MARSTON IN PRISON.
WHILE Franconia revives, let us beg the reader's indulgence for not
recounting the details thereof. The night continues dark and stormy,
but she must return to her own home,--she must soothe the excited
feelings of a dissolute and disregarding husband, who, no doubt, is
enjoying his night orgies, while she is administering consolation to
the downcast. "Ah! uncle," she says, about to take leave of him for
the night, "how with spirit the force of hope fortifies us; and yet
how seldom are our expectations realised through what we look
forward to! You now see the value of virtue; but when seen through
necessity, how vain the repentance. Nevertheless, let us profit by
the lesson before us; let us hope the issue may yet be favourable!"
Bob will see his young missus safe home-he will be her guide and
protector. So, preparing his cap, he buttons his jacket, laughs and
grins with joy, goes to the door, then to the fire-place, and to the
door again, where, keeping his left hand on the latch, and his right
holding the casement, he bows and scrapes, for "Missus comin."
Franconia arranges her dress as best she can, adjusts her bonnet,
embraces Marston, imprints a fond kiss on his cheek, reluctantly
relinquishes his hand, whispers a last word of consolation, and bids
him good night,--a gentle good night-in sorrow.
She has gone, and the old slave is her guide, her human watch-dog.
Slowly Marston paces the silent chamber alone, giving vent to his
pent-up emotions. What may to-morrow bring forth? runs through his
wearied mind. It is but the sudden downfall of life, so inseparable
from the planter who rests his hopes on the abundance of his human
property. But the slave returns, and relieves him of his musings. He
has seen his young missus safe to her door; he has received her kind
word, and her good, good night! Entering the chamber with a smile,
he sets about clearing away the little things, and, when done, draws
his seat close to Marston, at the fire-place. As if quite at home
beside his old master, he eyes Marston intently for some time,--seems
studying his thoughts and fears. At length the old slave commences
disclosing his feelings. His well-worn bones are not worth a large
sum; nor are the merits of his worthy age saleable;--no! there is
nothing left but his feelings, those genuine virtues so happily
illustrated. Daddy Bob will stand by mas'r, as he expresses it, in
power or in prison. Kindness has excited all that vanity in Bob so
peculiar to the negro, and by which he prides himself in the prime
value of his person. There he sits-Marston's faithful friend,
contemplating his silence with a steady gaze, and then, giving his
jet-black face a double degree of seriousness, shrugs his shoulders,
significantly nods his head, and intimates that it will soon be time
to retire, by commencing to unboot master.
"You seem in a hurry to get rid of me, Daddy! Want to get your own
cranium into a pine-knot sleep, eh?" says Marston, with an
encouraging smile, pulling the old slave's whiskers in a playful
manner.
"No, Boss; 'tant dat," returns Bob, keeping on tugging at Marston's
boots until he has got them from his feet, and safely stowed away in
a corner. A gentle hint that he is all ready to relieve Marston of
his upper garments brings him to his feet, when Bob commences upon
him in right good earnest, and soon has him stowed away between the
sheets. "Bob neber likes to hurry old Boss, but den 'e kno' what's
on old Mas'r's feelins, an 'e kno' dat sleep make 'um forget 'um!"
rejoins Bob, in a half whisper that caught Marston's ear, as he
patted and fussed about his pillow, in order to make him as
comfortable as circumstances would admit. After this he extinguishes
the light, and, accustomed to a slave's bed, lumbers himself down on
the floor beside his master's cot. Thus, watchfully, he spends the
night.
When morning dawned, Bob was in the full enjoyment of what the negro
so pertinently calls a long and strong sleep. He cannot resist its
soothing powers, nor will master disturb him in its enjoyment.
Before breakfast-time arrives, however, he arouses with a loud
guffaw, looks round the room vacantly, as if he were doubting the
presence of things about him. Rising to his knees, he rubs his eyes
languidly, yawns, and stretches his arms, scratches his head, and
suddenly gets a glimpse of old master, who is already dressed, and
sits by the window, his attention intently set upon some object
without. The old slave recognises the same chamber from which he
guided Franconia on the night before, and, after saluting mas'r,
sets about arranging the domestic affairs of the apartment, and
preparing the breakfast table, the breakfast being cooked at Aunt
Beckie's cabin, in the yard. Aunt Beckie had the distinguished
satisfaction of knowing Marston in his better days, and now esteems
it an honour to serve him, even in his poverty. Always happy to
inform her friends that she was brought up a first-rate pastry-cook,
she now adds, with great satisfaction, that she pays her owner, the
very Reverend Mr. Thomas Tippletony, the ever-pious rector of St.
Michael's, no end of money for her time, and makes a good profit at
her business beside. Notwithstanding she has a large family of
bright children to maintain in a respectable way, she hopes for a
continuance of their patronage, and will give the best terms her
limited means admit. She knows how very necessary it is for a
southern gentleman who would be anybody to keep up appearances, and,
with little means, to make a great display: hence she is very easy
in matters of payment. In Marston's case, she is extremely proud to
render him service,--to "do for him" as far as she can, and wait a
change for the better concerning any balance outstanding.
Bob fetches the breakfast of coffee, fritters, homony, and bacon,--a
very good breakfast it is, considering the circumstances,--and
spreads the little rustic board with an air of comfort and neatness
complimentary to the old slave's taste. And, withal, the old man
cannot forego the inherent vanity of his nature, for he is,
unconsciously, performing all the ceremonies of attendance he has
seen Dandy and his satellites go through at the plantation mansion.
He fusses and grins, and praises and laughs, as he sets the dishes
down one by one, keeping a watchful eye on mas'r, as if to detect an
approval in his countenance. "Reckon 'ow dis old nigger can fix old
Boss up aristocratic breakfast like Dandy. Now, Boss-da'h he is!" he
says, whisking round the table, setting the cups just so, and
spreading himself with exultation. "Want to see master smile-laugh
some-like 'e used down on da'h old plantation!" he ejaculates,
emphatically, placing a chair at Marston's plate. This done, he
accompanies his best bow with a scrape of his right foot, spreads
his hands,--the gesture being the signal of readiness. Marston takes
his chair, as Bob affects the compound dignity of the very best
trained nigger, doing the distinguished in waiting.
"A little less ceremony, my old faithful! the small follies of
etiquette ill become such a place as this. We must succumb to
circumstances: come, sit down, Bob; draw your bench to the chest,
and there eat your share, while I wait on myself," says Marston,
touching Bob on the arm. The words were no sooner uttered, than
Bob's countenance changed from the playful to the serious; he could
see nothing but dignity in master, no matter in what sphere he might
be placed. His simple nature recoils at the idea of dispensing with
the attention due from slave to master. Master's fallen fortunes,
and the cheerless character of the chamber, are nothing to Daddy-
master must keep up his dignity.
"You need'nt look so serious, Daddy; it only gives an extra shade to
your face, already black enough for any immediate purpose!" says
Marston, turning round and smiling at the old slave's discomfiture.
To make amends, master takes a plate from the table, and gives Bob a
share of his homony and bacon. This is very pleasing to the old
slave, who regains his wonted earnestness, takes the plate politely
from his master's hand, retires with it to the chest, and keeps up a
regular fire of chit-chat while dispensing its contents. In this
humble apartment, master and slave-the former once opulent, and the
latter still warm with attachment for his friend-are happily
companioned. They finish their breakfast,--a long pause intervenes.
"I would I were beyond the bounds of this our south," says Marston,
breaking the silence, as he draws his chair and seats himself by the
window, where he can look out upon the dingy little houses in the
lane.
The unhappy man feels the burden of a misspent life; he cannot
recall the past, nor make amends for its errors. But, withal, it is
some relief that he can disclose his feelings to the old man, his
slave.
"Mas'r," interrupts the old slave, looking complacently in his face,
"Bob 'll fowler ye, and be de same old friend. I will walk behind
Miss Frankone." His simple nature seems warming into fervency.
"Ah! old man," returns Marston, "if there be a wish (you may go
before me, though) I have on earth, it is that when I die our graves
may be side by side, with an epitaph to denote master, friend, and
faithful servant lie here." He takes the old man by the hand again,
as the tears drop from his cheeks. "A prison is but a grave to the
man of honourable feelings," he concludes. Thus disclosing his
feelings, a rap at the door announces a messenger. It is nine
o'clock, and immediately the sheriff, a gentlemanly-looking man,
wearing the insignia of office on his hat, walks in, and politely
intimates that, painful as may be the duty, he must request his
company to the county gaol, that place so accommodatingly prepared
for the reception of unfortunates.
"Sorry for your misfortunes, sir! but we'll try to make you as
comfortable as we can in our place." The servitor of the law seems
to have some sympathy in him. "I have my duty to perform, you know,
sir; nevertheless, I have my opinion about imprisoning honest men
for debt: it's a poor satisfaction, sir. I'm only an officer, you
see, sir, not a law-maker-never want to be, sir. I very much dislike
to execute these kind of writs," says the man of the law, as, with
an expression of commiseration, he glances round the room, and then
at Daddy, who has made preparations for a sudden dodge, should such
an expedient be found necessary.
"Nay, sheriff, think nothing of it; it's but a thing of common
life,--it may befall us all. I can be no exception to the rule, and
may console myself with the knowledge of companionship," replies
Marston, as coolly as if he were preparing for a journey of
pleasure.
How true it is, that, concealed beneath the smallest things, there
is a consolation which necessity may bring out: how Providence has
suited it to our misfortunes!
"There are a few things here-a very few-I should like to take to my
cell; perhaps I can send for them," he remarks, looking at the
officer, enquiringly.
"My name is Martin-Captain Martin, they call me,"-returns that
functionary, politely. "If you accept my word of honour, I pledge it
they are taken care of, and sent to your apartments."
"You mean my new lodging-house, or my new grave, I suppose,"
interrupted Marston, jocosely, pointing out to Daddy the few
articles of bedding, chairs, and a window-curtain he desired
removed. Daddy has been pensively standing by the fire-place the
while, contemplating the scene.
Marston soon announces his readiness to proceed; and, followed by
the old slave, the officer leads the way down the ricketty old
stairs to the street. "I's gwine t'see whar dey takes old mas'r, any
how, reckon I is," says the old slave, giving his head a significant
turn.
"Now, sir," interrupts the officer, as they arrive at the bottom of
the stairs, "perhaps you have a delicacy about going through the
street with a sheriff; many men have: therefore I shall confide in
your honour, sir, and shall give you the privilege of proceeding to
the gaol as best suits your feelings. I never allow myself to follow
the will of creditors; if I did, my duties would be turned into a
system of tyranny, to gratify their feelings only. Now, you may take
a carriage, or walk; only meet me at the prison gate."
"Thanks, thanks!" returns Marston, grateful for the officer's
kindness, "my crime is generosity; you need not fear me. My old
faithful here will guide me along." The officer bows assent, and
with a respectful wave of the hand they separate to pursue different
routes.
Marston walks slowly along, Bob keeping pace close behind. He passes
many of his old acquaintances, who, in better times, would have
recognised him with a cordial embrace; at present they have scarcely
a nod to spare. Marston, however, is firm in his resolution, looks
not on one side nor the other, and reaches the prison-gate in good
time. The officer has reached it in advance, and waits him there.
They pause a few moments as Marston scans the frowning wall that
encloses the gloomy-looking old prison. "I am ready to go in," says
Marston; and just as they are about to enter the arched gate, the
old slave touches him on the arm, and says, "Mas'r, dat's no place
fo'h Bob. Can't stand seein' on ye locked up wid sich folks as in
dah!" Solicitously he looks in his master's face. The man of trouble
grasps firmly the old slave's hand, holds it in silence for some
minutes-the officer, moved by the touching scene, turns his head
away-as tears course down his cheeks. He has no words to speak the
emotions of his heart; he shakes the old man's hand affectionately,
attempts to whisper a word in his ear, but is too deeply affected.
"Good by, mas'r: may God bless 'um! Ther's a place fo'h old mas'r
yet. I'll com t' see mas'r every night," says the old man, his words
flowing from the bounty of his heart. He turns away reluctantly,
draws his hand from Marston's, heaves a sigh, and repairs to his
labour. How precious was that labour of love, wherein the old slave
toils that he may share the proceeds with his master!
As Marston and the sheriff disappear through the gate, and are about
to ascend the large stone steps leading to the portal in which is
situated the inner iron gate opening into the debtors' ward, the
sheriff made a halt, and, placing his arm in a friendly manner
through Marston's, enquires, "Anything I can do for you? If there
is, just name it. Pardon my remark, sir, but you will, in all
probability, take the benefit of the act; and, as no person seems
willing to sign your bail, I may do something to relieve your wants,
in my humble way." Marston shakes his head; the kindness impedes an
expression of his feelings. "A word of advice from me, however, may
not be without its effect, and I will give it you; it is this:--Your
earnestness to save those two children, and the singular manner in
which those slave drudges of Graspum produced the documentary
testimony showing them property, has created wondrous suspicion
about your affairs. I will here say, Graspum's no friend of yours;
in fact, he's a friend to nobody but himself; and even now, when
questioned on the manner of possessing all your real estate, he
gives out insinuations, which, instead of exonerating you, create a
still worse impression against you. His conversation on the matter
leaves the inference with your creditors that you have still more
property secreted. Hence, mark me! it behoves you to keep close
lips. Don't let your right hand know what your left does," continues
the officer, in a tone of friendliness. They ascend to the iron
gate, look through the grating. The officer, giving a whistle, rings
the bell by touching a spring in the right-hand wall. "My lot at
last!" exclaims Marston. "How many poor unfortunates have passed
this threshold-how many times the emotions of the heart have burst
forth on this spot-how many have here found a gloomy rest from their
importuners-how many have here whiled away precious time in a gloomy
cell, provided for the punishment of poverty!" The disowned man, for
such he is, struggles to retain his resolution; fain would he,
knowing the price of that resolution, repress those sensations
threatening to overwhelm him.
The brusque gaoler appears at the iron gate; stands his burly figure
in the portal; nods recognition to the officer; swings back the iron
frame, as a number of motley prisoners gather into a semicircle in
the passage. "Go back, prisoners; don't stare so at every new
comer," says the gaoler, clearing the way with his hands extended.
One or two of the locked-up recognise Marston. They lisp strange
remarks, drawn forth by his appearance in charge of an officer. "Big
as well as little fish bring up here," ejaculates one.
"Where are his worshippers and his hospitable friends?" whispers
another.
"There's not much hospitality for poverty," rejoins a third,
mutteringly. "Southern hospitality is unsound, shallow, and flimsy;
a little dazzling of observances to cover very bad facts. You are
sure to find a people who maintain the grossest errors in their
political system laying the greatest claims to benevolence and
principle-things to which they never had a right. The phantom of
hospitality draws the curtain over many a vice-it is a well-told
nothingness ornamenting the beggared system of your slavery; that's
my honest opinion," says a third, in a gruff voice, which indicates
that he has no very choice opinion of such generosity. "If they want
a specimen of true hospitality, they must go to New England; there
the poor man's offering stocks the garden of liberty, happiness, and
justice; and from them spring the living good of all," he concludes;
and folding his arms with an air of independence, walks up the long
passage running at right angles with the entrance portal, and
disappears in a cell on the left.
"I knew him when he was great on the turf. He was very distinguished
then." "He'll be extinguished here," insinuates another, as he
protrudes his eager face over the shoulders of those who are again
crowding round the office-door, Marston and the officer having
entered following the gaoler.
The sheriff passes the committimus to the man of keys; that
functionary takes his seat at a small desk, while Marston stands by
its side, watching the process of his prison reception, in silence.
The gaoler reads the commitment, draws a book deliberately from off
a side window, spreads it open on his desk, and commences humming an
air. "Pootty smart sums, eh!" he says, looking up at the sheriff, as
he holds a quill in his left hand, and feels with the fingers of his
right for a knife, which, he observes, he always keeps in his right
vest pocket. "We have a poor debtor's calendar for registering these
things. I do these things different from other gaolers, and it loses
me nothin'. I goes on the true principle, that 'tant right to put
criminals and debtors together; and if the state hasn't made
provision for keeping them in different cells, I makes a difference
on the books, and that's somethin'. Helps the feelins over the
smarting point," says the benevolent keeper of all such troublesome
persons as won't pay their debts;--as if the monstrous concentration
of his amiability, in keeping separate books for the criminal and
poverty-stricken gentlemen of his establishment, must be duly
appreciated. Marston, particularly, is requested to take the
initiative, he being the most aristocratic fish the gaoler has
caught in a long time. But the man has made his pen, and now he
registers Marston's name among the state's forlorn gentlemen,
commonly called poor debtors. They always confess themselves in
dependent circumstances. Endorsing the commitment, he returns it to
the sheriff, who will keep the original carefully filed away in his
own well-stocked department. The sheriff will bid his prisoner good
morning! having reminded the gaoler what good care it was desirable
to take of his guest; and, extending his hand and shaking that of
Marston warmly, takes his departure, whilst our gaoler leads Marston
into an almost empty cell, where he hopes he will find things
comfortable, and leaves him to contemplate upon the fallen fruit of
poverty. "Come to this, at last!" said Marston, entering the
cavern-like place.