THE VICISSITUDES OF A PREACHER.
WE left Harry, the faithful servant, whose ministerial functions had
been employed in elevating the souls of Marston's property, being
separated from his wife and sold to Mr. M'Fadden. M'Fadden is a
gentleman--we do not impugn the name, in a southern sense--of that
class--very large class--who, finding the laws of their own country
too oppressive for their liberal thoughts, seek a republican's home
in ours. It is to such men, unhappily, the vices of slavery are
open. They grasp them, apply them to purposes most mercenary, most
vile. The most hardened of foreigners-that essence of degraded
outcasts,--may, under the privileges of slavery, turn human misery
into the means of making money. He has no true affiliations with the
people of the south, nor can he feel aught beyond a selfish interest
in the prosperity of the State; but he can be active in the work of
evil. With the foreigner--we speak from observation--affecting love
of liberty at home, it would seem, only makes him the greater tyrant
when slavery gives him power to execute its inhuman trusts. Mr.
Lawrence M'Fadden is one of this description of persons; he will
make a fortune in the South, and live a gentleman in the North--
perhaps, at home on his own native Isle. Education he has none;
moral principle he never enjoyed,--never expects to. He is a tall,
athletic man, nearly six feet two inches in height, with extremely
broad, stooping shoulders, and always walks as if he were meditating
some speculation. His dress is usually of southern red-mixed
homespun,--a dress which he takes much pride in wearing, in
connection with a black brigand hat, which gives his broad face,
projecting cheek-bones, and blunt chin, a look of unmistakeable
sullenness. Add to this a low, narrow forehead, generally covered
with thick tufts of matted black hair, beneath which two savage eyes
incessantly glare, and, reader, you have the repulsive
personification of the man. Mr. M'Fadden has bought a preacher,--an
article with the very best kind of a soul,--which he would send to
his place in the country. Having just sent the article to the
rail-road, he stands in a neighbouring bar-room, surrounded by his
cronies, who are joining him in a social glass, discussing the
qualities of the article preacher. We are not favoured with the
point at issue; but we hear Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden say, with great
force,--"Preachers are only good property under certain
circumstances; and if them circumstances ain't just so, it won't do
to buy 'em. Old aristocrat rice planters may make a good thing or
two on 'em, because they can make 'em regulate the cummin' o' their
property, and make it understand what the Lord says about minding
their masters." For his-Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's-own part, he
wouldn't give seven coppers for the thinking part of any property,
having no belief in that fashionable way of improving its value. "My
preacher has been nicely packed up and sent off in advance," he
says, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, and smacking his lips,
as he twirls his glass upon the zinc counter, shakes hands with his
friends-they congratulate him upon the good bargain in his
divine-and proceeds to the railroad dept. Harry has arrived nearly
two hours in advance,--delivered in good condition, as stated in a
receipt which he holds in his hand, and which purports to be from
the baggage-master. "Ah! here you are," says M'Fadden, taking the
paper from Harry's hand, as he enters the luggage-room. "Take good
care on ye,--I reckon I will!" He looks down upon him with an air of
satisfaction. The poor preacher-the soul-glowing property-is yet
chained, hand and foot. He sits upon the cold floor, those imploring
eyes swelling at the thought that freedom only awaits him in another
world. M'Fadden takes a little flask from his breast pocket, and,
with a motion of kindness, draws the cork, passes it to him. "It's
whiskey!" he says; "take a drop-do ye good, old feller." Quietly the
man passes it to his lips, and moistens his mouth. "No winking and
blinking-it's tip-top stuff," enjoins M'Fadden; "don't get it every
day."
Mr. M'Fadden will take a little himself. "Glad to find ye here, all
straight!" he mutters, taking the flask from his mouth. He had
returned the receipt to his property; and, having gratified his
appetite a little, he begins to take a more perspective view of his
theological purchase.
"Yes, master; I am here!" He again holds up his chained hands, drops
his face upon his knees; as much as to say, be sure I am all safe
and sound.
Looking at the receipt again, and then at his preacher, "Guess
'hain't made a bad rap on ye' to-day!" he ejaculates, taking out his
pocket-book and laying away the precious paper as carefully as if it
were a hundred dollar note. "Should like to have bought your old
woman and young 'uns, but hadn't tin enough. And the way stock's up
now, ain't slow! Look up here, my old buck! just put on a face as
bright and smooth as a full moon-no sulkin'. Come along here."
The manacled preacher turns upon his hands, gets up as best he
can-M'Fadden kindly assists by taking hold of his shoulder-and
follows his purchaser to the platform,--like a submissive animal
goaded to the very flesh, but chained, lest it make some show of
resentment. "Good heap o' work in ye', old chuck; had a master what
didn't understand bringing on't out, though!" mutters M'Fadden, as
he introduces Harry to the negro car, at the same time casting a
look of satisfaction at the brakeman standing at his left hand ready
to receive the freight.
In the car-a dungeon-like box about ten feet square, the only
aperture for admitting light being a lattice of about eight inches
square, in the door-are three rough negro men and one woman, the
latter apparently about twenty years of age.
"Got a tall chap here, boys! Make ye stand round some, in pickin'
time; and can preach, too." M'Fadden shakes his head exultingly!
"Can put in the big licks preachin'; and I'ze goin' t' let 'im, once
in a while. Goin' t' have good times on my place, boys--ha'h! Got a
jug of whiskey to have a fandango when ye gits home. Got it
somewhere, I knows." Mr. M'Fadden exults over the happy times his
boys have at home. He shakes himself all over, like a polar bear
just out of the water, and laughs heartily. He has delivered himself
of something that makes everybody else laugh; the mania has caught
upon his own subtle self. The negroes laugh in expressive
cadences, and shrug their shoulders as Mr. M'Fadden continues to
address them so sportively, so familiarly. Less initiated persons
might have formed very satisfactory opinions of his character. He
takes a peep under one of the seats, and with a rhapsody of laughter
draws forth a small jug. "You can't come the smuggle over me, boys!
I knew ye had a shot somewhere," he exclaims. At his bidding, the
woman hands him a gourd, from which he very deliberately helps
himself to a stout draught.
"Sit down here!-Isaac, Abraham, Daniel, or whatever yer name is-Mr.
M'Fadden addresses himself to his preacher. Ye'll get yer share on't
when ye gits to my place." He sets the jug down, and passes the
gourd back, saying: "What a saucy hussy ye are!" slapping the
woman's black shoulder playfully. "Give him some-won't ye', boys?"
he concludes.
Mr. M'Fadden (the cars are not yet ready to start, but the dept is
thronging with travellers, and the engine is puffing and snorting,
as the driver holds his hand on the throttle, and the stoker crams
with pitch pine knots the iron steed of fiery swiftness) will step
out and take the comfort of his cigar. He pats his preacher on the
shoulder, takes off his shackles, rubs his head with his hand, tells
the boys to keep an eye on him. "Yes, mas'r," they answer, in tones
of happy ignorance. The preacher must be jolly, keep on a bright
face, never mind the old gal and her young 'uns, and remember what a
chance he will have to get another. He can have two or more, if he
pleases; so says his very generous owner.
Mr. M'Fadden shakes hands with his friends on the platform, smokes
his cigar leisurely, mingles with the crowd importantly, thinking
the while what an unalloyed paragon of amiability he is. Presently
the time-bell strikes its warning; the crowd of passengers rush for
the cars; the whistle shrieks; the exhaust gives forth its gruff
snorts, the connections clank, a jerk is felt, and onward
bounds-mighty in power, but controlled by a finger's slightest
touch-the iron steed, dragging its curious train of living
merchandise.
M'Fadden again finds his way to the negroes' car, where, sitting
down in front of his property, he will take a bird's-eye view of it.
It is very fascinating to a man who loves the quality of such
articles as preachers. He will draw his seat somewhat closer to the
minister; his heart bounds with joy at the prime appearance of his
purchase. Reaching out his hand, he takes the cap from Harry's head,
throws it into the woman's lap; again rubs his hair into a friz.
Thus relieved of his pleasing emotions, he will pass into one of the
fashionable cars, and take his place among the aristocrats.
"Boss mighty funny when 'e come t' town, and git just so 'e don't
see straight: wish 'e so good wen 'e out da'h on de plantation
yander," ejaculates one of the negroes, who answers to the name-Joe!
Joe seems to have charge of the rest; but he watches M'Fadden's
departure with a look of sullen hatred.
"Hard old Boss on time-an't he, boys?" enquires Harry, as an
introduction to the conversation.
"Won't take ye long t' find 'um out, I reckon! Git nigger on de
plantation 'e don't spa' him, nohow," rejoins another.
"Lor', man, if ye ain't tough ye'll git used up in no time, wid
him!" the woman speaks up, sharply. Then, pulling her ragged skirts
around her, she casts a sympathising look at Harry, and, raising her
hand in a threatening attitude, and shaking it spitefully in the
direction M'Fadden has gone, says:--"If only had dat man, old Boss,
where 'um could revenge 'um, how a' would make 'um suffer! He don'
treat 'e nigger like 'e do 'e dog. If 'twarn't fo'h Buckra I'd cut
'e troat, sartin." This ominous expression, delivered with such
emphasis, satisfies Harry that he has got into the hands of a master
very unlike the kind and careless Marston.
Onward the cars speed, with clanking music making din as they go.
One of the negroes will add something to change the monotony.
Fumbling beneath the seats for some minutes, he draws forth a little
bag, carefully unties it, and presents his favourite violin. Its
appearance gladdens the hearts of his comrades, who welcome it with
smiling faces and loud applause. The instrument is of the most
antique and original description. It has only two strings; but Simon
thinks wonders of it, and would not swap it for a world of modern
fiddles, what don't touch the heart with their music. He can bring
out tremendous wailings with these two strings; such as will set the
whole plantation dancing. He puts it through the process of tuning,
adding all the scientific motions and twists of an Italian
first-fiddling artiste. Simon will moisten its ears by spitting on
them, which he does, turning and twisting himself into the attitudes
of a pompous maestro. But now he has got it in what he considers the
very nick of tune; it makes his face glow with satisfaction.
"Jest-lef'-'um cum, Simon;--big and strong!" says Joe, beginning to
keep time by slapping his hands on his knees. And such a sawing,
such a scraping, as he inflicts, never machine of its kind, ancient
or modern, got before. Simon and his companions are in ecstasies;
but such cross-grained, such painful jingling of sounds! Its charm
is irresistible with the negro; he mustn't lose a note of the tune;
every creak is exhausted in a break-down dance, which the motion of
the "Jim Crow" car makes more grotesque by every now and then
jolting them into a huddle in one corner.
Mr. M'Fadden has been told that his property are having a lively
time, and thinks he will leave his aristocratic friends, and go to
see it; here he is followed by several young gentlemen, anxious to
enjoy the hilarity of the scene.
"All my property,--right prime, isn't it?" says M'Fadden, exultingly,
nudging one of the young men on the shoulder, as he, returning,
enters the car. The gentleman nods assent, sits down, and coolly
lights his cigar. "Good thing to have a fiddler on a plantation! I'd
rather have it than a preacher; keeps the boys together, and makes
'um a deal better contented," he adds, beginning to exhale the fumes
from his weed.
"Yes!-and ye sees, fellers, how I'ze bought a parson, too. Can do
the thing up brown now, boys, I reckon," remarks the happy
politician, slapping his professional gentleman on the knee, and
laughing right heartily.
Turning to Harry with a firm look, he informs the gentlemen that
"this critter's kind o got the sulks, a'cos Romescos-he hates
Romescos-has bought his wench and young 'uns. Take that out on him,
at my place," he adds.
The dancing continues right merrily. One of the young gentlemen
would like to have the fiddler strike up "Down in Old Tennessee."
The tune is sounded forth with all that warmth of feeling the negro
only can add to the comical action of his body.
"Clar' the way; let the boys have a good time," says Mr. Lawrence
M'Fadden, taking Harry by the arm and giving him a violent shake. He
commands him to join in, and have a jolly good tune with the rest on
'em.
"Have no call for that, master. Let me act but the part of servant
to you."
"Do you mean to come nigger sulks over this child?" interrupts
M'Fadden, impatiently, scowling his heavy eyebrows, and casting a
ferocious look at Harry. After ordering him to stow himself in a
corner, he gets the others upon the floor, and compels them to
shuffle what he calls a plantation "rip-her-up." The effect of this,
added to the singular positions into which they are frequently
thrown by the motion of the cars, affords infinite amusement.
"You see, gentlemen, there's nothing like putting the springs of
life into property. Makes it worth fifty per cent. more; and then
ye'll get the hard knocks out to a better profit. Old southerners
spoil niggers, makin' so much on 'em; and soft-soapin' on 'em. That
bit o' property's bin spiled just so-he points to Harry, crouched in
the corner-And the critter thinks he can preach! Take that out on
him with a round turn, when I git to my place," he continues.
Harry cares very little for M'Fadden's conversation; he sits as
quietly and peaceably as if it had been addressed to some other
negro. M'Fadden, that he may not be found wanting in his efforts to
amuse the young gentlemen, reaches out his hand to one of them,
takes his cigar from a case, lights it, and proceeds to keep time by
beating his hands on his knees.
The train is approaching the crossing where Mr. M'Fadden will
discharge his property,--his human merchandise, and proceed with it
some eleven miles on the high road. The noise created by the
exuberance of feeling on the part of Mr. M'Fadden has attracted a
numerous assemblage of passengers to the "Jim Crow" car. The
conductor views this as violating the rules of the corporation; he
demands it shall be stopped. All is quiet for a time; they reach the
"crossing" about five o'clock P.M., where, to Mr. Lawrence
M'Fadden's great delight, he finds himself surrounded by a
promiscuous assembly of sovereign citizens, met to partake of the
hospitalities offered by the candidate for the Assembly, who, having
offered himself, expects the distinguished honour of being elected.
The assembled citizens will hear what the learned man's going to
talk about when he gets into the Assembly.
As Mr. M'Fadden is a great politician, and a greater democrat-we
speak according to the southern acceptation-his presence is welcomed
with an enthusiastic burst of applause. Shout after shout makes the
very welkin ring, as his numerous friends gather round him, smile
solicitously, shake him warmly by the hand, honour him as the
peasantry honour the Lord of the Manor.
The crossing-one of those points so well known in the south-is a
flat, wooded lawn, interspersed here and there with clumps of tall
pine-trees. It is generally dignified with a grocery, a justice's
office, and a tavern, where entertainment for man and beast may
always be had. An immense deal of judicial and political business
"is put through a process" at these strange places. The squire's
law-book is the oracle; all settlements must be made by it; all
important sayings drawn from it. The squire himself is scarcely less
an individual of mysterious importance; he draws settled facts from
his copious volume, and thus saves himself the trouble of analysing
them. Open it where he will, the whys and wherefores for every case
are never wanting.
Our present crossing is a place of much importance, being where the
political effervescence of the state often concentrates. It will not
do, however, to analyse that concentration, lest the fungi that give
it life and power may seem to conflict with the safety of law and
order. On other occasions it might be taken for a place of rural
quiet, instead of those indescribable gatherings of the rotten
membranes of a bad political power.
Here the justice's office is attached to the grocery, a little shop
in which all men may drink very deleterious liquor; and, in addition
to the tavern, which is the chief building-a quadrangular structure
raised a few feet from the ground on piles of the palmetto
tree-there is a small church, shingled and clapboarded, and having a
belfry with lattice-work sides. An upper and lower veranda surround
the tavern, affording gentlemen an opportunity to enjoy the shade.
Several of Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's friends meet him at the station,
and, as he receives his property, assist him in securing it with
irons preparatory to lodging it in a place of safe keeping.
"Goin' t' make this chap a deacon on my place; can preach like
sixty. It'll save the trouble sendin' north for such trash as they
send us. Can make this feller truer on southern principles," says
M'Fadden, exultingly, addressing himself to his companions, looking
Harry smilingly in the face, and patting him on the shoulder. The
gentlemen view Harry with particular admiration, and remark upon his
fine points with the usual satisfaction of connoisseurs. Mr.
M'Fadden will secure his preacher, in iron fellowship, to the left
hand of the woman slave.
"All right!" he says, as the irons are locked, and he marches his
property up to the tavern, where he meets mine host-a short, fat
man, with a very red and good-natured face, who always dresses in
brown clothes, smiles, and has an extra laugh for 'lection days-who
stands his consequential proportions in the entrance to the lower
veranda, and is receiving his customers with the blandest smiles. "I
thinks a right smart heap on ye, or I would'nt a' 'gin ye that gal
for a mate," continues M'Fadden, walking along, looking at Harry
earnestly, and, with an air of self-congratulation, ejecting a
quantity of tobacco-juice from his capacious mouth. "Mr. M'Fadden is
very, very welcome;" so says mine host, who would have him take a
social glass with his own dear self.
Mr. M'Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to
deposit his preacher and other property.
"Ah, ha!"-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;--"want grits for 'em,
I s'pose?" he returns, and his round fat face glows with
satisfaction. "Can suit you to a shavin'."
"That's right, Colonel; I know'd ye could," ejaculates the other.
Mine host is much elated at hearing his title appended. Colonel
Frank Jones-such is mine host's name--never fought but one duel, and
that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up
convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he
entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel--"Colonel
Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;" beneath which an
impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M'Donal
Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment." Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took
this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith
challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became
gentlemen. The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the
blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a
delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put
bullets in the weapons.
Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little. Mine host rubs
his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then
cries out at the top of his voice, "Ho, boys, ho!"
Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready
to answer the summons. "Take charge o' this property o' my friend's
here. Get 'em a good tuck out o' grits."
"Can grind 'em themselves," interrupts M'Fadden, quickly. "About the
price, Colonel?"
"That's all straight," spreading his hands with an accompanying nod
of satisfaction: "'commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the
grits at seven-pence a day."
"No objection." Mr. M'Fadden is entirely satisfied. The waiters take
the gentleman's property in charge, and conduct it to a small
building, an appropriate habitation of hens and pigs. It was of
logs, rough hewn, without chinking; without floor to keep Mr.
M'Fadden's property from the ground, damp and cold. Unsuited as it
is to the reception of human beings, many planters of great opulence
have none better for their plantation people. It is about ten feet
high, seven broad, and eleven long.
"Have a dandy time on't in here to-night," says Mr. M'Fadden,
addressing himself to Harry, as one of the waiters unlocks the door
and ushers the human property into its dreary abode. Mr. M'Fadden
will step inside, to take a bird's-eye view of the security of the
place. He entertains some doubts about the faith of his preacher,
however, and has half an inclination to turn round as he is about
making his exit. He will. Approaches Harry a second time; he feels
his pockets carefully, and suggests that he has some mischievous
weapon of liberty stowed away somewhere. He presses and presses his
hands to his skirts and bosom. And now he knew he was not mistaken,
for he feels something solid in the bosom of his shirt, which is not
his heart, although that thing makes a deuce of a fluttering. Mr.
M'Fadden's anxiety increases as he squeezes his hands over its
shapes, and watches the changes of Harry's countenance. "Book,
ha'h!" he exclaims, drawing the osnaburg tight over the square with
his left hand, while, with his right, he suddenly grasps Harry
firmly by the hair of the head, as if he has discovered an infernal
machine. "Book, ha'h!"
"Pull it out, old buck. That's the worst o' learned niggers; puts
the very seven devils in their black heads, and makes 'em carry
their conceit right into nigger stubbornness, so ye have t' bring it
out by lashin' and botherin'. Can't stand such nigger nonsense
nohow."
Harry has borne all very peaceably; but there is a time when even
the worm will turn. He draws forth the book,--it is the Bible, his
hope and comforter; he has treasured it near his heart-that heart
that beats loudly against the rocks of oppression. "What man can he
be who feareth the word of God, and says he is of his chosen?
Master, that's my Bible: can it do evil against righteousness? It is
the light my burdened spirit loves, my guide--"
"Your spirit?" inquires M'Fadden, sullenly, interrupting Harry. "A
black spirit, ye' mean, ye' nigger of a preacher. I didn't buy that,
nor don't want it. 'Taint worth seven coppers in picking time. But I
tell ye, cuff, wouldn't mind lettin' on ye preach, if a feller can
make a spec good profit on't." The gentleman concludes, contracting
his eyebrows, and scowling at his property forbiddingly.
"You'll let me have it again when I gets on the plantation, won't
ye, master?" inquires Harry, calmly.
"Let you have it on the plantation?"-Mr. M'Fadden gives his preacher
a piercingly fierce look-"that's just where ye won't have 't. Have
any kind o' song-book ye' wants; only larn 'em to other niggers, so
they can put in the chorus once in a while. Now, old buck (I'm a man
o' genius, ye know), when niggers get larnin' the Bible out o' ther'
own heads, 't makes 'em sassy'r than ther's any calculatin' on. It
just puts the very d-l into property. Why, deacon," he addresses
himself to Harry with more complacency, "my old father-he was as
good a father as ever came from Dublin-said it was just the spilin'
on his children to larn 'em to read. See me, now! what larnin' I'ze
got; got it all don't know how: cum as nat'ral as daylight. I've got
the allfired'st sense ye ever did see; and it's common sense what
makes money. Yer don't think a feller what's got sense like me would
bother his head with larnin' in this ar' down south?" Mr. M'Fadden
exhibits great confidence in himself, and seems quite playful with
his preacher, whom he pats on the shoulder and shakes by the hand.
"I never read three chapters in that ar' book in my whole
life-wouldn't neither. Really, deacon, two-thirds of the people of
our State can't read a word out o' that book. As for larnin', I just
put me mind on the thing, and got the meanin' out on't sudden."
Mr. M'Fadden's soothing consolation, that, as he has become such a
wonderful specimen of mankind without learning, Harry must be a very
dangerous implement of progress if allowed to go about the
plantation with a Bible in his pocket, seems strange in this our
Christian land. "Can fiddle just as much as yer mind t'," concludes
Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, as he again shakes the hand of his preacher,
and proceeds to mingle with the political gathering, the Bible in
his pocket.