MR. M'FADDEN SEES SHADOWS IN THE FUTURE.
NIGHT has quickly drawn its curtain over the scene. Mr. M'Fadden
lies on his bed, writhing under the pain of the poisoned wound. He
left his preacher locked up for the night in a cold hovel, and he
has secured the dangerous Bible, lest it lessen his value. Mr.
M'Fadden, however, feels that now his earthly career is fast closing
he must seek redemption. Hie has called in the aid of a physician,
who tells him there is great danger, and little hope unless his case
takes a favourable turn about midnight. The professional gentleman
merely suggests this, but the suggestion conveys an awful warning.
All the misdeeds of the past cloud before his eyes; they summon him
to make his peace with his Maker. He remembers what has been told
him about the quality of mercy,--the duration of hope in
redemption,--which he may secure by rendering justice to those he has
wronged. But now conscience wars with him; he sees the fierce
elements of retribution gathering their poisoned shafts about him;
he quails lest their points pierce his heart; and he sees the God of
right arraigning him at the bar of justice. There, that Dispenser of
all Good sits in his glory and omnipotence, listening while the
oppressed recites his sufferings: the oppressed there meets him face
to face, robed in that same garb of submission which he has
inflicted upon him on earth. His fevered brain gives out strange
warnings,--warnings in which he sees the angel of light unfolding the
long list of his injustice to his fellow man, and an angry God
passing the awful sentence. Writhing, turning, and contorting his
face, his very soul burns with the agony of despair. He grasps the
hand of his physician, who leans over his wounded body, and with
eyes distorted and glassy, stares wildly and frantically round the
room. Again, as if suffering inward torture, he springs from his
pillow, utters fierce imprecations against the visions that surround
him, grasps at them with his out-stretched fingers, motions his
hand backward and forward, and breaks out into violent paroxysms of
passion, as if struggling in the unyielding grasp of death.
That physical power which has so long borne him up in his daily
pursuits yields to the wanderings of his haunted mind. He lays his
hand upon the physician's shoulder as his struggles now subside,
looks mournfully in his face, and rather mutters than speaks:
"Bring-bring-bring him here: I'll see him,--I must see him! I-I-I
took away the book; there's what makes the sting worse! And when I
close my eyes I see it burning fiercely-"
"Who shall I bring?" interrupts the physician, mildly, endeavouring
to soothe his feelings by assuring him there is no danger, if he
will but remain calm.
"Heaven is casting its thick vengeance round me; heaven is consuming
me with the fire of my own heart! How can I be calm, and my past
life vaulted with a glow of fire? The finger of Almighty God points
to that deed I did today. I deprived a wretch of his only hope: that
wretch can forgive me before heaven. Y-e-s, he can,--can speak for
me,--can intercede for me; he can sign my repentance, and save me
from the just vengeance of heaven. His-his-his-"
"What?" the physician whispers, putting his ear to his mouth. "Be
calm."
"Calm!" he mutters in return.
"Neither fear death nor be frightened at its shadows-"
"It's life, life, life I fear--not death!" he gurgles out. "Bring him
to me; there is the Bible. Oh! how could I have robbed him of it!
'Twas our folly--all folly--my folly!" Mr. M'Fadden had forgotten that
the bustle of current life was no excuse for his folly; that it
would be summed up against him in the day of trouble. He never for
once thought that the Bible and its teachings were as dear to slave
as master, and that its truths were equally consoling in the hour of
death. In life it strengthens man's hopes; could it have been thus
with M'Fadden before death placed its troubled sea before his eyes,
how happy he would have died in the Lord!
The emphatic language, uttered in such supplicating tones, and so at
variance with his habits of life, naturally excited the feelings of
his physician, whose only solicitude had been evinced in his efforts
to save life,--to heal the wound. Never had he watched at a patient's
bed-side who had exhibited such convulsions of passion,--such fears
of death.
Now struggling against a storm of convulsions, then subsiding into
sluggish writhings, accompanied with low moans, indicating more
mental disquietude than bodily pain. Again he is quiet; points to
his coat.
The physician brings it forward and lays it upon the bed, where Mr.
M'Fadden can put his hand upon it. "It is there--in there!" he says,
turning on his left side, and with a solicitous look pointing to the
pockets of his coat. The professional gentleman does not understand
him.
He half raises himself on his pillow, but sinks back fatigued, and
faintly whispers, "Oh, take it to him--to him! Give him the
comforter: bring him, poor fellow, to me, that his spirit may be my
comforter!"
The physician understands, puts his hand into the pocket; draws
forth the little boon companion. It is the Bible, book of books; its
great truths have borne Harry through many trials,--he hopes it will
be his shield and buckler to carry him through many more. Its
associations are as dear to him as its teachings are consoling in
the days of tribulation. It is dear to him, because the promptings
of a noble-hearted woman secretly entrusted it to his care, in
violation of slavery's statutes. Its well-worn pages bear testimony
of the good service it has done. It was Franconia's gift-Franconia,
whose tender emotions made her the friend of the slave-made in the
kindness of woman's generous nature. The good example, when
contrasted with the fierce tenor of slavery's fears, is worthy many
followers.
But men seldom profit by small examples, especially when great fears
are paramount.
The physician, holding the good book in his hand, enquires if Mr.
M'Fadden would have him read from it? He has no answer to make,
turns his feverish face from it, closes his eyes, and compressing
his forehead with his hands, mutely shakes his head. A minute or two
passes in silence; he has re-considered the point,--answers, no! He
wants Harry brought to him, that he may acknowledge his crimes; that
he may quench the fire of unhappiness burning within him. "How
seldom we think of death while in life,--and how painful to see death
while gathering together the dross of this worldly chaos! Great,
great, great is the reward of the good, and mighty is the hand of
Omnipotence that, holding the record of our sins, warns us to
prepare." As Mr. M'Fadden utters these words, a coloured woman
enters the room to enquire if the patient wants nourishment. She
will wait at the door.
The physician looks at the patient; the patient shakes his head and
whispers, "Only the boy. The boy I bought to-day." The Bible lays at
his side on the sheet. He points to it, again whispering, "The boy I
took it from!"
The boy, the preacher, Mr. M'Fadden's purchase, can read; she will
know him by that; she must bring him from the shed, from his cold
bed of earth. That crime of slavery man wastes his energies to make
right, is wrong in the sight of heaven; our patient reads the
glaring testimony as the demons of his morbid fancy haunt him with
their damning terrors, their ghastly visages.
"Go, woman, bring him!" he whispers again.
Almost motionless the woman stands. She has seen the little book-she
knows it, and her eyes wander over the inscription on the cover. A
deep blush shadows her countenance; she fixes her piercing black
eyes upon it until they seem melting into sadness; with a delicacy
and reserve at variance with her menial condition, she approaches
the bed, lays her hand upon the book, and, while the physician's
attention is attracted in another direction, closes its pages, and
is about to depart.
"Can you tell which one he wants, girl?" enquires the physician, in
a stern voice.
"His name, I think, is Harry; and they say the poor thing can
preach; forgive me what I have done to him, oh Lord! It is the
weakness of man grasping the things of this world, to leave behind
for the world's nothingness," says Mr. M'Fadden, as the woman leaves
the room giving an affirmative reply.
The presence of the Bible surprised the woman; she knew it as the
one much used by Harry, on Marston's plantation. It was Franconia's
gift! The associations of the name touched the chord upon which hung
the happiest incidents of her life. Retracing her steps down the
stairs, she seeks mine host of the tavern, makes known the demand,
and receives the keys of this man-pen of our land of liberty.
Lantern in hand, she soon reaches the door, unlocks it gently, as if
she expects the approach of some strange object, and fears a sudden
surprise.
There the poor dejected wretches lay; nothing but earth's surface
for a bed,--no blanket to cover them. They have eaten their measure
of corn, and are sleeping; they sleep while chivalry revels! Harry
has drawn his hat partly over his face, and made a pillow of the
little bundle he carried under his arm.
Passing from one to the other, the woman approaches him, as if to
see if she can recognise any familiar feature. She stoops over him,
passes the light along his body, from head to foot, and from foot to
head. "Can it be our Harry?" she mutters. "It can't be; master
wouldn't sell him." Her eyes glare with anxiety as they wander up
and down his sleeping figure.
"Harry,--Harry,--Harry! which is Harry?" she demands.
Scarcely has she lisped the words, when the sleeper starts to his
feet, and sets his eyes on the woman with a stare of wonderment. His
mind wanders-bewildered; is he back on the old plantation? That
cannot be; they would not thus provide for him there. "Back at the
old home! Oh, how glad I am: yes, my home is there, with good old
master. My poor old woman; I've nothing for her, nothing," he says,
extending his hand to the woman, and again, as his mind regains
itself, their glances become mutual; the sympathy of two old
associates gushes forth from the purest of fountains,--the oppressed
heart.
"Harry-oh, Harry! is it you?"
"Ellen! my good Ellen, my friend, and old master's friend!" is the
simultaneous salutation.
"Sold you, too?" enquires Harry, embracing her with all the fervour
of a father who has regained his long-lost child. She throws her
arms about his neck, and clings to him, as he kisses, and kisses,
and kisses her olive brow.
"My sale, Harry, was of little consequence; but why did they sell
you? (Her emotions have swollen into tears). You must tell me all,
to-night! You must tell me of my child, my Nicholas,--if master
cares for him, and how he looks, grows, and acts. Oh, how my heart
beats to have him at my side;--when, when will that day come! I would
have him with me, even if sold for the purpose." Tears gush down her
cheeks, as Harry, encircling her with his arm, whispers words of
consolation in her ear.
"If we were always for this world, Ellen, our lot could not be
borne. But heaven has a recompense, which awaits us in the world to
come. Ellen!"-he holds her from him and looks intently in her
face-"masters are not to blame for our sufferings,--the law is the
sinner! Hope not, seek not for common justice, rights, privileges,
or anything else while we are merchandise among men who, to please
themselves, gamble with our souls and bodies. Take away that
injustice, Ellen, and men who now plead our unprofitableness would
hide their heads with shame. Make us men, and we will plead our own
cause; we will show to the world that we are men; black men, who can
be made men when they are not made merchandise." Ellen must tell him
what has brought her here, first! He notices sad changes in her
countenance, and feels anxious to listen to the recital of her
troubles.
She cannot tell him now, and begs that he will not ask her, as the
recollection of them fills her heart with sorrow. She discloses the
object of her mission, will guide him to his new master, who, they
say, is going to die, and feels very bad about it. He was a
desperate man on his plantation, and has become the more contrite at
death's call. "I hope God will forgive him!"
"He will!-He will! He is forgiving," interrupts Harry, hurriedly.
Ellen reconnoitres the wearied bodies of the others as they lie
around. "Poor wretches! what can I do for them?" she says, holding
the lamp over them. She can do but little for them, poor girl. The
will is good, but the wherewith she hath not. Necessity is a hard
master; none know it better than the slave woman. She will take
Harry by the hand, and, retracing her steps, usher him into the
presence of the wounded man. Pressing his hand as she opens the
door, she bids him good night, and retires to her cabin. "Poor
Harry!" she says, with a sigh.
The kind woman is Ellen Juvarna. She has passed another eventful
stage of her eventful life. Mine host, good fellow, bought her of
Mr. O'Brodereque, that's all!