody's offended, and there's so much delicacy about the

ladies what come in contact with it. Yes, gentlemen! the ladies-I

means the aristocracy's ladies-hate these copper-coloured Ingins as

they would female devils. It didn't do to offend the delicacy of our

ladies, ye see; so something must be done, but it was all for

charity's sake. Squire Hornblower and me fixes a plan a'tween us: it

was just the plan to do good for the town-we must always be kind, ye

know, and try to do good-and save the dear good ladies a great deal

of unnecessary pain.

"Now, the squire had law larnin', and I had cunnin'; and both put

together made the thing work to a point. The scheme worked so nicely

that we put twelve out of fifteen of 'em right into pocket-money in

less than three years-"

"Hold a second, Romescos; how did you play the game so adroitly,

when they were all members of families living in the town? You're a

remarkable fellow," Graspum interposes, stretching his arms, and

twisting his sturdy figure over the side of his chair.

"That's what I was coming at. Ye see, whenever ye makes white trash

what ain't slaved a nuisance, you makes it mightily unpopular; and

when folks is unpopular the nuisance is easily removed, especially

when ye can get pay for removing it. The law will be as tame as a

mouse-nobody 'll say nothin'? Ingin and white rubbish is just

alike-one's worth as little as t'other. Both's only fit to sell,

sir!-worthless for any other purpose. Ye see, gentlemen, I'm

something of a philosopher, and has strong faith in the doctrine of

our popular governor, who believes it better to sell all poor whites

into slavery. 'Tain't a free country where ye don't have the right

to sell folks what don't provide for number one. I likes to hear our

big folks talk so"-Anthony's face brightens-"'cause it gives a

feller a chance for a free speculation in them lank, lean rascals;

and, too, it would stop their rifle-shooting and corn-stealing-"

"You never try your hand at such hits-do you, Nathe?" Bengal

interrupts, his fore-finger poised on his nose.

"Now, Dan," Anthony quaintly replies, "none o' yer pointed

insinuations. 'Twouldn't be much harm if the varmin would only keep

its mouth shut along the road. But when the critturs ar' got

schoolmaster gumption it's mighty apt to get a feller into a

tarnation snarl. Schoolmaster gumption makes d-d bad niggers; and

there's why I say it's best to hang schoolmasters. It's dangerous,

'cos it larns the critturs to writin' a scrawl now and then; and,

unless ye knows just how much talent he's got, and can whitewash him

yaller, it's plaguy ticklish. When the brutes have larnin', and can

write a little, they won't stay sold when ye sell 'em-that is, I

mean, white riff-raff stuff; they ain't a bit like niggers and

Ingins. And there's just as much difference a'tween the human natur

of a white nigger and a poverty-bloated white as there is a'twixt

philosophy and water-melons."

"You're drawing a long bow, Anthony," interrupts Graspum, with a

suggestion that it were better to come to the point; and concludes

by saying: "We don't care sevenpence about the worthless whites all

over the State. They can't read nor write-except a few on 'em-and

everybody knows it wouldn't do to give them learning-that wouldn't

do! We want the way you cleared that nuisance out of Beaufort

district so quick-that's what we want to hear."

"Well, ye'h sees, it took some keen play, some sly play, some

dignity, and some talent; but the best thing of the whole was the

squire's honour. He and me, ye see, joined partners--that is, he gets

places for 'em away out o' town--you understand--places where I keeps

a couple of the very best nags that ever stepped turf. And then he

puts on the soft sauder, an' is so friendly to the critturs--gets 'em

to come out with him to where he will make 'um nice house servants,

and such things. He is good at planin', as all justices is, and

would time it to arrive at midnight. I, havin' got a start, has all

ready to meet him; so when he gives me the papers, I makes a bolt at

full speed, and has 'um nowhere afore they knows it. And then, when

they sees who it is, it don't do to make a fuss about it--don't! And

then, they're so handsome, it ain't no trouble finding a market for

'em down Memphis way. It only takes forty-eight hours--the way things

is done up by steam--from the time I clears the line until Timothy

Portman signs the bond-that's five per cent. for him-and Ned Sturm

does the swearin', and they're sold for a slap-up price--sent to

where there's no muttering about it. That's one way we does it; and

then, there's another. But, all in all, there's a right smart lot of

other ways that will work their way into a talented mind. And when a

feller gets the hang on it, and knows lawyer gumption, he can do it

up smooth. You must strap 'em down, chain 'em, look vengeance at

'em; and now and then, when the varmin will squeal, spite of all the

thrashin' ye can give 'em, box 'em up like rats, and put yer horses

like Jehu until ye cl'ar the State. The more ye scars 'em the

better-make 'em as whist as mice, and ye can run 'em through the

rail-road, and sell 'um just as easy.

"There was another way I used to do the thing-it was a sort of an

honourable way; but it used to take the talents of a senator to do

it up square, so the dignity didn't suffer. Then the gals got shy of

squire, 'cos them he got places for never cum back; and I know'd how

'twas best to leave two or three for a nest-egg. It was the way to

do, in case some green should raise a fuss. But connected with these

Ingin gals was one of the likleest yaller fellers that ever shined

on a stand. Thar' was about twelve hundred dollars in him, I saw it

just as straight, and felt it just as safe in my pocket; and then it

made a feller's eyes glisten afore it was got out of him. I tell you

what, boys, it's rather hard when ye comes to think on't." Anthony

pauses for a moment, sharpens his eloquence with another drop of

whiskey, and resumes his discourse. "The feller shined all outside,

but he hadn't head talents-though he was as cunnin' as a fox-and

every time the squire tried an experiment to get him out o'town, the

nigger would dodge like a wounded raccoon. 'Twarn't a bit of use for

the squire-so he just gin it up. Then I trys a hand, ye see, comes

the soft soap over him, in a Sam Slick kind of a way. I'se a private

gentleman, and gets the fellers round to call me a sort of an

aristocrat. Doing this 'ere makes me a nabob in the town-another

time I'm from New York, and has monstrous letters of introduction to

the squire. Then I goes among the niggers and comes it over their

stupid; tells 'em how I'm an abolitionist in a kind of secret

way-gets their confidence. And then I larns a right smart deal of

sayings from the Bible-a nigger's curious on Christianity, ye

see-and it makes him think ye belong to that school, sartin! All the

deviltry in his black natur' 'll cum out then; and he'll do just

what ye tells him. So, ye see, I just draws the pious over him, and

then-like all niggers-I gets him to jine in what he calculates to be

a nice little bit of roguery-running off."

Graspum becomes interested in the fine qualities of the prospective

property, and must needs ask if he is bright and trim.

"Bright! I reckon he warn't nothin' else in a money sense-brighter

nor most niggers, but mighty Inginy. Had the fierce of one and the

cunnin' of t'other. Tom Pridgeon and me has an understandin' about

the thing; and Tom's such a ripper for tradin' in nigger property-he

is about the only devil niggers can imagine; and they delight to

play tricks on Tom. Well, the nigger and me's good friends, right to

the point; a good trick is to be played off on Tom, who buys the

nigger in confidence; the nigger is to run off when he gets to

Savannah, and Tom is to be indicted for running off 'free niggers.'

I'se a great Christian, and joins heart and hand with the darkey; we

takes our walks together, reads together, prays together. And then

'tain't long afore I becomes just the best white man in his

estimation. Knowing when Tom makes up his gang, I proposes a walk in

the grove to the nigger. 'Thank ye, sir,' says he, in an Ingin kind

of way, and out we goes, sits down, talks pious, sings hymns, and

waits to see the rascally nigger-trader come along. Presently Tom

makes his appearance, with a right smart lot of extra prime

property. The nigger and me marches down the road just like master

and servant, and stops just when we meets Tom. You'd laughed to see

Tom and me do the stranger, 'Well, mister,' says I, 'how's trade in

your line?-there's mighty good prices for cotton just now; an' I

'spose 't keeps the market stiff up in your line!'"

'Well, no,' says Tom: 'a feller can turn a good penny in the way o'

fancy articles, just now; but 'tain't the time for prime

plantation-stock. Planters are all buying, and breeders down

Virginia way won't give a feller a chance to make a shaving. It

drives a feller hard up, ye see, and forces more business in running

the free 'uns.'

'Why, stranger! what on 'arth do you mean by that 'ar;-wouldn't ye

get straightened if you'd git catched at that business?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing! I forgot what I was saying,' says Tom, just

as if he was scared at what he had let slip.

'I say, trader, ye got the brightest assortment of property thar' I

seen for many a day: you don't call them gals slaves, do you? Down

where I cum from, our folks wouldn't know 'em from white folks.' I

tell you, boys, he had some bits that would o' made yer heart cum

straight up.

'But I say, mister, I kind 'a like yer horse property-somehow he's

full blood,' says I.

'Yes,' says Tom; 'he's one o' the best critturs to drive niggers

with that ye ever did see; and he's beat the best horse on the

Columbia course, twice.'

'Well, now; seein' how I likes the animal, about how much do ye'h

set him at?' says I.

'Well! can't part with the nag nohow; seems as if he knowed a

nigger, and understands the business right up.'

'But, you see, I'se got a bit of nigger property here what ye'h

don't pick up every day for the Memphis trade,' says I, looking at

the feller, who played his part right up to the hilt.

'Well, I don't mind strikin' a trade,' says Tom: 'but you see my

nag's worth a little risin' a thousand dollars.'

'I don't doubt that, stranger,' says I: 'but ye'h sees this 'ar

piece of property o' mine is worth more 'an twelve hundred. You

don't come across such a looking chap every day. There's a spec. in

him, in any market down south,' says I; and I puts my hands on the

nigger and makes him show out, just as if Tom and me was striking

for a trade. So Tom examines him, as if he was green in nigger

business, and he and me strangers just come from t'other side of

moon shadows.

'Well, now,' says Tom, 'it's mighty likely property, and seeing it's

you, jist name a trade.'

'Put down the nag and two hundred dollars, and I'll sign the bill of

sale, for a swap.' And Tom plants down the dimes, and takes the

nigger. When Tom gets him to Savannah, he plunks him into jail, and

keeps him locked up in a cell until he is ready to start south. I

promises the nigger half of the spiles; but I slips an X

Ten dollars. into his hand, and promises him the rest when he gets

back-when he does! And ye see how Tom just tryced him up to the

cross and put thirty-nine to his bare skin when he talked about

being free, in Savannah; and gagged him when he got his Ingin up.

Warn't that doing the thing up slick, fellers?" exclaimed Romescos,

chuckling over the sport.

"It warn't nothing else. That's what I calls catching a nigger in

his own trap," said one. "That's sarvin' him right; I go for sellin'

all niggers and Ingins," said another. "Free niggers have no souls,

and are impediments to personal rights in a free country," said a

third.

"Ye'h see, there's such an infernal lot of loose corners about our

business, that it takes a feller what has got a big head to do all

the things smooth, in a legal way; and it's so profitable all round

that it kind o' tempts a feller, once in a while, to do things he

don't feel just right in; but then a glass of old monongahela brings

ye'h all straight in yer feelins again, a'ter a few minutes," said

Romescos.

"It's an amusing business; a man's got to have nerve and maxim, if

he wants to make a fortune at it. But-now, gentlemen, we'll take

another round," said Graspum, stopping short. "Anthony, tell us how

you work it when you want to run a free nigger down Maryland way."

"There ain't no trouble about that," replied Romescos, quickly. "You

see," he continued, squinting his eye, and holding his glass between

his face and the light. "Shut out all hope first, and then prime

legal gentlemen along the road, and yer sartin to make safe

business. I has chaps what keeps their eye on all the free bits, and

makes good fellers with 'em; niggers think they'r the right stripe

friends; and then they gives 'em jobs once in a while, and tobacco,

and whiskey. So when I gets all fixed for a run, some on 'm gets the

nigger into a sly spot, and then we pounces upon him like a hawk on

a chicken-gags him, and screws him up in the chains, head and

feet,--boxes him up, too, and drives him like lightning until I meets

Tilman at the cross-roads; and then I just has a document

"A forged bill of sale, all ready, which I gives to Till, and he

puts his nags in-a pair what can take the road from anything

about-and the way he drives, just to make the nigger forget where

he's going, and think he's riding in a balloon on his way to glory.

Just afore Til. gets to the boat, ye see, he takes the headchains

off-so the delicate-hearted passengers won't let their feelins get

kind-a out o' sorts. Once in a while the nigger makes a blubber

about being free, to the captain,--and if he's fool enough t' take

any notice on't then there's a fuss; but that's just the easiest

thing to get over, if ye only know the squire, and how to manage

him. You must know the pintes of the law, and ye must do the clean

thing in the 'tin' way with the squire; and then ye can cut 'em

right off by makin' t'other pintes make 'em mean nothing. Once in a

while t'll do to make the nigger a criminal, and then there's no

trouble in't, 'cos ye can ollers git the swearin' done cheap. Old

Captain Smith used to get himself into a scrape a heap o' times by

listenin' to free nigger stories, till he gets sick and would kick

every nigger what came to him about being free. He takes the law in

his hands with a nigger o' mine once, and hands him over to a city

policeman as soon as we lands. He didn't understand the thing, ye

see, and I jist puts an Ten dollars into the pole's hand, what he

takes the hint at. 'Now, ye'll take good care on the feller," says

I, giving him a wink. "And he just keeps broad off from the old

hard-faced mayor, and runs up to the squire's, who commits him on

his own committimus. Then I gets Bob Blanker to stand 'all right'

with the squire, who's got all the say in the matter, when it's done

so. I cuts like lightenin' on to far down Mississippi, and there

gets Sam Slang, just one o' the keenest fellers in that line, about.

Sam's a hotel-keeper all at once, and I gets him up afore the

Mississippi squire; and as Sam don't think much about the swearin'

and the squire ain't particular, so he makes a five: we proves

straight off how the crittur's Sam's runaway, gets the dockerment

and sends to Bob Blanker, who puts a blinder on the squire's eye,

and gets an order to the old jailor, who must give him up, when he

sees the squire's order. You see, it's larnin' the secret, that's

the thing, and the difference between common law and nigger law; and

the way to work the matter so the squire will have it all in his own

fingers, and don't let the old judge get a pick. Squire makes it

square, hands the nigger over to Bob, Bob puts fifty cuts on his

hide, makes him as clever as a kitten, and ships him off down south

afore he has time to wink. Then, ye sees, I goes back as independent

as a senator from Arkansas, and sues Captain Smith for damages in

detainin' the property, and I makes him pay a right round sum, what

larns him never to try that agin."

Thus Romescos concludes the details of his nefarious trade, amid

cheers and bravos. The party are in ecstasies, evincing a singular

merriment at the issue. There is nothing like liberty--liberty to do

what you please, to turn freedom into barbarity! They gloat over the

privileges of a free country; and, as Romescos recounts each

proceeding,--tracing it into the lowest depths of human villainy,

they sing songs to right, justice, freedom-they praise the bounties

of a great country. How different is the picture below! Beneath this

plotting conclave, devising schemes to defraud human nature of its

rights, to bring poverty and disgrace upon happy families-all in

accordance with the law-are chained in narrow cells poor mortals,

hoping for an end to their dreary existence, pining under the weight

of pinions dashing their very souls into endless despair. A tale of

freedom is being told above, but their chains of death clank in

solemn music as the midnight revelry sports with the very agony of

their sorrows. Oh! who has made their lives a wanton jest?-can it be

the will of heaven, or is it the birthright of a downtrodden race?

They look for to-morrow, hope reverberates one happy thought, it may

bring some tidings of joy; but again they sink, as that endless

gloom rises before them. Hope fades from their feelings, from the

bleeding heart for which compassion is dead. The tyrant's heart is

of stone; what cares he for their supplications, their cries, their

pleadings to heaven; such things have no dollars for him!

Arranging the preliminaries necessary for proceeding with Marston's

affairs, they agreed to the plans, received orders from Graspum in

reference to their proceedings on the following day, and retired to

their homes, singing praises to great good laws, and the freedom of

a free country.

CHAPTER X.

ANOTHER SHADE OF THE PICTURE.

WHILE the proceedings we have detailed in the foregoing chapter were

progressing at Graspum's slave-pen, a different phase of the system

was being discussed by several persons who had assembled at the

house of Deacon Rosebrook. Rumour had been busy spreading its

many-sided tales about Marston-his difficulties, his connection with

Graspum, his sudden downfall. All agreed that Marston was a

noble-minded fellow, generous to a fault-generous in his worst

errors; and, like many other southerners, who meant well, though

personally kind to his slaves, never set a good example in his own

person. Religion was indispensably necessary to preserve submission;

and, with a view to that end, he had made the Church a means of

producing it.

Now, if the southerner resorted to the Church in the purity of

Christian motives, he would merit that praise which many are so

willing to bestow. Or, if Christianity were embraced by the

southerner with heartfelt purity and faith, it would undoubtedly

have a beneficial influence, elevate the character of the slave,

promote kindly feelings between him and his master, and ultimately

prove profitable to both. But where Christianity, used by

irreligious persons, whose very acts destroy the vitality of the

means, is made the medium of enforcing superstition, and of debasing

the mind of the person it degrades into submission, its application

becomes nothing less than criminal. It is criminal because it brings

true religion into contempt, perverts Christianity-makes it a

mockery, and gives to the degraded whites of the South a plea for

discarding its precepts. Religion-were it not used as a mechanical

agency-would elevate the degraded white population of the South;

they would, through its influence, become valuable citizens.

These remarks have been forced upon us by observation. Frequently

have we lamented its application, and grieved that its holy mission

were made to serve the vilest purposes in a land of liberty, of

Christian love. Religion a means of degrading the masses-a

subservient agent! It is so, nevertheless; and men use it whose only

desire it is to make it serve a property interest-the interest of

making men, women, and children, more valuable in the market. God

ordained it for a higher purpose,--man applies it for his benefit in

the man-market. Hence, where the means for exercising the mind upon

the right is forbidden-where ignorance becomes the necessary part of

the maintenance of a system, and religion is applied to that end, it

becomes farcical; and while it must combine all the imperfections of

the performer, necessarily tends to confine the ignorance of those

it seeks to degrade, within the narrowest boundary. There are

different ways of destroying the rights of different classes; and as

many different ways, after they are destroyed, of wiping out the

knowledge of their ever having had rights. But, we regret to say,

that most resorted to by the South, in the face of civilisation, is

the Holy Scriptures, which are made the medium of blotting out all

knowledge of the rights a people once possessed. The wrong-doer thus

fears the result of natural laws; if they be allowed to produce

results through the cultivation of a slave's mind, such may prove

fatal to his immediate interests. And to maintain a system which is

based on force, the southern minister of the gospel is doubly

culpable in the sight of heaven; for while he stimulates ignorance

by degrading the man, he mystifies the Word of God, that he may

remain for ever and ever degraded.

What a deplorable process of stealing-nay, gently taking away the

knowledge which an all-wise Providence has given to man as his

inheritance; how it reduces his natural immunities to sensual

misery! And, too, it forbids all legitimate influences that could

possibly give the menial a link to elevation, to the formation of a

society of his own. We would fain shrink from such a system of

debasing mankind-even more, from the hideous crimes of those who

would make Scripture the means to such an end. And yet, the Church

defender of slavery-the Christian little one-his neck-cloth as white

as the crimes he defends are black-must distinguish his arguments;

and that the world may not suspect his devotion, his honesty, his

serious intention, he points us to the many blessings of the

plantation-service.

Heavenly divinity! Let us have faith in the little ones sent to

teach it; they tell us slavery enforces Christianity! The management

of ignorance under the direction of ministers of the gospel is

certainly becoming well-defined; while statesmen more energetically

legalise it. The one devises, the other carries out a law to make

man ignorant of everything but labour. But while the statesman

moulds the theory, the preacher manufactures Scripture texts, that

the menial may believe God has ordained him the pliable victim.

Under the apparent necessity of the slave world, Marston had

regularly paid Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy for preaching to his

property on Sundays; and to the requisite end the good Elder felt

himself in duty bound to inculcate humility in all things that would

promote obedience to a master's will. Of course, one sermon was

quite sufficient; and this the credulous property had listened to

for more than three years. The effect was entirely satisfactory, the

result being that the honest property were really impressed with a

belief, that to evince Christian fortitude under suffering and

punishment was the best means of cleansing themselves of the sins

they were born to. This formality was misnamed Christianity--it was!

And through the force of this one sermon the Elder became indolent;

and indolence led him to its natural yoke-fellow-intemperance. His

indulgent mood, such as we have described him enjoying in a previous

chapter, became too frequent, leading to serious annoyances. They

had been especially serious for Marston, whom they placed in an

awkward situation before his property, and he resolved to tolerate

them no longer. Probably this resolution was hastened by the sudden

discovery of Harry's singular knowledge of Scripture; be that as it

may, the only difficulty in the way was to know if Harry could be so

trained, that he would preach the "right stripe" doctrine. This,

however, was soon settled, and Marston not only suspended his

engagement with the Elder, but entered into a contract with the

neighbouring planters, by the terms of which Harry will fill their

pulpit, and preach extempore--the Elder has brought written sermons

into contempt with Harry--at a stipulated price per Sunday. In this

new avocation-this leap from the plantation to the pulpit, Harry, as

a piece of property, became extremely valuable; while, through the

charm of his new black coat, he rose a great man in the estimation

of the common property. Here was a valuable incentive of submission,

a lesson for all bad niggers, a chance for them to improve under the

peculiar institution. It proved to niggerdom what a good nigger

could be if he only fear God and obey his master in all things.

Here was proof that a nigger could be something more than a nigger,

in spite of southern philosophy. The Elder-good, pious man that he

was-found himself out of pocket and out of preaching. Thrown upon

the resources of his ingenuity, he had, in order to save the

dictates of his conscience, while taking advantage of the many

opportunities of making money afforded by the peculiar institution,

entered upon another branch of business, having for its object the

advancement of humanity. He resolved to go forth purchasing the sick

and the dying; to reclaim sinking humanity and make it marketable.

But, before describing the vicissitudes through which Elder

Pemberton Praiseworthy passes in his new mission of humanity, we

must introduce the reader to the precincts of a neat little villa,

situated at the outskirts of the city of C--. It is a small cottage

surrounded with verandas and trellis-work, over which are creeping

numerous woodbines and multafloras, spreading their fragrant

blossoms, giving it an air of sequestered beauty. An arbour of

grapevines extends from a little portico at the front to a wicker

fence that separates the embankment of a well-arranged garden, in

which are pots of rare plants, beds and walks decorated with

flowers, presenting great care and taste. A few paces in the rear of

the cottage are several "negro cabins" nicely white-washed without,

and an air of cheerfulness and comfort reigning within. The house-

servants are trimly dressed; they look and act as if their thoughts

and affections were with "mas'r and missus." Their white aprons and

clean bright frocks-some bombazine, and some gingham-give them an

appearance of exactness, which, whether it be voluntary or force of

discipline, bears evidence of attention in the slave, and

encouragement on the part of the master. This is the Villa of Deacon

Rosebrook; they call him deacon, by courtesy; in the same sense that

Georgia majors and South Carolina generals are honoured with those

far-famed titles which so distinguish them when abroad. Perhaps we

should be doing the deacon no more than justice if we were to admit

that he had preached in very respectable spheres; but, feeling that

he was wanting in the purity of divine love-that he could not do

justice to his conscience while setting forth teachings he did not

follow, he laid the profession aside for the more genial

associations of plantation life. Indeed, he was what many called a

very easy backslider; and at times was recognised by the somewhat

singular soubriquet of Deacon Pious-proof. But he was kind to his

slaves, and had projected a system singularly at variance with that

of his neighbours-a system of mildness, amelioration, freedom.

His plantation, a small one, some few miles from the Villa,

presented the same neatness and comfort, the same cheerfulness among

the negroes, and the same kindly feeling between master and slave,

which characterised the Villa.

We enter a neatly-furnished parlour, where the deacon and a friend

are seated on a sofa; various pictures are suspended from the

wall,--everything betokens New England neatness. The old-fashioned

dog-irons and fender are polished to exquisite brightness, a

Brussels carpet spreads the floor, a bright surbase encircles the

room; upon the flossy hearth-rug lies crouched the little canine

pet, which Aunt Dolly has washed to snowy whiteness. Aunt Dolly

enters the room with a low curtsy, gently raises the poodle, then

lays him down as carefully as if he were an heir to the estate.

Master is happy, "missus" is happy, and Aunt Dolly is happy; and the

large bookcase, filled with well-selected volumes, adds to the air

of contentment everywhere apparent. In a niche stands a large

pier-table, upon which are sundry volumes with gilt edges, nets of

cross-work, porcelain ornaments, and card-cases inlaid with mosaic.

Antique tables with massive carved feet, in imitation of lions'

paws, chairs of curious patterns, reclines and ottomans of softest

material, and covered with satin damask, are arranged round the room

in harmony and good taste.

"Now, Mr. Scranton," the deacon says to his friend, who is a tall,

prim, sedate-looking man, apparently about forty, "I pity Marston; I

pity him because he is a noble-hearted fellow. But, after all, this

whispering about the city may be only mother Rumour distributing her

false tales. Let us hope it is all rumour and scandal. Come, tell

me-what do you think of our negroes?"

"Nigger character has not changed a bit in my mind, since I came

south. Inferior race of mortals, sir!-without principles, and fit

only for service and submission. A southern man knows their

composition, but it takes a northern to study the philosophy-it

does," replies Mr. Scranton, running his left hand over his

forehead, and then his right over the crown of his head, as if to

cover a bald spot with the scanty remnant of hair that projected

from the sides.

The deacon smiles at the quaint reply. He knows Mr. Scranton's

northern tenacity, and begs to differ with him. "You are ultra, a

little ultra, in all things, Mr. Scranton. I fear it is that,

carried out in morals as well as politics, that is fast reducing our

system to degradation and tyranny. You northern gentlemen have a

sort of pedantic solicitude for our rights, but you underrate our

feelings upon the slavery question. I'm one among the few

southerners who hold what are considered strange views: we are

subjected to ridicule for our views; but it is only by those who see

nothing but servitude in the negro,--nothing but dollars and cents in

the institution of slavery."

Mr. Scranton is struck with astonishment, interrupts the argument by

insisting upon the great superiority of the gentlemen whites, and

the Bible philosophy which he can bring to sustain his argument.

"Stop one moment, my philosophic friend," the deacon interposes,

earnestly. "Upon that you northerners who come out here to sustain

the cause of slavery for the south, all make fools of yourselves.

This continual reasoning upon Bible philosophy has lost its life,

funeral dirges have been played over it, the instruments are worn

out. And yet, the subject of the philosophy lives,--he belies it with

his physical vigour and moral action. We doubt the sincerity of

northerners; we have reasons for so doing; they know little of the

negro, and care less. Instead of assisting southerners who are

inclined to do justice to the wretch-to be his friend-to improve his

condition-to protect him against a tyrant's wrong, you bring us into

contempt by your proclaiming virtue over the vice we acknowledge

belongs to the institution. We know its defects-we fear them; but,

in the name of heaven, do not defend them at the cost of virtue,

truth, honesty. Do not debase us by proclaiming its glories over our

heads;-do not take advantage of us by attempting to make wrong

right." The deacon's feelings have become earnest; his face glows

with animation.

Mr. Scranton seems discomfited. "That's just like all you

southerners: you never appreciate anything we do for you. What is

the good of our love, if you always doubt it?"

"Such love!" says the deacon, with a sarcastic curl on his lip.

"It's cotton-bag love, as full of self as a pressed bale-"

"But, deacon; you're getting up on the question."

"Up as high as northern sincerity is low. Nothing personal," is the

cool rejoinder.

Mr. Scranton inquires very seriously-wishing it particularly to be

understood that he is not a fighting-man-if Deacon Rosebrook

considers all northerners white-washed, ready to deceive through the

dim shadows of self. The deacon's frank and manly opinion of

northern editors and preachers disturbs Scranton's serious

philosophy. "Cotton-bag love!" there's something in it, and contempt

at the bottom, he declares within himself. And he gives a serious

look, as much as to say-"go on."

"I do! He who maketh right, what those most interested in know to be

wrong, cherishes a bad motive. When a philosopher teaches doctrines

that become doubtful in their ultraness, the weakness carries the

insincerity,--the effort becomes stagnant. Never sell yourself to any

class of evils for popularity's sake. If you attempt it you mistake

the end, and sell yourself to the obscurity of a political

trickster, flatttered by a few, believed by none."

"Deacon! a little more moderate. Give us credit for the good we do.

Don't get excited, don't. These are ticklish times, and we

northerners are quick to observe-"

"Yes, when it will turn a penny on a nigger or a bale of cotton."

"Allow me; one minute if you please!" returned Scranton, with a

nasal twang peculiar to his class, as he began to work himself up

into a declamatory attitude. "You southerners don't understand what

a force them northern abolitionists are bringing against you; and

you know how slow you are to do things, and to let your property all

go to waste while you might make a good speculation on it. There's

just the difference of things: we study political economy so as to

apply it to trade and such like; you let things go to waste, just

thinking over it. And, you see, it's our nature to be restless and

searching out the best avenues for developing trade. Why, deacon,

your political philosophy would die out if the New Englander didn't

edit your papers and keep your nigger principles straight."

"Nigger principles straight! Ah, indeed! Only another evidence of

that cotton bag love that has caused the banns of matrimony to be

published between tyrants who disgrace us and northern speculators.

The book-publisher-poor servile tool-fears to publish Mrs. Johnson's

book, lest it should contain something to offend Mrs. Colonel

Sportington, at the south. Mr. Stevens, the grocer, dare not put his

vote into the ballot-box for somebody, because he fears one of his

customers at the south will hear of it. Parson Munson dare not speak

what he thinks in a New England village, because Mrs. Bruce and

Deacon Donaldson have yearly interests in slaves at the south; and

old Mattock, the boot-maker, thinks it aint right for niggers to be

in church with white folks, and declares, if they do go, they should

sit away back in one corner, up stairs. He thinks about the

combination that brings wealth, old age, and the grave, into one

vortex,--feels little misgiving upon humanity, but loves the union,

and wants nothing said about niggers. We understand what it all

means, Mr. Scranton; and we can credit it for what it's worth,

without making any account for its sincerity and independence. I am

one among the few who go for educating the negroes, and in that

education to cultivate affections between slave and master, to make

encouragement perform the part of discipline, and inspire energy

through proper rewards."

"What!-educate a nigger! These are pretty principles for a

southerner to maintain! Why, sir, if such doctrines were advocated

in the body politic they would be incendiary to southern

institutions. Just educate the niggers, and I wouldn't be an editor

in the south two days. You'd see me tramping, bag and baggage, for

the north, much as I dislike it! It would never do to educate such a

miserable set of wretches as they are. You may depend what I say is

true, sir. Their condition is perfectly hopeless at the north, and

the more you try to teach them, the greater nuisance they become."

"Now, my good northern friend, not so fast, if you please; I can see

the evil of all this, and so can you, if you will but study the

negro's character a little deeper. The menial man who has passed

through generations of oppression, and whose life and soul are

blotted from the right of manhood, is sensitive of the power that

crushes him. He has been robbed of the means of elevating himself by

those who now accuse him of the crime of degradation: and, wherever

the chance is afforded him of elevation, as that increases so does a

tenacious knowledge of his rights; yet, he feels the prejudice that

cuts and slights him in his progress, that charges him with the

impudence of a negro, that calls his attempts to be a man mere

pompous foolery."

"And it is so! To see a nigger setting himself up among white

folks-it's perfectly ridiculous!"

"Mark me, Mr. Scranton: there's where you northerners mistake

yourselves. The negro seldom desires to mix with whites, and I hold

it better they should keep together; but that two races cannot live

together without the one enslaving the other is a fallacy popular

only with those who will not see the future, and obstinately refuse

to review the past. You must lessen your delicate sensibilities; and

when you make them less painful to the man of colour at the north,

believe me, the south will respond to the feeling. Experience has

changed my feelings,--experience has been my teacher. I have based

my new system upon experience; and its working justifies me in all I

have said. Let us set about extracting the poison from our

institutions, instead of losing ourselves in contemplating an

abstract theory for its government."

"Remember, deacon, men are not all born to see alike. There are

rights and privileges belonging to the southerner: he holds the

trade in men right, and he would see the Union sundered to atoms

before he would permit the intervention of the federal government on

that subject," Mr. Scranton seriously remarks, placing his two

thumbs in the armpits of his vest, and assuming an air of

confidence, as if to say, "I shall outsouthern the southerner yet, I

shall."

"That's just the point upon which all the villainy of our

institution rests: the simple word man!-man a progressive being; man

a chattel,--a thing upon which the sordid appetite of every wretch

may feed. Why cannot Africa give up men? She has been the victim of

Christendom-her flesh and blood have served its traffic, have

enriched its coffers, and even built its churches; but like a

ferocious wolf that preys upon the fold in spite of watchers, she

yet steals Afric's bleeding victims, and frowns upon them because

they are not white, nor live as white men live."

"Mercy on me!" says Mr. Scranton, with a sigh, "you can't ameliorate

the system as it stands: that's out of the question. Begin to loosen

the props, and the whole fabric will tumble down. And then, niggers

won't be encouraged to work at a price for their labour; and how are

you going to get along in this climate, and with such an enormous

population of vagabonds?"

"Remember, Mr. Scranton," ejaculated the deacon, "there's where you

mistake the man in the negro; and through these arguments, set forth

in your journal, we suffer. You must have contracted them by

association with bad slave-owners. Mark ye! the negro has been sunk

to the depths where we yet curse him; and is it right that we should

keep him cursed?-to say nothing of the semi-barbarous position in

which it finds our poor whites. He feels that his curse is for

life-time; his hopes vibrate with its knowledge, and through it he

falls from that holy inspiration that could make him a man, enjoying

manhood's rights. Would not our energy yield itself a sacrifice to

the same sacrificer? Had we been loaded with chains of tyranny, what

would have been our condition? Would not that passion which has led

the Saxon on to conquest, and spread his energy through the western

world, have yielded when he saw the last shadow of hope die out, and

realised that his degradation was for life-time? Would not the

yearnings of such a consummation have recoiled to blast every action

of the being who found himself a chattel? And yet this very chattel,

thus yoked in death, toils on in doubts and fears, in humbleness and

submission, with unrequited fortitude and affection. And still all

is doubted that he does, even crushed in the prejudice against his

colour!"

"Well, deacon, you perfectly startle me, to hear a southerner talk

that way at the south. If you keep on, you'll soon have an abolition

society without sending north for it."

"That's just what I want. I want our southerners to look upon the

matter properly, and to take such steps as will set us right in the

eyes of the world. Humanity is progressing with rapid

strides-slavery cannot exist before it! It must fall; and we should

prepare to meet it, and not be so ungrateful, at least, that we

cannot reflect upon its worth, and give merit to whom merit is due."

Thus were presented the north and south; the former loses her

interests in humanity by seeking to serve the political ends of the

latter.

CHAPTER XI.

MRS. ROSEBROOK'S PROJECT.

AT this juncture of the conversation, a sprightly, well-dressed

servant opens the parlour-door, announces missus! The deacon's good

lady enters. She is a perfect pattern of neatness,--a

finely-developed woman of more than ordinary height, with blonde

features, and a countenance as full of cheerfulness as a bright May

morning. She bows gracefully; her soft eyes kindle with intelligence

as she approaches Mr. Scranton, who rises with the coldness of an

iceberg.

"Be seated, Mr. Scranton," she says, with a voice so full of

gentleness,--"be seated." Her form is well-rounded, her features

exquisite. Mr. Scranton views her seriously, as if he found

something of great interest in that marble forehead, those fine

features moulding a countenance full of soul, love, and sweetness.

Her dress is of plain black brocade, made high at the neck, where it

is secured with a small diamond pin, the front opening and

disclosing a lace stomacher set with undressed pearls. Rufflets and

diamond bracelets, of chaste workmanship, clasp her wrists; while

her light auburn hair, neatly laid in plain folds, and gathered into

a plait on the back of her head, where it is delicately secured with

gold and silver cord, forms a soft contrast. There is chasteness and

simplicity combined to represent character, sense, and refinement.

She is the mother of the plantation: old negroes call her mother,

young ones clamour with joy when she visits their abodes: her very

soul is in their wants; they look to her for guidance. Their

happiness is her pleasure, and by sharing the good fortune that has

followed them she has fostered the energy of their negroes, formed

them into families, encouraged their morality, impressed them with

the necessity of preserving family relations. Against the stern

mandates of the law, she has taught them to read the Bible, reading

and explaining it to them herself. Indeed, she has risen above the

law: she has taught the more tractable ones to write; she has

supplied the younger with little story-books, attractive and

containing good moral lessons. She rejoices over her system: it is

honest, kind, generous,--it will serve the future, and is not

unprofitable at present. It is different from that pursued by those

who would, through the instrumentality of bad laws, enforce

ignorance. Nay, to her there is something abhorrent in using the

Word of God as an excuse for the existence of slavery. Her system is

practicable, enlightening first, and then enforcing that which gives

encouragement to the inert faculties of our nature. Punishments were

scarcely known upon her plantation; the lash never used. Old and

young were made to feel themselves part and parcel of a family

compact, to know they had an interest in the crop, to gather hopes

for the future, to make home on the old plantation pleasant. There

was something refreshing in the pride and protection evinced in the

solicitation of this gentle creature for her negroes. In early life

she had listened to their fables, had mixed with them as children,

had enjoyed their hours of play, had studied their sympathies, and

entered with delight into the very soul of their jargon merriment.

She felt their wants, and knew their grievances; she had come

forward to be their protector, their mother! "Why, Mr. Scranton,"

she exclaims, laughingly, in reply to that gentleman's remarks, as

she interrupted the conversation between him and the deacon, "we

would sooner suffer than sell one of our boys or girls-even if the

worst came to the worst. I know the value of family ties; I know how

to manage negroes. I would just as soon think of selling our

Matilda, I would! If some of you good northern folks could only see

how comfortable my negroes are!-"

"Oh, yes!" interrupts the deacon, "she takes it all out of my hands;

I'm going to give her the reins altogether one of these days. She

has got a nice way of touching a negro's feelings so that anything

can be done with him: it tells largely at times." Mr. Scranton's

face becomes more serious; he doesn't seem to understand this new

"nigger philosophy." "Poor creatures!" the deacon continues, "how

wonderful is the power of encouragement;-how much may be done if

proper means are applied-"

"The trouble is in the means," Mr. Scranton interposes, scratching

his head, as if ideas were scarce, and valuable for the distance

they had to be transported.

Our good lady smiles. "I cannot help smiling, Mr. Scranton." She

speaks softly. "There are two things I want done-done quickly: I

want southern philosophers to consider, and I want southern ladies

to act-to put on energy-to take less care of themselves and more of

the poor negro!" She lays her hand gently upon Mr. Scranton's arm,

her soft blue eyes staring him in the face. "When they do this," she

continues, "all will be well. We can soon show the north how much

can be done without their assistance. I don't believe in women's

rights meetings,--not I; but I hold there should be some combination

of southern ladies, to take the moral elevation of the slave into

consideration,--to set about the work in good earnest, to see what

can be done. It's a monster work; but monster evils can be removed

if females will give their hands and hearts to the task. This

separating families to serve the interests of traders in human

beings must be stopped: females know the pains it inflicts on

suffering wretches; they are best suited to stop that heinous

offence in the sight of God and man. They must rise to the work;

they must devise means to stay the waste of fortune now progressing

through dissipation; and, above all other things, they must rise up

and drive these frightful slave-dealers from their doors."

Mr. Scranton admits there is something in all this, but suggests

that it were better to let the future take care of itself; there's

no knowing what the future may do; and to let those who come in it

enjoy our labours "aint just the policy." He contends-willing to

admit how much the ladies could do if they would-it would not be

consistent with the times to put forth such experiments, especially

when there is so much opposition. "It wouldn't do!" he whispers.

The deacon here interrupts Mr. Scranton, by stepping to the door and

ordering one of the servants to prepare refreshments.

"'It must do! It won't do!' keeps us where we are, and where we are

always complaining that we never have done. You know I speak

frankly, Mr. Scranton-women may say what they please;-and let me

tell you, that when you do your duty it will do. Hard times never

were harder than when everybody thought them hard. We must infuse

principle into our poor people; we must make them earnest in

agricultural pursuits; we must elevate the character of labour; we

must encourage the mechanic, and give tone to his pursuits; and,

more than all, we must arrest the spread of conventional nonsense,

and develope our natural resources by establishing a system of paid

labour, and removing the odium which attaches itself to those who

pursue such avocations as the slave may be engaged in. My word for

it, Mr. Scranton, there's where the trouble lies. Nature has been

lavish in her good gifts to the south; but we must lend Nature a

helping hand,--we must be the women of the south for the south's

good; and we must break down those social barriers clogging our

progress. Nature wants good government to go along with her, to be

her handfellow in regeneration; but good government must give Nature

her rights. This done, slavery will cease to spread its loathsome

diseases through the body politic, virtue will be protected and

receive its rewards, and the buds of prosperity will be nourished

with energy and ripen into greatness."

Mr. Scranton suggests that the nigger question was forced upon him,

and thinks it better to change the conversation. Mr. Scranton was

once in Congress, thinks a deal of his Congressional experience, and

declares, with great seriousness, that the nigger question will come

to something one of these days. "Ah! bless me, madam," he says,

adjusting his arms, "you talk-very-like-a-statesman. Southerners

better leave all this regenerating of slaves to you. But let me say,

whatever you may see in perspective, it's mighty dangerous when you

move such principles to practice. Mark me! you'll have to pull down

the iron walls of the south, make planters of different minds, drive

self out of mankind, and overthrow the northern speculator's

cotton-bag love. You've got a great work before you, my dear

madam,--a work that'll want an extended lease of your life-time.

Remember how hard it is to convince man of the wrong of anything

that's profitable. A paid system, even emancipation, would have been

a small affair in 1824 or 1827. Old niggers and prime fellows were

then of little value; now it is different. You may see the obstacle

to your project in the Nashville Convention or Georgia platform-"

"Nashville Convention, indeed!" exclaims Mrs. Rosebrook, her face

infused with animation, and a curl of disdain on her lip. "Such

things! Mere happy illustrations of the folly of our political

affairs. The one was an exotic do-nothing got up by Mister

Wanting-to-say-something, who soon gets ashamed of his mission; the

other was a mixture of political log-rolling, got up by those who

wanted to tell the Union not to mind the Nashville Convention. What

a pity they did not tell the Union to be patient with us! We must

have no more Nashville Conventions; we must change Georgia platforms

for individual enterprise,--southern conventions for moral

regeneration. Give us these changes, and we shall show you what can

be done without the aid of the north." Several servants in tidy

dresses, their white aprons looking so clean, come bustling into the

room and invite missus and her guest into an airy ante-room, where a

table is bountifully spread with cake, fruit, fine old Madeira, and

lemonade. Mr. Scranton bows and asks "the pleasure;" Mrs. Rosebrook

acknowledgingly takes his arm, while the negroes bow and scrape as

they enter the room. Mr. Scranton stands a few moments gazing at the

set-out. "I hope Mr. Scranton will make himself quite at home," the

good lady interposes. Everything was so exquisitely arranged, so set

off with fresh-plucked flowers, as if some magic hand had just

touched the whole.

"Now!" continued Mrs. Rosebrook, motioning her head as she points to

the table: "you'll admit my negroes can do something? Poor helpless

wretches, we say continually: perhaps they are worse when bad owners

can make the world look upon them through northern prejudice. They

are just like children; nobody gives them credit for being anything

else; and yet they can do much for our good. It would trouble some

persons to arrange a table so neatly; my boys did it all, you see!"

And she exults over the efficiency of her negroes, who stand at her

side acknowledging the compliment with broad grins. The deacon helps

Mr. Scranton, who commences stowing away the sweetmeats with great

gusto. "It is truly surprising what charming nigger property you

have got. They don't seem a bit like niggers" he concludes

deliberately taking a mouthful. Mrs. Rosebrook, pleased at the

honest remark, reminds him that the deacon carries out her views

most charmingly, that she studies negro character, and knows that by

stimulating it with little things she promotes good. She studies

character while the deacon studies politics. At the same time, she

rather ironically reminds Mr. Scranton that the deacon is not guilty

of reading any long-winded articles on "state rights and secession."

"Not he!" she says, laughingly; "you don't catch him with such

cast-iron material in his head. They call him pious-proof now and

then, but he's progress all over."

Mr. Scranton, attentive to his appetite, draws a serious face, gives

a side glance, begs a negro to supply his plate anew, and reckons he

may soon make a new discovery in southern political economy. But he

fears Mrs. Rosebrook's plan will make a mongrel, the specific nature

of which it would be difficult to define in philosophy. Perhaps it

will not be acceptable to the north as a thinking people, nor will

it please the generosity of southern ladies.

"There is where the trouble lies!" exclaimed the deacon, who had

until then yielded up the discussion to his good lady. "They look

upon our system with distrust, as if it were something they could

not understand."

"I move we don't say another word about it, but take our part

quietly," says Mrs. Rosebrook, insinuating that Mr. Scranton had

better be left to take his refreshment comfortably; that he is a

little misanthropic; that he must be cheered up. "Come, my

boys"-directing her conversation to the negroes-"see that Mr.

Scranton is cared for. And you must summon Daddy; tell him to get

the carriage ready, to put on his best blue coat,--that we are going

to take Mr. Scranton over the plantation, to show him how things can

prosper when we ladies take a hand in the management." The negro

leaves to execute the order: Mr. Scranton remains mute, now and then

sipping his wine. He imagines himself in a small paradise, but

"hadn't the least idea how it was made such a place by niggers."

Why, they are just the smartest things in the shape of property that

could be started up. Regular dandy niggers, dressed up to "shine

so," they set him thinking there was something in his politics not

just straight. And then, there was so much intelligence, so much

politeness about the critters! Why, if it had not been for the

doctrines he had so long held, he would have felt bashful at his

want of ease and suavity,--things seldom taught in the New England

village where our pro-slavery advocate was born and educated.

Presently servants are seen outside, running here and there, their

eyes glistening with anxiety, as if preparing for a May-day

festival. Old Dolly, the cook, shining with the importance of her

profession, stands her greasy portions in the kitchen door, scolds

away at old Dad, whose face smiles with good-nature as he fusses

over the carriage, wipes it, rubs it, and brushes it, every now and

then stopping to see if it will reflect his full black face. Little

woolly-headed urchins are toddling round old Maum Dolly, pulling the

folds of her frock, teasing for cakes and fritters. One, more expert

in mischief, has perched himself in an aperture over the door,

substituting himself for the old black hat with which it is usually

filled. Here, his face like a full moon in a cloud, he twists his

moving fingers into the ingeniously-tied knot of Dolly's bandana,

which he cunningly draws from her head. Ben and Loblolly, two minor

sprats of the race, are seated in the centre of the yard, contending

for the leaves of a picture-book, which, to appease their

characteristic inquisitiveness, they have dissected. Daddy has the

horses ready and the carriage waiting; and Uncle Bradshaw, the

coachman, and C‘sar, the likely fellow, wait at the door with as

much satisfaction expressed in their faces as if it were all for

them. Missus is not to be outdone in expertness: a few minutes ago

she was "snaring" Mr. Scranton with his own philosophy; now she is

ready to take her seat.

"Missus! I wants t' go down yander wid ye, I doe," says Daddy,

approaching her with hand extended, and working his black face up

into a broad grin as he detects Mr. Scranton's awkwardness in

getting into the carriage.

"Certainly, Daddy, certainly: you shall go. Daddy knows how to get

alongside of Aunt Rachel when he gets down on the plantation. He

knows where to get a good cup of coffee and a waff." And she pats

the old negro on the head as he clambers up on the box. "No, him

aint dat. Daddy want t' go wid missus-ya'h, ya! dat him, tis. Missus

want somebody down da'h what spry, so'e take care on 'em round de

old plantation. Takes my missus to know what nigger is," says Daddy,

taking off his cap, and bowing missus into the carriage.

"Not one word for mas'r, eh, Daddy?" rejoins the deacon, looking

playfully at Daddy. "Why, Boss, you aint nofin whin missus about,"

returns Daddy, tauntingly, as he buttons his grey coat, and tells

Bradshaw to "go ahead!" Away they go, galloping over the plain,

through the swamp, for the plantation,--that model experiment doubted

by so many. Major Sprag, the politician, and Judge Snow, the

statesman, had declared publicly it never would do any good. With

them it was not practical,--it gave negroes too much liberty; and

they declared the system must be kept within the narrowest sphere of

law, or it would be destroyed for ever.

Onward the carriage bounded, and long before it reached the

plantation gate was espied by the negroes, who came sallying forth

from their white cabins, crying out at the top of their

voices-"Missus comin'! Missus comin! Da'h missus-dat she! I know'd

missus wa' comin' t' day!" and the music of their voices re-echoed

through the arbour of oaks that lined the road. Their tongues seemed

to have taken new impulse for the occasion. The dogs, at full run,

came barking to the gate; old daddies and mammas, with faces "all

over smiles," followed in the train. And they were dressed so

tidily, looked so cheerful, and gave such expressions of their

exuberant feelings, that Mr. Scranton seemed quite at a loss how to

account for it. He had never before witnessed such a mingling of

fondness for owners,--the welcome sounds of "God bless good missus!"

They were at variance with the misanthropic ideas he had imbibed at

the north. And then there was a regular retinue of the "small-fry

property" bringing up the rear, with curious faces, and making the

jargon more confounding with the music of their voices. They

toddled, screamed, and shouted, clustered around the gate, and

before Daddy had time to dismount, had it wide open, and were

contending for the palm of shaking missus by the hand "fust."

The carriage drives to the plantation house, followed by the train

of moving darkness, flocking around it like as many devotees before

an object of superstitious worship. Mas'r is only a secondary

consideration, Missus is the angel of their thoughts; her kindness

and perseverance in their behalf has softened their

feelings--stimulated their energy. How touching is the fondness and

tenderness of these degraded mortals! They love their benefactor.

And, too, there is a lesson in it worthy the statesman's

consideration,--it shows a knowledge of right, and a deep sense of

gratitude for kindness bestowed. Mrs. Rosebrook alights from the

carriage, receives their warm congratulations, and, turning to Mr.

Scranton, touches him on the arm, and remarks:--"Now, here they are.

Poor old bodies,"--taking them by the hand in rotation-just like as

many children. "What do you think of them, Mr. Scranton? do you not

find a softening sympathy creeping upon you? I forgot, though, your

political responsibility! Ah! that is the point with statesmen. You

feel a touch of conscience once in a while, but cannot speak for

fear of the consequences." And she laughs heartily at Mr. Scranton,

who draws his face into a very serious length. "Pest the niggers!"

he says, as they gather at his feet, asking all sorts of importune

questions.

"My good lady is a regular reformer, you see, Mr. Scranton," rejoins

the deacon, as he follows that gentleman into the hall.

Mr. Scranton remarks, in reply, that such does not become caste, and

two pompous-looking servants set upon him brushing the dirt from

his clothes with great earnestness. The negroes understand Mr.

Scranton at a glance; he is an amiable stoic!

Mrs. Rosebrook disappears for a few minutes, and returns minus her

bonnet and mantle. She delights to have the old and the young around

her,--to study their characters, to hear their stories, their

grievances, and to relieve their wants. "These little black imps,"

she says, patting them on the head as they toddle around her,

"They're just as full of interest as their shiny black skins are

full of mischief;" and one after another, with hand extended, they

seek a recognition; and she takes them in her arms, fondling them

with the affection of a nurse.

"Here's Toby, too; the little cunning rascal! He is as sleek as a

mole, a young coon," she ejaculates, stooping down and playfully

working her fingers over Toby's crispy hair, as he sits upon the

grass in front of the house, feasting on a huge sweet potato, with

which he has so bedaubed his face that it looks like a mask with the

terrific portrayed in the rolling of two immense white eyes. "And

here is Nichol Garvio!" and she turns to another, pats him on the

head, and shakes his hand. "We mean to make a great man of him, you

see,--he has head enough to make a Congress man; who knows but that

he'll get there when he grows up?"

"Congress, happily, is beyond niggers," replies Mr. Scranton,

approving the lady: "Congress is pure yet!" Turning round, she

recommends Mr. Scranton to put his northern prejudices in his

pocket, where they will be safe when required for the purposes of

the south. "A nigger 's a nigger all over the world," rejoins Mr.

Scranton, significantly shrugging his shoulders and casting a

doubtful glance at the young type.

"True! true!" she returns, giving Mr. Scranton a look of pity. "God

give us sight to see! We praise our forefathers-honest praise!-but

we forget what they did. They brought them here, poor wretches;

decoyed them, deceived them,--and now we wish them back at the very

time it would be impossible to live without them. How happy is the

mind that believes a 'nigger' must be a nigger for ever and ever;

and that we must do all in our power to keep him from being anything

else!" And her soft blue eyes glowed with sympathy; it was the soul

of a noble woman intent on doing good. She had stepped from the

darkness of a political error into the airy height of light and

love.

Daddy and Bradshaw had taken care of the horses; the deacon greeted

his negroes as one by one they came to welcome him; and for each he

had a kind word, a joke, a shake of the hand, or an enquiry about

some missing member of a family. The scene presented an interesting

picture-the interest, policy, and good faith between master and

slave. No sooner were the horses cared for, than Daddy and Bradshaw

started for the "cabins," to say welcome to the old folks, "a heap

a' how de" to the gals, and tell de boys, down yander, in de tater

patch, dat Missus come. They must have their touching

congratulations, interchange the news of the city for the gossip of

the plantation, and drink the cup of tea Mamma makes for the

occasion. Soon the plantation is all agog; and the homely, but neat

cabins, swarm with negroes of all ages, bustling here and there, and

making preparations for the evening supper, which Aunt Peggy, the

cook, has been instructed to prepare in her very best style.

The deacon joins his good lady, and, with Mr. Scranton, they prepare

to walk over and view the plantation. They are followed by a retinue

of old and young property, giving vent to their thoughts in

expressions of gratitude to Missus and Mas'r. A broad expanse of

rural beauty stretches towards the west, soft and enchanting. The

sun is sinking into the curtains of a refulgent cloud; its crimson

light casts a mellow shade over the broad landscape; the evening

breeze is wafting coolly over the foliage, a welcome relief to the

scorching heat of mid-day; the balmy atmosphere breathes sweetness

over the whole. To the north stands a clump of fine old oaks, high

above the distant "bottom," reflecting in all their richness the

warm tints of the setting sun. The leaves rustle as they pass along;

long lines of cotton plants, with their healthy blossoms, brighten

in the evening shade; the corn bends under its fruit; the potato

field looks fresh and luxuriant, and negroes are gathering from the

slip-beds supplies of market gardening. There is but one appearance

among the workers-cheerfulness! They welcome Mas'r as he passes

along; and again busily employ themselves, hoeing, weeding, and

working at the roots of vines in search of destructive insects.

"My overseers are all black, every one! I would'nt have a white one;

they are mostly tyrants," says the deacon, looking at his fields,

exultingly. "And my overseers plan out the very best mode of

planting. They get through a heap of work, with a little kindness

and a little management. Those two things do a deal, Sir! Five years

ago, I projected this new system of managing negroes-or, rather my

lady planned it,--she is a great manager, you see,--and I adopted it.

You see how it has worked, Mr. Scranton." The deacon takes Mr.

Scranton by the arm, pointing over the broad expanse of cultivated

land, bending under the harvest. I make all my negroes marry when

they have arrived at a specific age; I assure them I never will sell

one unless he or she commits a heinous crime; and I never have.

There is a great deal in keeping faith with a negro; he is of

mankind, and moved by natural laws mentally and physically, and

feels deeply the want of what we rarely regard of much

consequence-confidence in his master's word. Wife encourages their

moral energy; I encourage their physical by filling their bellies

with as much corn and bacon as they can eat; and then I give them

five cents per day (the heads of families) to get those little

necessaries which are so essential to their comfort and

encouragement. I call it our paid-labour system; and I give them

tasks, too, and when they have finished them I allow a small stipend

for extra work. It's a small mite for a great end; and it's such an

encouragement with them that I get about thirty per cent. more work

done. And then I allow them to read just as much as they please-what

do I care about law? I don't want to live where learning to read is

dangerous to the State, I don't. Their learning to read never can

destroy their affections for me and wife; and kindness to them will

make them less dangerous in case of insurrection. It's not the

education we've got to fear; our fears increase with the knowledge

of our oppression. They know these things-they feel them; and if by

educating them one can cultivate their confidence, had we not better

do it with a view to contingencies? Now, as the result of our

system, we have promised to give all our negroes their freedom at

the expiration of ten years, and send such as wish to go, to

Liberia; but, I hold that they can do as much for us at home, work

for us if properly encouraged, and be good free citizens, obedient

to the laws of the State, serving the general good of a great

country."

"Yes!" the good lady interposes; "I want to see those things carried

out; they will yet work for the regeneration of their own race.

Heaven will some day reward the hand that drags the cursed mantle

from off poor Africa; and Africa herself will breathe a prayer to

Heaven in grateful acknowledgment of the act that frees her from the

stain of being the world's bonded warehouse for human flesh and

blood."

The deacon interrupts,--suggests "that it were better to move

practically; and that small streams may yet direct how a mountain

may be removed. Our Union is a great monument of what a Republic may

be,--a happy combination of life, freshness, and greatness, upon

which the Old World looks with distrust. The people have founded its

happiness-its greatness! God alone knows its destiny; crowned heads

would not weep over its downfall! It were better each citizen felt

his heart beating to the words-It is my country; cursed be the hand

raised to sever its members!" The lady tells Mr. Scranton that their

produce has increased every year; that last year they planted one

hundred and twenty acres with cotton, ninety with corn, forty with

sweet potatoes, as many more with slips and roots; and three acres

of water-melons for the boys, which they may eat or sell. She

assures him that by encouraging the pay system they get a double

profit, besides preparing the way for something that must come.

"Come!" Mr. Scranton interrupts: "let the south be true to herself,

and there's no fear of that. But I confess, deacon, there is

something good as well as curious about your way of treating

niggers." And Mr. Scranton shakes his head, as if the practicability

yet remained the great obstacle in his mind. "Your niggers ain't

every body's," he concludes.

"Try it, try it!" Mrs. Rosebrook rejoins: "Go home and propound

something that will relieve us from fear-something that will prepare

us for any crisis that may occur!"

It was six o'clock, the plantation bell struck, and the cry sounded

"All hands quit work, and repair to supper!" Scarcely had the echoes

resounded over the woods when the labourers were seen scampering for

their cabins, in great glee. They jumped, danced, jostled one

another, and sang the cheering melodies, "Sally put da' hoe cake

down!" and "Down in Old Tennessee."

Reaching their cabins they gathered into a conclave around Daddy and

Bradshaw, making the very air resound with their merry jargon. Such

a happy meeting-such social congratulations, pouring forth of the

heart's affections, warm and true,--it had never been before Mr.

Scranton's fortune to witness. Indeed, when he listened to the ready

flashes of dialogue accompanying their animation, and saw the

strange contortions of their fresh, shining faces, he began to

"reckon" there was something about niggers that might, by a process

not yet discovered, be turned into something.

Old "Mammies" strive for the honour of having Daddy and Bradshaw sup

at their cabins, taunting each other on the spareness of their meal.

Fires are soon lit, the stew-pans brought into requisition, and the

smoke, curling upward among a myriad of mosquitoes, is dispersing

them like a band of unwelcome intruders; while the corn-mills rattle

and rumble, making the din and clatter more confounding. Daddy and

Bradshaw being "aristocratic darkies from the city"-caste being

tenaciously kept up among negroes-were, of course, recipients of the

choicest delicacies the plantation afforded, not excepting fresh

eggs poached, and possum. Bradshaw is particularly fond of ghost

stories; and as old Maum Nancy deals largely in this article, as

well as being the best believer in spectres on the plantation, he

concludes to sup with her, in her hospitable cabin, when she will

relate all that she has seen since she last saw him. Maum Nancy is

as black as a crow, has a rich store of tales on hand; she will

please the old man, more particularly when she tells him about the

very bad ghost seen about the mansion for more than "three weeks of

nights." He has got two sarpents' heads; Maum Nancy declares the

statement true, for uncle Enoch "seen him,"-he is a grey ghost-and

might a' knocked him over with his wattle, only he darn't lest he

should reek his vengeance at some unexpected moment. And then he was

the very worst kind of a ghost, for he stole all the chickens, not

even leaving the feathers. They said he had a tail like the thing

Mas'r Sluck whipped his "niggers" with. Bradshaw sups of Maum

Nancy's best, listening to her stories with great concern. The story

of the ghost with two heads startles him; his black picture, frame

fills with excitement; he has never before heard that ghosts were

guilty of predatory crimes. So enchained and excited is he with her

story, that the party at the house having finished supper, have made

preparations to leave for the city. A finger touches him on the

shoulder; he startles, recognises Daddy, who is in search of him,

and suddenly becomes conscious that his absence has caused great

anxiety. Daddy has found him quietly eating Maum Nancy's cakes,

while intently listening to the story about the ghost "what" steals

all her chickens. He is quite unconcerned about Mas'r,

Missus-anything but the ghost! He catches his cap, gives Nancy's

hand a warm shake, says God bless 'em, hastens for the mansion,

finds the carriage waiting at the door, for Mas'r and Missus, who

take their seats as he arrives. Bradshaw mounts the box again, and

away it rolls down the oak avenue. The happy party leave for home;

the plantation people are turned out en masse to say good bye to

Missus, and "hope Mas'r get safe home." Their greetings sound forth

as the carriage disappears in the distance; fainter and fainter the

good wish falls upon their ears. They are well on the road; Mr.

Scranton, who sits at the side of the good lady, on the back seat,

has not deigned to say a word: the evening grows dark, and his mind

seems correspondingly gloomy. "I tell you, I feel so pleased, so

overjoyed, and so happy when I visit the plantation, to see those

poor creatures so happy and so full of fondness! It's worth all the

riches to know that one is loved by the poor. Did you ever see such

happiness, Mr. Scranton?" Mrs. Rosebrook enquires, coolly.

"It requires a great deal of thinking, a great deal of caution, a

great deal of political foresight, before answering such questions.

You'll pardon me, my dear madam, I know you will; I always speak

square on questions, you know. It's hard to reconcile oneself to

niggers being free."

"Ah! yes-it's very amiable to think; but how much more praiseworthy

to act! If we southern ladies set ourselves about it we can do a

great deal; we can save the poor creatures being sold, like cows and

calves, in this free country. We must save ourselves from the moral

degradation that is upon us. What a pity Marston's friends did not

make an effort to change his course! If they had he would not now be

in the hands of that Graspum. We are surrounded by a world of

temptation; and yet our planters yield to them; they think

everything a certainty, forgetting that the moment they fall into

Graspum's hands they are gone."

Mr. Scranton acknowledges he likes the look of things on the

plantation, but suggests that it will be considered an

innovation,--an innovation too dangerous to be considered.

Innovations are dangerous with him,--unpopular, cannot amount to much

practical good. He gives these insinuations merely as happy

expressions of his own profound opinion. The carriage approaches the

villa, which, seen from the distance, seems sleeping in the calm of

night. Mr. Scranton is like those among us who are always fearing,

but never make an effort to remove the cause; they, too, are

doggedly attached to political inconsistency, and, though at times

led to see the evil, never can be made to acknowledge the wrong.

They reach the garden gate; Mr. Scranton begs to be excused from

entering the Villa,--takes a formal leave of his friend, and wends

his way home, thinking. "There's something in it!" he says to

himself, as he passes the old bridge that separates the city from

the suburb. "It's not so much for the present as it is for the

hereafter. Nobody thinks of repairing this old bridge, and yet it

has been decaying under our eyes for years. Some day it will

suddenly fall,--a dozen people will be precipitated into the water

below, some killed; the city will then resound with lamentations;

every body knows it must take place one of these days, everybody is

to blame, but no special criminal can be found. There's something in

the comparison!" he says, looking over the old railing into the

water. And then his thoughts wandered to the plantation. There the

germs of an enlightened policy were growing up; the purity of a

noble woman's heart was spreading blessings among a downcast race,

cultivating their minds, raising them up to do good for themselves,

to reward the efforts of the benefactor. Her motto was:--Let us

through simple means seek the elevation of a class of beings whose

degradation has distracted the political wisdom of our happy

country, from its conquest to the present day. "There's something in

it," again mutters Mr. Scranton, as he enters his room, lights his

taper, and with his elbow resting on the table, his head supported

in his hand, sits musing over the subject.

CHAPTER XII.

ELDER PEMBERTON PRAISEWORTHY CHANGES HIS BUSINESS.

LET us beg the reader's indulgence for a few moments, while we say

that Mr. Scranton belonged to that large class of servile flatterers

who too often come from the New England States-men, who, having no

direct interest in slaves, make no scruple of sacrificing their

independence that they may appear true to the south and slavery.

Such men not unfrequently do the political vampirism of the south

without receiving its thanks, but look for the respect of political

factions for being loudest supporters of inconsistency. They never

receive the thanks of the southerner; frequently and deservedly do

they sink into contempt!

A few days after the visit to the plantation we have described in

the foregoing chapter, Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, divested of his

pastoral occupation, and seriously anxious to keep up his friendly

associations with those who had taken a part in furthering the cause

of humanity, calls on his old acquaintance, Mrs. Rosebrook. He has

always found a welcome under her hospitable roof,--a good meal, over

which he could discourse the benefits he bestowed, through his

spiritual mission, upon a fallen race; never leaving without kindly

asking permission to offer up a prayer, in which he invoked the

mercy of the Supreme Ruler over all things. In this instance he

seems somewhat downcast, forlorn; he has changed his business; his

brown, lean face, small peering eyes, and low forehead, with bristly

black hair standing erect, give his features a careworn air. He

apologises for the unceremonious call, and says he always forgets

etiquette in his fervour to do good; to serve his fellow-creatures,

to be a Christian among the living, and serve the dying and the

dead-if such have wants--is his motto. And that his motives may not

be misconstrued he has come to report the peculiar phases of the

business he found it actually necessary to turn his hand to. That he

will gain a complete mastery over the devil he has not the fraction

of a doubt; and as he has always--deeming him less harmless than many

citizens of the south--had strong prejudices against that gentleman,

he now has strong expectations of carrying his point against him.

Elder Praiseworthy once heard a great statesman--who said singular

things as well in as out of Congress--say that he did'nt believe the

devil was a bad fellow after all; and that with a little more

schooling he might make a very useful gentleman to prevent

duelling--in a word, that there was no knowing how we'd get along at

the south without such an all-important personage. He has had

several spells of deep thinking on this point, which, though he

cannot exactly agree with it, he holds firmly to the belief that, so

far as it affects duelling, the devil should be one of the

principals, and he, being specially ordained, the great antagonist

to demolish him with his chosen weapon--humanity.

"They tell me you have gone back into the world," says Mrs.

Rosebrook, as the waiter hands Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy a chair.

"It's only the duty of love, of Christian goodness, he humbly

replies, and takes his seat as Mrs. Rosebrook says-"pray be seated!"

"I'm somewhat fatigued; but it's the fatigue of loving to do good,"

he says, rubbing his hands very piously, and giving a look of great

ministerial seriousness at the good lady. We will omit several minor

portions of the Elder's cautious introduction of his humane

occupation, commencing where he sets forth the kind reasons for such

a virtuous policy. "You honestly think you are serving the Lord, do

you?" enquires the lady, as she takes her seat.

The Elder evinces surprise at such a question. Hath he moved among

Christians so many years, ministering to spiritual wants, and yet

the purity of his motives be questioned? "Good madam! we must have

faith to believe. All that is meant well should be accepted in the

greatness of the intention. You will observe, I am neither a lawyer

nor a politician; I would'nt be for the world! We must always be

doing something for the good of others; and we must not forget,

whilst we are doing it, to serve the Allwise one; and while we are

effecting the good of one we are serving the designs of the other."

Thus emphatically spoke the Elder, fingering a book that lay on the

table. "I buy sick people, I save the dying, and I instruct them in

the ways of the Lord as soon as they are cured, and-" And here the

Elder suddenly stops.

"Add, Mr. Praiseworthy, that when you have cured them, and

instructed them in the way of the Lord, you sell them!" interrupts

the lady, watching the sudden changes that pass over his craven

features.

"I always get them good masters; I never fail in that. Nor do I

stand upon the profit-it's the humanity I takes into the balance."

He conceives good under the motley garb of his new mission.

"Humanity-strange humanity, with self coiled beneath. Why, Mr.

Praiseworthy!" the lady starts from her seat, and speaks with

emphasis, "do you tell me that you have become a resurrection man,

standing at the platform of death, interposing with it for a

speculation?"

"It's no uncommon business, Madam; hundreds follow it; some have got

rich at it."

"Got rich at it!" Mrs. Rosebrook interrupts, as a sagacious looking

cat bounds on the table, much to the discomfiture of the Elder, who

jumps up in a great fright,--"What irresistible natures we have; may

heaven save us from the cravings of avarice!"

The Elder very methodically puts the interrupting cat upon the

floor, and resumes his seat. "Why, bless us, good madam, we must

have something to keep our consciences clear; there's nothing like

living a straightforward life."

"What a horrible inconsistency! Buying the sick and the dying. May

the dead not come in for a portion of your singular generosity? If

you can speculate in the dying why exclude the dead? the principle

would serve the same faith in Christianity. The heart that can

purchase the dying must be full of sad coldness, dragging the woes

and pains of mortality down to a tortuous death. Save us from the

feelings of speculation,--call them Christian, if you will,--that

makes man look upon a dying mortal, valuing but the dollars and

cents that are passing away with his life," she interrupts, giving

vent to her pent-up feelings.

Mr. Praiseworthy suggests that the good lady does not comprehend the

virtue lying beneath his motives; that it takes a philosophical mind

to analyse the good that can be done to human nature, especially

poor black human nature. And he asserts, with great sincerity, that

saving the lives of those about to die miserable deaths is a

wonderful thing for the cause of humanity. Buying them saves their

hopeless lives; and if that isn't praiseworthy nothing can be, and

when the act is good the motive should not be questioned.

"Do you save their lives for a Christian purpose, or is it lucre you

seek, Mr. Praiseworthy?" she enquires, giving the Elder a

significant look, and waiting for a reply.

The Elder rises sedately, and walks across the room, considering his

reply. "The question's so kind of round about," he mutters, as she

continues:--

"Sick when you purchase, your Christianity consists in the art of

healing; but you sell them, and consequently save their lives for a

profit. There is no cholera in our plantation, thank God! you cannot

speculate on our sick. You outshine the London street Jews; they

deal in old clothes, you deal in human oddities, tottering

infirmity, sick negroes." Mrs. Rosebrook suggests that such a

business in a great and happy country should be consigned to its

grave-digger and executioner, or made to pay a killing income tax.

The humane Elder views his clothes; they have become somewhat

threadbare since he entered upon his new profession. He, as may be

supposed, feels the force of the lady's remarks, and yet cannot

bring his mind to believe himself actuated by anything but a love to

do good. Kindness, he contends, was always the most inherent thing

in his nature: it is an insult to insinuate anything degrading

connected with his calling. And, too, there is another consolation

which soars above all,--it is legal, and there is a respectability

connected with all legal callings.

"To be upright is my motto, madam," the Elder says, drawing his hand

modestly over his mouth, and again adjusting the tie of his white

neck-cloth. "I'm trying to save them, and a penny with them. You

see-the Lord forgive him!-my dear madam, Marston didn't do the clean

thing with me; and, the worst of all was, he made a preacher of that

nigger of his. The principle is a very bad one for nigger property

to contend for; and when their masters permit it, our profession is

upset; for, whenever a nigger becomes a preacher, he's sure to be a

profitable investment for his owner. There is where it injures us;

and we have no redress, because the nigger preacher is his master's

property, and his master can make him preach, or do what he pleases

with him," says Mr. Praiseworthy, becoming extremely serious.

"Ah! yes,--self pinches the principles; I see where it is, Elder,"

says the lady. "But you were indiscreet, given to taking at times;

and the boy Harry, proving himself quite as good at preaching,

destroyed your practice. I wish every negro knew as much of the

Bible as that boy Harry. There would be no fear of insurrections; it

would be the greatest blessing that ever befell the South. It would

make some of your Christians blush,--perhaps ashamed."

"Ashamed! ashamed! a thing little used the way times are," he

mutters, fretting his fingers through his bristly hair, until it

stands erect like quills on a porcupine's back. This done, he

measuredly adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose, giving his

tawny visage an appearance at once strange and indicative of all the

peculiarities of his peculiar character. "It wasn't that," he says,

"Marston did'nt get dissatisfied with my spiritual conditions; it

was the saving made by the negro's preaching. But, to my new

business, which so touches your sensitive feelings. If you will

honour me, my dear madam, with a visit at my hospital, I am certain

your impressions will change, and you will do justice to my

motives."

"Indeed!" interrupts the lady, quickly, "nothing would give me more

gratification,--I esteem any person engaged in a laudable pursuit;

but if philanthropy be expressed through the frailties of

speculation,--especially where it is carried out in the buying and

selling of afflicted men and women,--I am willing to admit the age of

progress to have got ahead of me. However, Elder, I suppose you go

upon the principle of what is not lost to sin being gained to the

Lord: and if your sick property die pious, the knowledge of it is a

sufficient recompense for the loss." Thus saying, she readily

accepted the Elder's kind invitation, and, ordering a basket of

prepared nourishment, which, together with the carriage, was soon

ready, she accompanied him to his infirmary. They drove through

narrow lanes and streets lined with small dilapidated cottages, and

reached a wooden tenement near the suburb of the city of C--. It was

surrounded by a lattice fence, the approach being through a gate, on

which was inscribed, "Mr. Praiseworthy's Infirmary;" and immediately

below this, in small letters, was the significant notice, "Planters

having the cholera and other prevailing diseases upon their

plantations will please take notice that I am prepared to pay the

highest price for the infirm and other negroes attacked with the

disease. Offers will be made for the most doubtful cases!"

"Elder Praiseworthy!" ejaculates the lady, starting back, and

stopping to read the strange sign. "'Offers will be made for the

most doubtful cases!'" she mutters, turning towards him with a look

of melancholy. "What thoughts, feelings, sentiments! That means,

that unto death you have a pecuniary interest in their bodies; and,

for a price, you will interpose between their owners and death. The

mind so grotesque as to conceive such a purpose should be

restrained, lest it trifle with life unconsciously."

"You see," interrupts Mr. Praiseworthy, looking more serious than

ever, "It's the life saved to the nigger; he's grateful for it; and

if they ain't pious just then, it gives them time to consider, to

prepare themselves. My little per centage is small-it's a mean

commission; and if it were not for the satisfaction of knowing how

much good I do, it wouldn't begin to pay a professional gentleman."

As the Elder concludes his remarks, melancholy sounds are breaking

forth in frightful discord. From strange murmurings it rises into

loud wailings and implorings. "Take me, good Lord, to a world of

peace!" sounds in her ears, as they approach through a garden and

enter a door that opens into a long room, a store-house of human

infirmity, where moans, cries, and groans are made a medium of

traffic. The room, about thirty feet long and twenty wide, is

rough-boarded, contains three tiers of narrow berths, one above the

other, encircling its walls. Here and there on the floor are cots,

which Mr. Praiseworthy informs us are for those whose cases he would

not give much for. Black nurses are busily attending the sick

property; some are carrying bowls of gruel, others rubbing limbs and

quieting the cries of the frantic, and again supplying water to

quench thirst. On a round table that stands in the centre of the

room is a large medicine-chest, disclosing papers, pills, powders,

phials, and plasters, strewn about in great disorder. A bedlam of

ghastly faces presents itself,--dark, haggard, and frantic with the

pains of the malady preying upon the victims. One poor wretch

springs from his couch, crying, "Oh, death! death! come soon!" and

his features glare with terror. Again he utters a wild shriek, and

bounds round the room, looking madly at one and another, as if

chased by some furious animal. The figure of a female, whose

elongated body seems ready to sink under its disease, sits on a

little box in the corner, humming a dolorous air, and looking with

glassy eyes pensively around the room at those stretched in their

berths. For a few seconds she is quiet; then, contorting her face

into a deep scowl, she gives vent to the most violent bursts of

passion,--holds her long black hair above her head, assumes a tragic

attitude, threatens to distort it from the scalp. "That one's lost

her mind-she's fitty; but I think the devil has something to do with

her fits. And, though you wouldn't think it, she's just as harmless

as can be," Mr. Praiseworthy coolly remarks, looking at Mrs.

Rosebrook, hoping she will say something encouraging in reply. The

lady only replies by asking him if he purchased her from her owner?

Mr. Praiseworthy responds in the affirmative, adding that she

doesn't seem to like it much. He, however, has strong hopes of

curing her mind, getting it "in fix" again, and making a good penny

on her. "She's a'most white, and, unfortunately, took a liking to a

young man down town. Marston owned her then, and, being a friend of

hers, wouldn't allow it, and it took away her senses; he thought her

malady incurable, and sold her to me for a little or nothing," he

continues, with great complacency.

This poor broken flower of misfortune holds down her head as the

lady approaches, gives a look of melancholy expressive of shame and

remorse. "She's sensitive for a nigger, and the only one that has

said anything about being put among men," Mr. Praiseworthy remarks,

advancing a few steps, and then going from berth to berth,

descanting on the prospects of his sick, explaining their various

diseases, their improvements, and his doubts of the dying. The lady

watches all his movements, as if more intently interested in Mr.

Praiseworthy's strange character. "And here's one," he says, "I fear

I shall lose; and if I do, there's fifty dollars gone, slap!" and he

points to an emaciated yellow man, whose body is literally a crust

of sores, and whose painful implorings for water and nourishment are

deep and touching.

"Poor wretch!" Mr. Praiseworthy exclaims, "I wish I'd never bought

him-it's pained my feelings so; but I did it to save his life when

he was most dead with the rheumatics, and was drawn up as crooked as

branch cord-wood. And then, after I had got the cinques out of him-

after nearly getting him straight for a 'prime fellow' (good care

did the thing), he took the water on the chest, and is grown out

like that." He points coolly to the sufferer's breast, which is

fearfully distended with disease; saying that, "as if that wasn't

enough, he took the lepors, and it's a squeak if they don't end

him." He pities the "crittur," but has done all he can for him,

which he would have done if he hadn't expected a copper for selling

him when cured. "So you see, madam," he reiterates, "it isn't all

profit. I paid a good price for the poor skeleton, have had all ny

trouble, and shall have no gain-except the recompense of feeling.

There was a time when I might have shared one hundred and fifty

dollars by him, but I felt humane towards him; didn't want him to

slide until he was a No. 1." Thus the Elder sets forth his own

goodness of heart.

"Pray, what do you pay a head for them, Mr. Praiseworthy?" enquires

the lady, smoothing her hand over the feverish head of the poor

victim, as the carnatic of her cheek changed to pallid languor.

Pursuing her object with calmness, she determined not to display her

emotions until fully satisfied how far the Elder would go.

"That, madam, depends on cases; cripples are not worth much. But,

now and then, we get a legless fellow what's sound in body, can get

round sprightly, and such like; and, seeing how we can make him

answer a sight of purposes, he'll bring something," he sedately

replies, with muscles unmoved. "Cases what doctors give up as 'done

gone,' we gets for ten and twenty dollars; cases not hanging under

other diseases, we give from thirty to fifty-and so on! Remember,

however, you must deduct thirty per cent. for death. At times, where

you would make two or three hundred dollars by curing one, and

saving his life, you lose three, sometimes half-a-dozen head." The

Elder consoles his feelings with the fact that it is not all profit,

looks highly gratified, puts a large cut of tobacco in his mouth,

thanks God that the common school-bill didn't pass in the

legislature, and that his business is more humane than people

generally admit.

"How many have you in all?"

"The number of head, I suppose? Well, there's about thirty sick, and

ten well ones what I sent to market last week. Did-n-'t-make-a-good

market, though," he drawls out.

"You are alone in the business?"

"Well, no; I've a partner-Jones; there's a good many phases in the

business, you see, and one can't get along. Jones was a

nigger-broker, and Jones and me went into partnership to do the

thing smooth up, on joint account. I does the curing, and he does

the selling, and we both turns a dollar or two-"

"Oh, horrors!" interrupts the lady, looking at Mr. Praiseworthy

sarcastically. "Murder will out, men's sentiments will betray them,

selfishness will get above them all; ornament them as you will,

their ornaments will drop,--naked self will uncover herself and be

the deceiver."

"Not at all!" the Elder exclaims, in his confidence. "The Lord's

will is in everything; without it we could not battle with the

devil; we relieve suffering humanity, and the end justifies the

means."

"You should have left out the means: it is only the end you aim at."

"That's like accusing Deacon Seabury of impious motives, because he

shaves notes at an illegal interest. It's worse-because what the law

makes legal the church should not make sinful." This is

Praiseworthy's philosophy, which he proclaims while forgetting the

existence of a law of conscience having higher claims than the

technicalities of statutes. We must look to that to modify our

selfishness, to strengthen our love for human laws when founded in

justice.

"And who is this poor girl?" enquires Mrs. Rosebrook, stepping

softly forward, and taking her by the hand.

"Marston's once; some Indian in her, they say. She's right fair

looks when she's herself. Marston's in trouble now, and the cholera

has made sad havoc of his niggers," Mr. Praiseworthy replies,

placing a chair, and motioning his hand for the lady to be seated.

The lady seats herself beside the girl,--takes her hand.

"Yes, missus; God bless good missus. Ye don't know me now," mutters

the poor girl, raising her wild glassy eyes, as she parts the long

black hair from her forehead: "you don't know me; I'm changed so!"

"My child, who has made you this wretch?" says the good lady,

pressing her tawny hand.

My child!" she exclaims, with emphasis: "My child Nicholas,--my

child! Missus, save Nicholas; he is my child. Oh! do save him!" and,

as if terrified, she grasps tighter the lady's hand, while her

emotions swell into a frantic outburst of grief. "Nicholas, my

child!" she shrieks.

"She will come to, soon: it's only one of her strange fits of

aberration. Sometimes I fling cold water over her; and, if it's very

cold, she soon comes to," Mr. Praiseworthy remarks, as he stands

unmoved, probably contemplating the goodness of a forgiving God.

What magic simplicity lies concealed in his nature; and yet it is

his trade, sanctioned by the law of a generous state. Let us bless

the land that has given us power to discover the depths to which

human nature can reduce itself, and what man can make himself when

human flesh and blood become mere things of traffic.

"That gal's name is Ellen. I wish I knew all that has turned up at

Marston's," remarks the Elder.

"Ellen!" ejaculates the lady, looking at her more intently, placing

her left hand under her chin. "Not Ellen Juvarna?"

"Yes, good missus-the lady has distributed her nourishment among the

sick-that's my name," she says, raising her eyes with a look of

melancholy that tells the tale of her troubles. Again her feelings

subside into quiet; she seems in meditation. "I knowed you once,

good missus, but you don't know me now, I'm changed so!" she

whispers, the good lady holding her hand, as a tear courses down her

cheek-"I'm changed so!" she whispers, shaking her head.

CHAPTER XII.

A FATHER TRIES TO BE A FATHER.

WE have conducted the reader through scenes perhaps unnecessary to

our narration, nevertheless associated with and appertaining to the

object of our work. And, in this sense, the reader cannot fail to

draw from them lessons developing the corrupting influences of a

body politic that gives one man power to sell another. They go to

prove how soon a man may forget himself,--how soon he may become a

demon in the practice of abominations, how soon he can reconcile

himself to things that outrage the most sacred ties of our social

being. And, too, consoling himself with the usages of society,

making it right, gives himself up to the most barbarous practices.

When we left Marston in a former chapter, he had become sensible of

the wrong he so long assisted to inflict upon innocent and

defenceless persons; and, stung with remorse made painful by the

weight of misfortune, had avowed his object of saving his children.

Yet, strange as it may seem, so inured were his feelings to those

arbitrary customs which slave-owners are educated to view as

privileges guaranteed in the rights of a peculiar institution-the

rights of property in the being slave-that, although conscious of

his duty toward the children, no sooner had the mother of Nicholas

been attacked with cholera, than he sold her to the Elder Pemberton

Praiseworthy, in whose infirmary we have just left her. The Elder,

since his discharge from parochial life,--from ministering the

gospel, has transferred his mission to that of being the partner in

a firm, the ostensible business of which is purchasing the sick, the

living, and the dying.

Do not blush, reader; you know not how elastic dealing in human kind

makes man's feelings. Gold is the beacon-light of avarice; for it

man will climb over a catacomb of the dead. In this instance the

very man-Marston-who, touched by misfortune, began to cherish a

father's natural feelings, could see nothing but property in the

mother, though he knew that mother to be born free. Perhaps it was

not without some compunction of feelings-perhaps it was done to

soften the separation at that moment so necessary to the

preservation of the children. But we must leave this phase of the

picture, and turn to another.

Graspum had diligently watched Marston's affairs, and through the

cunning and perseverance of Romescos, carefully noted every movement

on the plantation. Each death from cholera was reported,--the change

in Marston's feelings observed and provided against,--every stage of

the crop carefully watched. Graspum, however, had secured himself in

the real estate, and gave little heed to the epidemic that was

carrying off the negro property. Finally, to pass over several

stages in the decline of Marston's affairs, the ravages of the

disease continued until but forty-three negroes, old and young,

were left on the old homestead. The culminating point had arrived.

He was in the grasp of Graspum, and nothing could save him from

utter ruin. It had lately been proved that the Rovero family,

instead of being rich, were extremely poor, their plantation having

long been under a mortgage, the holder of which was threatening

foreclosure.

With Marston, an amount of promiscuous debts had accumulated so far

beyond his expectation that he was without means of discharging

them. His affairs became more and more confused, while the amount of

his liabilities remained a perfect obscurity to the community.

Rumour began to disseminate his troubles, suspicion summoned her

charges, and town-talk left little unadded; while those of his

creditors who had been least suspicious of his wealth and honour

became the most importunate applicants for their claims. At length,

driven by the pressure of the times, he calls Clotilda to him, and

tells her that he is resolved to send Annette and Nicholas into the

city, where they will remain in the care of a coloured woman, until

an opportunity offers of sending them to the north. He is fond of

Clotilda,--tells her of the excitement concerning his business

affairs, and impresses her with the necessity of preserving

calmness; it is requisite to the evasion of any ulterior consequence

that may be brought upon him. Every-thing hangs upon a thread-a

political thread, a lawful thread-a thread that holds the fate of

thirty, forty, or fifty human beings-that separates them from that

verge of uncertainty upon which a straw may turn the weal or woe of

their lives. "When I get them comfortably cared for, Clotilda, I

will send for you. Nicholas's mother has gone, but you shall be a

mother to them both," he says, looking upon her seriously, as if

contemplating the trouble before him in the attempt to rescue his

children.

"You will not send Annette away without me?" she inquires, quickly,

falling on her knees at his side, and reiterating, "Don't send

Annette away without me,--don't, mas'r!"

"The separation will only be for a few days. Annette shall be

educated-I care not for the laws of our free land against it-and

together you shall go where your parentage will not shame you,--where

you may ornament society," he replies, as Clotilda's face lights up

with satisfaction. With such an assurance-she does not comprehend

the tenour of his troubles-her freedom seems at hand: it excites her

to joy. Marston retires and she takes his seat, writes a note to

Maxwell, who is then in the city, relating what has transpired, and

concluding with a request that he will call and see her.

A few days passed, and the two children were sent into the city and

placed in the charge of a free woman, with instructions to keep them

secreted for several weeks. This movement being discovered by

Romescos, was the first signal for an onset of creditors. Graspum,

always first to secure himself, in this instance compelled Marston

to succumb to his demands by threatening to disclose the crime

Lorenzo had committed. Forcing him to fulfil the obligation in the

bond, he took formal possession of the plantation. This increased

the suspicion of fraud; there was a mystery somewhere,--nobody could

solve it. Marston, even his former friends declared, was a swindler.

He could not be honestly indebted in so large an amount to Graspum;

nor could he be so connected with such persons without something

being wrong somewhere. Friends began to insinuate that they had been

misled; and not a few among those who had enjoyed his hospitality

were first inclined to scandalise his integrity. Graspum had

foreseen all this, and, with Romescos, who had purloined the bill of

sale, was prepared to do any amount of swearing. Marston is a victim

of circumstances; his proud spirit prompts him to preserve from

disgrace the name of his family, and thus he the more easily yielded

to the demands of the betrayer. Hence, Graspum, secure in his

ill-gotten booty, leaves his victim to struggle with those who come

after him.

A few weeks pass over, and the equity of Graspum's claim is

questioned: his character for honour being doubted, gives rise to

much comment. The whole thing is denounced-proclaimed a concerted

movement to defraud the rightful creditors. And yet, knowing the

supremacy of money over law in a slave state, Graspum's power, the

revenge his followers inflict, and their desperate character, not

one dare come forward to test the validity of the debt. They know

and fear the fierce penalty: they are forced to fall back,--to seize

his person, his property, his personal effects.

In this dilemma, Marston repairs to the city, attempts to make an

arrangement with his creditors, singularly fails; he can effect

nothing. Wherever he goes his salutation meets a cold, measured

response; whisper marks him a swindler. The knife stabs deep into

the already festered wound. Misfortune bears heavily upon a

sensitive mind; but accusation of wrong, when struggling under

trials, stabs deepest into the heart, and bears its victim suffering

to the very depths of despair.

To add to this combination of misfortunes, on his return to the

plantation he found it deserted,--a sheriff's keeper guarding his

personal effects, his few remaining negroes seized upon and marched

into the city for the satisfaction of his debts. Clotilda has been

seized upon, manacled, driven to the city, committed to prison.

Another creditor has found out the hiding-place of the children;

directs the sheriff, who seizes upon them, like property of their

kind, and drags them to prison. Oh, that prison walls were made for

torturing the innocent!

Marston is left poor upon the world; Ellen Juvarna is in the hands

of a resurrectionist; Nicholas-a bright boy he has grown-is within

the dark confines of a prison cell, along with Clotilda and Annette.

Melancholy broods over the plantation now. The act of justice,--the

right which Marston saw through wrong, and which he had intended to

carry out,--is now beyond his power. Stripped of those comforts he

had enjoyed, his offspring carried off as trophies of

avarice,--perhaps for sale to some ruffian who would set a price upon

their beauty,--he sits down, sick at heart, and weeps a child's

tears. The mansion, so long the scene of pleasure and hospitality,

is like a deserted barrack;-still, gloomy, cold, in the absence of

familiar faces. No servant comes to call him master,--Dandy and Enoch

are gone; and those familiar words, so significant of affection

between master and slave, "Glad to see ye home, mas'r," no longer

sounded in his ears. Even his overseer has become alarmed, and like

the rest levied for arrears of wages.

There is nothing for Marston but to give up all,--to leave the home

of his childhood, his manhood, his happier days. He is suddenly

reminded that there is virtue in fortitude; and, as he gazes round

the room, the relics of happier days redouble his conviction of the

evil he has brought upon himself by straying from the paths of

rectitude. Indeed, so sudden was his fall from distinction, that the

scene around him seemed like a dream, from which he had just awoke

to question its precipitancy. "A sheriff is here now, and I am a

mere being of sufferance," he says, casting a moody glance around

the room, as if contemplating the dark prospect before him. A few

moments' pause, and he rises, walks to the window, looks out upon

the serene scene spread out before the mansion. There is the river,

on which he has spent so many pleasant hours, calmly winding its way

through deep green foliage mellowed by the moonlight. Its beauties

only remind him of the past. He walks away,--struggles to forget, to

look above his trials. He goes to the old side-board that has so

long given forth its cheer; that, too, is locked! "Locked to me!" he

says, attempting to open its doors. A sheriff's lock hangs upon

them. Accustomed to every indulgence, each check indicated a doubt

of his honour, wounding his feelings. The smaller the restraint the

deeper did it pierce his heart. While in this desponding mood,

vainly endeavouring to gain resolution to carry him through, a

gentle rap is heard at the door. Who can it be at this hour? he

questions to himself. No servant is near him; servants have all been

led into captivity for the satisfaction of debts. He approaches the

door and opens it himself, looking cautiously into the corridor.

There, crouched in a niche, alternately presenting fear and

joy,--fear lest he be seen by the enemy, and joy to see his

master,--is a dark figure with the familiar face of Daddy Bob,--Bob of

the old plantation. The old, faithful servant puts out his wrinkled

hand nervously, saying, "Oh, good mas'r!" He has looked up to

Marston with the same love that an affectionate child does to a kind

parent; he has enjoyed mas'r's warm welcome, nurtured his

confidence, had his say in directing the affairs of the plantation,

and watched the frailties that threatened it.

"Why, Daddy Bob! Can it be you?" Marston says, modulating his voice,

as a change comes over his feelings.

"Dis is me, mas'r; it is me," again says the old man. He is wet with

the night dew, but his heart is warm and affectionate. Marston

seizes his hand as if to return the old man's gratitude, and leads

him into the room, smiling. "Sit down, Bob, sit down!" he says,

handing him a chair. The old servant stands at the chair

hesitatingly, doubting his position. "Fear nothing, Bob; sit down.

You are my best friend," Marston continues. Bob takes a seat, lays

his cap quietly upon the floor, smiles to see old mas'r, but don't

feel just right because there's something wrong: he draws the laps

of his jacket together, covers the remnant of a shirt. "Mas'r, what

be da' gwine to do wid de old plantation? Tings, Bob reckon, b'nt

gwine straight," he speaks, looking at Marston shyly. The old slave

knew his master's heart, and had waited for him to unfold its

beatings; but the kind heart of the master yielded to the burden

that was upon it, and never more so than when moved by the strong

attachment evinced by the old man. There was mutual sympathy

pourtrayed in the tenderest emotions. The one was full of grief,

and, if touched by the word of a friend, would overflow; the other

was susceptible of kindness, knew something had befallen his master,

and was ready to present the best proofs of his attachment.

"And how did you get here, my old faithful?" inquires Marston,

drawing nearer to him.

"Well, mas'r, ye see, t'ant just so wid nigger what don' know how

tings is! But, Bob up t' dese tings. I sees Buckra, what look as if

he hab no rights on dis plantation, grab'n up all de folks. And

Lor,' mas'r, old Bob could'nt leave mas'r no how. An, den, when da'

begins to chain de folks up-da' chain up old Rachel, mas'r!-Old Bob

feel so de plantation war'nt no-whare; and him time t'be gwine. Da'h

an't gwine t' cotch old Bob, and carry 'm way from mas'r, so I jist

cum possum ober dem-stows away yander, down close in de old corn

crib,--"

"And you eluded the sheriff to take care of me, did you, Daddy?"

interrupts Marston, and again takes the old man's hand.

"Oh, mas'r, Bob ain't white, but 'is feeling get so fo' h mas'r, he

can't speak 'em," the old slave replies, pearls glistening in his

eyes. "My feelings feel so, I can't speak 'em!" And with a brother's

fondness he shakes his master's hand.

We must beg the reader's indulgence here for the purpose of making a

few remarks upon the negro's power of observation. From the many

strange disquisitions that have been put forward on the mental

qualities of the man of colour-more particularly the African-few can

be selected which have not had for their object his

disqualification. His power of observation has been much

undervalued; but it has been chiefly by those who judge him by a

superficial scale, or from a selfish motive. In the position of mere

property, he is, of necessity, compelled to yield all claims to

mental elevation. And yet, forced to degradation, there are few

negroes on the plantation, or in the spheres of labour, who do not

note the rise and fall of their master's fortunes, study the nature

and prospects of the crop, make enquiries about the market, concoct

the best economy in managing lands, and consult among themselves as

to what would promote the interests of the whole. So far is this

carried out, that in many districts a rivalry for the largest amount

of crop on a given space is carried on among the slaves, who not

unfrequently "chafe" each other upon the superior wealth and talent

of their masters. It is a well-known fact, that John C. Calhoun's

slaves, in addition to being extremely fond of him, were proud and

boastful of his talent.

Daddy Bob is an exemplification. The faithful old slave had become

sensible of something wrong on the plantation: he saw the sheriff

seizing upon the families, secreted himself in the corn crib, and

fled to the woods when they were out of sight. Here, sheltered by

the myrtle, he remained until midnight, intently watching the

mansion for signs of old mas'r. Suddenly a light glimmers from the

window; the old slave's feelings bound with joy; he feels it an

invitation for him to return, and, leaving his hiding-place,

approaches the house stealthily, and descries his master at the

window. Confidence returns, his joy is complete, his hopes have not

misled him. Hungry and wet, he has found his way back to master,

whose face at the window gladdens his heart,--carries him beyond the

bounds of caution. Hence the cordial greeting between the old slave

and his indulgent master. We hear the oft-expressed words-"Master! I

love ye, I do!" Marston gets a candle, lights the old man to a bed

in the attic, bids him good night, and retires.

CHAPTER XIV.

IN WHICH THE EXTREMES ARE PRESENTED.

WHILE the gloomy prospect we have just presented hovered over

Marston's plantation, proceedings of no minor importance, and having

reference to this particular case, are going on in and about the

city. Maxwell, moved by Clotilda's implorings, had promised to gain

her freedom for her; but he knew the penalty, feared the result of a

failure, and had hesitated to make the attempt. The consequences

were upon him, he saw the want of prompt action, and regretted that

the time for carrying his resolution into effect had passed. The

result harassed him; he saw this daughter of misfortune, on her

bended knees, breathing a prayer to Omnipotence for the deliverance

of her child; he remembered her appeal to him, imploring him to

deliver her from the grasp of slavery, from that licentiousness

which the female slave is compelled to bear. He saw her confiding in

him as a deliverer,--the sight haunted him unto madness! Her child!

her child! Yes, that offspring in which her hopes were centered! For

it she pleaded and pleaded; for it she offered to sacrifice her own

happiness; for it she invoked the all-protecting hand. That child,

doomed to a life of chattel misery; to serve the lusts of modern

barbarism in a country where freedom and civilization sound praises

from ocean to ocean; to be obscured in the darkness and cruelty of

an institution in which justice is scoffed, where distress has no

listeners, and the trap-keepers of men's souls scorn to make honest

recompense while human flesh and blood are weighed in the scale of

dollars and cents! He trembles before the sad picture; remonstrances

and entreaties from him will be in vain; nor can he seize them and

carry them off. His life might be forfeited in the attempt, even

were they without prison walls. No! it is almost hopeless. In the

narrow confines of a securely grated cell, where thoughts and

anxieties waste the soul in disappointment, and where hopes only

come and go to spread time with grief, he could only see her and her

child as they suffered. The spectacle had no charm; and those who

carried them into captivity for the satisfaction of paltry debts

could not be made to divest themselves of the self in nature. Cries

and sobs were nothing,--such were poor stock for "niggers" to have;

pains and anxieties were at a discount, chivalry proclaimed its

rule, and nothing was thought well of that lessened the market value

of body and soul. Among great, generous, hospitable, and chivalrous

men, such things could only be weighed in the common scale of trade.

Again, Maxwell remembered that Marston had unfolded his troubles to

him, and being a mere stranger the confidence warranted mutual

reciprocity. If it were merely an act dictated by the impulse of his

feelings at that moment, the secret was now laid broadly open. He

was father of the children, and, sensible of their critical

situation, the sting was goading him to their rescue. The question

was-would he interpose and declare them as such? Ah, he forgot it

was not the father's assertion,--it was the law. The crime of being

property was inherited from the mother. Acknowledging them his

children would neither satisfy law nor the creditors. What

honourable-we except the modernly chivalrous-man would see his

children jostled by the ruffian trader? What man, with feelings less

sensitive than iron, would see his child sold to the man-vender for

purposes so impious that heaven and earth frowned upon them? And yet

the scene was no uncommon one; slavery affords the medium, and men,

laying their hearts aside, make it serve their pockets. Those whom

it would insult to call less than gentlemen have covered their

scruples with the law, while consigning their own offspring to the

hand of an auctioneer. Man property is subvervient material,--woman

is even more; for where her virtue forms its tissues, and can be

sold, the issue is indeed deplorable. Again, where vice is made a

pleasure, and the offspring of it become a burden on our hands,

slavery affords the most convenient medium of getting rid of the

incumbrance. They sell it, perhaps profitably, and console

themselves with the happy recollection of what a great thing it is

to live in a free country, where one may get rid of such things

profitably. It may save our shame in the eyes of man, but God sees

all,--records the wrong!

Thus Maxwell contemplated the prospects before him. At length he

resolved to visit Marston upon his plantation, impress him with the

necessity of asserting their freedom, in order to save them from

being sold with the effects of the estate.

He visits Marston's mansion,--finds the picture sadly changed; his

generous friend, who has entertained him so hospitably, sits in a

little ante-chamber, pensively, as if something of importance has

absorbed his attention. No well-dressed servants welcome him with

their smiles and grimaces; no Franconia greets him with her

vivacity, her pleasing conversation, her frankness and fondness for

the old servants. No table is decked out with the viands of the

season-Marston's viands have turned into troubles,--loneliness reigns

throughout. It is night, and nothing but the dull sound of the

keeper's tread breaks the silence. His (Maxwell's) mission is a

delicate one. It may be construed as intrusive, he thinks. But its

importance outweighs the doubt, and, though he approaches with

caution, is received with that embrace of friendship which a

gentleman can claim as his own when he feels the justice of the

mission of him who approaches, even though its tenor be painful.

Maxwell hesitated for a few moments, looked silently upon the scene.

Trouble had already left its prints of sadness upon Marston's

countenance; the past, full of happy associations, floated in his

mind; the future--ah! that was--. Happily, at that moment, he had

been contemplating the means by which he could save Clotilda and the

children. He rises, approaches Maxwell, hands him a chair, listens

to his proposal. "If I can assist you, we will save them," concludes

Maxwell.

"That," he replies, doubtingly, "my good friend, has engaged my

thoughts by night and day--has made me most uneasy. Misfortune likes

sympathy; your words are as soothing as praiseworthy. I will defend

my children if every creditor call me swindler. I will destroy the

infernal bill of sale,--I will crush the hell-born paper that gives

life to deeds so bloody,--I will free them from the shame!" Thus, his

feelings excited to the uttermost, he rises from his seat,

approaches a cupboard, draws forth the small trunk we have before

described, unlocks it. "That fatal document is here, I put it here,

I will destroy it now; I will save them through its destruction.

There shall be no evidence of Clotilda's mother being a slave, oh

no!" he mutters rapidly, running his fingers over packages, papers,

and documents. Again he glances vacantly over the whole file,

examining paper after paper, carefully. He looks in vain. It is not

there; there is no document so fatal. Sharper men have taken better

care of it. "It is not here!" he whispers, his countenance becoming

pallid and death-like. "Not here!"-and they will swear to suit their

purposes. Oaths are only worth what they bring in the market, among

slave dealers. But, who can have taken it?" he continues, looking

wildly at Maxwell. Consternation is pictured on his countenance; he

feels there is intrigue at work, and that the want of that paper

will prove fatal to his resolution. A man in trouble always confides

in others, sometimes those whom he would scarce have trusted before.

He throws the paper aside, takes a seat at Maxwell's side, grasps

him by the hand, saying, "My friend! save them! save them! save

them! Use what stratagem you please; make it the experiment of your

life. Consummate it, and a penitent's prayer will bless you! I see

the impending catastrophe-"

"We may do without it; be quiet. Let your feelings calm. I have

consulted Franconia on the same subject. Woman can do much if she

will; and she has promised me she will. My knowledge of her womanly

nature tells me she will be true to Clotilda!" Maxwell speaks

assuringly, and his words seem as balm to a wounded spirit.

The bill of sale was among the things intended for a more profitable

use. Marston has satisfied Graspum's claim; but he knew that slavery

deadened the sensibilities of men. Yet, could it have so deadened

Graspum's feeling that he would have been found in a plot against

him? No! he could not believe it. He would not look for foul play

from that quarter. It might have been mislaid-if lost, all the

better. A second thought, and he begins to quiet himself with the

belief that it had become extinct; that, there not being evidence to

prove them property, his word would be sufficient to procure their

release. Somewhat relieved of the force of parental anxiety-we can

call it by no other name-the troubled planter, with his troubles

inherited, promises Maxwell, who has postponed his departure that he

may aid in saving Clotilda and her child, that he will proceed

direct to the sheriff's office, give notice of their freedom to that

functionary, and forbid the sale. Upon this resolution they part for

the night, and on the following morning, Marston, sick at heart,

leaves for the city, hoping to make arrangements with his attorney,

who will serve notice of freedom with all the expense and legality

of form.

The reader will excuse us for passing over many things of minor

importance which take place during the progress of arrangements

between Marston and the attorney, Mr. Dyson--commonly called Thomas

Dyson, Esq., wonderfully clever in the practice of slave law--and

proceeding to where we find the notice formally served. The document

forbids the sale of certain persons, physically and mentally

described, according to the nicest rules of law and tenour of trade;

and is, with the dignity of legal proceedings, served on the

honourable sheriff. We give a portion of it, for those who are not

informed on such curious matters: it runs thus:--"'The girl

Clotilda-aged 27 years; her child Annette-aged 7 years, and a

remarkable boy, Nicholas, 6 years old, all negroes, levied upon at

the suit of--, to satisfy a fi fa issued from the--, and set forth

to be the property of Hugh Marston of--, &c. &c.;'" as set forth in

the writ of attachment. Thus runs the curious law, based on

privilege, not principle.

The document served on the sheriff, Marston resolved to remain a few

days in the city and watch its effect. The sheriff, who is seldom

supposed to evince sympathy in his duties, conforms with the

ordinary routine of law in nigger cases; and, in his turn, gives

notice to the plaintiff, who is required to enter security for the

purpose of testing the point of freedom. Freedom here is a slender

commodity; it can be sworn away for a small compensation. Mr.

Anthony Romescos has peculiar talent that way, and his services are

always in the market. The point, however, has not resolved itself

into that peculiar position where it must be either a matter of

compromise, or a question for the court and jury to decide.

If Marston, now sensible of his position as father of the children,

will yield them a sacrifice to the man trader, it is in his power;

the creditors will make it their profit. Who, then, can solve the

perplexity for him? The custom of society, pointing the finger of

shame, denies him the right to acknowledge them his children.

Society has established the licentious wrong,--the law protects it,

custom enforces it. He can only proceed by declaring the mother to

be a free woman, and leaving the producing proof to convict her of

being slave property to the plaintiff. In doing this, his judgment

wars with his softer feelings. Custom--though it has nothing to give

him-is goading him with its advice; it tells him to abandon the

unfashionable, unpolite scheme. Natural laws have given birth to

natural feelings--natural affections are stronger than bad laws. They

burn with our nature,--they warm the gentle, inspire the noble, and

awake the daring that lies unmoved until it be called into action

for the rescue of those for whom our affections have taken life.

Things had arrived at that particular point where law-lovers-we mean

lawyers-look on with happy consciences and pleasing expectations;

that is, they had arrived at that certain hinge of slave law the

turn of which sends men, women, and children, into the vortex of

slavery, where their hopes are for ever crushed. One day Marston had

strong hopes of saving them; but his hopes vanished on the next. The

fair creature, by him made a wretch, seemed before him, on her

bended knees, clasping his hand while imploring him to save her

child. The very thought would have doubly nerved him to action; and

yet, what mattered such action against the force of slavery

injustice? All his exertions, all his pleadings, all his

protestations, in a land where liberty boasts its greatness, would

sink to nothing under the power he had placed in their possession

for his overthrow.

With this fatal scene before him, this indecision, he walked the

streets, resolving and re-resolving, weighing and re-weighing the

consequences, hoping without a chance for hope. He would be a father

as he has been a kind master; but the law says, no! no! Society

forbids right, the law crushes justice,--the justice of heaven!

Marston is like one driven from his home, from the scene of his

happy childhood, upon which he can now only look back to make the

present more painful. He has fallen from the full flow of pleasure

and wealth to the low ebb of poverty clothed in suspicion; he is

homeless, and fast becoming friendless. A few days after, as he

takes his morning walk, he is pointed to the painful fact, made

known through certain legal documents, posted at certain corners of

streets, that his "negro property" is advertised for sale by the

sheriff. He fears his legal notice has done little legal good,

except to the legal gentlemen who receive the costs. He retires to a

saloon, finds the morning paper, commences glancing over its legal

columns. The waiter is surprised to see him at that hour, is

ignorant of the war of trouble that is waging within him, knows him

only as a great man, a rice planter of wealth in negroes, treats him

with becoming civility, and enquires, with a polite bow, what he

will be served with. He wants nothing that will supply the physical

man. He has supped on trouble,--the following, painful as it is, will

serve him for breakfast; it meets his eye as he traces down the

column:--"SHERIFF'S SALE.

"According to former notice, will be sold on the first Tuesday in

September next, between the usual hours of sale, before the Court

House door, in this city, the following property-to wit!

"Three yoke of prime oxen, and four carts.

"Seven horses; two of celebrated breed.

"Twenty-two mules, together with sundry other effects as per

previous schedule, which will be produced at the sale, when the

property will be pointed out. The said being levied on as the

property of Hugh Marston, of--District, and sold to satisfy a fi

fa issued from the Superior Court, W. W. C--.

"Also the following gang of negroes, many of whom have been

accustomed to the cultivation of cotton and rice. Said negroes are

very prime and orderly, having been well trained and fed, in

addition to enjoying the benefit of Christian teaching through a

Sunday-school worship on the plantation.

"Dandy, and Enock (yellow), prime house servants.

"Choate, and Cato, aged 29 and 32, coachman and blacksmith.

"Harry, a prime fellow of remarkable sagacity, said to be very

pious, and has been very valuable as a preacher.

"Seventeen prime field hands, ranging from 17 to 63 years old,

together with sundry children, set forth in the schedule.

"Peggy, aged 23 years, an excellent cook, house servant-can do

almost any work, is faithful and strictly honest.

"Rachel, one of the very best wenches in the County; has had charge

of the Manor for several years, is very motherly and well disposed,

and fully capable of taking charge of a plantation."

The description of the negro property continues until it reaches the

last and most touching point, which Marston reads with tears

coursing down his cheeks. But, it is only trade, and it is

refreshing to see how much talent the auctionee-himself a

distinguished politician,--exhibits in displaying his bill. It is

that which has worked itself so deep into Marston's feelings.

"Clotilda, a white negro, and her child Annette; together with

Nicholas--a bright boy," remarkably intelligent-six years old. "These

last," adds the list, "have been well brought up, with great care,

and are extremely promising and pleasant when speaking. The woman

has superior looks, is sometimes called beautiful, has finely

developed features, and is considered to be the handsomest bright

woman in the county."

We acknowledge the italics to be ours. The list, displaying great

competency in the trade of human beings, concludes with warranting

them sound and healthy, informing all those in want of such property

of the wonderful opportunity of purchasing, and offering to

guarantee its qualities. The above being "levied on to satisfy three

fi fas," &c. &c.

Poor Clotilda! her beauty has betrayed her: her mother was made a

slave, and she has inherited the sin which the enlightened of the

western world say shall be handed down from generation to generation

until time itself has an end. She is within the damp walls of a

narrow cell; the cold stones give forth their moisture to chill her

bleeding heart; the rust of oppression cuts into her very soul. The

warm sunlight of heaven, once so cheering, has now turned black and

cold to her. She sits in that cold confine, filled with sorrow,

hope, and expectation, awaiting her doom, like a culprit who

measures the chances of escape between him and the gallows. She

thinks of Marston. "He was a kind friend to me-he was a good

master," she says, little thinking that at that very moment he sits

in the saloon reading that southern death-warrant which dooms so

many to a life of woe. In it fathers were not mentioned-Marston's

feelings were spared that pain; mothers' tears, too, were omitted,

lest the sensitiveness of the fashionable world should be touched.

Pained, and sick at heart-stung by remorse at finding himself

without power to relieve Clotilda-he rises from his seat, and makes

arrangement to return to his plantation.

CHAPTER XV.

A SCENE OF MANY LIGHTS.

WE must leave Marston wending his way for the old plantation, and

pass to another phase of this complicated affair. In doing this, we

must leave the reader to draw from his own imagination much that

must have transpired previous to the present incidents.

The Rovero family-old and distinguished-had struggled against the

misfortunes brought upon them by their son Lorenzo. Deeply involved,

they had allowed their difficulties to go on till they had found

themselves living by the favour of courtesy and indulgence. Lorenzo

and Franconia were only children; and since the departure of the

former the latter had been the idol of their indulgence. She was, as

we have before said, delicate, sensitive, endowed with generous

impulses, and admired for her gentleness, grace, and vivacity. To

these she added firmness, and, when once resolved upon any object,

could not be moved from her purpose. Nor was she-as is the popular

fallacy of the South-susceptible to the influence of wealth. Her

love and tenderness soared above it; she prized wealth less than

moral worth. But she could not appease the pride of her parents with

her feelings. They, labouring under the influence of their reduced

fortunes, had favoured and insisted upon the advances of the very

wealthy Colonel M'Carstrow, a rice-planter, who had a few years

before inherited a large estate. The colonel is a sturdy specimen of

the Southern gentleman, which combines a singular mixture of

qualities, some of which are represented by a love of good living,

good drinking, good horse-racing, good gambling, and fast company.

He lives on the fat of the land, because the fat of the land was

made for him to enjoy. He has no particular objection to anybody in

the world, providing they believe in slavery, and live according to

his notions of a gentleman. His soul's delight is faro, which he

would not exchange for all the religion in the world; he has strong

doubts about the good of religion, which, he says, should be boxed

up with modern morality.

Laying these things aside, however, he is anything but what would

have been properly selected as a partner for Franconia; and, while

she is only eighteen, he has turned the corner of his forty-third

year. In a word, his manners are unmodelled, his feelings coarse,

his associations of the worst kind; nor is he adapted to make the

happiness of domestic life lasting. He is one of those persons so

often met with, whose affections-if they may be supposed to have

any-are held in a sort of compromise between an incitement to love,

and their natural inclination to revel in voluptuous pleasures. The

two being antagonistic at times, the latter is sure to be the

stronger, and not unfrequently carries its victim into dissolute

extremes. Riches, however, will always weigh heavy in the scale;

their possession sways,--the charm of gold is precious and powerful.

And, too, the colonel had another attraction-very much esteemed

among slave-dealers and owners--he had a military title, though no

one knew how he came by it.

Franconia must be the affianced bride of the supposed wealthy

Colonel M'Carstrow; so say her parents, who feel they are being

crushed out by misfortune. It is their desire; and, however

repulsive it may be to Franconia's feelings, she must accept the

man: she must forget his years, his habits, his associations, for

the wealth he can bring to the relief of the family.

To add ‚clat to the event, it is arranged that the nuptial ceremony

shall take place in the spacious old mansion of General P--, in the

city. General P--is a distant relation of the Rovero family. His

mansion is one of those noble old edifices, met here and there in

the South--especially in South Carolina-which strongly mark the

grandeur of their ancient occupants. It is a massive pile of marble,

of mixed style of Grecian and Doric architecture, with three stories

divided by projecting trellised arbours, and ornamented with fluted

columns surmounted with ingeniously-worked and sculptured capitals,

set off with grotesque figures. The front is ornamented with tablets

of bas-relief, variegated and chaste. These are bordered with

scroll-work, chases of flowers, graces, and historical designs.

Around the lower story, palisades and curvatures project here and

there between the divisions, forming bowers shaded by vines and

sweet-scented blossoms. These are diffusing their fragrance through

the spacious halls and corridors beneath. The stately old pile wears

a romantic appearance; but it has grown brown with decay, and stands

in dumb testimony of that taste and feeling which prevailed among

its British founders. The garden in which it stands, once rich with

the choicest flowers of every clime, now presents an area overgrown

with rank weeds, decaying hedges, dilapidated walks, and sickly

shrubbery. The hand that once nurtured this pretty scene of buds and

blossoms with so much care has passed away. Dull inertness now hangs

its lifeless festoons over the whole, from the vaulted hall to the

iron railing enclosing the whole.

The day for consummating the nuptial ceremony has arrived; many

years have passed since the old mansion witnessed such a scene. The

gay, wealthy, and intelligent of the little fashionable world will

be here. The spell of loneliness in which the old walls have so long

slept will be broken. Sparkling jewels, bland smiles, the rich

decorations of former years, are to again enhance the scene.

Exhausted nature is to shake off its monotony, to be enlivened with

the happiness of a seemingly happy assemblage. A lovely bride is to

be showered with smiles, congratulations, tokens of love. Southern

gallantry will doff its cares, put on its smiling face. Whatever may

smoulder beneath, pleasure and gaiety will adorn the surface.

Franconia sits in her spacious chamber. She is arrayed in flowing

n‚glig‚; a pensive smile invades her countenance; she supports her

head on her left hand, the jewels on her tiny fingers sparkling

though her hair. Everything round her bears evidence of comfort and

luxury; the gentle breeze, as it sweeps through the window to fan

her blushing cheek, is impregnated with sweetest odours. She

contemplates the meeting of him who is to be the partner of her

life; can she reconcile it? Nay, there is something forcing itself

against her will. Her bridesmaids,--young, gay, and

accomplished,--gather around her. The fierce conflict raging in her

bosom discloses itself; the attempt to cheer her up, under the

impression that it arises from want of vigour to buoy up her

sensitive system, fails. Again she seems labouring under excitement.

"Franconia!" exclaims one, taking her by the hand, "is not the time

approaching?"

"Time always approaches," she speaks: her mind has been wandering,

picturing the gloomy spectacle that presents itself in Clotilda's

cell. She moves her right hand slowly across her brow, casts an

enquiring glance around the room, then at those beside her, and

changes her position in the chair. "The time to have your toilet

prepared-the servants await you," is the reply. Franconia gathers

strength, sits erect in her chair, seems to have just resolved upon

something. A servant hastens into her presence bearing a

delicately-enveloped note. She breaks the seal, reads it and

re-reads it, holds it carelessly in her hand for a minute, then puts

it in her bosom. There is something important in the contents,

something she must keep secret. It is from Maxwell. Her friend

evinced some surprise, while waiting a reply as she read the letter.

"No! not yet," she says, rising from her chair and sallying across

the room. "That which is forced upon me-ah! I cannot love him. To me

there is no loving wealth. Money may shelter; but it never moves

hearts to love truly. How I have struggled against it!" Again she

resumes her chair, weeps. Her tears gush from the parent

fountain-woman's heart. "My noble uncle in trouble, my dear brother

gone; yes! to where, and for what, I dare not think; and yet it has

preyed upon me through the struggle of pride against love. My father

may soon follow; but I am to be consigned to the arms of one whom it

would be folly to say I respect."

Her friend, Miss Alice Latel, reminds her that it were well not to

let such melancholy wanderings trouble her. She suggests that the

colonel, being rich, will fill the place of father as well as

husband; that she will be surrounded by the pleasures which wealth

only can bring, and in this world what more can be desired?

"Such fathers seldom make affectionate husbands; nor do I want the

father without the husband; his wealth would not make me respect

him." Franconia becomes excited, giving rapid utterance to her

language. "Can I suppress my melancholy-can I enjoy such pleasure,

and my dear Clotilda in a prison, looking through those galling

gratings? Can I be happy when the anguish of despair pierces deep

into her heart? No! oh, no! Never, while I think of her, can I

summon resolution to put on a bridal robe. Nay! I will not put them

on without her. I will not dissemble joy while she sinks in her

prison solitude!"

"Can you mean that-at this hour?" enquires Miss Alice, looking upon

her with anxiety pictured in her face. One gives the other a look of

surprise. Miss Alice must needs call older counsel.

"Yes!" replies Franconia, more calm; "even at this hour! It is never

too late to serve our sisters. Could I smile-could I seem happy, and

so many things to contemplate? We cannot disguise them now; we

cannot smother scandal with a silken mantle. Clotilda must be with

me. Negro as she is by law, she is no less dear to me. Nor can I

yield to those feelings so prominent in southern breasts,--I cannot

disclaim her rights, leave her the mere chattel subject of brute

force, and then ask forgiveness of heaven!" This declaration, made

in a positive tone, at once disclosed her resolution. We need not

tell the reader with what surprise it took the household; nor, when

she as suddenly went into a violent paroxysm of hysterics, the alarm

it spread.

The quiet of the mansion has changed for uproar and confusion.

Servants are running here and there, getting in each other's way,

blocking the passages, and making the confusion more intense.

Colonel M'Carstrow is sent for, reaches the mansion in great

consternation, expects to find Franconia a corpse, for the negro

messenger told him such a crooked story, and seemed so frightened,

that he can't make anything straight of it-except that there is

something very alarming.

She has been carried to one of the ante-chambers, reclines on a

couch of softest tapestry, a physician at one side, and Alice,

bathing her temples with aromatic liquid, on the other. She presents

a ravishing picture of delicacy, modesty, and simplicity,--of all

that is calmly beautiful in woman. "I can scarcely account for it;

but, she's coming to," says the man of medicine, looking on

mechanically. Her white bosom swells gently, like a newly-waked

zephyr playing among virgin leaves; while her eyes, like melancholy

stars, glimmer with the lustre of her soul. "Ah me!" she sighs,

raising her hand over her head and resting it upon the cushion, as

her auburn hair floats, calm and beautiful, down her pearly

shoulder.

The colonel touches her hand; and, as if it had been too rudely, she

draws it to her side, then places it upon her bosom. Again raising

her eyes till they meet his, she blushes. It is the blush of

innocence, that brightens beneath the spirit of calm resolution. She

extends her hand again, slowly, and accepts his. "You will gratify

me-will you not?" she mutters, attempting to gain a recumbent

position. They raise her as she intimates a desire; she seems

herself again.

"Whatever your wish may be, you have but to intimate it," replies

the colonel, kissing her hand.

"Then, I want Clotilda. Go, bring her to me; she only can wait on

me; and I am fond of her. With her I shall be well soon; she will

dress me. Uncle will be happy, and we shall all be happy."

"But," the colonel interrupts, suddenly, "where is she to be found?"

"In the prison. You'll find her there!" There is little time to

lose,--a carriage is ordered, the colonel drives to the prison, and

there finds the object of Franconia's trouble. She, the two children

at her side, sits in a cell seven by five feet; the strong grasp of

slave power fears itself, its tyranny glares forth in the emaciated

appearance of its female victim. The cell is lighted through a small

aperture in the door, which hangs with heavy bolts and bars, as if

torturing the innocent served the power of injustice. The

prison-keeper led the way through a narrow passage between stone

walls. His tap on the door startles her; she moves from her

position, where she had been seated on a coarse blanket. It is all

they (the hospitable southern world, with its generous laws) can

afford her; she makes it a bed for three. A people less boastful of

hospitality may give her more. She holds a prayer-book in her hand,

and motions to the children as they crouch at her feet.

"Come, girl! somebody's here to see you," says the keeper, looking

in at the aperture, as the sickly stench escapes from the dark

cavern-like place.

Nervously, the poor victim approaches, lays her trembling hand on

the grating, gives a doubting glance at the stranger, seems

surprised, anxious to know the purport of his mission.

"Am I wanted?" she enquires eagerly, as if fearing some rude dealer

has come-perhaps to examine her person, that he may be the better

able to judge of her market value.

Notwithstanding the coldness of M'Carstrow's nature, his feelings

are moved by the womanly appearance of the wench, as he calls her,

when addressing the warden. There is something in the means by which

so fair a creature is reduced to merchandise he cannot altogether

reconcile. Were it not for what habit and education can do, it would

be repulsive to nature in its crudest state. But it is according to

law, that inhuman law which is tolerated in a free country.

"I want you to go with me, and you will see your young missis," says

M'Carstrow, shrugging his shoulders. He is half inclined to let his

better feelings give way to sympathy. But custom and commerce forbid

it; they carry off the spoil, just as the sagacious pumpkin

philosopher of England admits slavery a great evil, while delivering

an essay for the purpose of ridiculing emancipation.

M'Carstrow soon changes his feelings,--addresses himself to business.

"Are you in here for sale?" he enquires, attempting to whistle an

air, and preserve an unaffected appearance.

The question touches a tender chord of her feelings; her bosom

swells with emotions of grief; he has wounded that sensitive chord

upon which the knowledge of her degradation hangs. She draws a

handkerchief from her pocket, wipes the tear that glistens in her

eye, clasps Annette in her arms-while Nicholas, frightened, hangs by

the skirts of her dress,--buries her face in her bosom, retires a few

steps, and again seats herself on the blanket.

"The question is pending. If I'm right about it-and I believe I'm

generally so on such cases-it comes on before the next session, fall

term," says the gaoler, turning to M'Carstrow with a look of

wonderful importance. The gaoler, who, with his keys, lets loose the

anxieties of men, continues his learned remarks. "Notice has been

served how she's free. But that kind o' twisting things to make

slave property free never amounts to much, especially when a man

gets where they say Marston is! Anthony Romescos has been quizzing

about, and it don't take much to make such things property when he's

round." The man of keys again looks very wise, runs his hand deep

into the pocket of his coat, and says something about this being a

great country.

"How much do you reckon her worth, my friend?" enquires M'Carstrow,

exchanging a significant glance.

"Well, now you've got me. It's a point of judgment, you see. The

article's rather questionable-been spoiled. There's a doubt about

such property when you put it up, except a gentleman wants it; and

then, I reckon, it'll bring a smart price. There's this to be

considered, I reckon, though they haven't set a price on her yet,

she's excellent good looking; and the young un's a perfect cherry.

It'll bring a big heap one of these days."

"We won't mind that, just now, gaoler," M'Carstrow says, very

complacently; "you'll let me have her tonight, and I'll return her

safe in the morning."

"No, no," interposes Clotilda, mistaking M'Carstrow's object. She

crouches down on the blanket, as if shrinking from a deadly assault:

"let me remain, even in my cell." She draws the children to her

side.

"Don't mistake me, my girl: I am a friend. I want you for Franconia

Rovero. She is fond of you, you know."

"Franconia!" she exclaims with joy, starting to her feet at the

sound of the name. "I do know her, dear Franconia! I know her, I

love her, she loves me-I wish she was my mother. But she is to be

the angel of my freedom-" Here she suddenly stopped, as if she had

betrayed something.

"We must lose no time," M'Carstrow says, informing her that

Franconia is that night to be his bride, and cannot be happy without

seeing her.

"Bride! and cannot prepare without me," mutters the woman, seeming

to doubt the reality of his statement. A thought flashes in her

mind: "Franconia has not forgotten me; I will go and be Franconia's

friend." And with a child-like simplicity she takes Annette by the

hand, as if they were inseparable. "Can't Nicholas go, too?" she

inquires.

"You must leave the child," is the cool reply. M'Carstrow attempts

to draw the heavy bolt that fastens the door.

"Not so fast, if you please," the warden speaks. "I cannot permit

her to leave without an order from the sheriff." He puts his hand

against the door.

"She will surely be returned in the morning; I'm good for a hundred

such pieces of property."

"Can't help that," interrupts the gaoler, coolly.

"But, there's my honour!"

"An article gaolers better not deal in. It may be very good

commodity in some kinds of business-don't pay in ours; and then,

when this kind of property is in question, it won't do to show a

favour beyond the rule."

M'Carstrow is in a sad dilemma. He must relieve himself through a

problem of law, which, at this late hour, brings matters to a

singular point. He believes Franconia suffers from a nervous

affection, as the doctors call it, and has fixed her mind upon the

only object of relief. He had made no preparation for such a

critical event; but there is no postponing the ceremony,--no

depriving her of the indulgence. Not a moment is to be lost: he sets

off, post-haste, for the sheriff's office. That functionary is well

known for his crude method of executing business; to ask a favour of

him would be like asking the sea to give up its dead. He is cold,

methodical, unmoveable; very much opposed to anything having the

appearance of an innovation upon his square rules of business.

M'Carstrow finds him in just the mood to interpose all the frigid

peculiarities of his incomprehensible nature. The colonel has known

him by reputation; he knows him now through a different medium.

After listening to M'Carstrow's request, and comporting himself with

all imaginable dignity, he runs his fingers through his hair, looks

at M'Carstrow vacantly, and well nigh rouses his temper. M'Carstrow

feels, as southern gentlemen are wont to feel, that his position and

title are enough to ensure courtesy and a quick response. The man of

writs and summonses feels quite sure that the pomp of his office is

sufficient to offset all other distinctions.

"Whar' d'ye say the gal was,--in my gaol?" the sheriff inquires, with

solemn earnestness, and drawling his words measuredly, as if the

whole affair was quite within his line of business. The sheriff has

the opportunity of making a nice little thing of it; the object to

be released will serve the profits of the profession. "Gittin' that

gal out yander ain't an easy thing now, 'taint! It'll cost ye 'bout

twenty dollars, sartin," he adds, turning over the leaves of his big

book, and running his finger down a scale of names.

"I don't care if it costs a hundred! Give me an order for her

release!" M'Carstrow begins to understand Mr. Sheriff's composition,

and putting his hand into his pocket, draws forth a dwenty-dollar

gold piece, throws it upon the table. The effect is electric: it

smooths down the surface of Mr. Sheriff's nature,--brings out the

disposition to accommodate. The Sheriff's politeness now taxes

M'Carstrow's power to reciprocate.

"Now, ye see, my friend," says Mr. Sheriff, in a quaint tone,

"there's three fi fas on that critter. Hold a minute!" He must needs

take a better glance; he runs his fingers over the page again,

mutters to himself, and then breaks out into a half-musical,

half-undefinable humming. "It's a snarled-up affair, the whole on't.

T'll take a plaguy cunnin' lawyer to take the shine out." The

sheriff pushes the piece of coin nearer the inkstand, into the

centre of the table. "I feel all over like accommodatin' ye," he

deigns to say; "but then t'll be so pestky crooked gettin' the thing

straight." He hesitates before the wonderful difficulty,--he can't

see his way straight through it. "Three fi fas! I believe I'm

correct; there's one principal one, however."

"I pledge my honour for her return in the morning; and she shall be

all shined up with a new dress. Her presence is imperatively

necessary to-night," M'Carstrow remarks, becoming impatient.

"Two fi fas!-well, the first look looked like three. But, the

principal one out of the way,--no matter." Mr. Sheriff becomes more

and more enlightened on the unenlightened difficulties of the law.

He remarks, touching M'Carstrow on the arm, with great seriousness

of countenance, "I sees how the knot's tied. Ye know, my functions

are turned t' most everything; and it makes a body see through a

thing just as straight as--. Pest on't! Ye see, it's mighty likely

property,--don't strike such every day. That gal 'll bring a big tick

in the market-"

"Excuse me, my dear sir," M'Carstrow suddenly interrupts.

"Understand me, if you please. I want her for nothing that you

contemplate,--nothing, I pledge you my honour as a southern

gentleman!"

"'Ah,--bless me! Well, but there's nothin' in that. I see! I see! I

see!" Mr. Sheriff brightens up, his very soul seems to expand with

legal tenacity. "Well, ye see, there's a question of property raised

about the gal, and her young 'un, too-nice young 'un 'tis; but it's

mighty easy tellin' whose it is. About the law matter, though, you

must get the consent of all the plaintiff's attorneys,--that's no

small job. Lawyers are devilish slippery, rough a feller amazingly,

once in a while; chance if ye don't have to get the critter valued

by a survey. Graspum, though's ollers on hand, is first best good at

that: can say her top price while ye'd say seven," says Mr. Sheriff,

maintaining his wise dignity, as he reminds M'Carstrow that his name

is Cur, commonly called Mr. Cur, sheriff of the county. It must not

be inferred that Mr. Cur has any of the canine qualities about him.

The hour for the ceremony is close at hand. M'Carstrow, satisfied

that rules of law are very arbitrary things in the hands of

officials-that such property is difficult to get out of the meshes

of legal technicality-that honour is neither marketable or

pledgeable in such cases, must move quickly: he seeks the very

conscientious attorneys, gets them together, pleads the necessity of

the case: a convention is arranged, Graspum will value the

property-as a weigher and gauger of human flesh. This done,

M'Carstrow signs a bond in the sum of fifteen hundred dollars,

making himself responsible for the property. The instrument contains

a provision, that should any unforeseen disaster befall it, the

question of property will remain subject to the decision of Court.

Upon these conditions, M'Carstrow procures an order for her release.

He is careful, however, that nothing herein set forth shall affect

the suit already instituted.

Love is an exhilarating medicine, moving and quickening the hearts

of old and young. M'Carstrow felt its influence sensibly, as he

hurried back to the prison-excited by the near approach of the

ceremony-with the all-important order. Bolts, bars, and malarious

walls, yield to it the pining captive whose presence will soothe

Franconia's feelings.

Clotilda was no less elated at the hope of changing her prison for

the presence of her young mistress; and yet, the previous summons

had nearly unnerved her. She lingers at the grating, waiting

M'Carstrow's return. Time seems to linger, until her feelings are

nearly overwhelmed in suspense. Again, there is a mystery in the

mission of the stranger; she almost doubts his sincerity. It may be

one of those plots, so often laid by slave-traders, to separate her

from her child,--perhaps to run her where all hope of regaining

freedom will be for ever lost. One after another did these things

recur to her mind, only to make the burden of her troubles more

painful.

Her child has eaten its crust, fallen into a deep sleep, and, its

little hands resting clasped on its bosom, lies calmly upon the

coarse blanket. She gazes upon it, as a mother only can gaze. There

is beauty in that sweet face; it is not valued for its loveliness,

its tenderness, its purity. How cursed that it is to be the prime

object of her disgrace! Thus contemplating, M'Carstrow appears at

the outer gate, is admitted into the prison, reaches the inner

grating, is received by the warden, who smiles generously. "I'm as

glad as anything! Hope you had a good time with his honour, Mr.

Cur?" he says, holding the big key in his hand, and leading the way

into the office. He takes his seat at a table, commences preparing

the big book. "Here is the entry," he says, with a smile of

satisfaction. "We'll soon straighten the thing now." Puts out his

hand for the order which M'Carstrow has been holding. "That's just

the little thing," he says, reading it word by word carefully, and

concluding with the remark that he has had a deal of trouble with

it. M'Carstrow places some pieces of silver in his hand; they turn

the man of keys into a subservient creature. He hastens to the cell,

M'Carstrow following,--draws the heavy bolts,--bids the prisoner come

forth. "Yes, come, girl; I've had a tough time to get you out of

that place: it holds its prey like lawyers' seals," rejoins

M'Carstrow.

"Not without my child?" she inquires quickly. She stoops down and

kisses it. "My daughter,--my sweet child!" she mutters.

"Till to-morrow. You must leave her for to-night."

"If I must!" Again she kisses the child, adding, as she smoothed her

hand over Annette, and parted her hair, "Mother will return soon."

There was something so touching in the word mother, spoken while

leaning over a sleeping babe. Clotilda reaches the door, having kept

her eyes upon the child as she left her behind. A tremor comes over

her,--she reluctantly passes the threshold of the narrow arch; but

she breathes the fresh air of heaven,--feels as if her life had been

renewed. A mother's thoughts, a mother's anxieties, a mother's love,

veil her countenance. She turns to take a last look as the cold door

closes upon the dearest object of her life. How it grates upon its

hinges! her hopes seem for ever extinguished.

The law is thus far satisfied-the legal gentlemen are satisfied, the

warden is not the least generous; and Mr. Cur feels that, while the

job was a very nice one, he has not transcended one jot of his

importance. Such is highly gratifying to all parties. Clotilda is

hurried into a carriage, driven at a rapid rate, and soon arrives at

the mansion. Here she is ushered into a chamber, arrayed in a new

dress, and conducted into the presence of Franconia. The meeting may

be more easily imagined than described. Their congratulations were

warm, affectionate, touching. Clotilda kisses Franconia's hand again

and again; Franconia, in turn, lays her hand upon Clotilda's

shoulder, and, with a look of commiseration, sets her eyes intently

upon her, as if she detects in her countenance those features she

cannot disown. She requests to be left alone with Clotilda for a

short time. Her friends withdraw. She discloses the difficulties

into which the family have suddenly fallen, the plan of escape she

has arranged, the hopes she entertains of her regaining her freedom.

"Public opinion and the state of our difficulties prompted this

course,--I prefer it to any other: follow my directions,--Maxwell has

everything prepared, and to-night will carry you off upon the broad

blue ocean of liberty. Enjoy that liberty, Clotilda,--be a

woman,--follow the path God has strewn for your happiness; above all,

let freedom be rewarded with your virtue, your example," says

Franconia, as she again places her arm round Clotilda's neck.

"And leave my child, Franconia?" the other inquires, looking up

imploringly in Franconia's face.

"To me," is the quick response. "I will be her guardian, her mother.

Get you beyond the grasp of slavery-get beyond its contaminating

breath, and I will be Annette's mother. When you are safely there,

when you can breathe the free air of liberty, write me, and she

shall meet you. Leave her to me; think of her only in my care, and

in my trust she will be happy. Meet Maxwell-he is your friend-at the

centre corridor; he will be there as soon as the ceremony commences;

he will have a pass from me; he will be your guide!" She overcomes

Clotilda's doubts, reasons away her pleadings for her child, gives

her a letter and small miniature (they are to be kept until she

reaches her destination of freedom), and commences preparing for the

ceremony.

Night arrives, the old mansion brightens and resounds with the

bustle of preparation. Servants are moving about in great confusion.

Everything is in full dress; "yellow fellows," immersed in trim

black coats, nicely-cut pantaloons, white vests and gloves,

shirt-collars of extraordinary dimensions, and hair curiously

crimped, are standing at their places along the halls, ready for

reception. Another class, equally well dressed, are running to and

fro through the corridors in the despatch of business. Old mammas

have a new shine on their faces, their best "go to church" fixings

on their backs. Younger members of the same property species are

gaudily attired-some in silk, some in missus's slightly worn

cashmere. The colour of their faces grades from the purest ebony to

the palest olive. A curious philosophy may be drawn from the

mixture: it contrasts strangely with the flash and dazzle of their

fantastic dresses, their large circular ear-rings, their

curiously-tied bandanas, the large bow points of which lay crossed

on the tufts of their crimpy hair. The whole scene has an air of

bewitching strangeness. In another part of the mansion we find the

small figures of the estate, all agog, toddling and doddling, with

faces polished like black-balled shoes; they are as piquant and

interesting as their own admiration of the dress master has provided

them for the occasion.

The darkness increases as the night advances. The arbour leading

from the great gate to the vaulted hall in the base of the mansion

is hung with lanterns of grotesque patterns, emitting light and

shade as variegated as the hues of the rainbow. The trees and

shrubbery in the arena, hung with fantastic lanterns, enliven the

picture-make it grand and imposing. It presents a fairy-like

perspective, with spectre lights hung here and there, their mellow

glows reflecting softly upon the luxuriant foliage.

Entering the vaulted hall, its floor of antique tiles; frescoed

walls with well-executed mythological designs, jetting lights

flickering and dazzling through its arches, we find ourselves amidst

splendour unsurpassed in our land. At the termination of the great

hall a massive flight of spiral steps, of Egyptian marble, ascends

to the fourth story, forming a balcony at each, where ottomans are

placed, and from which a fine view of the curvature presents itself,

from whence those who have ascended may descry those ascending. On

the second story is a corridor, with moulded juttings and fretwork

overhead; these are hung with festoons of jasmines and other

delicate flowers, extending its whole length, and lighted by

globular lamps, the prismatic ornaments of which shed their soft

glows on the fixtures beneath. They invest it with the appearance of

a bower decorated with buds and blossoms. From this, on the right, a

spacious arched door, surmounted by a semi-circle of stained glass

containing devices of the Muses and other allegorical figures, leads

into an immense parlour, having a centre arch hung with heavy folds

of maroon coloured velvet overspread with lace. Look where you will,

the picture of former wealth and taste presents itself. Around the

walls hang costly paintings, by celebrated Italian masters; some are

portraits of the sovereigns of England, from that of Elizabeth to

George the Third. Brilliant lights jet forth from massive

chandeliers and girandoles, lighting up the long line of chaste

furniture beneath. The floor is spread with softest Turkey carpet;

groups of figures in marble, skilfully executed, form a curiously

arranged fire-place; Britannia's crest surmounting the whole. At

each end of the room stand chastely designed pieces of statuary of

heroes and heroines of past ages. Lounges, ottomans, reclines, and

couches, elaborately carved and upholstered, stand here and there in

all their antiqueness and grandeur. Pier-glasses, massive tables

inlaid with mosaic and pearl, are arranged along the sides, and

overhung with flowing tapestry that falls carelessly from the large

Doric windows. Over these windows are massive cornices, richly

designed and gilded. Quiet grandeur pervades the whole; even the

fairy-like dais that has been raised for the nuptial ceremony rests

upon four pieces of statuary, and is covered with crimson velvet set

with sparkling crystals. And while this spectacle presents but the

vanity of our nature, grand but not lasting, the sweet breath of

summer is wafting its balmy odours to refresh and give life to its

lifeless luxury.

The gay cortŠge begins to assemble; the halls fill with guests; the

beauty, grace, and intelligence of this little fashionable world,

arrayed in its very best, will be here with its best face. Sparkling

diamonds and other precious stones, dazzling, will enhance the

gorgeous display. And yet, how much of folly's littleness does it

all present! All this costly drapery-all this show of worldly

voluptuousness-all this tempest of gaiety, is but the product of

pain and sorrow. The cheek that blushes in the gay circle, that fair

form born to revel in luxury, would not blush nor shrink to see a

naked wretch driven with the lash. Yea! we have said it was the

product of pain and sorrow; it is the force of oppression wringing

from ignorance and degradation the very dregs of its life. Men say,

what of that?-do we not live in a great good land of liberty?

The young affianced,--dressed in a flowing skirt of white satin, with

richly embroidered train; a neat bodice of the same material, with

incisions of lace tipped with brilliants; sleeves tapering into neat

rufflets of lace clasped upon the wrist with diamond bracelets, a

stomacher of chastely worked lace with brilliants in the centre,

relieved by two rows of small unpolished pearls,--is ushered into the

parlour, followed by groomsmen and bridesmaids as chastely dressed.

There is a striking contrast between the youth and delicacy of

Franconia, blushing modestly and in her calmness suppressing that

inert repugnance working in her mind, and the brusqueness of

M'Carstrow, who assumes the free and easy dash, hoping thereby to

lessen his years in the picture of himself. Clotilda, for the last

time, has arranged Franconia's hair, which lies in simple braids

across her polished brows, and folds upon the back, where it is

secured and set off with a garland of wild flowers. The hand that

laid it there, that arranged it so neatly, will never arrange it

again. As a last token of affection for her young mistress, Clotilda

has plucked a new-blown chiponique, white with crystal dew, and

surrounded it with tiny buds and orange blossoms: this, Franconia

holds in her left hand, the lace to which it is attached falling

like mist to the ground.

Thus arrayed, they appear at the altar: the good man of modest cloth

takes his place, the ceremony commences; and as it proceeds, and the

solemn words fall upon her ear, "Those whom God hath joined together

let no man put asunder," she raises her eyes upwards, with a look of

melancholy, as tears, like pearls, glisten in her soft expressive

eyes. Her heart is moved with deeper emotion than this display of

southern galaxy can produce. The combination of circumstances that

has brought her to the altar, the decline of fortune, perhaps

disgrace, worked upon her mind. It is that which has consigned her

to the arms of one she cannot love, whose feelings and associations

she never can respect. Was she to be the ransom?-was she to atone

for the loss of family fortune, family pride, family inconsistency?

kept forcing itself upon her. There was no gladness in it-no

happiness. And there was the captive, the victim of foul slavery-so

foul that hell yearns for its abettors-whose deliverance she prayed

for with her earnest soul. She knew the oppressor's grasp-she had,

with womanly pride, come forward to relieve the wronged, and she had

become sensible of the ties binding her to Clotilda. Unlike too many

of her sex, she did not suppress her natural affections; she could

not see only the slave in a disowned sister; she acknowledged the

relationship, and hastened to free her, to send her beyond slavery's

grasp, into the glad embrace of freedom.

The ceremony ends; the smiles and congratulations of friends, as

they gather round Franconia, shower upon her; she receives them

coldly, her heart has no love for them, it throbs with anxiety for

that slave whose liberty she has planned, and for whose safety she

invokes the all-protecting hand of heaven.

CHAPTER XVI.

ANOTHER PHASE OF THE PICTURE.

WHILE the ceremony we have described in the foregoing chapter was

proceeding, Clotilda, yielding to the earnest request of Franconia,

dresses herself in garments she has provided, and awaits the

commencement of the scene. A little schooner from one of the Bahama

Islands lies moored in the harbour awaiting a fair wind to return.

We need scarcely tell the reader that a plan of escape had been

previously arranged between Franconia and Maxwell; but why she took

so earnest a part in carrying it out, we must reserve for another

chapter.

Maxwell had sought the captain of this schooner, found him of a

generous disposition, ready to act in behalf of freedom. Having soon

gained his confidence, and enlisted his good services, it took no

great amount of persuasion to do this, his feelings having already

been aroused against slavery, the giant arms of which, stretched out

between fear and injustice, had interfered with his rights. He had

seen it grasp the bones and sinews of those who were born in

freedom-he had seen men laugh at his appeals for justice-he had seen

one of his free-born British seamen manacled and dragged to prison

at noonday, merely because his skin was slightly coloured; he had

been compelled to pay tribute to keep alive the oppressor's power,

to compensate the villainy rogues practise upon honest men.

"Yes!" says the captain, a sturdy son of the sea, in answer to

Maxwell; "bring her on board; and with a heart's best wishes, if I

don't land her free and safe in Old Bahama I'll never cross the gulf

stream again." And the mode of getting the boats ready was at once

arranged.

The night was still and dark; picturesque illuminations in and

around the mansion glittered in contrast with the starry arch of

heaven; the soft south breeze fans to life the dark foliage that

clusters around-nature has clothed the scene with her beauties.

Clotilda-she has eagerly awaited the coming time-descends to the

balustrade in the rear of the mansion. Here she meets a band of

musicians; they have assembled to serenade, and wait the

benediction, a signal for which will be made from one of the

balconies. She fears they may recognise her, hesitates at the

entrance, paces backward and forward in the colonnade, and professes

to be awaiting some message from her mistress. Again scanning the

scene, she watches intently, keeping her eyes fixed in the direction

Franconia has suggested. "I was to meet Maxwell there!" works upon

her mind until she becomes nervous and agitated. "I was, and must

meet him there;" and she walks slowly back to the entrance, turns

and returns, watches until her soul has nearly sickened, at length

espies the joyous signal. Franconia did not deceive her. Oh, no! he

stands there in the glare of a lamp that hangs from a willow-tree.

She vaults over the path, grasps his hand with a sister's affection,

and simultaneously the soft swelling music of "Still so gently o'er

me stealing!" floats in the air, as dulcet and soul-stirring as ever

touched the fancy, or clothed with holy inspiration the still repose

of a southern landscape at midnight. But she is with Maxwell; they

have passed the serenaders,--liberty is the haven of her joy, it

gives her new hopes of the future. Those hopes dispel the regrets

that hover over her mind as she thinks of her child.

For several minutes they stand together, listening to the music, and

watching the familiar faces of old friends as they come upon the

balcony in the second story. Southern life had its pleasant

associations-none would attempt to deny them; but the evil brooded

in the uncertainty that hung over the fate of millions, now yielding

indulgence to make life pleasant, then sinking them for ever in the

cruelties of a tyrant's power. It is the crushing out of the mind's

force,--the subduing the mental and physical man to make the chattel

complete,--the shutting out of all the succinct virtues that nurture

freedom, that incite us to improve the endowments of nature, that

proves the rankling poison. And this poison spreads its baneful

influence in and around good men's better desires.

After watching in silence for a few moments, Clotilda gives vent to

her feelings. "I should like to see old Daddy Bob once more, I

should! And my poor Annette; she is celled to be sold, I'm afraid;

but I must yield to the kindness of Franconia. I have seen some

good times among the old folks on the plantation. And there's Aunt

Rachel,--a good creature after all,--and Harry. Well; I mustn't think

of these things; freedom is sweetest," she says. Maxwell suggests

that they move onward. The music dies away in the stillness, as they

turn from the scene to flee beyond the grasp of men who traffic in

human things called property,--not by a great constitution, but under

a constitution's freedom giving power. Would that a great and

glorious nation had not sold its freedom to the damning stain of

avarice! would that it had not perverted that holy word, for the

blessings of which generations have struggled in vain! would that it

had not substituted a freedom that mystifies a jurisprudence,--that

brings forth the strangest fruit of human passions,--that makes

prison walls and dreary cells death-beds of the innocent;-that

permits human beings to be born for the market, and judged by the

ripest wisdom! "Has God ordained such freedom lasting?" will force

itself upon us.-We must return to our humble adventurers.

The fugitives reached the back gate, leading into a narrow lane,

from whence they cross into the main street. Clotilda has none of

the African about her; the most observing guardsman would not stop

her for a slave. They pass along unmolested; the guardsmen, some

mounted and some walking at a slow pace, bow politely. No one

demands a pass. They arrive in safety at a point about two miles

from the city, where the captain and his boat await them. No time is

lost in embarking: the little bark rides at anchor in the stream;

the boat quietly glides to her; they are safely on board. A few

minutes more, and the little craft moves seaward under the pressure

of a gentle breeze. There is no tragic pursuit of slave-hunters, no

tramp of horses to terrify the bleeding victim, no howlings of

ravenous bloodhounds,--nothing that would seem to make the issue

freedom or death. No! all is as still as a midsummer night in the

same clime. The woman--this daughter of slavery's vices--cherishes a

love for freedom; the hope of gaining it, and improving those

endowments nature has bestowed upon her, freshens her spirits and

gives her life to look forward without desponding. Maxwell is her

friend; he has witnessed the blighting power of slavery-not alone in

its workings upon the black man, but upon the lineal offspring of

freemen-and has resolved to work against its mighty arm. With him it

is the spontaneous action of a generous heart sympathising for the

wrongs inflicted upon the weak, and loving to see right respected.

The fair Franconia, who has just been forced to accept the hand of a

mere charlatan, disclosed the secrets of her mind to him; it was she

who incited him to an act which might have sacrificed his freedom,

perhaps his life. But mankind is possessed of an innate feeling to

do good; and there is a charm added when the object to be served is

a fair creature about to be dragged into the miseries of slavery.

Even the rougher of our kind cannot resist it; and at times-we

except the servile opinion which slavery inflicts upon a people

through its profitable issues-prompts the ruffian to generous acts.

The little bark, bound for the haven of freedom, sailed onward over

the blue waters, and when daylight dawned had crossed the bar

separating the harbour from the ocean. Clotilda ascends to the deck,

sits on the companion-seat, and in a pensive mood watches the fading

hills where slavery stains the fair name of freedom,--where

oppression rears its dark monuments to for ever torture and disgrace

a harmless race. She looks intently upon them, as one by one they

fade in the obscure horizon, seeming to recall the many

associations, pleasant and painful, through which she has passed.

She turns from the contemplation to the deep blue sea, and the

unclouded arch of heaven, as they spread out before her: they are

God's own, man cannot pollute them; they are like a picture of glory

inspiring her with emotions she cannot suppress. As the last dim

sight of land is lost in the distance, she waves a handkerchief, as

if to bid it adieu for ever; then looking at Maxwell, who sits by

her side, she says, with a sigh, "I am beyond it! Free,--yes, free!

But, have I not left a sufferer behind? There is my poor Annette, my

child; I will clasp her to my bosom,--I will love her more when I

meet her again. Good-bye, Franconia-dear Franconia! She will be a

mother to my little one; she will keep her word." Thus saying, she

casts a look upward, invokes heaven to be merciful to her

persecutors,--to protect her child,--to guard Franconia through life.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she waves her hand and retires to

the cabin.

CHAPTER XVII.

PLEASANT DEALINGS WITH HUMAN PROPERTY.

WE must deal gently with our scenes; we must describe them without

exaggeration, and in rotation. While the scenes we have just

described were proceeding, another, of deeper import, and more

expressive of slavery's complicated combinations, was being enacted

in another part of the city.

A raffle of ordinary character had been announced in the morning

papers,--we say ordinary, because it came within the ordinary

specification of trade, and violated neither statute law nor

municipal ordinance,--and the raffler, esteemed a great character in

the city, was no less celebrated for his taste in catering for the

amusement of his patrons. On this occasion, purporting to be a very

great one, the inducements held out were no less an incentive of

gambling propensities than an aim to serve licentious purposes. In a

word, it offered "all young connoisseurs of beauty a chance to

procure one of the finest-developed young wenches,--fair, bright,

perfectly brought up, young, chaste, and of most amiable

disposition, for a trifling sum." This was all straight in the way

of trade, in a free country; nobody should blush at it (some

maidens, reading the notice, might feel modestly inclined to),

because nobody could gainsay it. This is prize No. 1, prime-as set

down in the schedule-and the amount per toss being only a trifle,

persons in want of such prizes are respectfully informed of the fact

that only a few chances remain, which will command a premium before

candle-light. Prize No. 2 is a superior pony, of well-known

breed-here the pedigree is set forth; which advantage had not been

accorded to the human animal, lest certain members of the same stock

should blush-raised with great care and attention, and exactly

suited for a gentleman's jant or a lady's saddle-nag. Prize No. 3 is

a superior setter dog, who has also been well brought up, is from

good stock, is kind to children, who play with him when they please.

He knows niggers, is good to watch them, has been known to catch

runaways, to tear their shins wonderfully. Indeed, according to the

setting forth of the sagacious animal, he would seem to understand

slave-law quite well, and to be ready and willing to lend his aid

with dogs of a different species to enforce its provisions. The only

fault the brute has, if fault it may be called, is that he does not

understand the constitutionality of the fugitive slave law,--a law

destined to be exceedingly troublesome among a free people. Did the

sagacity of the animal thus extend to the sovereign law of the land

of the brave and free, he would bring a large price at the north,

where men are made to do what dogs most delight in at the south.

The first prize, as set forth, is valued at seven hundred dollars:

the magnanimous gentleman who caters thus generously for his patrons

states the delicate prize to be worth fifty or a hundred dollars

more, and will, with a little more developing, be worth a great deal

more money. Hence, he hopes his patrons will duly appreciate

enterprising liberality.

The second prize he considers generously low at two hundred dollars;

and the dog-the sagacious animal constituting the third prize-would

be a great bargain to anybody wanting such an animal, especially in

consideration of his propensity to catch negroes, at sixty dollars.

The trio of human and animal prizes produce no distinctive effect

upon the feelings of those who speculate in such property; with them

it is only a matter of gradation between dollars and cents.

But, to be more off-handed in this generous undertaking, and in

consideration of the deep-felt sensibility and hospitality which

must always protect southern character, the chances will be

restricted to two hundred, at five dollars per chance. Money must be

paid in before friends can consider themselves stock-holders. It is

to be a happy time, in a happy country, where all are boasted happy.

The first lucky dog will get the human prize; the next lucky dog

will get the pony; the third will make a dog of himself by only

winning a dog. The fun of the thing, however, will be the great

attraction; men of steady habits are reminded of this. Older

gentlemen, having very nice taste for colour, but no particular

scruples about religion, and who seldom think morals worth much to

niggers, "because they aint got sense to appreciate such things,"

are expected to be on hand. Those who know bright and fair niggers

were never made for anything under the sun but to gratify their own

desires, are expected to spread the good news, to set the young

aristocracy of the city all agog,--to start up a first-best

crowd,--have some tall drinking and first-rate amusement. Everybody

is expected to tell his friend, and his friend is expected to help

the generous man out with his generous scheme, and all are expected

to join in the "bender." Nobody must forget that the whole thing is

to come off at "Your House,"-an eating and drinking saloon, of great

capacity, kept by the very distinguished man, Mr. O'Brodereque.

Mr. O'Brodereque, who always pledges his word upon the honour of a

southern gentleman-frequently asserting his greatness in the

political world, and wondering who could account for his not finding

his way into Congress, where talent like his would be brought out

for the protection of our south-has made no end of money by selling

a monstrous deal of very bad liquor to customers of all

grades,--niggers excepted. And, although his hair is well mixed with

the grey of many years, he declares the guilt of selling liquor to

niggers is not on his shoulders. It is owing to this clean state of

his character, that he has been able to maintain his aristocratic

position. "Yes, indeed," said one of his patrons, who, having fallen

in arrears, found himself undergoing the very disagreeable process

of being politely kicked into the street, "money makes a man big in

the south: big in niggers, big in politics, big with everything but

the way I'm big,--with an empty pocket. I don't care, though; he's

going up by the process that I'm coming down. There's philosophy in

that." It could not be denied that Mr. O'Brodereque-commonly called

General O'Brodereque-was very much looked up to by great people and

Bacchanalians,--men who pay court to appease the wondrous discontent

of the belly, to the total neglect of the back. Not a few swore, by

all their importance, a greater man never lived. He is, indeed, all

that can be desired to please the simple pretensions of a

free-thinking and free-acting southern people, who, having elevated

him to the office of alderman, declare him exactly the man to

develope its functions. A few of the old school aristocracy, who

still retain the bad left them by their English ancestry, having

long since forgotten the good, do sneer now and then at Mr.

Brodereque's pretensions. But, like all great men who have a great

object to carry out, he affects to frown such things down,--to remind

the perpetrators of such aristocratic sneers what a spare few they

are. He asserts, and with more truth than poetry, that any gentleman

having the capacity to deluge the old aristocracy with doubtful

wine, line his pockets while draining theirs-all the time making

them feel satisfied he imports the choicest-and who can keep on a

cheerful face the while, can fill an alderman's chair to a nicety.

In addition to the above, Mr. O'Brodereque is one of those very

accommodating individuals who never fail to please their customers,

while inciting their vanity; and, at the same time, always secure a

good opinion for themselves. And, too, he was liberally inclined,

never refused tick, but always made it tell; by which well-devised

process, his patrons were continually becoming his humble servants,

ready to serve him at call.

Always civil, and even obsequious at first, ready to condescend and

accommodate, he is equally prompt when matters require that peculiar

turn which southerners frequently find themselves turned into,--no

more tick and a turn out of doors. At times, Mr. O'Brodereque's

customers have the very unenviable consolation of knowing that a

small document called a mortgage of their real and personal property

remains in his hands, which he will very soon find it necessary to

foreclose.

It is dark,--night has stolen upon us again,--the hour for the raffle

is at hand. The saloon, about a hundred and forty feet long by forty

wide, is brilliantly lighted for the occasion. The gas-lights throw

strange shadows upon the distemper painting with which the walls are

decorated. Hanging carelessly here and there are badly-daubed

paintings of battle scenes and heroic devices, alternated with

lithographic and badly-executed engravings of lustfully-exposed

females. Soon the saloon fills with a throng of variously-mixed

gentlemen. The gay, the grave, the old, and the young men of the

fashionable world, are present. Some affect the fast young man;

others seem mere speculators, attracted to the place for the purpose

of enjoying an hour, seeing the sight, and, it may be, taking a

throw for the "gal." The crowd presents a singular contrast of

beings. Some are dressed to the very extreme of fantastic fashion,

and would seem to have wasted their brains in devising colours for

their backs; others, aspiring to the seriously genteel, are

fashioned in very extravagant broadcloth; while a third group is

dressed in most niggardly attire, which sets very loosely. In

addition to this they wear very large black, white, and

grey-coloured felt hats, slouched over their heads; while their

nether garments, of red and brown linsey-woolsey, fit like

Falstaff's doublet on a whip stock. They seem proud of the grim

tufts of hair that, like the moss-grown clumps upon an old oak,

spread over their faces; and they move about in the grotesque crowd,

making their physiognomies increase its piquancy.

The saloon is one of those places at the south where great men,

small men, men of different spheres and occupations, men in

prominently defined positions, men in doubtful calls of life, and

men most disreputably employed, most do congregate. At one end of

the saloon is a large oyster counter, behind which stand two

coloured men, with sauces, savories, and other mixtures at hand,

ready to serve customers who prefer the delicacy in its raw state.

Men are partaking without noting numbers. Mr. O'Brodereque has boys

serving who take very good care of the numbers. Extending along one

side of the saloon is an elaborately carved mahogany counter, with

panels of French white and gilt mouldings. This is surmounted with a

marble slab, upon which stand well-filled decanters, vases, and

salvers. Behind this counter, genteelly-dressed and polite

attendants are serving customers who stand along its side in a line,

treating in true southern style. The calling for drinks is a problem

for nice ears to solve, so varied are the sounds, so strange the

names: style, quantity, and mixture seemed without limit, set on in

various colours to flow and flood the spirits of the jovial. On the

opposite side of the saloon are rows of seats and arm-chairs,

interspersed with small tables, from which the beverage can be

imbibed more at ease. On the second story is the great "eating

saloon," with its various apartments, its curtained boxes, its

prim-looking waiters, its pier-glass walls. There is every

accommodation for belly theologians, who may discuss the choicest

viands of the season.

The company are assembled,--the lower saloon is crowded; Mr.

O'Brodereque, with great dignity, mounts the stand,--a little table

standing at one end of the room. His face reddens, he gives several

delinquent coughs, looks round and smiles upon his motley patrons,

points a finger recognisingly at a wag in the corner, who has

addressed some remarks to him, puts his thumbs in the sleeve-holes

of his vest, throws back his coat-collar, puts himself in a defiant

attitude, and is ready to deliver himself of his speech.

"A political speech from the General! Gentlemen, hats off, and give

your attention to Mr. General O'Brodereque's remarks!" resounds from

several voices. Mr. O'Brodereque is somewhat overcome, his friends

compliment him so: he stands, hesitating, as if he had lost the

opening part of his speech, like a statue on a molasses-cask. At

length he speaks. "If it was a great political question, gentlemen,

I'd get the twist of the thing,--I'd pitch into it, big! These little

things always trouble public men more than the important intricacies

of government do. You see, they are not comesurate,--that's it!" says

Mr. Brodereque, looking wondrously wise the while. After bowing,

smiling, and acknowledging the compliments of his generous customers

with prodigious grace, he merely announces to his friends--with

eloquence that defies imitation, and turns rhetoric into a

discordant exposition of his own important self--that, not having

examined the constitution for more nor three Sundays, they must,

upon the honour of a gentleman, excuse his political speech. "But,

gents," he says, "you all know how I trys to please ye in the way of

raffles and such things, and how I throws in the belly and stomach

fixins. Now, brighten up, ye men of taste"--Mr. Brodereque laughs

satisfactorily as he surveys his crowd--"I'm going to do the thing

up brown for ye,--to give ye a chance for a bit of bright property

what ye don't get every day; can't scare up such property only once

in a while. It'll make ye old fellers wink, some"--Mr. O'Brodereque

winks at several aged gentlemen, whose grey hair is figurative in

the crowd--"think about being young again. And, my friends below

thirty-my young friends--ah, ye rascals! I thought I'd play the tune

on the right string!"--he laughs, and puts his finger to his mouth

quizzically--"I likes to suit ye, and please ye: own her up, now,--

don't I?"

"Hurrah! for Brod,--Brod's a trump!" again resounds from a dozen

voices.

They all agree to the remark that nobody can touch the great Mr.

O'Brodereque in getting up a nice bit of fun, amusing young men with

more money than mind, and being in the favour of aristocratic

gentlemen who think nothing of staking a couple of prime niggers on

a point of faro.

Mr. O'Brodereque has been interrupted; he begs his friends will, for

a moment, cease their compliments and allow him to proceed.

"Gentlemen!" he continues, "the gal's what ye don't get every day;

and she's as choice as she's young; and she's as handsome as she's

young; and for this delicious young crittur throws are only five

dollars a piece." The sentimental southern gentleman has no

reference to the throes of anguish that are piercing the wounded

soul of the woman.

"A gentleman what ain't got a five-dollar bill in his pocket better

not show his winkers in this crowd. After that, gentlemen, there's a

slap-up pony, and one of the knowinest dogs outside of a

court-house. Now,--gents! if this ain't some tall doings,--some of a

raffle, just take my boots and I'll put it for Texas. A chance for a

nigger gal-a pony-a dog; who on 'arth wants more, gentlemen?" Mr.

O'Brodereque again throws back his coat, shrugs his shoulders, wipes

the perspiration from his brow, and is about to descend from the

table. No, he won't come down just yet. He has struck a vein; his

friends are getting up a favourable excitement.

"Bravo! bravo!-long may General Brodereque keep the hospitable Your

House! Who wouldn't give a vote for Brodereque at the next

election?" re-echoes through the room.

"One more remark, gentlemen." Mr. Brodereque again wipes the

perspiration from his forehead, and orders a glass of water, to

loosen his oratorical organs. He drinks the water, seems to increase

in his own greatness; his red face glows redder, he makes a

theatrical gesticulation with his right hand, crumples his hair into

curious points, and proceeds:--"The lucky man what gets the gal prize

is to treat the crowd!" This is seconded and carried by acclamation,

without a dissenting voice.

A murmuring noise, as of some one in trouble, is now heard at the

door: the crowd gives way: a beautiful mulatto girl, in a black silk

dress, with low waist and short sleeves, and morocco slippers on her

feet, is led in and placed upon the stand Mr. O'Brodereque has just

vacated. Her complexion is that of a swarthy Greek; her countenance

is moody and reflective; her feelings are stung with the poison of

her degraded position. This last step of her disgrace broods in the

melancholy of her face. Shame, pain, hope, and fear, combine to goad

her very soul. But it's all for a bit of fun, clearly legal; it's

all in accordance with society; misfortune is turned into a

plaything, that generous, good, and noble-hearted men may be amused.

Those who stand around her are extravagant with joy. After remaining

a few moments in silence, a mute victim of generous freedom, she

turns her head bashfully, covers her face with her hands. Her

feelings gush forth in a stream of tears; she cannot suppress them

longer.

There is a touching beauty in her face, made more effective by the

deplorable condition to which she is reduced. Again she looks

upward, and covers her face with her hands; her soul seems merged in

supplication to the God who rules all things aright. He is a

forgiving God! Can he thus direct man's injustice to man, while this

poor broken flower thus withers under the bane? Sad, melancholy,

doomed! there is no hope, no joy for her. She weeps over her

degradation.

"Stop that whimperin!" says a ruffianly bystander, who orders a

coloured boy to let down her hair. He obeys the summons; it falls in

thick, black, undulating tresses over her neck and shoulders. A few

moments more, and she resumes a calm appearance, looks resolutely

upon her auditors, with indignation and contempt pictured in her

countenance.

"She'll soon get over that!" ejaculates another bystander, as he

smooths the long beard on his haggard face. "Strip her down!" The

request is no sooner made, than Mr. O'Brodereque mounts the stand to

perform the feat. "Great country this, gentlemen!" he speaks, taking

her by the shoulders.

"All off! all off, general!" is the popular demand.

The sensitive nature of the innocent girl recoils; she cringes from

his touch; she shudders, and vainly attempts to resist. She must

yield; the demand is imperative. Her dress falls at Mr.

O'Brodereque's touch. She stands before the gazing crowd, exposed to

the very thighs, holding the loose folds of her dress in her hands.

There is no sympathy for those moistened eyes; oh, no! it is a

luscious feast-puritans have no part in the sin-for those who, in

our land of love and liberty, buy and sell poor human nature, and

make it food for serving hell.

Naked she stands for minutes; the assembled gentlemen have feasted

their eyes,--good men have played the part of their good natures.

General O'Brodereque, conscious of his dignity, orders her to be

taken down. The waiter performs the duty, and she is led out midst

the acclamations and plaudits of the crowd, who call for the raffle.

Mr. O'Brodereque hopes gentlemen are satisfied with what they have

seen, and will pledge his honour that the pony and dog are quite as

sound and healthy as the wench whose portions they have had a chance

to shy; and for which-the extra sight-they should pay an extra

treat. This, however, his generosity will not allow him to stand

upon; and, seeing how time is precious, and the weather warm, he

hopes his friends will excuse the presence of the animals, take his

word of honour in consideration of the sight of the wench.

"Now, gentlemen," he says, "the throws are soon to commence, and all

what ain't put down the tin better attend that ar' needful

arrangement, quicker!"

As the general concludes this very significant invitation, Dan

Bengal, Anthony Romescos, and Nath Nimrod, enter together. Their

presence creates some little commotion, for Romescos is known to be

turbulent, and very uncertain when liquor flows freely, which is the

case at present.

"I say, general!-old hoss! I takes all the chances what's left,"

Romescos shouts at the top of his voice. His eyes glare with

anxiety,--his red, savage face, doubly sun-scorched, glows out as he

elbows his way through the crowd up to the desk, where sits a

corpulent clerk. "Beg your pardon, gentlemen: not so fast, if you

please!" he says, entering names in his ledger, receiving money,

"doing the polite of the establishment."

Romescos's coat and nether clothing are torn in several places, a

hunting-belt girdles his waist; a bowie-knife (Sheffield make)

protrudes from his breast-pocket, his hair hangs in jagged tufts

over the collar of his coat, which, with the rough moccasons on his

feet, give him an air of fierce desperaton and recklessness. His

presence is evidently viewed with suspicion; he is a curious object

which the crowd are willing to give ample space to.

"No, you don't take 'em all, neither!" says another, in a defiant

tone. The remaining "chances" are at once put up for sale; they

bring premiums, as one by one they are knocked down to the highest

bidders, some as much as fifty per cent. advance. Gentlemen are not

to know it, because Mr. O'Brodereque thinks his honour above

everything else; but the fact is, there is a collusion between

Romescos and the honourable Mr. O'Brodereque. The former is playing

his part to create a rivalry that will put dollars and cents into

the pocket of the latter.

"Well!" exclaims Romescos, with great indifference, as soon as the

sale had concluded, "I've got seven throws, all lucky ones. I'll

take any man's bet for two hundred dollars that I gets the gal

prize." Nobody seems inclined to accept the challenge. A table is

set in the centre of the saloon, the dice are brought on, amidst a

jargon of noise and confusion; to this is added drinking, smoking,

swearing, and all kinds of small betting.

The raffle commences; one by one the numbers are called. Romescos'

turn has come; all eyes are intently set upon him. He is celebrated

for tricks of his trade; he seldom repudiates the character, and

oftener prides in the name of a shrewd one, who can command a prize

for his sharp dealing. In a word, he has a peculiar faculty of

shielding the doubtful transactions of a class of men no less

dishonest, but more modest in point of reputation.

Romescos spreads himself wonderfully, throws his dice, and exults

over the result. He has turned up three sixes at the first and

second throws, and two sixes and five at the third.

"Beat that! who can?" he says. No one discovers that he has, by a

very dexterous movement, slipped a set of false dice into the box,

while O'Brodereque diverted attention at the moment by introducing

the pony into the saloon.

We will pass over many things that occurred, and inform the reader

that Romescos won the first prize-the woman. The dog and pony prizes

were carried off by legitimate winners. This specific part of the

scene over, a band of negro minstrels are introduced, who strike up

their happy glees, the music giving new life to the revelry. Such a

medley of drinking, gambling, and carousing followed, as defies

description. What a happy thing it is to be free; they feel this,--it

it is a happy feeling! The sport lasts till the small hours of

morning advance. Romescos is seen leaving the saloon very quietly.

"There!" says Mr. O'Brodereque exultingly, "he hasn't got so much of

a showing. That nigger gal ain't what she's cracked up to be!" and

he shakes his head knowingly, thrusts his hands deep into his

breeches pockets, smiles with an air of great consequence.

"Where did ye raise the critter? devil of a feller ye be,

Brodereque!" says a young sprig, giving his hat a particular set on

the side of his head, and adjusting his eye-glass anew. "Ye ain't

gin her a name, in all the showin'," he continues, drawlingly.

"That gal! She ain't worth so much, a'ter all. She's of Marston's

stock; Ellen Juvarna, I think they call her. She's only good for her

looks, in the animal way,--that's all!"

"Hav'n't told where ye got her, yet," interrupts the sprig; "none of

yer crossin' corners, general."

"Well, I started up that gal of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy. She

takes it into her mind to get crazed now and then, and Marston had

to sell her; and the Elder bought her for a trifle, cured up her

thinkin'-trap, got her sound up for market, and I makes a strike

with the Elder, and gets her at a tall bargain." Mr. O'Brodereque

has lost none of his dignity, none of his honour, none of his hopes

of getting into Congress by the speculation.

It is poor Ellen Juvarna; she has been cured for the market. She

might have said, and with truth,--"You don't know me now, so

wonderful are they who deal with my rights in this our world of

liberty!"

CHAPTER XVII.

A NOT UNCOMMON SCENE SLIGHTLY CHANGED.

ROMESCOS, having withdrawn from the saloon while the excitement

raged highest, may be seen, with several others, seated at a table

in the upper room. They are in earnest consultation,--evidently

devising some plan for carrying out a deep-laid plot.

"I have just called my friend, who will give us the particulars

about the constitutionality of the thing. Here he is. Mr. Scranton,

ye see, knows all about such intricacies; he is an editor! formerly

from the North," one of the party is particular to explain, as he

directs his conversation to Romescos. That gentleman of slave-cloth

only knows the part they call the rascality; he pays the gentlemen

of the learned law profession to shuffle him out of all the legal

intricacies that hang around his murderous deeds. He seems revolving

the thing over in his mind at the moment, makes no reply. The

gentleman turns to Mr. Scranton--the same methodical gentleman we

have described with the good Mrs. Rosebrook--hopes he will be good

enough to advise on the point in question. Mr. Scranton sits in all

the dignity of his serious philosophy, quite unmoved; his mind is

nearly distracted about all that is constitutionally right or

constitutionally wrong. He is bound to his own ways of thinking, and

would suffer martyrdom before his own conscientious scruples would

allow him to acknowledge a right superior to that constitution. As

for the humanity! that has nothing to do with the constitution,

nothing to do with the laws of the land, nothing to do with popular

government,--nothing to do with anything, and never should be taken

into consideration when the point at issue involved negro property.

The schedule of humanity would be a poor account at one's banker's.

Mr. Scranton begins to smooth his face, which seems to elongate like

a wet moon. "The question is, as I understand it, gentlemen, how far

the law will give you a right to convict and sell the woman in the

absence of papers and against the assertions of her owner, that she

is free? Now, gentlemen, in the absence of my law books, and without

the least scruple that I am legally right, for I'm seldom legally

wrong, having been many years secretary to a senator in Congress who

made it my particular duty to keep him posted on all points of the

constitution--he drawls out with the serious complacency of a London

beggar--I will just say that, whatever is legal must be just. Laws

are always founded in justice--that's logical, you see,--and I always

maintained it long 'afore I come south, long 'afore I knowed a thing

about 'nigger law.' The point, thus far, you see, gentlemen, I've

settled. Now then!" Mr. Scranton rests his elbow on the table, makes

many legal gesticulations with his finger; he, however, disclaims

all and every connection with the legal body, inasmuch as its

members have sunk very much in the scale of character, and will

require a deal of purifying ere he can call them brothers; but he

knows a thing or two of constitutional law, and thus proceeds:

"'Tain't a whit of matter about the woman, barring the dockerment's

all right. You only want to prove that Marston bought her, that's

all! As for the young scraps, why--supposing they are his-that won't

make a bit of difference; they are property for all that, subject to

legal restraints. Your claim will be valid against it. You may have

to play nicely over some intricate legal points. But, remember,

nigger law is wonderfully elastic; it requires superhuman wisdom to

unravel its social and political intricacies, and when I view it

through the horoscope of an indefinite future it makes my very head

ache. You may, however, let your claim revert to another, and

traverse the case until such time as you can procure reliable proof

to convict." Mr. Scranton asserts this as the force of his legal and

constitutional acumen. He addresses himself to a mercantile-looking

gentleman who sits at the opposite side of the table, attentively

listening. He is one of several of Marston's creditors, who sit at

the table; they have attached certain property, and having some

doubts of overthrowing Marston's plea of freedom, which he has

intimated his intention to enter, have called in the valuable aid of

Romescos. That indomitable individual, however, has more interests

than one to serve, and is playing his cards with great "diplomatic

skill." Indeed, he often remarks that his wonderful diplomatic skill

would have been a great acquisition to the federal government,

inasmuch as it would have facilitated all its Southern American

projects.

The point in question at present, and which they must get over, in

order to prove the property, is made more difficult by the doubt in

which the origin of Clotilda has always been involved. Many are the

surmises about her parentage-many are the assertions that she is not

of negro extraction--she has no one feature indicating it--but no one

can positively assert where she came from; in a word, no one dare!

Hence is constituted the ground for fearing the issue of Marston's

notice of freedom.

"Well! I'll own it puzzles my cunnin'; there's a way to get round

it-there is-but deuced if 'tain't too much for my noddle," Romescos

interposes, taking a little more whiskey, and seeming quite

indifferent about the whole affair. "Suppose-Marston-comes-forward!

yes, and brings somebody to swear as a kind a' sideways? That'll be

a poser in asserting their freedom; it'll saddle you creditors with

the burden of proof. There'll be the rub; and ye can't plead a right

to enjoin the schedule he files in bankruptcy unless ye show how

they were purchased by him. Perchance on some legal uncertainty it

might be done,--by your producing proof that he had made an

admission, anterior to the levy, of their being purchased by him,"

Romescos continues, very wisely appealing to his learned and

constitutional friend, Mr. Scranton, who yields his assent by adding

that the remarks are very legal, and contain truths worth

considering, inasmuch as they involve great principles of popular

government. "I think our worthy friend has a clear idea of the

points," Mr. Scranton concludes.

"One word more, gentlemen: a bit of advice what's worth a right

smart price to ye all"--here he parenthesises by saying he has great

sympathy for creditors in distress--"and ye must profit by it, for

yer own interests. As the case now stands, it's a game for lawyers

to play and get fat at. And, seein' how Marston's feelins are up in

a sort of tender way, he feels strong about savin' them young 'uns;

and ye, nor all the gentlemen of the lower place, can't make 'em

property, if he plays his game right;--he knows how to! ye'll only

make a fuss over the brutes, while the lawyers bag all the game

worth a dollar. Never see'd a nigger yet what raised a legal squall,

that didn't get used up in law leakins; lawyers are sainted pocket

masters! But--that kind a' stuff!--it takes a mighty deal of

cross-cornered swearing to turn it into property. The only way ye

can drive the peg in so the lawyers won't get hold on't, is by

sellin' out to old Graspum-Norman, I mean--he does up such business

as fine as a fiddle. Make the best strike with him ye can--he's as

tough as a knot on nigger trade!--and, if there's any making

property out on 'em, he's just the tinker to do it."

They shake their heads doubtingly, as if questioning the policy of

the advice. Mr. Scranton, however, to whom all looked with great

solicitation, speaks up, and affirms the advice to be the wiser

course, as a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

"Oh, yes!" says Romescos, significantly, "you'll be safe then, and

free from responsibility; Graspum's a great fellow to buy risks;

but, seeing how he's not popular with juries, he may want to play

behind the scenes, continue to prosecute the case in the name of the

creditors,--that's all! Curious work, this making property out of

doubtful women. Sell out to them what understands the curious of the

things, clear yerselfs of the perplexin' risks--ye won't bag a bit of

the game, you won't. Saddle it on Norman; he knows the philosophy of

nigger trade, and can swim through a sea of legal perplexities in

nigger cases." Mr. Romescos never gave more serious advice in his

life; he finishes his whiskey, adjusts his hat slouchingly on his

head, bids them good night; and, in return for their thanks, assures

them that they are welcome. He withdraws; Mr. Scranton, after a

time, gets very muddled; so much so, that, when daylight appears, he

finds, to his utter astonishment, he has enjoyed a sweet sleep on

the floor, some of his quizzical friends having disfigured his face

very much after the fashion of a clown's. He modestly, and

mechanically, picks up his lethargic body, views his constitutional

self in the glass, and is much horrified, much disgusted with those

who perpetrated the freak.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THEY ARE ALL GOING TO BE SOLD.

SLOWLY we pass through the precious scenes, hoping our readers will

indulge us with their patience.

Five days have passed since Clotilda's departure; her absence is

creating alarm. No one knows anything of her! a general search is

instituted, but the searchers search in vain. Maxwell has eluded

suspicion-Franconia no one for a moment suspects. Colonel

M'Carstrow-his mind, for the time, absorbed in the charms of his

young bride-gives little attention to the matter. He only knows that

he has signed a bond for fifteen hundred dollars, to indemnify the

sheriff, or creditors, in the event of loss; he reconciles himself

with the belief that she has been enticed into some of the

neighbouring bright houses, from which he can regain her in the

course of time. M'Carstrow knows little of Clotilda's real

character; and thus the matter rests a time.

The sheriff,--important gentleman of an important office,--will give

himself no concern about the matter: the plaintiff's attorney

acknowledged the deed of release, which is quite enough for him.

Graspum, a perfect savan where human property was to be judged, had

decided that her square inches of human vitality were worth strong

fifteen hundred; that was all desirable for the sheriff-it would

leave margin enough to cover the cost. But M'Carstrow, when given

the bond, knew enough of nigger law to demand the insertion of a

clause leaving it subject to the question of property, which is to

be decided by the court. A high court this, where freemen sit

assembled to administer curious justice. What constitutional

inconsistencies hover over the monstrous judicial dignity of this

court,--this court having jurisdiction over the monetary value of

beings moulded after God's own image! It forms a happy jurisprudence

for those who view it for their selfish ends; it gains freedom

tyranny's license, gives birth to strange incongruities, clashing

between the right of property in man and all the viler passions of

our nature. It holds forth a jurisprudence that turns men into

hounds of hell, devouring one another, and dragging human nature

down into the very filth of earth.

Marston's troubles keep increasing. All the preliminaries of law

necessary to a sale of the undisputed property have been gone

through; the day of its disposal has arrived. The children, Annette

and Nicholas, have remained in a cell, suffering under its malarious

atmosphere, anxiously awaiting their fate. Marston has had them

taught to read,--contrary to a generous law of a generous land,--and

at intervals they sit together pondering over little books he has

sent them.

What are such little books to them? the unbending avarice of human

nature, fostered by slavery's power, is grappling at their

existence. There is no sympathy for them; it is crushed out by the

law which makes them chattels. Oh, no! sympathy, generosity, human

affections, have little to do with the transactions of slave

dealing; that belongs to commerce,--commerce has an unbending rule to

maintain while money is to be made by a legalised traffic.

We must invite the reader to accompany us to the county gaol, on the

morning of sale.

The "gang"-Marston's slaves-have been ordered to prepare themselves

for the market; the yard resounds with their jargon. Some are

arranging their little clothing, washing, "brightening up" their

faces to make the property show off in the market. Others are

preparing homony for breakfast; children, in ragged garments, are

toddling, running, playing, and sporting about the brick pavement;

the smallest are crouched at the feet of their mothers, as if

sharing the gloom or nonchalance of their feeling. Men are gathering

together the remnants of some cherished memento of the old

plantation; they had many a happy day upon it. Women view as things

of great worth the little trinkets with which good master, in former

days, rewarded their energy. They recall each happy association of

the cabin. Husbands, or such as should be husbands, look upon their

wives with solicitude; they feel it is to be the last day they will

meet together on earth. They may meet in heaven; there is no slavery

there. Mothers look upon their children only to feel the pangs of

sorrow more keenly; they know and feel that their offspring are born

for the market, not for the enjoyment of their affections. They may

be torn from them, and sold like sheep in the shambles. Happy, free

country! How fair, how beautiful the picture of constitutional

rights! how in keeping with every-day scenes of southern life!

"I'ze gwine to be sold; you're gwint to be sold; we're all gwine to

be sold. Wonder what mas'r's gwine t'buy dis child," says Aunt

Rachel, arranging her best dress, making her face "shine just so."

Aunt Rachel endeavours to suit her feelings to the occasion, trims

her bandana about her head with exquisite taste, and lets the

bright-coloured points hang about her ears in great profusion.

"Da'h 's a right smart heap o' dollar in dis old nigger, yet!-if

mas'r what gwine t'buy 'em know how't fotch um out; Mas'r must do

da'h clean ting wid dis child," Rachel says, as if exulting over the

value of her own person. She brushes and brushes, views and reviews

herself in a piece of mirror-several are waiting to borrow it-thinks

she is just right for market, asks herself what's the use of

fretting? It's a free country, with boundless hospitality-of the

southern stamp,--and why not submit to all freedom's dealings? Aunt

Rachel is something of a philosopher.

"Aunte! da' would'nt gin much fo'h yer old pack a' bones if mas'r

what gwine to buy ye know'd ye like I. Ye' h'ant da property what

bring long price wid Buckra," replies Dandy, who views Aunt Rachel

rather suspiciously, seems inclined to relieve her conceit, and has

taken very good care that his own dimensions are trimmed up to the

highest point.

"Dis nigger would'nt swop h'r carcas fo'h yourn. Dat she don't,"

Rachel retorts.

"Reckon how ye wouldn't, ah!" Dandy's face fills with indignation.

"Buckra what sting ye back wid de lash 'll buy ye old bag a' bones

fo'h down south; and when 'e get ye down da' he make ye fo'h a corn

grinder." Dandy is somewhat inflated with his rank among the

domestics; he is none of yer common niggers, has never associated

with black, field niggers, which he views as quite too common for

his aristocratic notions, has on his very best looks, his hair

combed with extraordinary care, his shirt collar dangerously

standing above his ears. He feels something better than nigger blood

in his composition, knows the ins and outs of nigger philosophy; he

knows it to be the very best kind of philosophy for a "nigger" to

put on a good appearance at the shambles. A dandy nigger is not

plantation stock,--hence he has "trimmed up," and hopes to find a

purchaser in want of his specific kind of property; it will save him

from that field-life so much dreaded.

The property, in all its varied shades, comes rolling out from all

manner of places in and about the gaol, filling the yard. It is a

momentous occasion, the most momentous of their life-time. And yet

many seem indifferent about its consequences. They speak of the old

plantation, jeer each other about the value of themselves, offer

bets on the price they will bring, assert a superiority over each

other, and boast of belonging to some particular grade of the

property. Harry--we mean Harry the preacher--is busy getting his wife

and children ready for market. He evinces great affection for his

little ones, has helped his wife to arrange their apparel with so

much care. The uninitiated might imagine them going to church

instead of the man shambles. Indeed, so earnest are many good

divines in the promotion of slavery, that it would not be unbecoming

to form a connection between the southern church and the southern

man shambles. The material aid they now give each other for the

purpose of keeping up the man trade would be much facilitated.

However, there is a chance of Harry being sold to a brother divine,

who by way of serving his good Lord and righteous master, may let

him out to preach, after the old way. Harry will then be serving his

brother in brotherly faith; that is, he will be his brother's

property, very profitable, strong in the faith with his dear divine

brother, to whom he will pay large tribute for the right to serve

the same God.

Harry's emotions-he has been struggling to suppress them-have got

beyond his control; tears will now and then show themselves and

course down his cheeks. "Never mind, my good folks! it is something

to know that Jesus still guards us; still watches over us." He

speaks encouragingly to them. "The scourge of earth is man's wrongs,

the deathspring of injustice. We are made bearers of the burden; but

that very burden will be our passport into a brighter, a juster

world. Let us meekly bear it. Cheer up! arm yourselves with the

spirit of the Lord; it will give you fortitude to live out the long

journey of slave life. How we shall feel when, in heaven, we are

brought face to face with master, before the Lord Judge. Our rights

and his wrongs will then weigh in the balance of heavenly justice."

With these remarks, Harry counsels them to join him in prayer. He

kneels on the brick pavement of the yard, clasps his hands together

as they gather around him kneeling devotedly. Fervently he offers up

a prayer,--he invokes the God of heaven to look down upon them, to

bestow his mercy upon master, to incline his ways in the paths of

good; and to protect these, his unfortunate children, and guide them

through their separate wayfaring. The ardour, grotesqueness, and

devotion of this poor forlorn group, are painfully touching. How it

presents the portrait of an oppressed race! how sunk is the nature

that has thus degraded it! Under the painful burden of their sorrow

they yet manifest the purity of simple goodness. "Oh! Father in

heaven, hast thou thus ordained it to be so?" breaks forth from

Harry's lips, as the criminals, moved by the affecting picture,

gather upon the veranda, and stand attentive listeners. Their

attention seems rivetted to his words; the more vicious, as he looks

through grated bars upon them, whispers words of respect.

Harry has scarcely concluded his prayer when the sheriff,

accompanied by several brokers (slave-dealers), comes rushing

through the transept into the yard. The sheriff is not rude; he

approaches Harry, tells him he is a good boy, has no objection to

his praying, and hopes a good master will buy him. He will do all he

can to further his interests, having heard a deal about his talents.

He says this with good-natured measure, and proceeds to take a

cursory view of the felons. While he is thus proceeding, the

gentlemen of trade who accompanied him are putting "the property"

through a series of examinations.

"Property like this ye don't start up every day," says one. "Best

I'ze seen come from that ar' district. Give ye plenty corn, down

there, don't they, boys?" enjoins another, walking among them, and

every moment bringing the end of a small whip which he holds in his

right hand about their legs. This, the gentleman remarks, is merely

for the purpose-one of the phrases of the very honourable trade-of

testing their nimbleness.

"Well!" replies a tall, lithe dealer, whose figure would seem to

have been moulded for chasing hogs through the swamp, "There's some

good bits among it; but it won't stand prime, as a lot!" The

gentleman, who seems to have a nicely balanced mind for judging the

human nature value of such things, is not quite sure that they have

been bacon fed. He continues his learned remarks. "Ye'h han't had

full tuck out, I reckon, boys?" he inquires of them, deliberately

examining the mouths and nostrils of several. The gentleman is very

cool in this little matter of trade; it is an essential element of

southern democracy; some say, nothing more!

"Yes, Boss!" replies Enoch, one of the negroes; "Mas'r ollers good

t' e niggers, gin him bacon free times a week-sometimes mo' den

dat." Several voices chime in to affirm what Enoch says.

"Ah, very good. Few planters in that district give their negroes

bacon; and an all corn-fed nigger won't last two years on a sugar

plantation," remarks one of the gentlemen dealers, as he smokes his

cigar with great nonchalance.

While these quaint appendancies of the trade are proceeding,

Romescos and Graspum make their appearance. They have come to

forestall opinion, to make a few side-winded remarks. They are ready

to enter upon the disgusting business of examining property more

carefully, more scrupulously, more in private. The honourable

sheriff again joins the party. He orders that every accommodation be

afforded the gentlemen in their examinations of the property. Men,

women, and children-sorrowing property-are made to stand erect; to

gesticulate their arms; to expand their chests, to jump about like

jackals, and to perform sundry antics pleasing to the gentlemen

lookers-on. This is all very free, very democratic, very gentlemanly

in the way of trade,--very necessary to test the ingredient of the

valuable square inches of the property. What matters all this! the

honourable sheriff holds it no dishonour; modest gentlemen never

blush at it; the coarse dealer makes it his study,--he trades in

human nature; the happy democrat thinks it should have a

co-fellowship with southern hospitality-so long and loudly boasted.

Those little necessary displays over, the honourable sheriff invites

his distinguished friends to "have a cigar round;" having satisfied

their taste in gymnastarising the property. Romescos, however,

thinks he has not quite satisfied his feelings; he is very dogged on

nigger flesh. The other gentlemen may smoke their cigars; Mr.

Romescos thinks he will enjoy the exercise of his skill in testing

the tenacity of negroes' chests; which he does by administering

heavy blows, which make them groan out now and then. Groans,

however, don't amount to much; they are only nigger groans. Again

Mr. Romescos applies the full force of his hands upon their ears;

then he will just pull them systematically. "Nice property!" he

says, telling the forbearing creatures not to mind the pain.

Messrs. Graspum and Romescos will make a close inspection of a few

pieces. Here, several men and women are led into a basement cell,

under the veranda, and stript most rudely. No discrimination is

permitted. Happy freedom! What a boon is liberty! Mr. Romescos views

their nice firm bodies, and their ebony black skins, with great

skill and precaution; his object is to prove the disposition of the

articles,--strong evidence being absence of scars. He lays his bony

fingers on their left shoulders-they being compelled to stand in a

recumbent position-tracing their bodies to the hips and thighs. Here

the process ends. Mr. Romescos has satisfied his very nice judgment

on the solidity of the human-flesh-property-he has put their bodies

through other disgusting inspections-they belong to the trade-which

cannot be told here; but he finds clean skins, very smooth, without

scars or cuts, or dangerous diseases. He laughs exultingly, orders

the people to stow themselves in their clothes again, and relights

his cigar. "If it 'ant a tall lot!" he whispers to Graspum, and

gives him a significant touch with his elbow. "Bright-smooth as a

leather ninepence; han't had a lash-Marston was a fool, or his

niggers are angels, rather black, though-couldn't start up a scar on

their flesh. A little trimmin' down-it wants it, you see!-to make it

show off; must have it-eh! Graspum, old feller? It only wants a

little, though, and them dandy niggers, and that slap-up preacher,

will bring a smart price fixed up. Great institution! The preacher's

got knowin'; can discourse like a college-made deacon, and can

convert a whole plantation with his nigger eloquence. A nigger

preacher with Bible knowin, when it's smart, is right valuable when

ye want to keep the pious of a plantation straight. And then! when

the preacher 'ant got a notion a' runnin away in him." Romescos

crooks his finger upon Graspum's arm, whispers cautiously in his

ear.

"There 'll be a sharp bidding for some of it; they 'll run up some

on the preacher. He 'll be a capital investment,--pay more than

thirty per cent. insinuates another gentleman-a small inquisitive

looking dealer in articles of the nigger line. When a planter's got

a big gang a' niggers, and is just fool enough to keep such a thing

for the special purpose of making pious valuable in 'um," Mr.

Romescos rejoins, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his little hawk's

eyes, and looking seriously indifferent. Romescos gives wonderful

evidence of his "first best cunning propensities;" and here he

fancies he has pronounced an opinion that will be taken as profound.

He affects heedlessness of everything, is quite disinterested, and,

thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, assumes an air of dignity

that would not unbecome my Lord Chief Justice.

"Let us see them two bits of disputed property,--where are they?"

inquires Graspum, turning half round, and addressing himself to the

gaoler.

"In the close cells," is the quick reply,--"through the narrow vault,

up the stone passage, and on the right, in the arched cell."

The gaoler-good, honest-hearted man-leads the way, through a chilly

vault, up the narrow passage, to the left wing of the building. The

air is pestiferous; warm and diseased, it fans us as we approach.

The gaoler puts his face to the grating, and in a guttural voice,

says, "You're wanted, young uns." They understand the summons; they

come forward as if released from torture to enjoy the pure air of

heaven. Confinement, dreary and damp, has worn deep into their

systems.

Annette speaks feebly, looks pale and sickly. Her flaxen curls still

dangle prettily upon her shoulders. She expected her mother; that

mother has not come. The picture seems strange; she looks childishly

and vacantly round,--at the dealers, at Graspum, at the sheriff, at

the familiar faces of the old plantation people. She recognizes

Harry, and would fain leap into his arms. Nicholas, less moved by

what is going on around him, hangs reluctantly behind, holding by

the skirt of Annette's frock. He has lost that vivacity and pertness

so characteristic on the plantation. Happy picture of freedom's

love! Happy picture of immortalised injustice! Happy picture of

everything that is unhappy! How modest is the boast that we live to

be free; and that in our virtuous freedom a child's mother has been

sold for losing her mind: a faithful divine, strong with love for

his fellow divines, is to be sold for his faith; the child-the

daughter of the democrat-they say, will be sold from her democratic

father. The death-stinging enemy Washington and Jefferson sought to

slaughter-to lay ever dead at their feet, has risen to life again.

Annette's mother has fled to escape its poison. We must pause! we

must not discourse thus in our day, when the sordid web of trade is

being drawn over the land by King Cotton.

The children, like all such doubtful stock, are considered very

fancy, very choice of their kind. It must be dressed in style to

suit nice eyes at the shambles.

"Well! ye'r right interesting looking," says the sheriff--Messrs.

Graspum and Co. look upon them with great concern, now and then

interrupting with some observations upon their pedigree,--taking them

by the arms, and again rumpling their hair by rubbing his hands over

their heads. "Fix it up, trim; we must put them up along with the

rest to-day. It 'll make Marston--I pity the poor fellow--show his

hand on the question of their freedom. Mr. sheriff, being

sufficiently secured against harm, is quite indifferent about the

latent phases of the suit. He remarks, with great legal logic--we

mean legal slave logic--that Marston must object to the sale when the

children are on the stand. It is very pretty kind a' property, very

like Marston--will be as handsome as pictures when they grow up," he

says, ordering it put back to be got ready.

"Why didn't my mother come?" the child whimpers, dewy tears

decorating her eyes. "Why won't she come back and take me to the

plantation again? I want her to come back; I've waited so long." As

she turns to follow the gaoler--Nicholas still holds her by the skirt

of her frock--her flaxen curls again wave to and fro upon her

shoulders, adding beauty to her childlike simplicity. "You'll grow

to be something, one of these days, won't ye, little dear?" says the

gaoler, taking her by the hand. She replies in those silent and

touching arguments of the soul; she raises her soft blue eyes, and

heaven fills them with tears, which she lifts her tiny hands to wipe

away.

Nicholas tremblingly-he cannot understand the strange

movement-follows them through the vault; he looks up submissively,

and with instinctive sympathy commences a loud blubbering. "You're

going to be sold, little uns! but, don't roar about it; there's no

use in that," says the gaoler, inclining to sympathy.

Nicholas does'nt comprehend it; he looks up to Annette, plaintively,

and, forgetting his own tears, says, in a whisper, "Don't cry,

Annette; they 'll let us go and see mother, and mother will be so

kind to us-."

"It does seem a pity to sell ye, young 'uns; ye'r such nice

'uns,--have so much interestin' in yer little skins!" interrupts the

gaoler, suddenly. The man of keys could unfold a strange history of

misery, suffering, and death, if fear of popular opinion,

illustrated in popular liberty, did not seal his lips. He admits the

present to be

We are narrating a scene related to us by the very gaoler we here

describe, and as nearly as possible in his own language. rather an

uncommon case, says it makes a body feel kind a' unhinged about the

heart, which heart, however rocky at times, will have its own way

when little children are sorrowing. "And then, to know their

parents! that's what tells deeper on a body's feeling,--it makes a

body look into the hereafter." The man of keys and shackles would be

a father, if the law did but let him. There is a monster power over

him, a power he dreads-it is the power of unbending democracy, moved

alone by fretful painstakers of their own freedom.

"Poor little things! ye 'r most white, yes!-suddenly changing-just

as white as white need be. Property's property, though, all over the

world. What's sanctioned by the constitution, and protected by the

spirit and wisdom of Congress, must be right, and maintained," the

gaoler concludes. His heart is at war with his head; but the head

has the power, and he must protect the rights of an unrighteous

system. They have arrived at a flight of steps, up which they

ascend, and are soon lost in its windings. They are going to be

dressed for the market.

The sheriff is in the yard, awaiting the preparation of the

property. Even he-iron-hearted, they say-gives them a look of

generous solicitude, as they pass out. He really feels there is a

point, no less in the scale of slave dealing, beyond which there is

something so repugnant that hell itself might frown upon it. "It's a

phase too hard, touches a body's conscience," he says, not observing

Romescos at his elbow.

"Conscience!" interrupts Romescos, his eyes flashing like meteors of

red fire, "the article don't belong to the philosophy of our

business. Establish conscience-let us, gentlemen, give way to our

feelins, and trade in nigger property 'd be deader than Chatham's

statue, what was pulled through our streets by the neck. The great

obstacle, however, is only this-it is profitable in its way!"

Romescos cautiously attempts to shield this, but it will not do.

The gaoler, protruding his head from a second-story window, like a

mop in a rain storm, enquires if it is requisite to dress the

children in their very best shine. It is evident he merely views

them as two bales of merchandise.

The sheriff, angrily, says, "Yes! I told you that already. Make them

look as bright as two new pins." His honour has been contemplating

how they will be mere pins in the market,--pins to bolt the doors of

justice, pins to play men into Congress, pins to play men out of

Congress, pins to play a President into the White House.

An old negress, one of the plantation nurses, is called into

service. She commences the process of preparing them for market.

They are nicely washed, dressed in clean clothes; they shine out as

bright and white as anybody's children. Their heads look so sleek,

their hair is so nicely combed, so nicely parted, so nicely curled.

The old slave loves them,--she loved their father. Her skill has been

lavished upon them,--they look as choice and interesting as the human

property of any democratic gentleman can be expected to do. Let us

be patriotic, let us be law-loving, patient law-abiding citizens,

loving that law of our free country which puts them under the

man-vender's hammer,--say our peace-abiding neighbours.

The gaoler has not been long in getting Annette and Nicholas ready.

He brings them forward, so neatly and prettily dressed: he places

them among the "gang." But they are disputed property: hence all

that ingenuity which the system engenders for the advancement of

dealers is brought into use to defeat the attempt to assert their

freedom. Romescos declares it no difficult matter to do this: he has

the deadly weapon in his possession; he can work (shuffle) the debt

into Graspum's hands, and he can supply the proof to convict. By

this very desirable arrangement the thing may be made nicely

profitable.

No sooner has Aunt Rachel seen the children in their neat and

familiar attire, than her feelings bound with joy,--she cannot longer

restrain them. She has watched Marston's moral delinquencies with

suspicion; but she loves the children none the less. And with honest

negro nature she runs to them, clasps them to her bosom, fondles

them, and kisses them like a fond mother. The happy associations of

the past, contrasted with their present unhappy condition, unbind

the fountain of her solicitude,--she pours it upon them, warm and

fervent. "Gwine t' sell ye, too! Mas'r, poor old Mas'r, would'nt

sell ye, no how! that he don't. But poor old Boss hab 'e trouble

now, God bless 'em," she says, again pressing Annette to her bosom,

nearer and nearer, with fondest, simplest, holiest affection.

Looking intently in the child's face, she laughs with the bounding

joy of her soul; then she smooths its hair with her brawny black

hands: they contrast strangely with the pure carnatic of the child's

cheek.

"Lor! good Lor, Mas'r Buckra," aunt Rachel exclaims, "if eber de

Lor' smote 'e vengence on yeh, 't'll be fo' sellin' de likes o'

dese. Old Mas'r tinks much on 'em, fo' true. Gwine t' sell dem what

Mas'r be so fond on? Hard tellin' what Buckra don't sell win i'

makes money on him. Neber mind, children; de Lor' aint so unsartin

as white man. He,--da'h good Mas'r yonder in the clouds,--save ye yet;

he'll make white man gin ye back when de day o' judgment come." Aunt

Rachel has an instinctive knowledge of the errors, accidents, and

delays which have brought about this sad event,--she becomes absorbed

in their cares, as she loses sight of her own trouble.

All ready for the market, they are chained together in pairs, men

and women, as if the wrongs they bore had made them untrustworthy.

Romescos, ever employed in his favourite trade, is busily engaged

chaining up-assorting the pairs! One by one they quietly submit to

the proceeding, until he reaches Harry. That minister-of-the-gospel

piece of property thinks,--that is, is foolish enough to think,--his

nigger religion a sufficient guarantee against any inert propensity

to run away. "Now, good master, save my hands from irons, and my

heart from pain. Trust me, let me go unbound; my old Master trust me

wid 'is life-"

"Halloo!" says Romescos, quickly interrupting, and beginning to

bristle with rage; "preach about old Master here you'll get the

tinglers, I reckon. Put 'em on-not a grunt-or you'll get thirty

more-yes, a collar on yer neck." Holding a heavy stick over the poor

victim's head, for several minutes with one hand, he rubs the other,

clenched, several times across his nose. Graspum interposes by

reminding the minister that it is for his interest to be very

careful how he makes any reply to white gentlemen.

"Why, massa, I'ze the minister on de plantation. My old master

wouldn't sell-wouldn't do so wid me. Master knows I love God, am

honest and peaceable. Why chain the honest? why chain the peaceable?

why chain the innocent? They need no fetters, no poisoning shackles.

The guilty only fear the hand of retribution," says Harry, a curl of

contempt on his lip. He takes a step backwards as Romescos holds the

heavy irons before him.

"You don't come nigger preacher over this ar' child; 't'ant what's

crack'd up to be. I larns niggers to preach different tunes. Don't

spoil prime stock for such nonsense-"

"Master Sheriff will stand answerable for me," interrupts Harry,

turning to that honourable functionary, and claiming his protection.

That gentleman says it is rather out of his line to interfere.

"Not a preacher trick, I say again-Romescos evinces signs of

increasing temper-ya' black theologin. Preachers can't put on such

dignity when they'r property." Preachers of colour must be doubly

humbled: they must be humble before God, humbled before King Cotton,

humbled before the king dealer, who will sell them for their

dollars' worth. Harry must do the bidding of his king master; his

monkey tricks won't shine with such a philosopher as Romescos. The

man of bones, blood, and flesh, can tell him to sell a nigger

preacher to his brother of the ministry, and make it very

profitable. He assures Harry, while holding the shackles in his

hands, that he may put on just as much of the preacher as he can

get, when he gets to the shambles, and hears the fives and tens

bidding on his black hide.

Harry must submit; he does it with pain and reluctance. He is

chained to his wife-a favour suggested by the sheriff-with whom he

can walk the streets of a free country,--but they must be bound in

freedom's iron fellowship. The iron shackle clasps his wrist; the

lock ticks as Romescos turns the key: it vibrates to his very heart.

With a sigh he says, "Ours is a life of sorrow, streaming its dark

way along a dangerous path. It will ebb into the bright and

beautiful of heaven; that heaven wherein we put our trust-where our

hopes are strengthened. O! come the day when we shall be borne to

the realms of joy-joy celestial! There no unholy shade of

birth-unholy only to man-shall doom us; the colour of our skin will

not there be our misfortune-"

"What!" quickly interrupts Romescos, "what's that?" The property

minister, thus circumstanced, must not show belligerent feelings.

Romescos simply, but very skilfully, draws his club; measures him an

unamiable blow on the head, fells him to the ground. The poor wretch

struggles a few moments, raises his manacled hands to his face as

his wife falls weeping upon his shuddering body. She supplicates

mercy at the hands of the ruffian-the ruffian torturer. "Quietly,

mas'r; my man 'ill go wid me," says the woman, interposing her hand

to prevent a second blow.

Harry opens his eyes imploringly, casts a look of pity upon the man

standing over him. Romescos is in the attitude of dealing him

another blow. The wretch stays his hand. "Do with me as you please,

master; you are over me. My hope will be my protector when your

pleasure will have its reward."

A second thought has struck Romescos; the nigger isn't so bad, after

all. "Well, reckon how nobody won't have no objection to ya'r

thinking just as ya'v mind to; but ya' can't talk ya'r own way, nor

ya' can't have ya'r own way with this child. A nigger what puts on

parson airs-if it is a progressive age nigger-musn't put on fast

notions to a white gentleman of my standing! If he does, we just

take 'em out on him by the process of a small quantity of first-

rate knockin down," says Romescos, amiably lending him a hand to get

up. Graspum and the honourable sheriff are measuredly pacing up and

down the yard, talking over affairs of state, and the singular

purity of their own southern democracy-that democracy which will

surely elect the next President. Stepping aside in one of his

sallies, Graspum, in a half whisper, reminds Romescos that, now the

nigger has shown symptoms of disobedience, he had better prove the

safety of the shackles. "Right! right! all right!" the man of chains

responds; he had forgot this very necessary piece of amusement. He

places both hands upon the shackles; grasps them firmly; places his

left foot against Harry's stomach; and then, uttering a fierce

imprecation, makes his victim pull with might and main while he

braces against him with full power. The victim, groaning under the

pain, begs for mercy. Mercy was not made for him. Freedom and mercy,

in this our land of greatness, have been betrayed.

Harry, made willing property, is now placed by the side of his wife,

as four small children--the youngest not more than two years

old--cling at the skirts of her gown. The children are scarcely old

enough to chain; their strong affections for poor chained mother and

father are quite enough to guarantee against their running away.

Romescos, in his ample kindness, will allow them to toddle their way

to market. They are not dangerous property;--they have their

feelings, and will go to market to be sold, without running away.

The gang is ready. The gaoler, nearly out of breath, congratulates

himself upon the manner of dispatching business at his

establishment. Romescos will put them through a few evolutions

before marching in the street; so, placing himself at their right,

and the gaoler at their left flank, they are made to march and

counter-march several times round the yard. This done, the generous

gaoler invites the gentlemen into his office: he has a good glass of

whiskey waiting their superior tastes.

The ward gates are opened; the great gate is withdrawn; the

property, linked in iron fellowship,--the gentlemen having taken

their whiskey,--are all ready for the word, march! This significant

admonition the sheriff gives, and the property sets off in solemn

procession, like wanderers bound on a pilgrimage. Tramp, tramp,

tramp, their footsteps fall in dull tones as they sally forth, in

broken file, through the long aisles. Romescos is in high glee,--his

feelings bound with exultation, he marches along, twirling a stick

over his head. They are soon in the street, where he invites them to

strike up a lively song--"Jim crack corn, and I don't care, fo'h

Mas'r's gone away!" he shouts; and several strike up, the rest

joining in the old plantation chorus--"Away! away! away! Mas'r's

gone away." Thus, with jingling chorus and seemingly joyous hearts,

they march down to the man-market. The two children, Annette and

Nicholas, trail behind, in charge of the sheriff, whose better

feelings seem to be troubling him very much. Every now and then, as

they walk by his side, he casts a serious look at Annette, as if

conscience, speaking in deep pulsations, said it wasn't just right

to sell such an interesting little creature. Onward they marched,

his head and heart warring the while. "There's something about it

that does'nt seem to come just right in a fellow's feelins," keeps

working itself in his mind, until at length he mutters the words. It

is the natural will to do good, struggling against the privileges

which a government gives ungovernable men to do wrong.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LET US FOLLOW POOR HUMAN NATURE TO THE MAN SHAMBLES.

GENTLEMEN dealers in want of human property,--planters in want of a

few prime people,--brokers who have large transactions in such

articles,--and factors who, being rather sensitive of their dignity,

give to others the negotiation of their business,--are assembled in

and around the mart, a covered shed, somewhat resembling those used

by railroad companies for the storing of coarse merchandise.

Marston's negroes are to be sold. Suspicious circumstances are

connected with his sudden decline: rumour has sounded her

seven-tongued symbols upon it, and loud are the speculations. The

cholera has made mighty ravages; but the cholera could not have done

all. Graspum has grasped the plantation, quietly and adroitly, but

he has not raised the veil of mystery that hangs over the process.

There must be long explanations before the obdurate creditors are

satisfied.

The irons have been removed from the property, who are crouched

round the stand-an elevated platform-in a forlorn group, where

sundry customers can scrutinize their proportions. Being little or

no fancy among it, the fast young gentlemen of the town, finding

nothing worthy their attention and taste, make a few cursory

observations, and slowly swagger out of the ring. The children are

wonderfully attractive and promising; they are generally admired by

the customers, who view them with suspicious glances. Annette's

clean white skin and fine features are remarkably promising,--much

valued as articles of merchandise,--and will, in time, pay good

interest. Her youth, however, saves her from present sacrifice,--it

thwarts that spirited competition which older property of the same

quality produces when about to be knocked down under the hammer of

freedom.

It is a great day, a day of tribulation, with the once happy people

of Marston's plantation. No prayer is offered up for them, their

souls being only embodied in their market value. Prayers are not

known at the man shambles, though the hammer of the vender seals

with death the lives of many. No gentleman in modest black cares

aught for such death. The dealer will not pay the service fee! Good

master is no longer their protector; his familiar face, so buoyant

with joy and affection, has passed from them. No more will that

strong attachment manifest itself in their greetings. Fathers will

be fathers no longer-it is unlawful. Mothers cannot longer clasp

their children in their arms with warm affections. Children will no

longer cling around their mothers,--no longer fondle in that bosom

where once they toyed and joyed.

The articles murmur among themselves, cast longing glances at each

other, meet the gaze of their purchasers, with pain and distrust

brooding over their countenances. They would seem to trace the

character-cruel or gentle-of each in his look.

Was it that God ordained one man thus to doom another? No! the very

thought repulsed the plea. He never made one man's life to be sorrow

and fear-to be the basest object, upon which blighting strife for

gold fills the passions of tyrants. He never made man to be a dealer

in his own kind. He never made man after his own image to imprecate

the wrath of heaven by blackening earth with his foul deeds. He

never made man to blacken this fair portion of earth with storms of

contention, nor to overthrow the principles that gave it greatness.

He never made man to fill the cup that makes the grim oppressor

fierce in his triumphs over right.

Come reader-come with us: let us look around the pale of these

common man shambles. Here a venerable father sits, a bale of

merchandise, moved with the quick pulsation of human senses. He

looks around him as the storm of resentment seems ready to burst

forth: his wrinkled brow and haggard face in vain ask for sympathy.

A little further on, and a mother leans over her child,--tremblingly

draws it to her side; presses it nearer and nearer to her bosom.

Near her, feeding a child with crumbs of bread, is a coarse negro,

whose rough exterior covers a good heart. He gives a glance of hate

and scorn at those who are soon to tear from him his nearest and

dearest. A gloomy ring of sullen faces encircle us: hope, fear, and

contempt are pictured in each countenance. Anxious to know its doom,

the pent-up soul burns madly within their breasts; no tears can

quench the fire-freedom only can extinguish it. But, what are such

things? mere trifles when the soul loves only gold. What are they to

men who buy such human trifles? who buy and sell mankind, with

feelings as unmoved as the virgin heart that knows no guilt?

Various are the remarks made by those who are taking a cursory view

of the people; very learned in nigger nature are many; their sayings

evince great profoundness. A question seems to be the separating of

wenches from their young 'uns. This is soon settled. Graspum, who

has made his appearance, and is very quaintly and slowly making his

apprehensions known, informs the doubting spectators that Romescos,

being well skilled, will do that little affair right up for a mere

trifle. It takes him to bring the nonsense out of nigger wenches.

This statement being quite satisfactory, the gentlemen purchasers

are at rest on that point.

The hour of sale has arrived,--the crier rings his bell, the

purchasers crowd up to the stand, the motley group of negroes take

the alarm, and seem inclined to close in towards a centre as the

vender mounts the stand. The bell, with the sharp clanking sound,

rings their funeral knell; they startle, as with terror; they listen

with subdued anxiety; they wait the result in painful suspense. How

little we would recognise the picture from abroad. The vender, an

amiable gentleman dressed in modest black, and whose cheerful

countenance, graced with the blandest smile, betokens the antipodes

of his inhuman traffic, holding his hat in his left hand, and a long

paper in his right, makes an obsequious bow to those who have

honoured him with their company. He views them for a few moments,

smiles, casts his eye over the paper again,--it sets forth age and

quality--and then at his marketable people. The invoice is complete;

the goods correspond exactly. The texture and quality have been

appraised by good judges. Being specified, he commences reading the

summons and writs, and concludes with other preliminaries of the

sale.

"Now, gentlemen," says Mr. Forshou--for such is his name--as he

adjusts his hat, lays the document on the desk at his right hand,

pulls up the point of his shirt-collar, sets his neatly-trimmed

whiskers a point forward, and smooths his well-oiled hair:

"We-will-proceed-with-the-sale-of this lot of negroes, according to

the directions of the sheriff of the county. And if no restrictions

are imposed, gentlemen can make their selection of old or young to

suit their choice or necessities! Gentlemen, however, will be

expected to pay for separating." Mr. Forshou, by way of

interpolation, reminds his friends that, seeing many of his very

best customers present, he expects sharp and healthy bids. He will

further remind them (smiling and fretting his hands, as if to show

the number of diamond rings he can afford to wear), that the

property has been well raised, is well known, and ranges from the

brightest and most interesting, to the commonest black field hand.

"Yes, gentlemen," he adds, "by the fortune of this unfortunate sale

we can accommodate you with anything in the line of negro property.

We can sell you a Church and a preacher-a dance-house and a

fiddler-a cook and an oyster-shop. Anything! All sold for no fault;

and warranted as sound as a roach. The honourable sheriff will gives

titles-that functionary being present signifies his willingness-and

every man purchasing is expected to have his shiners ready, so that

he can plunk down cash in ten days. I need not recount the

circumstances under which this property is offered for sale; it is

enough to say that it is offered; but, let me say, gentlemen, to

enlarge upon it would be painful to my feelings. I will merely read

the schedule, and, after selling the people, put up the oxen, mules,

and farming utensils." Mr. Forshou, with easy contentment, takes up

the list and reads at the top of his voice. The names of heads of

families are announced one by one; they answer the call promptly. He

continues till he reaches Annette and Nicholas, and here he pauses

for a few moments, turning from the paper to them, as if he one

minute saw them on the paper and the next on the floor. "Here,

gentlemen," he ejaculates, in a half guttural voice-something he

could not account for touched his conscience at the moment-holding

the paper nearer his eye-glass, "there is two bits of property

bordering on the sublime. It dazzles-seems almost too interesting to

sell. It makes a feller's heart feel as if it warn't stuck in the

right place." Mr. Forshou casts another irresistible look at the

children; his countenance changes; he says he is very sensitive, and

shows it in his blushes. He might have saved his blushes for the

benefit of the State. The State is careful of its blushes; it has

none to sell-none to bestow on a child's sorrow!

Annette returns his somewhat touching manifestation of remorse with

a childlike smile.

"Well! I reckon how folks is gettin' tenderish, now a' days. Who'd

thought the major had such touchy kind a' feelins? Anything wrong

just about yer goggler?" interrupts Romescos, giving the vender a

quizzical look, and a "half-way wink." Then, setting his slouch hat

on an extra poise, he contorts his face into a dozen grimaces. "Keep

conscience down, and strike up trade," he says, very coolly, drawing

a large piece of tobacco from his breast-pocket and filling his

mouth to its utmost capacity.

"Feelings are over all things," responds the sheriff, who stands by,

and will speak for the vender, who is less accustomed to speaking

for himself. "Feelings bring up recollections of things one never

thought of before,--of the happiest days of our happiest home.

'Tain't much, no, nothing at all, to sell regular black and coloured

property; but there's a sort of cross-grained mythology about the

business when it comes to selling such clear grain as this."

The vender relieves the honourable sheriff from all further display

of sympathy, by saying that he feels the truth of all the honourable

and learned gentleman has said, "which has 'most made the inward

virtue of his heart come right up." He leans over the desk, extends

his hand, helps himself to a generous piece of Romescos' tobacco.

Romescos rejoins in a subdued voice-"He thinks a man what loves

dimes like the major cannot be modest in nigger business, because

modesty ain't trade commodity. It cannot be; the man who thinks of

such nonsense should sell out-should go north and join the humane

society. Folks are all saints, he feels sure, down north yander;

wouldn't sell nigger property;--they only send south right smart

preachers to keep up the dignity of the institution; to do the

peculiar religion of the very peculiar institution. No objection to

that; nor hain't no objection to their feelin' bad about the poor

niggers, so long as they like our cash and take our cotton. That's

where the pin's drove in; while it hangs they wouldn't be bad

friends with us for the world."

"You may, Mr. Romescos, suspend your remarks," says the vender,

looking indignant, as he thrusts his right hand into his bosom, and

attempts a word of introduction.

Romescos must have his last word; he never says die while he has a

word at hand. "The major's love must be credited, gentlemen; he's a

modest auctioneer,--a gentleman what don't feel just right when white

property's for sale," he whispers, sarcastically.

Another pause, then a hearty laughing, and the man commences to sell

his people. He has uttered but a few words, when Marston's attorney,

stepping into the centre of the ring, and near the vender, draws a

paper from his pocket, and commences reading in a loud tone. It is a

copy of the notice he had previously served on the sheriff, setting

forth in legal phraseology the freedom of the children, "And

therfo'h this is t' stay proceedings until further orders from the

honourable Court of Common Pleas," is audible at the conclusion. The

company are not much surprised. There is not much to be surprised

at, when slave law and common law come in contact. With Marston's

sudden decline and unfathomable connection with Graspum, there is

nothing left to make the reading of the notice interesting.

"You hear this, gentlemen?" says the vender, biting his lips: "the

sale of this very interesting portion of this very interesting

property is objected to by the attorney for the defendant at law.

They must, therefore, be remanded to the custody of the sheriff, to

await the decision of court." That court of strange judgments! The

sheriff, that wonderful medium of slaveocratic power, comes forward,

muttering a word of consolation; he will take them away. He passes

them over to an attendant, who conducts them to their dark chilly

cells.

"All right!" says Graspum, moving aside to let the children pass

out. "No more than might have been expected; it's no use, though.

Marston will settle that little affair in a very quiet way." He

gives the man-vender a look of approval; the very celebrated Mr.

Graspum has self-confidence enough for "six folks what don't deal

in niggers." A bystander touching him on the arm, he gives his head

a cunning shake, crooks his finger on his red nose. "Just a thing of

that kind," he whispers, making some very delicate legal

gesticulations with the fore-finger of his right hand in the palm of

his left; then, with great gravity, he discusses some very nice

points of nigger law. He is heard to say it will only be a waste of

time, and make some profitable rascality for the lawyers. He could

have settled the whole on't in seven minutes. "Better give them up

honourably, and let them be sold with the rest. Property's property

all over the world; and we must abide by the laws, or what's the

good of the constitution? To feel bad about one's own folly! The

idea of taking advantage of it at this late hour won't hold good in

law. How contemptibly silly! men feeling fatherly after they have

made property of their own children! Poor, conscientious fools, how

they whine at times, never thinking how they would let their

womanish feelings cheat their creditors. There's no honour in that."

"Gentlemen!" interrupts the vender, "we have had enough discussion,

moral, legal, and otherwise. We will now have some selling."

The honourable sheriff desires to say a word or two upon points not

yet advanced. "The sheriff! the sheriff!" is exclaimed by several

voices. He speaks, having first adjusted his spectacles, and

relieved himself of three troublesome coughs. "The institution-I

mean, gentlemen, the peculiar institution-must be preserved; we

cannot, must not, violate statutes to accommodate good-feeling