THE PRETTY CHILDREN ARE TO BE SOLD.
HOW varied are the sources of human nature-how changing its tints
and glows-how immeasurable its uncertainties, and how obdurate the
will that can turn its tenderest threads into profitable
degradation! But what democrat can know himself a freeman when the
whitest blood makes good merchandise in the market? When the only
lineal stain on a mother's name for ever binds the chains, let no
man boast of liberty. The very voice re-echoes, oh, man, why be a
hypocrite! cans't thou not see the scorner looking from above? But
the oligarchy asks in tones so modest, so full of chivalrous
fascination, what hast thou to do with that? be no longer a fanatic.
So we will bear the warning-pass from it for the present.
More than two years have passed; writs of error have been filed and
argued; the children have dragged out time in a prison-house. Is it
in freedom's land a prison was made for the innocent to waste in? So
it is, and may Heaven one day change the tenour! Excuse, reader,
this digression, and let us proceed with our narrative.
The morning is clear and bright; Mrs. Rosebrook sits at the window
of her cheerful villa, watching the approach of the post-rider seen
in the distance, near a cluster of oaks that surround the entrance
of the arbour, at the north side of the garden. The scene spread out
before her is full of rural beauty, softened by the dew-decked
foliage, clothing the landscape with its clumps. As if some fairy
hand had spread a crystal mist about the calm of morning, and angels
were bedecking it with the richest tints of a rising sun at morn,
the picture sparkles with silvery life. There she sits, her soft
glowing eyes scanning the reposing scene, as her graceful form seems
infusing spirit into its silent loveliness. And then she speaks, as
if whispering a secret to the wafting air: "our happy union!" It
falls upon the ear like some angel voice speaking of things too
pure, too holy for the caprices of earth. She would be a type of
that calmness pervading the scene-that sweetness and repose which
seem mingling to work out some holy purpose; and yet there is a
touching sadness depicted in her face.
"Two years have passed; how changed!" she exclaims, as if rousing
from a reverie: "I would not be surprised if he brought bad
tidings."
The postman has reached the gate and delivered a letter, which the
servant quickly bears to her hand. She grasps it anxiously, as if
recognising the superscription; opens it nervously; reads the
contents. It is from Franconia, interceding with her in behalf of
her uncle and the two children, in the following manner:--"My
dearest Friend,
"Can I appeal to one whose feelings are more ready to be enlisted in
a good cause? I think not. I wish now to enlist your feelings in
something that concerns myself. It is to save two interesting
children-who, though our eyes may at times be blinded to facts, I
cannot forget are nearly allied to me by birth and association-from
the grasp of slavery. Misfortune never comes alone; nor, in this
instance, need I recount ours to you. Of my own I will say but
little; the least is best. Into wedlock I have been sold to one it
were impossible for me to love; he cannot cherish the respect due to
my feelings. His associations are of the coarsest, and his heartless
treatment beyond my endurance. He subjects me to the meanest
grievances; makes my position more degraded than that of the slave
upon whom he gratifies his lusts. Had my parents saved me from such
a monster-I cannot call him less-they would have saved me many a
painful reflection. As for his riches-I know not whether they really
exist-they are destined only to serve his lowest passions. With him
misfortune is a crime; and I am made to suffer under his taunts
about the disappearance of my brother, the poverty of my parents.
"You are well aware of the verdict of the jury, and the affirmation
of the Court of Appeal, upon those dear children. The decree orders
them to be sold in the market, for the benefit of my uncle's
creditors: this is the day, the fatal day, the sale takes place. Let
me beseech of you, as you have it in your power, to induce the
deacon to purchase them. O, save them from the fate that awaits
them! You know my uncle's errors; you know also his goodness of
heart; you can sympathise with him in his sudden downfall. Then the
affection he has for Annette is unbounded. No father could be more
dotingly fond of his legitimate child. But you know what our laws
are-what they force us to do against our better inclinations.
Annette's mother, poor wretch, has fled, and M'Carstrow charges me
with being accessory to her escape: I cannot, nor will I, deny it,
while my most ardent prayer invokes her future happiness. That she
has saved herself from a life of shame I cannot doubt; and if I have
failed to carry out a promise I made her before her departure-that
of rescuing her child-the satisfaction of knowing that she at least
is enjoying the reward of freedom partially repays my feelings. Let
me entreat you to repair to the city, and, at least, rescue Annette
from that life of shame and disgrace now pending over her-a shame
and disgrace no less black in the sight of heaven because society
tolerates it as among the common things of social life.
"I am now almost heart-broken, and fear it will soon be my lot to be
driven from under the roof of Colonel M'Carstrow, which is no longer
a home, but a mere place of durance to me. It would be needless for
me here to recount his conduct. Were I differently constituted I
might tolerate his abuse, and accept a ruffian's recompense in
consideration of his wealth.
"Go, my dear friend, save that child,
"Is the prayer of your affectionate
"FRANCONIA."
Mrs. Rosebrook reads and re-reads the letter; then heaves a sigh as
she lays it upon the table at her side. As if discussing the matter
in her mind, her face resumes a contemplative seriousness.
"And those children are to be sold in the market! Who won't they
sell, and sanctify the act? How can I relieve them? how can I be
their friend, for Franconia's sake? My husband is away on the
plantation, and I cannot brave the coarse slang of a slave mart; I
cannot mingle with those who there congregate.
"And, too, there are so many such cases-bearing on their front the
fallacy of this our democracy-that however much one may have claims
over another, it were impossible to take one into consideration
without inciting a hundred to press their demands. In this sense,
then, the whole accursed system would have to be uprooted before the
remedy could be applied effectually. Notwithstanding, I will go; I
will go: I'll see what can be done in the city," says Mrs.
Rosebrook, bristling with animation. "Our ladies must have something
to arouse their energies; they all have a deep interest to serve,
and can do much:" she will summon resolution and brave all. Rising
from her seat, she paces the room several times, and then orders a
servant to command Uncle Bradshaw to get the carriage ready, and be
prepared for a drive into the city.
Soon Bradshaw has got the carriage ready, and our good lady is on
the road, rolling away toward the city. As they approach a curvature
that winds round a wooded hill, Bradshaw intimates to "missus" that
he sees signs of a camp a short distance ahead. He sees smoke
curling upwards among the trees, and very soon the notes of a
long-metre tune fall softly on the ear, like the tinkling of distant
bells in the desert. Louder and louder, as they approach, the sounds
become more and more distinct. Then our good lady recognises the
familiar voice of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy. This worthy
christian of the Southern Church is straining his musical organ to
its utmost capacity, in the hope there will be no doubt left on the
minds of those congregated around him as to his very sound piety.
The carriage rounds the curvature, and there, encamped in a grove of
pines by the road side, is our pious Elder, administering
consolation to his infirm property. Such people! they present one of
the most grotesque and indiscriminate spectacles ever eyes beheld.
The cholera has subsided; the Elder's greatest harvest time is gone;
few victims are to be found for the Elder's present purposes. Now he
is constrained to resort to the refuse of human property (those
afflicted with what are called ordinary diseases), to keep alive the
Christian motive of his unctuous business. To speak plainly, he must
content himself with the purchase of such infirmity as can be picked
up here and there about the country.
A fire of pine knots blazes in the centre of a mound, and over it
hangs an iron kettle, on a straddle, filled with corn-grits. Around
this, and anxiously watching its boiling, are the lean figures of
negroes, with haggard and sickly faces, telling but too forcibly the
tale of their troubles. They watch and watch, mutter in grumbling
accents, stir the homony, and sit down again. Two large mule carts
stand in the shade of a pine tree, a few yards from the fire. A few
paces further on are the mules tethered, quietly grazing; while,
seated on a whiskey-keg, is the Elder, book in hand, giving out the
hymn to some ten or a dozen infirm negroes seated round him on the
ground. They have enjoyed much consolation by listening with
wondrous astonishment to the Elder's exhortations, and are now ready
to join their musical jargon to the words of a Watts's hymn.
On arriving opposite the spot, our good lady requests Bradshaw to
stop; which done, the Elder recognises her, and suddenly adjourning
his spiritual exercises, advances to meet her, his emotions
expanding with enthusiastic joy. In his eagerness, with outstretched
hand, he comes sailing along, trips his toe in a vine, and plunges
head foremost into a broad ditch that separates the road from the
rising ground.
The accident is very unfortunate at this moment; the Elder's
enthusiasm is somewhat cooled, nevertheless; but, as there is seldom
a large loss without a small gain, he finds himself strangely
bespattered from head to foot with the ingredients of a quagmire.
"U'h! u'h! u'h! my dear madam, pardon me, I pray;--strange moment to
meet with a misfortune of this kind. But I was so glad to see you!"
he ejaculates, sensitively, making the best of his way out, brushing
his sleeves, and wiping his face with his never-failing India
handkerchief. He approaches the carriage, apologising for his
appearance.
He hopes our lady will excuse him, having so far lost himself in his
enthusiasm, which, together with the fervency and devotion of the
spiritual exercises he was enjoying with his poor, helpless
property, made him quite careless of himself. Begging a thousand
pardons for presenting himself in such a predicament (his gallantry
is proverbially southern), he forgets that his hat and spectacles
have been dislodged by his precipitation into the ditch.
The good lady reaches out her hand, as a smile curls over her face;
but Bradshaw must grin; and grin he does, in right good earnest.
"Bless me, my dear Elder! what trade are you now engaged in?" she
enquires.
"A little devotional exercises, my dear madam! We were enjoying them
with so much christian feeling that I was quite carried away, indeed
I was!" He rubs his fingers through his bristly hair, and then
downwards to his nasal organ, feeling for his devoted glasses. He is
surprised at their absence-makes another apology. He affirms, adding
his sacred honour, as all real southerners do, that he had begun to
feel justified in the belief that there never was a religion like
that preached by the good apostles, when such rural spots as this
(he points to his encampment) were chosen for its administration.
Everything round him made him feel so good, so much like the purest
christian of the olden time. He tells her, with great seriousness,
that we must serve God, and not forget poor human nature, never! To
the world he would seem labouring under the influence of those inert
convictions by which we strive to conceal our natural inclinations,
while drawing the flimsy curtain of "to do good" over the real
object.
He winks and blinks, rubs his eyes, works his face into all the
angles and contortions it is capable of, and commences searching for
his hat and spectacles. Both are necessary adjuncts to his pious
appearance; without them there is that in the expression of his
countenance from which none can fail to draw an unfavourable opinion
of his real character. The haggard, care-worn face, browned to the
darkest tropical tints; the ceaseless leer of that small, piercing
eye, anxiety and agitation pervading the tout ensemble of the man,
will not be dissembled. Nay; those acute promontories of the face,
narrow and sharp, and that low, reclining forehead, and head covered
with bristly iron-grey hair, standing erect in rugged tufts, are too
strong an index of character for all the disguises Elder Pemberton
Praiseworthy can invent.
"One minute, my dear madam," he exclaims, in his eagerness for the
lost ornaments of his face.
"Never mind them, Elder; never mind them! In my eyes you are just as
well without them," she rejoins, an ironical smile invading her
countenance, and a curl of contempt on her lip. "But,--tell me what
are you doing here?"
"Here! my dear madam? Doing good for mankind and the truth of
religion. I claim merit of the parish, for my pursuit is laudable,
and saves the parish much trouble," says the Elder, beginning to wax
warm in the goodness of his pursuit, before anyone has undertaken to
dispute him, or question the purity of his purpose.
"Still speculating in infirmity; making a resurrection man of
yourself! You are death's strongest opponent; you fight the great
slayer for small dollars and cents."
"Well, now," interrupts the Elder, with a serious smile, "I'd rather
face a Mexican army than a woman's insinuating questions,--in matters
of this kind! But it's business, ye see! according to law; and ye
can't get over that. There's no getting over the law; and he that
serveth the Lord, no matter how, deserveth recompense; my recompense
is in the amount of life I saves for the nigger."
"That is not what I asked; you evade my questions, Elder! better
acknowledge honestly, for the sake of the country, where did you
pick up these poor wretches?"
"I goes round the district, madam, and picks up a cripple here, and
a cancer case there, and a dropsy doubtful yonder; and then, some on
em's got diseases what don't get out until one comes to apply
medical skill. Shan't make much on these sort o' cases,--"
The lady interrupts him, by bidding him good morning, and advising
him, whenever he affects to serve the Lord, to serve him honestly,
without a selfish motive. She leaves the Elder to his own
reflections, to carry his victim property to his charnel-house,
where, if he save life for the enjoyment of liberty, he may serve
the Lord to a good purpose. She leaves him to the care of the
christian church of the South,--the church of christian slavery, the
rules of which he so strictly follows.
As our good lady moves quickly away toward the city, the Elder looks
up, imploringly, as if invoking the praise of heaven on his good
deeds. He is, indeed, astonished, that his dear friend, the lady,
should have made such a declaration so closely applied, so
insinuating. That such should have escaped her lips when she must
know that his very soul and intention are purity! "I never felt like
making a wish before now; and now I wishes I was, or that my father
had made me, a lawyer. I would defend my position in a legal sense
then! I don't like lawyers generally, I confess; the profession's
not as honourable as ours, and its members are a set of sharpers,
who would upset gospel and everything else for a small fee, they
would!" He concludes, as his eyes regrettingly wander after the
carriage. The words have moved him; there is something he wishes to
say, but can't just get the point he would arrive at. He turns away,
sad at heart, to his sadder scenes. "I know that my Redeemer
liveth," he sings.
In the city a different piece is in progress of performance. Papers,
and all necessary preparations for procuring the smooth transfer of
the youthful property, are completed; customers have begun to gather
round the mart. Some are searching among the negroes sent to the
warehouse; others are inquiring where this property, advertised in
the morning journals, and so strongly commented upon, may be found.
They have been incited to examine, in consequence of the many
attractions set forth in the conditions of sale.
There the two children sit, on a little seat near the vender's
tribune. Old Aunt Dina, at the prison, has dressed Annette so
neatly! Her white pinafore shines so brightly, is so neatly
arranged, and her silky auburn locks curl so prettily, in tiny
ringlets, over her shoulders; and then her round fair face looks so
sweetly, glows with such innocent curiosity, as her soft blue eyes,
deep with sparkling vivacity, wander over the strange scene. She
instinctively feels that she is the special object of some important
event. Laying her little hand gently upon the arm of an old slave
that sits by her side, she casts shy glances at those admirers who
stand round her and view her as a marketable article only.
"Auntie, where are they going to take me?" the child inquires, with
a solicitous look, as she straightens the folds of her dress with
her little hands.
"Gwine t' sell 'um," mumbles the old slave. "Lor', child, a'h wishes
ye wa'h mine; reckon da'h wouldn't sell ye. T'ant much to sell
nigger like I, nohow; but e' hurt my feelins just so 'twarnt right
t' sell de likes o' ye." The old slave, in return, lays her hand
upon Annette's head, and smooths her hair, as if solicitous of her
fate. "Sell ye, child-sell ye?" she concludes, shaking her head.
"And what will they do with me and Nicholas when they get us sold?"
continues the child, turning to Nicholas and taking him by the arm.
"Don' kno': perhaps save ye fo'h sinnin' agin de Lor'," is the old
slave's quick reply. She shakes her head doubtingly, and bursts into
tears, as she takes Annette in her arms, presses her to her bosom,
kisses and kisses her pure cheek. How heavenly is the affection of
that old slave--how it rebukes our Christian mockery!
"Will they sell us where we can't see mother, auntie? I do want to
see mother so," says the child, looking up in the old slave's face.
There seemed something too pure, too holy, in the child's
simplicity, as it prattled about its mother, for such purposes as it
is about to be consigned to. "They do not sell white folks, auntie,
do they? My face is as white as anybody's; and Nicholas's aint
black. I do want to see mother so! when will she come back and take
care of me, auntie?"
"Lor', child," interrupts the old negro, suppressing her emotions,
"no use to ax dem questions ven ye gwine t' market. Buckra right
smart at makin' nigger what bring cash."
The child expresses a wish that auntie would take her back to the
old plantation, where master, as mother used to call him, wouldn't
let them sell her away off. And she shakes her head with an air of
unconscious pertness; tells the old negro not to cry for her.
The cryer's bell sounds forth its muddling peals to summon the
customers; a grotesque mixture of men close round the stand. The old
slave, as if from instinct, again takes Annette in her arms, presses
and presses her to her bosom, looks compassionately in her face, and
smiles while a tear glistens in her eyes. She is inspired by the
beauty of the child; her heart bounds with affection for her tender
years; she loves her because she is lovely; and she smiles upon her
as a beautiful image of God's creation. But the old slave grieves
over her fate; her grief flows from the purity of the heart; she
knows not the rules of the slave church.
Annette is born a child of sorrow in this our land of love and
liberty; she is a democrat's daughter, cursed by the inconsistencies
of that ever-praised democratic goodness. A child! nothing more than
an item of common trade. It is even so; but let not happy democracy
blush, for the child, being merchandise, has no claims to that law
of the soul which looks above the frigidity of slave statutes. What
generosity is there in this generous land? what impulses of nature
not quenched by force of public opinion, when the associations of a
child like this (we are picturing a true story), her birth and
blood, her clear complexion, the bright carnatic of her cheek, will
not save her from the mercenary grasp of dollars and cents? It was
the law; the law had made men demons, craving the bodies and souls
of their fellow men. It was the white man's charge to protect the
law and the constitution; and any manifestation of sympathy for this
child would be in violation of a system which cannot be ameliorated
without endangering the whole structure: hence the comments escaping
from purchasers are only such as might have been expressed by the
sporting man in his admiration of a finely proportioned animal.
"What a sweet child!" says one, as they close round.
"Make a woman when she grows up!" rejoins another, twirling his
cane, and giving his hat an extra set on the side of his head.
"Take too long to keep it afore its valuable is developed; but it's
a picture of beauty. Face would do to take drawings from, it's so
full of delicate outlines," interposes a third.
An old gentleman, with something of the ministerial in his
countenance, and who has been very earnestly watching them for some
time, thinks a great deal about the subject of slavery, and the
strange laws by which it is governed just at this moment. He says,
"One is inspired with a sort of admiration that unlocks the heart,
while gazing at such delicacy and child-like sweetness as is
expressed in the face of that child." He points his cane coldly at
Annette. "It causes a sort of reaction in one's sense of right,
socially and politically, when we see it mixed up with niggers and
black ruffians to be sold."
"Must abide the laws, though," says a gentleman in black, on his
left.
"Yes," returns our friend, quickly, "if such property could be saved
the hands of speculators"--
"Speculators! speculators!" rejoins the gentleman in black, knitting
his brows.
"Yes; it's always the case in our society. The beauty of such
property makes it dangerous about a well-ordained man's house. Our
ladies, generally, have no sympathy with, and rather dislike its
ill-gotten tendencies. The piety of the south amounts to but little
in its influence on the slave population. The slave population
generates its own piety. There is black piety and white piety; but
the white piety effects little when it can dispose of poor black
piety just as it pleases; and there's no use in clipping the
branches off the tree while the root is diseased," concludes our
ministerial-looking gentleman, who might have been persuaded himself
to advance a bid, were he not so well versed in the tenour of
society that surrounded him.
During the above ad interim at the shambles, our good lady, Mrs.
Rosebrook, is straining every nerve to induce a gentleman of her
acquaintance to repair to the mart, and purchase the children on her
account.