WE CHANGE WITH FORTUNE.
BUT a few months have passed since the popularly called gallant
M'Carstrow led the fair Franconia to the hymeneal altar; and, now
that he has taken up his residence in the city, the excitement of
the honeymoon is waning, and he has betaken himself to his more
congenial associations. The beautiful Franconia for him had but
transient charms, which he now views as he would objects necessary
to the gratifications of his coarse passions. His feelings have not
been softened with those finer associations which make man the kind
patron of domestic life; nor is his mind capable of appreciating
that respect for a wife which makes her an ornament of her circle.
Saloons, race-courses, and nameless places, have superior
attractions for him: home is become but endurable.
In truth, Franconia, compelled to marry in deference to fortune,
finds she is ensnared into misfortunes. M'Carstrow (Colonel by
courtesy) had fifteen hundred dollars, cash down, to pay for
Clotilda: this sad grievance excites his feelings, inasmuch as it
was all owing to his wife's whims, and the poverty of her relations.
The verdict of the jury, recently rendered, was to his mind a
strictly correct one; but he cannot forget the insane manner in
which the responsibility was fastened upon him, and the hard
cash-which might have made two handsome stakes on the turf-drawn
from his pocket. His wife's poverty-stricken relations he now
detests, and can tolerate them best when farthest away from him. But
Franconia does not forget that he is her husband; no, night after
night she sits at the window until midnight, waiting his return.
Feeble and weary with anxiety, she will despatch a negro on a
hopeless errand of search; he, true to his charge, returns with the
confidential intelligence of finding Mas'r in a place less reputable
than it is proper to mention. Such is our southern society,--very
hospitable in language, chivalrous in memory,--base in morals! Some-
times the gallant colonel deems it necessary to remain until
daylight, lest, in returning by night, the pavement may annoy his
understanding. Of this, however, he felt the world knew but little.
Now and then, merely to keep up the luxury of southern life, the
colonel finds it gratifying to his feelings, on returning home at
night, to order a bed to be made for him in one of the yard-houses,
in such manner as to give the deepest pain to his Franconia. Coarse
and dissolute, indifference follows, cold and cutting; she finds
herself a mere instrument of baser purpose in the hands of one she
knows only as a ruffian-she loathes! Thus driven under the burden of
trouble, she begins to express her unhappiness, to remonstrate
against his associations, to plead with him against his course of
life. He jeers at this, scouts such prudery, proclaims it far
beneath the dignity of his standing as a southern gentleman.
The generous woman could have endured his dissipation-she might have
tolerated his licentiousness, but his arbitrary and very
uncalled-for remarks upon the misfortunes of her family are more
than she can bear. She has tried to respect him-love him she
cannot-and yet her sensitive nature recoils at the thought of being
attached to one whose feelings and associations are so at variance
with her own. Her impulsive spirit quails under the bitterness of
her lot; she sees the dreary waste of trouble before her only to
envy the happiness of those days of rural life spent on the old
plantation. That she should become fretful and unhappy is a natural
consequence.
We must invite the reader to go with us to M'Carstrow's residence,
an old-fashioned wooden building, three stories high, with large
basement windows and doors, on the south side of King Street. It is
a wet, gloomy night, in the month of November,--the wind, fierce and
chilling, has just set in from the north-east; a drenching rain
begins to fall, the ships in the harbour ride ill at ease; the
sudden gusts of wind, sweeping through the narrow streets of the
city, lighted here and there by the sickly light of an old-fashioned
lamp, bespread the scene with drear. At a second-story window,
lighted by a taper burning on the sill, sits Franconia, alone,
waiting the return of M'Carstrow. M'Carstrow is enjoying his night
orgies! He cares neither for the pelting storm, the anxiety of his
wife, nor the sweets of home.
A gust of wind shakes the house; the windows rattle their stormy
music; the cricket answers to the wailings of the gale as it gushes
through the crevices; Franconia's cares are borne to her husband.
Now the wind subsides,--a slow rap is heard at the hall door, in the
basement: a female servant, expecting her master, hastens to open
it. Her master is not there; the wind has extinguished the flaring
light; and the storm, sweeping through the sombre arch, spreads
noise and confusion. She runs to the kitchen, seizes the globular
lamp, and soon returns, frightened at the sight presented in the
door. Master is not there-it is the lean figure of a strange old
"nigger," whose weather-worn face, snowy with beard and wrinkled
with age, is lit up with gladness. He has a warm soul within him,--a
soul not unacceptable to heaven! The servant shrinks back,--she is
frightened at the strange sight of the strange old man. "Don' be
feared, good child; Bob ain't bad nigger," says the figure, in a
guttural whisper.
"An't da'h fo'h notin good; who is ye'?" returns the girl, holding
the globular lamp before her shining black face. Cautiously she
makes a step or two forward, squinting at the sombre figure of the
old negro, as he stands trembling in the doorway. "Is my good young
Miss wid'n?" he enquires, in the same whispering voice, holding his
cap in his right hand.
"Reckon how ye bes be gwine out a dat afo'h Miss come. Yer miss don'
lib in dis ouse." So saying, the girl is about to close the door in
the old man's face, for he is ragged and dejected, and has the
appearance of a "suspicious nigger without a master."
"Don' talk so, good gal; ye don' know dis old man,--so hungry,--most
starved. I lub Miss Franconia. Tell she I'ze here," he says, in a
supplicating tone, as the girl, regaining confidence, scrutinises
him from head to foot with the aid of her lamp.
The servant is about to request he will come inside that she may
shut out the storm. "Frankone knows old Daddy Bob,--dat she do!" he
reiterates, working his cap in his fingers. The familiar words have
caught Franconia's ear; she recognises the sound of the old man's
voice; she springs to her feet, as her heart gladdens with joy. She
bounds down the stairs, and to the door, grasps the old man's hand,
as a fond child warmly grasps the hand of a parent, and welcomes him
with the tenderness of a sister. "Poor-my poor old Daddy!" she says,
looking in his face so sweetly, so earnestly, "where have you come
from? who bought you? how did you escape?" she asks, in rapid
succession. Holding his hand, she leads him along the passage, as he
tells her. "Ah, missus, I sees hard times since old mas'r lef' de
plantation. Him an't how he was ven you dah." He views her,
curiously, from head to foot; kisses her hand; laughs with joy, as
he was wont to laugh on the old plantation.
"Faithful as ever, Daddy? You found me out, and came to see me,
didn't you?" says Franconia, so kindly, leading him into a small
room on the left hand of the hall, where, after ordering some supper
for him, she begs he will tell her all about his wayfaring. It is
some minutes before Bob can get an opportunity to tell Franconia
that he is a fugitive, having escaped the iron grasp of the law to
stand true to old mas'r. At length he, in the enthusiastic boundings
of his heart, commences his story.
"Nigger true, Miss Franconia"-he mumbles out-"on'e gib 'im chance to
be. Ye sees, Bob warn't gwine t' lef' old mas'r, nohow; so I gin
'ein da slip when'e come t' takes 'em fo'h sell-"
"Then they didn't sell you, old Dad? That's good! that's good! And
Daddy's cold and wet?" she interrupts, anxiously, telling the
servant to get some dry clothes for him.
"I is dat, Miss Frankone. Han't ad nofin t' eat dis most two days,"
he returns, looking at her affectionately, with one of those simple
smiles, so true, so expressive.
A supper is soon ready for Daddy, to which he sits down as if he
were about to renew all his former fondness and familiarity. "Seems
like old times, don 'un, Miss Frankone? Wish old mas'r war here,
too," says the old man, putting the bowl of coffee to his lips, and
casting a side-look at the servant.
Franconia sits watching him intently, as if he were a child just
rescued from some impending danger. "Don't mention my poor uncle,
Daddy. He feels as much interest in you as I do; but the world don't
look upon him now as it once did-"
"Neber mind: I gwine to work fo' old mas'r. It'll take dis old child
to see old mas'r all right," replies the old man, forgetting that he
is too old to take care of himself, properly. Bob finishes his
supper, rests his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, and
commences disclosing his troubles to Franconia. He tells her how he
secreted himself in the pine-woods,--how he wandered through swamps,
waded creeks, slept on trunks of trees, crept stealthily to the old
mansion at night, listened for mas'r's footsteps, and watched
beneath the veranda; and when he found he was not there, how he
turned and left the spot, his poor heart regretting. How his heart
beat as he passed the old familiar cabin, retracing his steps to
seek a shelter in the swamp; how, when he learned her residence,
famished with hunger, he wended his way into the city to seek her
out, knowing she would relieve his wants.
"What vil da do wid me, spose da cotch me, Miss Frankone?" enquires
the old man, simply, looking down at his encrusted feet, and again
at his nether wardrobe, which he feels is not just the thing to
appear in before young missus.
"They won't do anything cruel to you, Daddy. You are too old; your
grey hairs will protect you. Why, Daddy, you would not fetch a bid
if they found out who owned you, and put you up at auction
to-morrow," she says, with seeming unconsciousness. She little knew
how much the old man prided in his value,--how much he esteemed the
amount of good work he could do for master. He shakes his head,
looks doubtingly at her, as if questioning the sincerity of her
remark.
"Just get Daddy Bob-he mutters-a badge, den 'e show missus how much
work in 'um."
Franconia promises to comply with his request, and, with the aid of
a friend, will intercede for him, and procure for him a badge, that
he may display his energies for the benefit of old mas'r. This done,
she orders the servant to show him his bed in one of the "yard
houses;" bids the old man an affectionate good night, retires to her
room, and watches the return of her truant swain.
There, seated in an arm-chair, she waits, and waits, and waits, hope
and anxiety recording time as it passes. The servant has seen Daddy
safe in his room, and joins her missus, where, by the force of
habit, she coils herself at her feet, and sleeps. She has not long
remained in this position when loud singing breaks upon her ear;
louder and louder it vibrates through the music of the storm, and
approaches. Now she distinctly recognises the sharp voice of
M'Carstrow, which is followed by loud rappings at the door of the
basement hall. M'Carstrow, impatiently, demands entrance. The
half-sleeping servant, startled at the noise, springs to her feet,
rubs her eyes, bounds down the stairs, seizes the globular lamp, and
proceeds to open the door. Franconia, a candle in her hand, waits at
the top of the stairs. She swings back the door, and there,
bespattered with mud, face bleeding and distorted, and eyes glassy,
stands the chivalrous M'Carstrow. He presents a sorry picture;
mutters, or half growls, some sharp imprecations; makes a grasp at
the girl, falls prostrate on the floor. Attempting to gain his
perpendicular, he staggers a few yards-the girl screaming with
fright-and groans as his face again confronts the tiles. To make the
matter still worse, three of his boon companions follow him, and,
almost in succession, pay their penance to the floor, in an
indescribable catacomb.
"I tell you what, Colonel! if that nigger gal a' yourn don't stand
close with her blazer we'll get into an all-fired snarl," says one,
endeavouring to extricate himself and regain his upright. After
sundry ineffectual attempts, surging round the room in search of his
hat, which is being very unceremoniously transformed into a muff
beneath their entangled extremes, he turns over quietly, saying,
"There's something very strange about the floor of this
establishment,--it don't seem solid; 'pears how there's ups and downs
in it." They wriggle and twist in a curious pile; endeavour to bring
their knees out of "a fix"--to free themselves from the angles which
they are most unmathematically working on the floor. Working and
twisting,--now staggering, and again giving utterance to the coarsest
language,--one of the gentry--they belong to the sporting world-calls
loudly for the colonel's little 'oman. Regaining his feet, he makes
indelicate advances towards the female servant, who, nearly pale
with fright--a negro can look pale--runs to her mistress at the top
of the stairs.
He misses the frightened maid, and seats himself on the lowest step
of the stairs. Here he delivers a sort of half-musical soliloquy,
like the following: "Gentlemen! this kind a' thing only happens at
times, and isn't just the square thing when yer straight; but--seein'
how southern life will be so--when a body get's crooked what's got a
wife what don't look to matters and things, and never comes to take
care on a body when he's done gone, he better shut up shop. Better
be lookin' round to see what he can scare up!"
Franconia holds the flaring light over the stairs: pale and
death-like, she trembles with fear, every moment expecting to see
them ascend.
"I see the colonel's 'oman! yander she is; she what was imposed on
him to save the poverty of her folks. The M'Carstrows know a thing
or two: her folks may crawl under the dignity of the name, but they
don't shell under the dignity of the money-they don't!" says a
stalwart companion, attempting to gain a position by the side of his
fellow on the steps. He gives a leering wink, contorts his face into
a dozen grimaces, stares vacantly round the hall (sliding himself
along on his hands and knees), his glassy eyes inflamed like balls
of fire. "It'll be all square soon," he growls out.
The poor affrighted servant again attempts-having descended the
stairs-to relieve her master; but the crawling creature has regained
his feet. He springs upon her like a fiend, utters a fierce yell,
and, snatching the lamp from her hand, dashes it upon the tiles,
spreading the fractured pieces about the hall. Wringing herself from
his grasp, she leaves a portion of her dress in his bony hand, and
seeks shelter in a distant part of the hall. Holding up the fragment
as a trophy, he staggers from place to place, making hieroglyphics
on the wall with his fingers. His misty mind searches for some point
of egress. Confronting (rather uncomfortably) hat stands, tables,
porcelains, and other hall appurtenances, he at length shuffles his
way back to the stairs, where, as if doubting his bleered optics, he
stands some moments, swaying to and fro. His hat again falls from
his head, and his body, following, lays its lumbering length on the
stairs. Happy fraternity! how useful is that body! His companion,
laying his muddled head upon it, says it will serve for a pillow.
"E'ke-hum-spose 'tis so? I reckon how I'm some-ec! eke!-somewhere or
nowhere; aint we, Joe? It's a funny house, fellers," he continues to
soliloquise, laying his arm affectionately over his companion's
neck, and again yielding to the caprice of his nether limbs.
The gentlemen will now enjoy a little refreshing sleep; to further
which enjoyment, they very coolly and unceremoniously commence a
pot-pourri of discordant snoring. This seems of grateful concord for
their boon companions, who-forming an equanimity of good feeling on
the floor-join in.
The servant is but a slave, subject to her owner's will; she dare
not approach him while in such an uncertain condition. Franconia
cannot intercede, lest his companions, strangers to her, and having
the appearance of low-bred men, taking advantage of M'Carstrow's
besotted condition, make rude advances. M'Carstrow, snoring high
above his cares, will take his comfort upon the tiles.
The servant is supplied with another candle, which, at Franconia's
bidding, she places in a niche of the hall. It will supply light to
the grotesque sleepers, whose lamp has gone out.
Franconia has not forgotten that M'Carstrow is her husband; she has
not forgotten that she owes him a wife's debt of kindness. She
descends the stairs gently, leans over his besotted body, smooths
his feverish brow with her hand, and orders the servant to bring a
soft cushion; which done, she raises his head and places it
beneath-so gently, so carefully. Her loving heart seems swelling
with grief, as compassionately she gazes upon him; then, drawing a
cambric handkerchief from her bosom, spreads it so kindly over his
face. Woman! there is worth in that last little act. She leaves him
to enjoy his follies, but regrets their existence. Retiring to the
drawing-room, agitated and sleepless, she reclines on a lounge to
await the light of morning. Again the faithful servant, endeavouring
to appease her mistress's agitation, crouches upon the carpet,
resting her head on the ottoman at Franconia's feet.
The morning dawns bright and sunny: Franconia has not slept. She has
passed the hours in watchfulness; has watched the negro sleeping,
while her thoughts were rivetted to the scene in the hall. She gets
up, paces the room from the couch to the window, and sits down again
undecided, unresolved. Taking Diana-such is the servant's name-by
the hand, she wakes her, and sends her into the hall to ascertain
the condition of the sleepers. The metamorphosed group, poisoning
the air with their reeking breath, are still enjoying the morbid
fruits of their bacchanalianism. Quietly, coolly, and promiscuously,
they lay as lovingly as fellows of the animal world could desire.
The servant returns, shaking her head. "Missus, da'h lays yander, so
in all fixins dat no tellin' which most done gone. Mas'r seems done
gone, sartin!" says the servant, her face glowing with apprehension.
The significant phrase alarms Franconia. She repairs to the hall,
and commences restoring the sleepers to consciousness. The gentlemen
are doggedly obstinate; they refuse to be disturbed. She recognises
the face of one whose business it is to reduce men to the last stage
of poverty. Her sensitive nature shudders at the sight, as she views
him with a curl of contempt on her lip. "Oh,
M'Carstrow,--M'Carstrow!" she whispers, and taking him by the hand,
shakes it violently. M'Carstrow, with countenance ghastly and
inflamed, begins to raise his sluggish head. He sees Franconia
pensively gazing in his face; and yet he enquires who it is that
disturbs the progress of his comforts. "Only me!" says the good
woman, soliciting him to leave his companions and accompany her.
Oh, you, is it?" he replies, grumblingly, rising on his right elbow,
and rubbing his eyes with his left hand. Wildly and vacantly he
stares round the hall, as if aroused from a trance, and made
sensible of his condition.
"Yes, me-simply me, who, lost to your affections, is made most
unhappy-" Franconia would proceed, but is interrupted by her
muddling swain.
"Unhappy! unhappy!" says the man of southern chivalry, making sundry
irresistible nods. "Propagator of mischief, of evil contentions, of
peace annihilators. Ah! ah! ah! Thinking about the lustre of them
beggared relations. It always takes fools to make a fuss over small
things: an angel wouldn't make a discontented woman happy."
Franconia breaks out into a paroxysm of grief, so unfeeling is the
tone in which he addresses her. He is a southern gentleman,--happily
not of New England in his manners, not of New England in his
affections, not of New England in his domestic associations. He
thinks Franconia very silly, and scouts with derision the idea of
marrying a southern gentleman who likes enjoyment, and then making a
fuss about it. He thinks she had better shut up her
whimpering,--learn to be a good wife upon southern principles.
"Husbands should be husbands, to claim a wife's respect; and they
should never forget that kindness makes good wives. Take away the
life springs of woman's love, and what is she? What is she with her
happiness gone, her pride touched, her prospects blasted? What
respect or love can she have for the man who degrades her to the
level of his own loathsome companions?" Franconia points to those
who lie upon the floor, repulsive, and reeking with the fumes of
dissipation. "There are your companions," she says.
"Companions?" he returns, enquiringly. He looks round upon them with
surprise. "Who are those fellows you have got here?" he enquires,
angrily.
"You brought them to your own home; that home you might make happy-"
"Not a bit of it! They are some of your d-d disreputable relations."
"My relations never violate the conduct of gentlemen." "No; but they
sponge on me. These my companions!" looking at them inquisitively.
"Oh, no! Don't let us talk about such things; I'ze got fifteen
hundred dollars and costs to pay for that nigger gal you were fool
enough to get into a fit about when we were married. That's what
I'ze got for my good-heartedness." M'Carstrow permits his very
gentlemanly southern self to get into a rage. He springs to his feet
suddenly, crosses and recrosses the hall like one frenzied with
excitement. Franconia is frightened, runs up the stairs, and into
her chamber, where, secreting herself, she fastens the door. He
looks wistfully after her, stamping his foot, but he will not
follow. Too much of a polished gentleman, he will merely amuse
himself by running over the gamut of his strongest imprecations. The
noise creates general alarm among his companions, who, gaining their
uprights, commence remonstrating with him on his rude conduct, as if
they were much superior beings.
"Now, colonel, major,--or whatever they dubbed ye, in the way of a
title," says one, putting his hand to his hat with a swaggering bow;
"just stop that ar' sort a' nonsense, and pay over this 'ere little
affair afore we gets into polite etiquette and such things. When, to
make the expenses, ye comes into a place like ours, and runs up a
credit score,--when ye gets so lofty that ye can't tell fifty from
five, we puts a sealer on, so customers don't forget in the
morning." The modest gentleman presents to M'Carstrow's astonished
eyes a note for twenty-seven hundred dollars, with the genuine
signature. M'Carstrow takes it in his hand, stares at it, turns it
over and over. The signature is his; but he is undecided about the
manner of its getting there, and begins to give expression to some
doubt.
The gentleman watches M'Carstrow very cautiously. "Straight!
colonel-he says-just turn out the shiners, or, to 'commodate, we'll
let ye off with a sprinkling of niggers."
The colonel puts the fore-finger of his left hand to his lips, and,
with serious countenance, walks twice or thrice across the hall, as
if consulting his dignity: "Shell out the niggers first; we'll take
the dignity part a'ter," he concludes.
"I demand to know how you came in my house," interrupts the colonel,
impatiently. He finds himself in very bad company; company southern
gentlemen never acknowledge by daylight.
"We brought you here! Anything else you'd like to know?" is the
cool, sneering response. The gentleman will take a pinch of snuff;
he draws his fancy box from his pocket, gives the cover a polite rap
with his finger, invites the enraged M'Carstrow to "take." That
gentleman shakes his head,--declines. He is turning the whole affair
over in his head, seems taking it into serious consideration.
Seriously, he accepted their accommodation, and now finds himself
compelled to endure their painful presence.
"I, I, I-m, rather in doubt," stammers M'Carstrow, fingering the
little obligation again, turning it over and over, rubbing his eyes,
applying his glass. He sees nothing in the signature to dispute. "I
must stop this kind of fishing," he says; "don't do. It 's just what
friend Scranton would call very bad philosophy. Gentlemen, suppose
you sit down; we'd better consider this matter a little. Han't got a
dime in the bank, just now." M'Carstrow is becoming more quiet,
takes a philosophical view of the matter, affects more suavity.
Calling loudly for the negro servant, that personage presents
herself, and is ordered to bring chairs to provide accommodation for
the gentlemen, in the hall.
"Might just as well settle the matter in the parlour, colonel;
t'wont put you out a mite," the gambler suggests, with a laconic
air. He will not trouble M'Carstrow by waiting for his reply. No; he
leads the way, very coolly, asking no odds of etiquette; and, having
entered the apartment, invites his comrades to take seats. The
dignity and coolness with which the manouvre is executed takes
"Boss" M'Carstrow by surprise; makes him feel that he is merely a
dependent individual, whose presence there is not much need of. "I
tell you what it is, gents, I'ze shaved my accounts at the bank down
to the smallest figure, have! but there's an honourable
consideration about this matter; and, honour's honour, and I want to
discharge it somehow--niggers or cash!" The gentlemen's feelings
have smoothed down amazingly. M'Carstrow is entirely serious, and
willing to comply.
The gentlemen have seated themselves in a triangle, with the "done
over" colonel in the centre.
"Well, niggers will do just as well, provided they are sound, prime,
and put at prices so a feller can turn 'em into tin, quick," says
the gentleman, who elects himself spokesman of the party.
"Keeps my property in tall condition, but won't shove it off under
market quotations, no how!" M'Carstrow interrupts, as the spokesman,
affecting the nonchalance of a newly-elected alderman, places his
feet upon the rich upholstery of a sofa close by. He would enjoy the
extremes of southern comfort. "Colonel, I wish you had a more
convenient place to spit," rejoins the gentleman. He will not
trouble the maid, however-he let's fly the noxious mixture,
promiscuously; it falls from his lips upon the soft hearth-rug. "It
will add another flower to the expensive thing," he says, very
coolly, elongating his figure a little more. He has relieved
himself, wondrously. M'Carstrow calls the servant, points to the
additional wreath on the hearth-rug!
"All your nigger property as good-conditioned as that gal?" enquires
the gentleman, the others laughing at the nicety of his humour.
Rising from his seat very deliberately, he approaches the servant,
lays his hand upon her neck and shoulders.
"Not quite so fast, my friend: d-n it, gentlemen, don't be rude.
That's coming the thing a little too familiar. There is a medium:
please direct your moist appropriations and your improper remarks in
their proper places." The girl, cringing beneath the ruffian's hand,
places the necessary receptacle at his feet.
The gentleman is offended,--very much offended. He thinks it beneath
the expansion of his mind-to be standing on aristocratic nonsense!
"Spit boxes and nigger property ain't the thing to stand on about
haristocrats; just put down the dimes. Three bright niggers 'll do:
turn 'em out."
"Three of my best niggers!" ejaculates the Colonel.
"Nothin' shorter, Colonel."
"Remember, gentlemen, the market price of such property. The demand
for cotton has made niggers worth their weight in gold, for any
purpose. Take the prosperity of our country into consideration,
gentlemen; remember the worth of prime men. The tip men of the
market are worth 1200 dollars."
"Might as well lay that kind a' financerin aside, Colonel. What's
the use of living in a free country, where every man has a right to
make a penny when he can, and talk so? Now, 'pears to me t'aint no
use a' mincing the matter; we might a' leaked ye in for as many
thousands as hundreds. Seein' how ye was a good customer, we saved
ye on a small shot. Better put the niggers out: ownin' such a lot,
ye won't feel it! Give us three prime chaps; none a' yer old
sawbones what ye puts up at auction when ther' worked down to
nothin'."
M'Carstrow's powers of reasoning are quite limited; and, finding
himself in one of those strange situations southern gentlemen so
often get into, and which not unfrequently prove as perplexing as
the workings of the peculiar institution itself, he seeks relief by
giving an order for three prime fellows. They will be delivered up,
at the plantation, on the following day, when the merchandise will
be duly made over, as per invoice. Everything is according to style
and honour; the gentlemen pledge their faith to be gentlemen, to
leave no dishonourable loop-hole for creeping out. And now, having
settled the little matter, they make M'Carstrow the very best of
bows, desire to be remembered to his woman, bid him good morning,
and leave. They will claim their property-three prime men-by the
justice of a "free-born democracy."
M'Carstrow watches them from the house, moralising over his folly.
They have gone! He turns from the sight, ascends the stairs, and
repairs to meet his Franconia.