COMPETITION IN HUMAN THINGS.
IT is enough to inform the reader that Romescos and Mr. M'Fadden
were not only rival bidders for this very desirable piece of
preaching property, but, being near neighbours, had become
inveterate enemies and fierce political opponents. The former, a
reckless trader in men, women, and children, was a daring,
unprincipled, and revengeful man, whose occupation seldom called him
to his plantation; while the latter was notorious as a hard master
and a cruel tyrant, who exacted a larger amount of labour from his
negroes than his fellow planters, and gave them less to eat. His
opinion was, that a peck of corn a week was quite enough for a
negro; and this was his systematic allowance;--but he otherwise
tempted the appetites of his property, by driving them, famished, to
the utmost verge of necessity. Thus driven to predatory acts in
order to sustain life, the advantages offered by Romescos'
swamp-generally well sprinkled with swine-were readily appropriated
to a very good use.
Under covert of Romescos' absence, Mr. M'Fadden had no very
scrupulous objection to his negroes foraging the amply provided
swamp,--provided, however, they did the thing on the sly, were
careful whose porker they dispatched, and said nothing to him about
the eating. In fact, it was simply a matter of economy with Mr.
M'Fadden; and as Romescos had a great number of the obstinate
brutes, it saved the trouble of raising such undignified stock.
Finding, however, that neighbour M'Fadden, or his predatory
negroes-such they were called-were laying claim to more than a
generous share of their porkships, Romescos thought it high time to
put the thing down by a summary process. But what particularly
"riled" Romescos in this affair of the hogs was, that M'Fadden's
negroes were not content with catching them in an honourable way,
but would do it through the agency of nasty cur-dogs, which he
always had despised, and held as unfit even to hunt niggers with.
Several times had he expressed his willingness to permit a small
number of his grunters to be captured for the benefit of his
neighbour's half-starved negroes, provided, always, they were hunted
with honourable hound-dogs. He held such animals in high esteem,
while curs he looked upon with utter contempt; he likened the one to
the chivalrous old rice-planter, the other to a pettifogging
schoolmaster fit for nothing but to be despised and shot. With these
feelings he (Romescos) declared his intention to kill the very first
negro he caught in his swamp with cur-dogs; and he kept his word.
Lying in ambush, he would await their approach, and, when most
engaged in appropriating the porkers, rush from his hiding-place,
shoot the dogs, and then take a turn at the more exhilarating
business of shooting the negroes. He would, with all possible
calmness, command the frightened property to approach and partake of
his peculiar mixture, administered from his double-barrel gun.
That the reader may better understand Romescos' process of curing
this malady of his neighbour's negroes, we will give it as related
by himself. It is a curious mode of dispatching negro property; the
reader, however, cannot fail to comprehend it. "Plantin' didn't suit
my notions o' gittin' rich, ye see, so I spec'lates in nigger
property, and makes a better thing on't. But there's philosophy
about the thing, and a body's got t' know the hang on't afore he can
twist it out profitably; so I keeps a sort of a plantation just to
make a swell; cos ye got to make a splash to be anybody down south.
Can't be a gentleman, ye see, 'cept ye plants cotton and rice; and
then a feller what's got a plantation in this kind of a way can be a
gentleman, and do so many other bits of trade to advantage. The
thing works like the handle of a pump; and then it makes a right
good place for raising young niggers, and gettin' old uns trimmed
up. With me, the worst thing is that old screwdriver, M'Fadden, what
don't care no more for the wear and tear of a nigger than nothin',
and drives 'em like as many steam-engines he thinks he can keep
going by feeding on saw-dust. He han't no conception o' nigger
constitution, and is just the worst sort of a chap that ever cum
south to get a fortune. Why, look right at his niggers: they look
like crows after corn-shuckin. Don't give 'em no meat, and the
critters must steal somethin' t' keep out o' the bone-yard. Well, I
argers the case with Mack, tells him how t'll be atween he and me on
this thing, and warns him that if he don't chunk more corn and
grease into his niggers, there 'll be a ruptous fuss. But he don't
stand on honour, as I does, especially when his property makes a
haul on my swamp of shoats. I an't home often; so the hogs suffer;
and Mack's niggers get the pork. This 'ere kind o'
business"--Romescos maintains the serious dignity of himself the
while--"don't go down nohow with me; so Mack and me just has a bit
of a good-natured quarrel; and from that we gets at daggers' points,
and I swears how I'll kill the first nigger o' his'n what steals
hogs o' mine. Wouldn't a cared a sous, mark ye, but it cum crossways
on a feller's feelins to think how the 'tarnal niggers had no more
sense than t' hunt hogs o' mine with cur-dogs: bin hounds,
honourable dogs, or respectable dogs what 'll do to hunt niggers
with, wouldn't a cared a toss about it; but-when-I-hears-a cur-dog
yelp, oh! hang me if it don't set my sensations all on pins, just as
somethin' was crucifyin' a feller. I warns and talks, and then
pleads like a lawyer what's got a bad case; but all to no end o'
reformin' Mack's morals,--feller han't got no sense o' reform in him.
So I sets my niggers on the scent-it gives 'em some fun-and swears
I'll kill a nigger for every hog he steals. This I concludes on; and
I never backs out when once I fixes a conclusion.
"Hears the infernal cur-dog's yelp, yelp, yelp, down in the swamp;
then I creeps through the jungle so sly, lays low till the fellers
cum up, all jumpin'-pig ahead, then dogs, niggers follerin', puffin'
and blowin', eyes poppin' out, 'most out o' breath, just as if they
tasted the sparerib afore they'd got the critter.
"Well, ye see, I know'd all the ins and outs of the law,--keeps
mighty shy about all the judicial quibbles on't,--never takes nobody
with me whose swearin' would stand muster in a court of law. All
right on that score (Romescos exults in his law proficiency). I
makes sure o' the dogs fust, ollers keepin' the double-barrel on the
right eye for the best nigger in the lot. It would make the
longest-faced deacon in the district laugh to see the fire flash out
o' the nigger's big black eyes, when he sees the cur drop, knowin'
how he'll get the next plugs souced into him. It's only natural, cos
it would frighten a feller what warn't used to it just to see what a
thunder-cloud of agitation the nigger screws his black face into.
And then he starts to run, and puts it like streaks o' cannon-balls
chased by express lightnin'.
"'Stand still, ye thievin' varmint! hold up,--bring to a mooring:
take the mixture according to Gunter!' I shouts. The way the nigger
pulls up, begs, pleads, and says things what'll touch a feller's
tender feelins, aint no small kind of an institution. 'Twould just
make a man what had stretchy conscience think there was somethin'
crooked somewhere. 'Well, boys,' says I, feeling a little soft about
the stomach, 'seeing how it's yer Boss what don't feed ye, I'll be
kind o' good, and give ye a dose of the mixture in an honourable
way.' Then I loads t'other barrel, the feller's eyes flashin'
streaks of blue lightnin' all the time, lookin' at how I rams it
down, chunk! 'Now, boys,' says I, when the plugs
shot is all ready, 'there's system 'bout this ere thing a'
mine--t'aint killin' ye I wants,--don't care a copper about that
(there an't no music in that), but must make it bring the finances
out a' yer master's pocket. That's the place where he keeps all his
morals. Now, run twenty paces and I'll gin ye a fair chance! The
nigger understands me, ye see, and moves off, as if he expected a
thunderbolt at his heel, lookin' back and whining like a puppy
what's lost his mother. Just when he gets to an honourable
distance,--say twenty paces, according to fighting rule,--I draws up,
takes aim, and plumps the plugs into him. The way the critter jumps
reminds me of a circus rider vaultin' and turnin' sumersets. You'd
think he was inginrubber 'lectrified. A'ter all, I finds these
playin' doses don't do; they don't settle things on the square. So I
tries a little stronger mixture, which ends in killin' three o'
Mack's niggers right up smooth. But the best on't is that Mack finds
he han't no proof, goes right into it and kills three o' my prime
fat niggers: that makes us bad friends on every score. But he got a
nigger ahead o' me a'ter awhile, and I ware detarmined to straighten
accounts, if it was by stealin' the odds. Them ar's my principles,
and that's just the way I settles accounts with folks what don't do
the square thing in the way o' nigger property."
Thus the two gentlemen lived in the terror of internal war; and
Romescos, seeing such a fine piece of property pass into the hands
of his antagonist, resolved on squaring accounts by stealing the
preacher,--an act Mr. M'Fadden least expected.
The candidates' festival offered every facility for carrying this
singular coup-d'tat into effect. Hence, with the skilful assistance
of Nath. Nimrod, and Dan Bengal, Harry was very precipitately and
dexterously passed over to the chances of a new phase of slave life.
Ellen waited patiently for Harry's return until it became evident
some ill-luck had befallen him. Lantern in hand, she proceeds to the
pen in search. No Harry is to be found there; Mr. M'Fadden's common
negroes only are there, and they sleep sweetly and soundly. What can
have befallen him? She conjectures many things, none of which are
the right. The lock is upon the door; all is still outside; no
traces of kidnapping can be found. She knows his faithfulness,--
knows he would not desert his master unless some foul means had been
used to decoy him into trouble. She returns to the house and
acquaints her master.
Straggling members, who had met to enjoy the generous political
banquet, and who still remain to see the night "through" with
appropriate honour, are apprised of the sudden disappearance of this
very valuable piece of property. They are ready for any turn of
excitement,--anything for "topping off" with a little amusement; and
to this end they immediately gather round mine host in a party of
pursuit. Romescos-he must make his innocence more imposing-has been
conspicuous during the night, at times expressing sympathy for Mr.
M'Fadden, and again assuring the company that he has known fifty
worse cases cured. In order to make this better understood, he will
pay the doctor's bill if M'Fadden dies. Mine host has no sooner
given the alarm than Romescos expresses superlative surprise. He was
standing in the centre of a conclave of men, whom he harangues on
the particular political points necessary for the candidates to
support in order to maintain the honour of the State; now he listens
to mine host as he recounts the strange absence of the preacher,
pauses and combs his long red beard with his fingers, looks
distrustfully, and then says, with a quaintness that disarmed
suspicion, "Nigger-like!-preacher or angel, nigger will be nigger!
The idea o' makin' the black rascals preachers, thinkin' they won't
run away! Now, fellers, that ar' chap's skulkin' about, not far off,
out among the pines; and here's my two dogs"-he points to his dogs,
stretched on the floor-"what'll scent him and bring him out afore
ten minutes! Don't say a word to Mack about it; don't let it 'scape
yer fly-trap, cos they say he's got a notion o' dying, and suddenly
changed his feelins 'bout nigger tradin'. There's no tellin' how it
would affect the old democrat if he felt he warnt goin' to slip his
breeze. This child"-Romescos refers to himself-"felt just as Mack
does more nor a dozen times, when Davy Jones looked as if he was
making slight advances: a feller soon gets straight again,
nevertheless. It's only the difference atween one's feelings about
makin' money when he's well, and thinkin' how he made it when he's
about to bid his friends good morning and leave town for awhile.
Anyhow, there aint no dodging now, fellers! We got to hunt up the
nigger afore daylight, so let us take a drop more and be moving." He
orders the landlord to set on the decanters,--they join in a social
glass, touch glasses to the recovery of the nigger, and then rush
out to the pursuit. Romescos heads the party. With dogs, horses,
guns, and all sorts of negro-hunting apparatus, they scour the
pinegrove, the swamp, and the heather. They make the pursuit of man
full of interest to those who are fond of the chase; they allow
their enthusiasm to bound in unison with the sharp baying of the
dogs.
For more than two hours is this exhilarating sport kept up. It is
sweet music to their ears; they have been trained (educated) to the
fascination of a man-hunt, and dogs and men become wearied with the
useless search.
Romescos declares the nigger is near at hand: he sees the dogs curl
down their noses; he must be somewhere in a hole or jungle of the
swamp, and, with more daylight and another dog or two, his
apprehension is certain. He makes a halt on the brow of a hill, and
addresses his fellow-hunters from the saddle. In his wisdom on
nigger nature he will advise a return to the tavern-for it is now
daylight-where they will spend another hour merrily, and then return
brightened to the pursuit. Acting on this advice, friends and
foes-both join as good fellows in the chase for a nigger-followed
his retreat as they had his advance.
"No nigger preacher just about this circle, Major!" exclaims
Romescos, addressing mine host, as he puts his head into the
bar-room, on his return. "Feller's burrowed somewhere, like a coon:
catch him on the broad end of morning, or I'll hang up my old
double-barrel," he concludes, shaking his head, and ordering drink
for the party at his expense.
The morning advanced, however, and nothing was to be seen of
Romescos: he vanished as suddenly from among them as Harry had from
the pen. Some little surprise is expressed by the knowing ones; they
whisper among themselves, while mine host reaches over the counter,
cants his head solicitously, and says:--"What's that, gentlemen?"
In this dilemma they cannot inform mine host; they must continue the
useless chase without Romescos' valuable services. And here we must
leave mine host preparing further necessaries for capturing the lost
property, that he may restore it to its owner so soon as he shall
become convalescent, and turn to Harry.
Like a well-stowed bale of merchandise, to be delivered at a stated
place within a specified time, he was rolled in bagging, and not
permitted to see the direction in which he was being driven. When
the pursuing party started from the crossing, Romescos took the lead
in order to draw it in an opposite direction, and keep the dogs from
the trail. This would allow the stolen clergyman to get beyond their
reach. When daylight broke upon the capturers they were nearly
twenty miles beyond the reach of the pursuers, approaching an inn by
the road side. The waggon suddenly stopped, and Harry found himself
being unrolled from his winding sheet by the hands of two strangers.
Lifting him to his feet, they took him from the waggon, loosed the
chains from his legs, led him into the house, and placed him in a
dark back room. Here, his head being uncovered, he looks upon his
captors with an air of confusion and distrust. "Ye know me too, I
reckon, old feller, don't ye?" enquires one of the men, with a
sardonic grin, as he lifts his hat with his left hand, and scratches
his head with his right.
"Yes, mas'r; there's no mistakin on ye!" returns Harry, shaking his
head, as they release the chains from his hands. He at length
recognises the familiar faces of Dan Bengal and Nath. Nimrod. Both
have figured about Marston's plantation, in the purchase and sale of
negroes.
"Ye had a jolly good ride, old feller, had'nt ye?" says Bengal,
exultingly, looking Harry in the face, shrugging his shoulders, and
putting out his hand to make his friendship.
Harry has no reply to make; but rubs his face as if he is not quite
satisfied with his new apartment, and wants to know a little more of
the motive of the expedition. "Mas'r! I don't seem to know myself,
nor nothin'. Please tell me where I am going to, and who is to be my
master? It will relieve my double troubles," he says, casting an
enquiring look at Nimrod.
"Shook up yer parson-thinkin' some, I reckon, did'nt it, old chap?"
returns Nimrod, laughing heartily, but making no further reply. He
thinks it was very much like riding in a railroad backwards.
"Did my sick mas'r sell me to you?" again he enquires.
"No business o' yourn, that ain't; yer nigger-knowin ought to tell
you how ye'd got into safe hands. We'll push along down south as
soon as ye gets some feed. Put on a straight face, and face the
music like a clever deacon, and we'll do the square in selling ye to
a Boss what 'll let ye preach now and then. (Nimrod becomes very
affectionate). Do the thing up righteous, and when yer sold there
'll be a five-dollar shiner for yerself. (He pats him on the head,
and puts his arm over his shoulder.) Best t' have a little shot in a
body's own pocket; now, shut up yer black bread-trap, and don't go
makin a fuss about where yer goin' to: that's my business!"
Harry pauses as if in contemplation; he is struggling against his
indignation excited by such remarks. He knew his old master's
weaknesses, enjoyed his indulgences; but he had never been made to
feel so acutely how degraded he could be as a mere article of trade.
It would have been some consolation to know which way he was
proceeding, and why he had been so suddenly snatched from his new
owner. Fate had not ordained this for him; oh no! He must resign
himself without making any further enquiries; he must be nothing
more than a nigger--happy nigger happily subdued! Seating himself
upon the floor, in a recumbent position, he drops his face on his
knees,--is humbled among the humblest. He is left alone for some
time, while his captors, retiring into an adjoining room, hold a
consultation.
Breakfast is being prepared, and much conversation is kept up in an
inaudible tone of voice. Harry has an instinctive knowledge that it
is about him, for he hears the words, "Peter! Peter!" his name must
be transmogrified into "Peter!" In another minute he hears dishes
rattling on the table, and Bengal distinctly complimenting the
adjuncts, as he orders some for the nigger preacher. This excites
his anxiety; he feels like placing his ear at the keyhole,--doing a
little evesdropping. He is happily disappointed, however, for the
door opens, and a black boy bearing a dish of homony enters, and,
placing it before him, begs that he will help himself. Harry takes
the plate and sets it beside him, as the strange boy watches him
with an air of commiseration that enlists his confidence. "Ain't
da'h somefin mo' dat I can bring ye?" enquires the boy, pausing for
an answer.
"Nothing,--nothing more!"
Harry will venture to make some enquiries about the locality. "Do
you belong to master what live here?" He puts out his hand, takes
the other by the arm.
"Hard tellin who I belongs to. Buckra man own 'em to-day; ain't
sartin if he own 'em to-morrow, dough. What country-born nigger is
you?"
"Down country! My poor old master's gone, and now I'm goin'; but God
only knows where to. White man sell all old Boss's folks in a
string,--my old woman and children among the rest. My heart is with
them, God bless them!"
"Reckon how ya' had a right good old Boss what larn ye somethin."
The boy listens to Harry with surprise. "Don't talk like dat down
dis a way; no country-born nigger put in larn'd wods so, nohow,"
returns the boy, with a look of curious admiration.
"But you harn't told me what place this is?"
"Dis 'ouse! e' ant nowhare when Buckra bring nigger what he want to
sell, and don' want nobody to know whar e' bring him from. Dat man
what bring ye here be great Buckra. De 'h way he lash nigger whin e'
don do jist so!" The boy shakes his head with a warning air.
"How did you get here? There must be roads leading in some
directions?"
"Roads runnin' every which way, yand'r; and trou de woods anyway,
but mighty hard tellin whar he going to, he is. Mas'r Boss don lef
'e nigger know how 'e bring'um, nor how he takes 'um way. Guess da
'h gwine to run ye down country, so God bless you," says the boy,
shaking him by the hand, and taking leave.
"Well! if I only knew which way I was going I should feel happy;
because I could then write to my old master, somewhere or somehow.
And I know my good friend Missus Rosebrook will buy me for her
plantation,--I know she will. She knows my feelings, and in her heart
wouldn't see me abused, she wouldn't! I wish I knew who my master
is, where I am, and to whom I'm going to be sold next. I think new
master has stolen me, thinking old master was going to die," Harry
mutters to himself, commencing his breakfast, but still applying his
listening faculties to the conversation in the next room. At length,
after a long pause, they seem to have finished breakfast and taken
up the further consideration of his sale.
"I don't fear anything of the kind! Romescos is just the keenest
fellow that can be scared up this side of Baltimore. He never takes
a thing o' this stamp in hand but what he puts it through," says
Bengal, in a whispering tone.
"True! the trouble's in his infernal preaching; that's the devil of
niggers having intelligence. Can do anything in our way with common
niggers what don't know nothin'; but when the critters can do
clergy, and preach, they'll be sending notes to somebody they know
as acquaintances. An intelligent nigger's a bad article when ye want
to play off in this way," replies the other, curtly.
"Never mind," returns Bengal, "can't ollers transpose a nigger, as
easy as turnin' over a sixpence, specially when he don't have his
ideas brightened. Can't steer clar on't. Larnin's mighty dangerous
to our business, Nath.-better knock him on the head at once; better
end him and save a sight of trouble. It'll put a stopper on his
preaching, this pesks exercisin' his ideas."
A third interrupts. "Thinks such a set of chicken-hearted fellows
won't do when it comes to cases of 'mergency like this. He will just
make clergyman Peter Somebody the deacon; and with this honorary
title he'll put him through to Major Wiley's plantation, when he'll
be all right down in old Mississippi. The Colonel and he,
understanding the thing, can settle it just as smooth as sunrise.
The curate is what we call a right clever fellow, would make the
tallest kind of a preacher, and pay first-rate per centage on
himself." Bengal refers to Harry. His remarks are, indeed, quite
applicable. "I've got the dockerment, ye see, all prepared; and
we'll put him through without a wink," he concludes, in a measured
tone of voice.
The door of Harry's room opens, and the three enter together. "Had a
good breakfast, old feller, hain't ye?" says Nimrod, approaching
with hand extended, and patting him on the head with a child's
playfulness. "I kind o' likes the looks on ye" (a congratulatory
smile curls over his countenance), "old feller; and means to do the
square thing in the way o' gettin' on ye a good Boss. Put on the
Lazarus, and no nigger tricks on the road. I'm sorry to leave ye on
the excursion, but here's the gentleman what'll see ye through,--will
put ye through to old Mississip just as safe as if ye were a nugget
of gold." Nimrod introduces Harry to a short gentleman with a bald
head, and very smooth, red face. His dress is of brown homespun, a
garb which would seem peculiar to those who do the villainy of the
peculiar institution. The gentleman has a pair of handcuffs in his
left hand, with which he will make his pious merchandise safe.
Stepping forward, he places the forefinger of his right hand on the
preacher's forehead, and reads him a lesson which he must get firm
into his thinking shell. It is this. "Now, at this very time, yer
any kind of a nigger; but a'ter this ar' ye got to be a Tennessee
nigger, raised in a pious Tennessee family. And yer name is
Peter-Peter-Peter!-don't forget the Peter: yer a parson, and ought
t' keep the old apostle what preached in the marketplace in yer
noddle. Peter, ye see, is a pious name, and Harry isn't; so ye must
think Peter and sink Harry."
"What do I want to change my name for? Old master give me that name
long time ago!"
"None o' yer business; niggers ain't t' know the philosophy of such
things. No nigger tricks, now!" interrupts Bengal, quickly, drawing
his face into savage contortions. At this the gentleman in whose
charge he will proceed steps forward and places the manacles on
Harry's hands with the coolness and indifference of one executing
the commonest branch of his profession. Thus packed and baled for
export, he is hurried from the house into a two-horse waggon, and
driven off at full speed. Bengal watches the waggon as it rolls down
the highway and is lost in the distance. He laughs heartily, thinks
how safe he has got the preacher, and how much hard cash he will
bring. God speed the slave on his journey downward, we might add.
It will be needless for us to trace them through the many incidents
of their journey; our purpose will be served when we state that his
new guardian landed him safely at the plantation of Major Wiley, on
the Tallahatchee River, Mississippi, on the evening of the fourth
day after their departure, having made a portion of their passage on
the steamer Ohio. By some process unknown to Harry he finds himself
duly ingratiated among the major's field hands, as nothing more than
plain Peter. He is far from the high-road, far from his friends,
without any prospect of communicating with his old master. The
major, in his way, seems a well-disposed sort of man, inclined to
"do right" by his negroes, and willing to afford them an opportunity
of employing their time after task, for their own benefit. And yet
it is evident that he must in some way be connected with Graspum and
his party, for there is a continual interchange of negroes to and
from his plantation. This, however, we must not analyse too closely,
but leave to the reader's own conjectures, inasmuch as Major Wiley
is a very distinguished gentleman, and confidently expects a very
prominent diplomatic appointment under the next administration.
Harry, in a very quiet way, sets himself about gaining a knowledge
of his master's opinions on religion, as well as obtaining his
confidence by strict fidelity to his interests. So far does he
succeed, that in a short time he finds himself holding the
respectable and confidential office of master of stores. Then he
succeeds in inducing his master to hear him preach a sermon to his
negroes. The major is perfectly willing to allow him the full
exercise of his talents, and is moved to admiration at his fervency,
his aptitude, his knowledge of the Bible, and the worth there must
be in such a piece of clergy property. Master Wiley makes his man
the offer of purchasing his time, which Harry, under the alias of
Peter, accepts, and commences his mission of preaching on the
neighbouring plantations.
Ardently and devoutedly does he pursue his mission of Christianity
among his fellow-bondmen; but he has reaped little of the harvest
to himself, his master having so increased the demand for his time
that he can scarcely save money enough to purchase clothes. At first
he was only required to pay six dollars a week; now, nothing less
than ten is received. It is a happy premium on profitable human
nature; and through it swings the strongest hinge of that cursed
institution which blasts alike master and slave. Major Wiley is very
chivalrous, very hospitable, and very eminent for his many
distinguished qualifications; but his very pious piece of property
must pay forty-seven per cent. annual tribute for the very
hospitable privilege of administering the Word of God to his brother
bondmen. Speak not of robed bishops robbing Christianity in a
foreign land, ye men who deal in men, and would rob nature of its
tombstone! Ye would rob the angels did their garments give forth
gold.
The poor fellow's income, depending, in some measure, upon small
presents bestowed by the negroes to whom he preached, was scarcely
enough to bring him out at the end of the week, and to be thus
deprived of it seemed more than his spirits could bear. Again and
again had he appealed to his master for justice; but there was no
justice for him,--his appeals proved as fruitless as the wind, on his
master's callous sensibilities. Instead of exciting compassion, he
only drew upon him his master's prejudices; he was threatened with
being sold, if he resisted for a day the payment of wages for his
own body. Hence he saw but one alternative left-one hope, one smile
from a good woman, who might, and he felt would, deliver him; that
was in writing to his good friend, Mrs. Rosebrook, whose generous
heart he might touch through his appeals for mercy. And yet there
was another obstacle; the post-office might be ten miles off, and
his master having compelled him to take the name of Peter Wiley, how
was he to get a letter to her without the knowledge of his master?
Should his letter be intercepted, his master, a strict
disciplinarian, would not only sell him farther south, but inflict
the severest punishment. Nevertheless, there was one consolation
left; his exertions on behalf of the slaves, and his earnestness in
promoting the interests of their masters, had not passed unnoticed
with the daughter of a neighbouring planter (this lady has since
distinguished herself for sympathy with the slave), who became much
interested in his welfare. She had listened to his exhortations with
admiration; she had listened to his advice on religion, and become
his friend and confidant. She would invite him to her father's
house, sit for hours at his side, and listen with breathless
attention to his pathos, his display of natural genius. To her he
unfolded his deep and painful troubles; to her he looked for
consolation; she was the angel of light guiding him on his weary
way, cheering his drooping soul on its journey to heaven. To her he
disclosed how he had been called to the bedside of his dying master;
how, previously, he had been sold from his good old master, Marston,
his wife, his children; how he was mysteriously carried off and left
in the charge of his present master, who exacts all he can earn.
The simple recital of his story excites the genial feelings of the
young lady; she knows some foul transaction is associated with his
transition, and at once tenders her services to release him. But she
must move cautiously, for even Harry's preaching is in direct
violation of the statutes; and were she found aiding in that which
would unfavourably affect the interests of his master she would be
subjected to serious consequences-perhaps be invited to spend a
short season at the sheriff's hotel, commonly called the county
gaol. However, there was virtue in the object to be served, and
feeling that whatever else she could do to relieve him would be
conferring a lasting benefit on a suffering mortal, she will brave
the attempt.
"Tell me he is not a man, but a slave! tell me a being with such
faculties should be thus sunken beneath the amenities of freedom!
that man may barter almighty gifts for gold! trample his religion
into dust, and turn it into dollars and cents! What a mockery is
this against the justice of heaven! When this is done in this our
happy land of happy freedom, scoffers may make it their foot-ball,
and kings in their tyranny may point the finger of scorn at us, and
ask us for our honest men, our cherished freedom!
"Woman can do something, if she will; let me see what I can do to
relieve this poor oppressed," she exclaims one day, after he has
consulted her on the best means of relief. "I will try."
Woman knows the beatings of the heart; she can respond more quickly
to its pains and sorrows. Our youthful missionary will sit down and
write a letter to Mrs. Rosebrook-she will do something, the
atmosphere of slavery will hear of her yet-it will!