A FATHER'S TRIALS.
IF modern Christianity, as improved in our southern world-we mean
our world of slavery-had blushes, it might improve the use of them
were we to recount in detail the many painful incidents which the
improved and very christianly process of separating husbands from
wives, parents from children, brothers from sisters, and friends
from all the ties and associations the heart, gives birth to.
Negroes have tender sympathies, strong loves. Reader, we will save
your feelings,--we will not recount them; our aim is not to excite
undue feeling, but to relate every-day scenes.
Days and weeks pass on drearily with Marston. Unhappy, forlorn,
driven to the last extremity by obdurate creditors, he waits the
tardy process of the law. He seldom appears in public; for those who
professed to be his best friends have become his coldest
acquaintances. But he has two friends left,--friends whose pure
friendship is like sweetest dew-drops: they are Franconia and Daddy
Bob. The rusty old servant is faithful, full of benevolence,
gratitude, and unshaken fidelity; the other is the generous woman,
in whose bosom beat the tender impulses of a noble soul. Those
impulses have been moved to action in defence of the innocent; they
never can be defeated. Bob is poor, abject, and old with toil. He
cares not to be free,--he wants mas'r free. But there yet remains
some value in Bob; and he has secreted himself, in hopes of escaping
the man-dealer, and sharing his earnings in the support of old
mas'r. Franconia is differently situated; yet she can only take
advantage of circumstances which yet depend upon the caprice of a
subtle-minded husband. Over both these friends of the unfortunate,
slavery has stretched its giant arms, confusing the social system,
uprooting the integrity of men, weakening respect for law, violating
the best precepts of nature, substituting passion for principle,
confounding reason, and enslaving public opinion.
Under the above disorganising state of the social compact, the
children, known to be Marston's, are pursued as property belonging
to the bankrupt estate. When the law has made it such, it must be
sold in satisfaction of Marston's debts.
Seven months have passed since they were shut up in a felon's cell.
They have been visited by Marston; he has been kind to them,--kind as
a father could be under such circumstances. Franconia has not
forgotten them: she sends many little things to lighten the gloom of
their confinement; but society closes her lips, and will frown upon
any disclosure she may make of their parentage. Were she to disclose
it to Colonel M'Carstrow, the effect would be doubtful: it might add
to the suspicious circumstances already excited against her
unfortunate uncle. The paramount question-whether they are hereafter
to be chattel slaves, or human beings with inalienable rights-must
be submitted to the decision of a judicial tribunal. It is by no
means an uncommon case, but very full of interest. It will merely be
interesting-not as involving any new question of law, nor presenting
new phases of southern jurisprudence-in showing what very notorious
dealers in human kind, and lawyers of great legal ability, can
morally and legally perform. It will show how great men figure in
the arena of legal degradation, how they unravel the mystery of
slave power.
Graspum, professedly uninterested, has purchased the claims, and
will pursue the payment in the name of the original plaintiffs. With
Romescos's cunning aid, of course the trial will be a perfect farce,
the only exception being that the very profound Mr. Graspum will
exhibit a degree of great sincerity on his part.
The sessions are sitting; the day for the trial of this important
case has arrived; the little dingy court-room is early crowded to
excess, but there is not much expression of anxiety. Men speak
lightly of the issue, as if some simple game were to be played. The
judge, a grave-looking gentleman of no ordinary mien, in whose full
countenance sternness is predominant in the well-displayed
estimation in which he holds his important self, walks measuredly
into court-the lacqueys of the law crying "Court! court!" to which
he bows-and takes his seat upon an elevated tribune. There is great
solemnity preserved at the opening: the sheriff, with well-ordained
costume and sword, sits at his honour's left, his deputy on the
right, and the very honourable clerk of the court just below, where
there can be no impediment during the process of feeding "the Court"
on very legal points of "nigger law." In truth, the solemnity of
this court, to those unacquainted with the tenor of legal
proceedings at the south, might have been misconstrued for something
more in keeping with justice.
The legal gentlemen, most modest of face, are seated round the bar-a
semicircular railing dividing their dignity from the common
spectator-waiting the reading of the docket. The clerk takes his
time about that, and seems a great favourite with the spectators,
who applaud his rising. He reads, the sheriff crying "order! order!"
while the judge learnedly examines his notes. Some consultation
takes place between several of the attorneys, which is interlarded
with remarks from the judge, who, with seeming satisfaction to all
parties, orders the case of B. C. R. K. Marston's writ of replevin
to be called and proceeded with. "As there are three fi fas," says
the junior attorney for the defendants, a very lean strippling of
the law, just working his way up in the world, "I object to the
manner of procedure; the case only involves a question of law, and
should be submitted to the special decision of the Court. It is not
a matter for a jury to decide upon," he concludes. The judge has
listened to his remarks, objections, and disclaimers, with marked
attention; nevertheless, he is compelled to overrule them, and order
the case to proceed. Upon this it is agreed among the
attorneys-happy fellows, always ready to agree or disagree-that a
decision taken upon one fi fa shall be held as establishing a
decision for all the cases at issue.
The children are now brought into Court, and seated near one of the
attorneys. Marston stands, almost motionless, a few steps back,
gazing upon them as intently and solicitously as if the issue were
life or death. Deacon Rosebrook, his good lady, and Franconia, have
been summoned as witnesses, and sit by the side of each other on a
bench within the bar. We hear a voice here and there among the crowd
of spectators expressing sympathy for the children; others say they
are only "niggers," and can't be aught else, if it be proved that
Marston bought the mother. And there is Mr. Scranton! He is well
seated among the gentlemen of the legal profession, for whom he has
a strong fellow feeling. He sits, unmoved, in his wonted moodiness;
now and then he gives the children a sly look of commiseration, as
if the screws of his feelings were unloosing. They-the little
property-look so interesting, so innocent, so worthy of being
something more than merchandise in a land of liberty, that Mr.
Scranton's heart has become irresistibly softened. It gets a few
degrees above Mr. Scranton's constitutional scruples. "Painful
affair this! What do you think of it, Mr. Scranton?" enquires a
member of the profession, touching his arm.
"It is the fruit of Marston's weakness, you see!-don't feel just
straight, I reckon. Didn't understand the philosophy of the law,
neither; and finds himself pinched up by a sort of humanity that
won't pass for a legal tender in business-"
"Ah! we cannot always look into the future," interrupts the
attorney.
Mr. Scranton holds that whatever is constitutional must be right and
abidable; that one's feelings never should joggle our better
understanding when these little curiosities come in the way. He
admits, however, that they are strange attendants coming up once in
a while, like the fluctuations of an occult science. With him, the
constitution gives an indisputable right to overlook every outrage
upon natural law; and, while it exists in full force, though it may
strip one half the human race of rights, he has no right to complain
so long as it does not interfere with him. It strikes Mr. Scranton
that people who differ with him in opinion must have been educated
under the teaching of a bad philosophy. Great governments, he holds,
often nurture the greatest errors. It matters not how much they feel
their magnitude; often, the more they do, the least inclined are
they to correct them. Others fear the constitutional structure so
much, that they stand trembling lest the slightest correction totter
it to the ground. Great governments, too, are most likely to stand
on small points when these errors are pointed out. Mr. Scranton
declares, with great emphasis, that all these things are most
legally true, perfectly natural: they follow in man as well as
governments.
With all due deference to Mr. Scranton's opinion, so much demanded
among his admiring neighbours, it must be said that he never could
bring his mind to understand the difference between natural
philosophy and his own constitutional scruples, and was very apt to
commit himself in argument, forgetting that the evil was in the
fruits of a bad system, bringing disgrace upon his countrymen,
corrupting the moral foundation of society, spreading vice around
the domestic fireside, and giving to base-minded men power to
speculate in the foulness of their own crimes.
The case is opened by the attorney for the plaintiff, who makes a
great many direct and indirect remarks, and then calls witnesses.
"Marco Graspum!" the clerk exclaims. That gentleman comes forward,
takes his place, calmly, upon the witnesses' stand. At first he
affects to know but little; then suddenly remembers that he has
heard Marston call their mothers property. Further, he has heard
him, while extolling their qualities, state the purchase to have
been made of one Silenus, a trader.
"He stated-be sure now!-to you, that he purchased them of one
Silenus, a trader?" interpolates the judge, raising his glasses, and
advancing his ear, with his hand raised at its side.
Yes, yer honour!" "Please observe this testimony," rejoins the
attorney, quickly. He bows; says that is enough. The opposing
attorney has no question to put on cross-examination: he knows
Graspum too well. Being quite at home with the gentlemen of the
legal profession, they know his cool nonchalance never can be shaken
upon a point of testimony.
"Any questions to put?" asks the legal opponent, with an air of
indifference.
"No, nothing," is the reply.
His brother of special pleas smiles, gives a cunning glance at
Graspum, and wipes his face with a very white handkerchief. He is
conscious of the character of his man; it saves all further trouble.
"When we know who we have to deal with, we know how to deal," he
mutters, as he sits down.
Graspum retires from the stand, and takes his seat among the
witnesses. "We will now call Anthony Romescos," says the attorney. A
few minutes' pause, and that individual rolls out in all his
independence, takes his place on the stand. He goes through a long
series of questioning and cross-questioning, answers for which he
seems to have well studied.
The whole amounts to nothing more than a corroboration of Graspum's
testimony. He has heard Marston call their mothers property: once,
he thinks, but would hesitate before pledging his honour, that
Marston offered to him the woman Clotilda. Yes; it was her!
Considerable excitement is now apparent; the auditory whisper among
themselves, attorneys put their heads together, turn and turn over
the leaves of their statutes. His honour, the Court, looks wiser
still. Marston trembles and turns pale; his soul is pinioned between
hope and fear. Romescos has told something more than he knows, and
continues, at random, recounting a dozen or more irrelevant things.
The court, at length, deems it necessary to stop his voluntary
testimony, orders that he only answer such questions as are put to
him.
"There's no harm in a feller tellin' what he knows, eh! judge?"
returns Romescos, dropping a quid of tobacco at his side, bowing
sarcastically to the judge, and drawing his face into a comical
picture.
Mr. Romescos is told that he can stand aside. At this seemingly
acceptable announcement, he bristles his crispy red hair with his
fingers, shrugs his shoulders, winks at two or three of the jurymen,
pats Graspum on the shoulder as he passes him, and takes his seat.
"We will close the case here, but reserve the right of introducing
further testimony, if necessary," says the learned and very
honourable counsel.
The defence here rises, and states the means by which his client
intends to prove the freedom of the children; and concludes by
calling over the names of the witnesses. Franconia! Franconia! we
hear that name called; it sounds high above the others, and falls
upon our ear most mournfully. Franconia, that sweet creature of
grace and delicacy, brought into a court where the scales of
injustice are made to serve iniquity!
Franconia's reserve and modesty put legal gentlemen's gallantry to
the test. One looks over the pages of his reports, another casts a
sly look as she sweeps by to take that place the basest of men has
just left. The interested spectators stretch their persons
anxiously, to get a look at the two pretty children, honourable and
legal gentlemen are straining their ability to reduce to property.
There stands the blushing woman, calm and beautiful, a virtuous
rebuke to curious spectators, mercenary slave dealers, the very
learned gentlemen of the bar, and his enthroned honour, the Court!
She will give testimony that makes nature frown at its own
degradation. Not far from Franconia sits the very constitutional Mr.
Scranton, casting side glances now and then. Our philosopher
certainly thinks, though he will not admit it, the chivalry is
overtaxing itself; there was no occasion for compelling so fair a
creature to come into court, and hear base testimony before a base
crowd,--to aid a base law in securing base ends. And then, just think
and blush, ye who have blushes to spare.
"Will the learned gentleman proceed with the examination of this
witness?" says his honour, who, pen in hand, has been waiting
several minutes to take down her testimony. Court and audience,
without knowing why, have come to an unconscious pause.
"Will the witness state to the court in what relation she stands to
the gentleman who defends title freedom of the children,--Mr. Hugh
Marston?" says the attorney, addressing his bland words to
Franconia, somewhat nervously.
"He--he--he--is my--," she mutters, and stops. Her face turns pale; then
suddenly changes to glowing crimson. She rests her left hand on the
rail, while the judge, as if suddenly moved by a generous impulse,
suggests that the attorney pause a moment, until the deputy provides
a chair for the lady. She is quiet again. Calmly and modestly, as
her soft, meaning eyes wander over the scene before her, compelled
to encounter its piercing gaze, the crystal tears leave their wet
courses on her blushing cheeks. Her feelings are too delicate, too
sensitive, to withstand the sharp and deadly poison of liberty's
framework of black laws. She sees her uncle, so kind, so fond of her
and her absent brother; her eye meets his in kindred sympathy,
imagination wings its way through recollections of the past, draws
forth its pleasures with touching sensations, and fills the cup too
full. That cup is the fountain of the soul, from which trouble draws
its draughts. She watches her uncle as he turns toward the children;
she knows they are his; she feels how much he loves them.
The attorney--the man of duty--is somewhat affected. "I have a duty to
perform," he says, looking at the court, at the witness, at the
children, at the very red-faced clerk, at the opposing counsel, and
anything within the precincts of the court-room. We see his lips
move; he hesitates, makes slight gesticulations, turns and turns a
volume of Blackstone with his hands, and mutters something we cannot
understand. The devil is doing battle with his heart-a heart bound
with the iron strings of the black law. At length, in broken
accents, we catch the following remarks, which the learned gentleman
thinks it necessary to make in order to save his gallantry:--"I am
sorry--extremely sorry, to see the witness, a lady so touchingly
sensitive, somewhat affected; but, nevertheless" (the gentleman bows
to the judge, and says the Court will understand his position!) "it
is one of those cases which the demands of the profession at times
find us engaged in. As such we are bound, morally, let me say, as
well as legally, to protect the interests of our clients. In doing
so, we are often compelled to encounter those delicate
irregularities to which the laws governing our peculiar institutions
are liable. I may say that they are so interwoven with our peculiar
institution, that to act in accordance with our duty makes it a
painful task to our feelings. We--I may appeal to the court for
corroboration--can scarcely pursue an analysation of these cases
without pain; I may say, remorse of conscience." Mr. Petterwester,
for such is his name, is evidently touched with that sense of shame
which the disclosures of the black system bring upon his profession.
This is aided by the fascinating appearance of the witness on the
stand. It is irresistible because it is at variance with those legal
proceedings, those horrors of southern jurisprudence, which he is
pressing for the benefit of his clients. Again he attempts to put
another question, but is seized with a tremor; he blushes, is
nervous and confused, casts a doubting look at the judge. That
functionary is indeed very grave--unmoved. The responsibility of the
peculiar institution sorely hardened the war of heart against head
that was waging among the learned gentlemen; but the institution
must be preserved, for its political power works wonders, and its
legal power is wondrously curious. "Please tell the court and jury
what you know about the relation in which these children stand to
the gentleman who asserts their freedom, dear madam? We will not
trouble you with questions; make a statement," says Mr.
Petterwester, with great sincerity of manner. Indeed, Mr.
Petterwester has been highly spoken of among the very oldest, most
respectable, and best kind of female society, for his gallantry.
The brother opposite, a small gentleman, with an exceedingly
studious countenance, dressed in shining black, and a profusion of
glossy hair falling upon his shoulders, rises with great legal
calmness, and objects to the manner of procedure, describing it as
contrary to the well-established rules of the bar. The court
interpolates a few remarks, and then intimates that it very
seriously thinks gentlemen better waive the points,--better come to
an understanding to let the lady make her statements! Courtesy
entitles her, as a lady, to every respect and consideration. The
gentlemen, having whispered a few words together, bow assent to the
high functionary's intimation.
Franconia proceeds. She asserts that Hugh Marston (pointing to him)
is her uncle; that she knows little or nothing of his business
affairs, cannot tell why her brother left the country so suddenly;
she knew Clotilda and Ellen Juvarna, mothers of the children. They
never were considered among the property of the plantation. Her
short story is told in touching tones. The learned and gallant
attorney, esteeming it indispensable, puts a question or two as to
whether anything was ever said about selling them in consequence of
certain jealousies. Before the brother can object, she answers them
evasively, and the testimony amounts to just no testimony at all.
The court, bowing respectfully, informs the lady she can get down
from the stand.
The next witness called is Mrs. Rosebrook. This good and benevolent
lady is more resolute and determined. The gentlemen of the bar find
her quite clever enough for them. Approaching the stand with a firm
step, she takes her place as if determined upon rescuing the
children. Her answers come rather faster than is compatible with the
dignity of the learned gentlemen of the bar. She knows Marston,
knows Franconia, knows the old plantation, has spent many happy
hours upon it, is sorry to see the old proprietor reduced to this
state of things. She knows the two children,--dear creatures,--has
always had a kindly feeling for them; knew their poor mothers, has
befriended them since Marston's troubles began. She always-her
large, loving eyes glowing with the kindness of her soul-heard
Marston say they were just as free as people could be, and they
should be free, too! Some people did'nt look at the moral obligation
of the thing. Here, the good lady, blushing, draws the veil over her
face. There is something more she would like to disclose if modesty
did not forbid.
"Nothing direct in such testimony, your honour will perceive!" says
Mr. Petterwester, directing himself to the judge.
"Is there any question with regard to the father of the children?"
enquires his honour, again placing his hand to his ear and leaning
forward inquisitively. His honour suddenly forgot himself.
"Ah, ha'h, he-em! The question, so buried under a mountain of
complexity, requires very nice legal discrimination to define it
properly. However, we must be governed by distinct pleadings, and I
think that, in this case, this specific question is not material;
nor do my brother colleagues of the Bench think it would be
advisable to establish such questions, lest they affect the moral
purity of the atmosphere we live in."
"If your honour will permit it, I may say it will only be necessary
in this case to establish the fact of property existing in the
mothers. That will settle the whole question; fathers, as you are
aware, not being embraced in the law regulating this species of
property;" the learned gentleman instructs the court.
His honour, rejoining with a few very grave and very legal remarks,
says they look very much alike, and are of one mother. He is a
little undecided, however, takes another good stare at them, and
then adds his glasses, that the affinity may be more clear. Turning
again to his book, he examines his pages, vacantly. A legal wag, who
has been watching the trial for mere amusement, whispering in the
ear of his brother, insinuates that the presiding functionary is
meditating some problem of speculation, and has forgotten the point
at issue.
"No!" interrupts Mr. Petterwester, "your honour is curiously
labouring under an error; they have two mothers, both of the same
tenour in life--that is"--Mr. Petterwester corrects himself--"embodying
the same questions of property. The issue of the case now on is
taken as final over the rest."
"Ah! bless me, now-I-rather-see-into it. The clerk will hand me
Cobb's Georgia Reports. A late case, curiously serious, there
recorded, may lead me to gather a parallel. Believe me, gentlemen,
my feelings are not so dead-his honour addresses himself to the bar
in general--that I cannot perceive it to be one of those very
delicate necessities of our law which so embarrasses the gallantry
of the profession at times--"
"Yes! yer honour," the attorney for the defence suddenly interrupts,
"and which renders it no less a disgrace to drag ladies of high rank
into a court of this kind--."
His honour can assure the learned gentleman that this court has very
high functions, and can administer justice equal to anything this
side of divine power,--his honour interrupts, indignantly.
"The court misunderstood the counsel,--he had no reference to the
unquestioned high authority of the tribunal; it was only the
character of the trials brought before it. When, notwithstanding our
boasts of chivalry, delicate ladies are dragged before it in this
manner, they must not only endure the painful tenour of the
evidence, but submit to the insolence of men who would plunder
nature of its right--"
"I shall claim the protection of the court against such
unprofessional imputations," his brother of the opposite interrupts,
rising and affecting an air of indignation. The court, quite
bewildered, turns a listening ear to his remarks--"Hopes the learned
gentlemen will not disgrace themselves."
Order! order! order! demands the sheriff, making a flourish with his
sword. The spectators, rising on tip-toe, express their anxiety to
have the case proceed. They whisper, shake their heads, and are
heard to say that it will be utterly useless to attempt anything
against the testimony of Graspum and Romescos. Mr. Graspum, in the
fulness of his slavish and impudent pedantry, feeling secure in the
possession of his victims, sits within the bar, seeming to feel his
position elevated a few degrees above his highness the judge.
"I do hope the interposition of this Court will not be necessary in
this case. Gentlemen of the learned profession should settle those
differences more like gentlemen," says his honour, looking down upon
his minions with a frown of contempt.
"The matter is one entirely of a professional nature, yer honour!"
responds the scion of the law, quickly, first addressing himself to
the judge, and then to the jury. "If the testimony we have already
adduced--direct as it is--be not sufficient to establish the existence
of property in these children" (Romescos has just whispered
something in his ear) "we will produce other testimony of the most
conclusive character. However, we will yield all further
cross-questioning the ladies; and I now suggest that they be
relieved from the painful position of appearing before this court
again."
Mrs. Rosebrook descends from the stand amidst murmurs and applause.
Some amount of legal tact now ensues; the attorney for the
prosecution displays an earnestness amounting to personal interest.
Here the counsel for the defence steps forward, whispers to the
clerk, and gives notice that he shall call witnesses to impeach the
characters of Graspum and Romescos. These two high dignitaries,
sitting together, express the utmost surprise at such an
insinuation. The character of neither is sacred material, nor will
it stand even in a southern atmosphere. They have been pronounced
legally impure many years ago.
Just at this juncture there is quite an excitement in the
court-room. Romescos, like a disfigured statue, rises from among his
legal friends and addresses the court on the independent principle.
"Well now, Squire, if ya'r goin' to play that ar' lawyer game on a
feller what don't understand the dodge, I'll just put a settler
on't; I'll put a settler on't what ya' won't get over. My word's my
honour; didn't come into this establishment to do swarin' cos I
wanted to; seein' how, when a feller's summoned by the Boss Squire,
he's got to walk up and tell the truth and nothin' shorter. I knows
ya' don't feel right about it; and it kind a hurts a feller's
feelins to make property of such nice young uns, especially when one
knows how nice they've been brought up. This aint the thing, though;
'taint the way to get along in the world; and seein' I'm a man of
honour, and wouldn't do a crooked thing nohow-"
His honour the Sheriff, being somewhat impressed with the fact that
Mr. Romescos is rather transgressing the rules of the court,
interposes. His defence of his honour cannot longer be tolerated;
and yet, very much after the fashion of great outlaws, who, when
arraigned for their crimes, think themselves very badly used men,
Romescos has the most exalted opinion of himself; never for a moment
entertains a doubt of his own integrity.
He reaches over the bar; places his lips to the attorney's ear; is
about to whisper something. That gentleman quickly draws back, as if
his presence were repulsive. Not the least offended, Romescos winks
significantly, crooks the fore-finger of his right hand, and
says-"something that'll put the stopper on." The legal gentleman
seems reconciled; listens attentively to the important information.
"All right! nothing more is needed," he says, rising from his seat,
and asking permission to introduce proof which will render it quite
unnecessary to proceed with anything that may have for its object
the impeachment of the witnesses.
The attorney for the defence objects to this mode of procedure; and
the judge, having sustained the objections, orders the counsel to
proceed with his witnesses. Several persons, said to be of very high
standing, are now called. They successively depose that they would
not believe Romescos nor Graspum upon oath; notwithstanding, both
may be very honourable and respectable gentlemen. Thus invalidating
the testimony of these high functionaries of the peculiar
institution, the gentleman of the prosecution has an opportunity of
producing his conclusive proof. Romescos has been seen passing him a
very suspicious-looking document.
All attention is now directed to the children; they sit pensively,
unconscious of the dread fate hanging over them. "What can this
testimony be?" rings in whispers about the court-room. Some deep
intrigue is going on; it is some unforeseen movement of the
slave-dealers, not comprehended by the spectators. Can the bon-fide
creditors be implicated? Even Mr. Scranton feels that his knowledge
of the philosophy of slave power is completely at fault.
"Now, your honour, and gentlemen of the jury," says the gentleman of
the prosecution, "I am fully aware of the painful suspense in which
this case has kept the court, the jury, and the very respectable
persons I see assembled; but, notwithstanding the respectability and
well-known position of my clients and witnesses, the defence in this
case has succeeded in expunging the testimony, and compelling us to
bring forward such proof as cannot be impeached." Here the legal
gentleman draws from his pocket a stained and coloured paper,
saying, "Will the gentlemen of the jury be kind enough to minutely
examine that instrument." He passes it to the foreman.
"What is the purport of the instrument?" his honour enquires.
"The bill of sale, your honour."
Foreman has examined it satisfactorily; passes it to several of his
fellows. All are satisfied. He returns it to the learned gentleman.
That very important and chivalrous individual throws it upon the
table with great self-confidence.
His honour would like to scan over its details. It is passed to the
little fat clerk, and by that gentleman to his honour. "Very,
singularly strong!" his honour says, giving his head a very wise
shake.
"When the court gets through," says the advocate for the defence,
rising and placing his hand on the clerk's desk.
"The gentleman can examine," replies the court, passing it coldly to
the Sheriff, who politely forwards it.
He turns it and turns it; reads it slowly; examines the dates
minutely. "How did the prosecution come in possession of this
document?"
His brother of the law objects, "That's not an admissible question.
If the defence will institute an action against the parties for
unlawfully procuring it, we will take great pleasure in showing our
hands. It may be, however, well to say, that Mr. Marston and Mr.
Graspum have always been on the most friendly terms; but the former
gentleman forgot to take care of this very essential document," he
continues, taking it from the hand of his professional brother, and
turning toward the spectators, his countenance glowing with
exultation. The pride of his ambition is served. The profession has
honourably sustained itself through the wonderful abilities of this
learned brother, who, holding the paper in his hand, awaits the
gracious applause of the assembled spectators. There is some
applause, some murmuring, much whispering.
The court, in coldly measured words, hopes the audience will evince
no excitement pro or con.
Some persons declare the bill of sale a forgery,--that Romescos has
tried that very same trick twice before. Others say it matters but
little on that score,--that all the law in the country won't restrain
Graspum; if he sets at it in good earnest he can turn any sort of
people into property. A third whispers that the present order of
things must be changed, or nobody's children will be safe. Legal
gentlemen, not interested in the suit, shake their heads, and
successively whisper, "The prosecution never came by that bill of
sale honestly." Creditors, not parties to this suit, and brokers who
now and then do something in the trade of human beings, say, "If
this be the way Marston's going to play the dodge with his property,
we will see if there be not some more under the same shaded
protection."
"Will the counsel for the defence permit his client to inspect this
instrument?" says the learned gentleman, passing it across the
table.
Marston's face flushes with shame; he is overcome; he extends his
trembling hand and takes the fatal document. It is, to him, his
children's death-warrant. A cloud of darkness overshadows his hopes;
he would question the signature, but the signer, Silenus, is
dead,--as dead as the justice of the law by which the children are
being tried. And there is the bond attached to it! Again the thought
flashed through his mind, that he had sold Ellen Juvarna to Elder
Pemberton Praiseworthy. However much he might struggle to save his
children-however much a father's obligations might force themselves
upon him-however much he might acknowledge them the offspring of his
own body, they were property in the law-property in the hands of
Graspum; and, with the forethought of that honourable gentleman
opposed to him--as it evidently was--his efforts and pleadings would
not only prove futile, but tend to expose Lorenzo's crime.
"The philosophy of the thing is coming out, just as I
said-precisely," ejaculates Mr. Scranton, raising his methodical
eyes, and whispering to a legal gentleman who sits at his right.
"Serious philosophy, that embraces and sanctions the sale of such
lovely children,--making property of one's children against his
wishes! I'm a great Southern rights man, but this is shaving the
intermixture a little too close," rejoins the other, casting a
solicitous look at Marston, who has been intently and nervously
examining the bill of sale.
"Any objections to make to it?" says the learned gentleman, bowing
politely and extending his hand, as he concludes by inquiring how it
happened, in the face of such an array of evidence, that he sold the
girl, Ellen Juvarna?
"No objection, none!" is Marston's quick response. His head droops;
he wipes the tears from his eyes; he leaves the court in silence,
amid murmurs from the crowd. The female witnesses left before him;
it was well they did so.
That this is the original bill of sale, from one Silenus to Hugh
Marston, has been fully established. However painful the issue,
nothing remained but to give the case to the jury. All is silent for
several minutes. The judge has rarely sat upon a case of this kind.
He sits unnerved, the pen in his hand refusing to write as his
thoughts wander into the wondrous vortex of the future of slavery.
But the spell has passed; his face shades with pallor as slowly he
rises to address the jury. He has but few words to say; they fall
like death-knells on the ears of his listeners. Some touching words
escape his hesitating lips; but duty, enforced by the iron rod of
slave power, demands him to sustain the laws of the land. He sets
forth the undisputed evidence contained in the bill of sale, the
unmistakeable bond, the singular and very high-handed attempt to
conceal it from the honest creditors, and the necessity of jurymen
restraining their sympathies for the children while performing a
duty to the laws of the land. Having thus made his brief address, he
sits down; the sheriff shoulders his tip-staff, and the august
twelve, with papers provided, are marched into the jury-room, as the
court orders that the case of Dunton v. Higgins be called.
Five minutes have intervened; the clerk calling the case s
interrupted by a knocking at the jury-room door; he stops his
reading, the door is opened, and the sheriff conducts his twelve
gentlemen back to their seats. Not a whisper is heard; the stillness
of the tomb reigns over this high judicial scene. The sheriff
receives a packet of papers from the foreman's hands, and passes
them to the clerk.
"Gentlemen of the jury will please stand up," says that very amiable
functionary. "Have you agreed on your verdict?" The foreman bows
assent.
"Guilty or not guilty, gentlemen?"
"Guilty," says the former, in tones like church-yard wailings:
"Guilty. I suppose that's the style we must render the verdict in?"
The foreman is at a loss to know what style of verdict is necessary.
"Yes," returns the clerk, bowing; and the gentlemen of the jury well
complimented by the judge, are discharged until to-morrow. The
attorney for the defence made a noble, generous, and touching appeal
to the fatherly twelve; but his appeal fell like dull mist before
the majesty of slavery. Guilty! O heavens, that ever the innocent
should be made guilty of being born of a mother! That a mother-that
name so holy-should be stained with the crime of bearing her child
to criminal life!
Two children, fair and beautiful, are judged by a jury of
twelve-perhaps all good and kind fathers, free and enlightened
citizens of a free and happy republic-guilty of the crime of being
born of a slave mother. Can this inquiring jury, this thinking
twelve, feel as fathers only can feel when their children are on the
precipice of danger? Could they but break over that seeming
invulnerable power of slavery which crushes humanity, freezes up the
souls of men, and makes the lives of millions but a blight of
misery, and behold with the honesty of the heart what a picture of
misery their voice "Guilty!" spreads before these unfortunate
children, how changed would be the result!
A judge, endeared to his own children by the kindest affections,
feels no compunction of conscience while administering the law which
denies a father his own children-which commands those children to be
sold with the beasts of the field! Mark the slender cord upon which
the fate of these unfortunates turns; mark the suffering through
which they must pass.
The hand on the clock's pale face marks four. His honour reminds
gentlemen of the bar that it is time to adjourn court. Court is
accordingly adjourned. The crowd disperse in silence. Gentlemen of
the legal profession are satisfied the majesty of the law has been
sustained.
Hence the guilty children, scions of rights-loving democracy, like
two pieces of valuable merchandise judicially decreed upon, are led
back to prison, where they will await sale. Annette has caught the
sound of "Guilty!"-she mutters it while being taken home from the
court, in the arms of an old slave. May heaven forgive the guilt we
inherit from a mother, in this our land of freedom!