VENDERS OF HUMAN PROPERTY ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ITS MENTAL
CAPRICES.
READER! be patient with us, for our task is complex and tedious. We
have but one great object in view-that of showing a large number of
persons in the south, now held as slaves, who are by the laws of the
land, as well as the laws of nature, entitled to their freedom.
These people, for whom, in the name of justice and every offspring
of human right, we plead, were consigned to the bondage they now
endure through the unrighteous act of one whose name (instead of
being execrated by a nation jealous of its honour), a singular
species of southern historian has attempted to enshrine with fame.
Posterity, ignorant of his character, will find his name clothed
with a paragon's armour, while respecting the writer who so cleverly
with a pen obliterated his crimes. We have only feelings of pity for
the historian who discards truth thus to pollute paper with his
kindness; such debts due to friendship are badly paid at the shrine
of falsehood. No such debts do we owe; we shall perform our duty
fearlessly, avoiding dramatic effect, or aught else that may tend to
improperly excite the feelings of the benevolent. No one better
knows the defects of our social system-no one feels more forcibly
that much to be lamented fact of there being no human law extant not
liable to be evaded or weakened by the intrigues of designing
men;--we know of no power reposed in man the administration of which
is not susceptible of abuse, or being turned to means of oppression:
how much more exposed, then, must all these functions be where
slavery in its popular sway rides triumphant over the common law of
the land. Divine laws are with impunity disregarded and abused by
anointed teachers of divinity. Peculation, in sumptuous garb, and
with modern appliances, finds itself modestly-perhaps
unconsciously-gathering dross at the sacred altar. How saint-like in
semblance, and how unconscious of wrong, are ye bishops (holy ones,
scarce of earth, in holy lawn) in that land of freedom where the
slave's chains fall ere his foot pads its soil! how calmly resigned
the freemen who yield to the necessity of making strong the altar
with the sword of state! How, in the fulness of an expansive soul,
these little ones, in lawn so white, spurn the unsanctified
spoiler-themselves neck-deep in the very coffers of covetousness the
while! How to their christian spirit it seems ordained they should
see a people's ekeings serve their rolling in wealth and luxury!
and, yet, let no man question their walking in the ways of a meek
and lowly Saviour-that Redeemer of mankind whose seamless garb no
man purchaseth with the rights of his fellow. Complacently innocent
of themselves, they would have us join their flock and follow
them,--their pious eyes seeing only heavenly objects to be gained,
and their pure hearts beating in heavy throbs for the wicked turmoil
of our common world. Pardon us, brother of the flesh, say they, in
saintly whispers,--it is all for the Church and Christ. Boldly
fortified with sanctimony, they hurl back the shafts of reform, and
ask to live on sumptuously, as the only sought recompense for their
christian love. Pious infallibility! how blind, to see not the
crime!
Reader! excuse the diversion, and accompany us while we retrace our
steps to where we left the loquacious Mr. M'Fadden, recovered from
the fear of death, which had been produced by whiskey in draughts
too strong. In company with a numerous party, he is just returning
from an unsuccessful search for his lost preacher. They have scoured
the lawns, delved the morasses, penetrated thick jungles of brakes,
driven the cypress swamps, and sent the hounds through places
seemingly impossible for human being to seclude himself, and where
only the veteran rattlesnake would seek to lay his viperous head. No
preacher have they found. They utter vile imprecations on his head,
pit him "a common nigger," declare he has just learned enough, in
his own crooked way, to be dubious property-good, if a man can keep
him at minister business.
Mine host of the Inn feels assured, if he be hiding among the swamp
jungle, the snakes and alligators will certainly drive him out: an
indisputable fact this, inasmuch as alligators and snakes hate
niggers. M'Fadden affirms solemnly, that the day he bought that
clergyman was one of the unlucky days of his life; and he positively
regrets ever having been a politician, or troubling his head about
the southern-rights question. The party gather round the front
stoop, and are what is termed in southern parlance "tuckered out."
They are equally well satisfied of having done their duty to the
state and a good cause. Dogs, their tails drooping, sneak to their
kennels, horses reek with foam, the human dogs will "liquor" long
and strong.
"Tisn't such prime stock, after all!" says M'Fadden, entering the
veranda, reeking with mud and perspiration: "after a third attempt
we had as well give it up." He shakes his head, and then strikes his
whip on the floor. "I'll stand shy about buying a preacher, another
time," he continues; like a man, much against his will, forced to
give up a prize.
The crackers and wire-grass men (rude sons of the sand hills), take
the matter more philosophically,--probably under the impression that
to keep quiet will be to "bring the nigger out" where he may be
caught and the reward secured. Two hundred dollars is a sum for
which they would not scruple to sacrifice life; but they have three
gods-whiskey, ignorance, and idleness, any one of which can easily
gain a mastery over their faculties.
Mr. M'Fadden requests that his friends will all come into the
bar-room-all jolly fellows; which, when done, he orders mine host to
supply as much "good strong stuff" as will warm up their spirits.
He, however, will first take a glass himself, that he may drink all
their very good healths. This compliment paid, he finds himself
pacing up and down, and across the room, now and then casting
suspicious glances at the notice of reward, as if questioning the
policy of offering so large an amount. But sundown is close upon
them, and as the bar-room begins to fill up again, each new-comer
anxiously enquires the result of the last search,--which only serves
to increase the disappointed gentleman's excitement. The affair has
been unnecessarily expensive, for, in addition to the loss of his
preacher, the price of whom is no very inconsiderable sum, he finds
a vexatious bill running up against him at the bar. The friendship
of those who have sympathised with him, and have joined him in the
exhilarating sport of man-hunting, must be repaid with swimming
drinks. Somewhat celebrated for economy, his friends are surprised
to find him, on this occasion, rather inclined to extend the
latitude of his liberality. His keen eye, however, soon detects, to
his sudden surprise, that the hunters are not alone enjoying his
liberality, but that every new comer, finding the drinks provided at
M'Fadden's expense, has no objection to join in drinking his health;
to which he would have no sort of an objection, but for the cost.
Like all men suffering from the effect of sudden loss, he begins to
consider the means of economising by which he may repay the loss of
the preacher. "I say, Squire!" he ejaculates, suddenly stopping
short in one of his walks, and beckoning mine host aside, "That
won't do, it won't! It's a coming too tough, I tell you!" he says,
shaking his head, and touching mine host significantly on the arm.
"A fellow what's lost his property in this shape don't feel like
drinkin everybody on whiskey what costs as much as your 'bright
eye.' You see, every feller what's comin in's 'takin' at my expense,
and claiming friendship on the strength on't. It don't pay, Squire!
just stop it, won't ye?"
Mine host immediately directs the bar-keeper, with a sign and a
whisper:--"No more drinks at M'Fadden's score, 'cept to two or three
o' the most harristocratic." He must not announce the discontinuance
openly; it will insult the feelings of the friendly people, many of
whom anticipate a feast of drinks commensurate with their services
and Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's distinguished position in political
life. Were they, the magnanimous people, informed of this sudden
shutting off of their supplies, the man who had just enjoyed their
flattering encomiums would suddenly find himself plentifully
showered with epithets a tyrant slave-dealer could scarcely endure.
Calling mine host into a little room opening from the bar, he takes
him by the arm,--intimates his desire to have a consultation on the
state of his affairs, and the probable whereabouts of his
divine:--"You see, this is all the thanks I get for my kindness (he
spreads his hands and shrugs his shoulders.) A northern man may do
what he pleases for southern rights, and it's just the same; he
never gets any thanks for it. These sort o' fellers isn't to be
sneered at when a body wants to carry a political end," he adds,
touching mine host modestly on the shoulder, and giving him a
quizzing look, "but ye can't make 'um behave mannerly towards
respectable people, such as you and me is. But 'twould'nt do to give
'um edukation, for they'd just spile society-they would! Ain't my
ideas logical, now, squire?" Mr. M'Fadden's mind seems soaring away
among the generalities of state.
"Well!" returns mine host, prefacing the importance of his opinion
with an imprecation, "I'm fixed a'tween two fires; so I can't say
what would be square policy in affairs of state. One has feelins
different on these things: I depends a deal on what our big folks
say in the way of setting examples. And, too, what can you expect
when this sort a ruff-scuff forms the means of raising their
political positions; but, they are customers of mine,--have made my
success in tavern-keeping!" he concludes, in an earnest whisper.
"Now, squire!" M'Fadden places his hand in mine host's arm, and
looks at him seriously: "What 'bout that ar nigger preacher gittin
off so? No way t' find it out, eh squire?" M'Fadden enquires, with
great seriousness.
"Can't tell how on earth the critter did the thing; looked like
peaceable property when he went to be locked up, did!"
"I think somebody's responsible for him, squire?" interrupts
M'Fadden, watching the changes of the other's countenance: "seems
how I heard ye say ye'd take the risk-"
"No,--no,--no!" rejoins the other, quickly; "that never will do. I
never receipt for nigger property, never hold myself responsible to
the customers, and never run any risks about their niggers. You
forget, my friend, that whatever shadow of a claim you had on me by
law was invalidated by your own act."
"My own act?" interrupts the disappointed man. "How by my own act?
explain yourself!" suddenly allowing his feelings to become excited.
"Sending for him to come to your bedside and pray for you. It was
when you thought Mr. Jones, the gentleman with the horns, stood over
you with a warrant in his hand," mine host whispers in his ear,
shrugging his shoulders, and giving his face a quizzical expression.
"You appreciated the mental of the property then; but now you view
it as a decided defect."
The disappointed gentleman remains silent for a few moments. He is
deeply impressed with the anomaly of his case, but has not the
slightest objection to fasten the responsibility on somebody, never
for a moment supposing the law would interpose against the exercise
of his very best inclinations. He hopes God will bless him, says it
is always his luck; yet he cannot relinquish the idea of somebody
being responsible. He will know more about the preaching rascal's
departure. Turning to mine host of the inn: "But, you must have a
clue to him, somewhere?" he says, enquiringly.
"There's my woman; can see if she knows anything about the nigger!"
returns mine host, complacently. Ellen Juvarna is brought into the
presence of the injured man, who interrogates her with great care;
but all her disclosures only tend to throw a greater degree of
mystery over the whole affair. At this, Mr. M'Fadden declares that
the policy he has always maintained with reference to education is
proved true with the preacher's running away. Nigger property should
never be perverted by learning; though, if you could separate the
nigger from the preaching part of the property, it might do some
good, for preaching was at times a good article to distribute among
certain slaves "what had keen instincts." At times, nevertheless, it
would make them run away. Ellen knew Harry as a good slave, a good
man, a good Christian, sound in his probity, not at all inclined to
be roguish,--as most niggers are--a little given to drink, but never
bad-tempered. Her honest opinion is that such a pattern of worthy
nature and moral firmness would not disgrace itself by running away,
unless induced by white "Buckra." She thinks she heard a lumbering
and shuffling somewhere about the pen, shortly after midnight. It
might have been wolves, however. To all this Mr. M'Fadden listens
with marked attention. Now and then he interposes a word, to gratify
some new idea swelling his brain. There is nothing satisfactory yet:
he turns the matter over and over in his mind, looks Ellen
steadfastly in the face, and watches the movement of every muscle.
"Ah!" he sighs, "nothing new developing." He dismissed the wench,
and turns to mine host of the inn. "Now, squire, (one minute mine
host is squire, and the next Mr. Jones) tell ye what 'tis; thar's
roguery goin on somewhere among them ar' fellers--them sharpers in
the city, I means! (he shakes his head knowingly, and buttons his
light sack-coat round him). That's a good gal, isn't she?" he
enquires, drawing his chair somewhat closer, his hard face assuming
great seriousness.
Mine host gives an affirmative nod, and says, "Nothin shorter! Can
take her word on a turn of life or death. Tip top gal, that! Paid a
price for her what u'd make ye wink, I reckon."
"That's just what I wanted to know," he interrupts, suddenly
grasping the hand of his friend. "Ye see how I'se a little of a
philosopher, a tall politician, and a major in the brigade down our
district,--I didn't get my law akermin for nothin; and now I jist
discovers how somebody-I mean some white somebody-has had a hand in
helpin that ar' nig' preacher to run off. Cus'd critters! never know
nothing till some white nigger fills their heads with roguery."
"Say, my worthy M'Fadden," interrupts the publican, rising suddenly
from his seat, as if some new discovery had just broke forth in his
mind, "war'nt that boy sold under a warrant?"
"Warranted-warranted-warranted sound in every particular? That he
was. Just think of this, squire; you're a knowin one. It takes you!
I never thought on't afore, and have had all my nervousness for
nothin. Warranted sound in every particular, means-"
"A moment!" mine host interposes, suddenly: "there's a keen point of
law there; but it might be twisted to some account, if a body only
had the right sort of a lawyer to twist it."
The perplexed man rejoins by hoping he may not be interrupted just
at this moment. He is just getting the point of it straight in his
mind. "You see," he says, "the thing begun to dissolve itself in my
philosophy, and by that I discovered the pint the whole thing stands
on. Its entirely metaphysical, though," he says, with a significant
shake of the head. He laughs at his discovery; his father, long
since, told him he was exceedingly clever. Quite a match for the
publican in all matters requiring a comprehensive mind, he declares
there are few lawyers his equal at penetrating into points. "He
warranted him in every particular," he mutters, as mine host,
watching his seriousness, endeavours to suppress a smile. M'Fadden
makes a most learned motion of the fore finger of the right hand,
which he presses firmly into the palm of his left, while contracting
his brows. He will soon essay forth the point of logic he wishes to
enforce. The property being a certain man endowed with preaching
propensities, soundness means the qualities of the man, mental as
well as physical; and running away being an unsound quality, the
auctioneer is responsible for all such contingencies. "I have him
there,--I have!" he holds up his hands exultingly, as he exclaims the
words; his face brightens with animation. Thrusting his hands into
his trowsers pockets he paces the room for several minutes, at a
rapid pace, as if his mind had been relieved of some deep study. "I
will go directly into the city, and there see what I can do with the
chap I bought that feller of. I think when I put the law points to
him, he'll shell out."
Making some preliminary arrangements with Jones of the tavern, he
orders a horse to the door immediately, and in a few minutes more is
hastening on his way to the city.
Arriving about noon-day, he makes his way through its busy
thoroughfares, and is soon in the presence of the auctioneer. There,
in wondrous dignity, sits the seller of bodies and souls, his
cushioned arm-chair presenting an air of opulence. How coolly that
pomp of his profession sits on the hard mask of his iron features,
beneath which lurks a contempt of shame! He is an important item in
the political hemisphere of the state, has an honourable position in
society (for he is high above the minion traders), joined the
Episcopal church not many months ago, and cautions Mr. M'Fadden
against the immorality of using profane language, which that
aggrieved individual allows to escape his lips ere he enters the
door.
The office of our man of fame and fortune is thirty feet long by
twenty wide, and sixteen high. Its walls are brilliantly papered,
and painted with landscape designs; and from the centre of the
ceiling hangs a large chandelier, with ground-glass globes, on which
eagles of liberty are inscribed. Fine black-walnut desks, in chaste
carving, stand along its sides, at which genteelly-dressed clerks
are exhibiting great attention to business. An oil-cloth, with large
flowers painted on its surface, spreads the floor, while an air of
neatness reigns throughout the establishment singularly at variance
with the outer mart, where Mr. Forshou sells his men, women, and
little children. But its walls are hung with badly-executed
engravings, in frames of gilt. Of the distinguished vender's taste a
correct estimation may be drawn when we inform the reader that many
of these engravings represented nude females and celebrated
racehorses.
"Excuse me, sir! I didn't mean it," Mr. M'Fadden says, in reply to
the gentleman's caution, approaching him as he sits in his elegant
chair, a few feet from the street door, luxuriantly enjoying a
choice regalia. "It's the little point of a very nasty habit that
hangs upon me yet. I does let out the swear once in a while, ye see;
but it's only when I gets a crook in my mind what won't come
straight." Thus M'Fadden introduces himself, surprised to find the
few very consistent oaths he has made use of not compatible with the
man-seller's pious business habits. He will be cautious the next
time; he will not permit such foul breath to escape and wound the
gentleman's very tender feelings.
Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden addresses him as squire, and with studious
words informs him of the nigger preacher property he sold him having
actually run away! "Ye warranted him, ye know, squire!" he says,
discovering the object of his visit, then drawing a chair, and
seating himself in close proximity.
"Can't help that-quality we never warrant!" coolly returns the
other, turning politely in his arm-chair, which works in a socket,
and directing a clerk at one of the desks to add six months'
interest to the item of three wenches sold at ten o'clock.
"Don't talk that ar way, squire! I trades a deal in your line, and a
heap o' times, with you. Now we'll talk over the legal points."
"Make them short, if you please!"
"Well! ye warranted the nigger in every particular. There's the
advertisement; and there's no getting over that! Ye must do the
clean thing-no possumin-squire, or there 'll be a long lawsuit what
takes the tin. Honour's the word in our trade." He watches the
changes that are fast coming over the vender's countenance, folds
his arms, places his right foot over his left knee, and awaits a
reply. Interrupting the vender just as he is about to give his
opinion he draws from his pocket a copy of the paper containing
the advertisement, and places it in his hand: "If ye'll be good
enough to squint at it, ye'll see the hang o' my ideas," he says.
"My friend," returns the vender, curtly, having glanced over the
paper, "save me and yourself any further annoyance. I could have
told you how far the property was warranted, before I read the
paper; and I remember making some very particular remarks when
selling that item in the invoice. A nigger's intelligence is often a
mere item of consideration in the amount he brings under the hammer;
but we never warrant the exercise or extension of it. Po'h, man! we
might just as well attempt to warrant a nigger's stealing, lying,
cunning, and all such 'cheating master' propensities. Some of them
are considered qualities of much value-especially by poor planters.
Warrant nigger property not to run away, eh! Oh! nothing could be
worse in our business."
"A minute, squire!" interrupts the appealing Mr. M'Fadden, just as
the other is about to add a suspending clause to his remarks. "If
warrantin nigger proper sound in all partiklers is'nt warrantin it
not to run away, I'm no deacon! When a nigger's got run-away in him
he ain't sound property, no way ye can fix it. Ye may turn all the
law and philosophy yer mind to over in yer head, but it won't cum
common sense to me, that ye warrant a nigger's body part, and let
the head part go unwarranted. When ye sells a critter like that, ye
sells all his deviltry; and when ye warrants one ye warrants
t'other; that's the square rule o' my law and philosophy!"
The vender puffs his weed very coolly the while; and then, calling a
negro servant, orders a chair upon which to comfortably place his
feet. "Are you through, my friend?" he enquires, laconically; and
being answered in the affirmative, proceeds-"I fear your philosophy
is common philosophy-not the philosophy upon which nigger law is
founded. You don't comprehend, my valued friend, that when we insert
that negro property will be warranted, we don't include the thinking
part; and, of course, running away belongs to that!" he would inform
all those curious on such matters. Having given this opinion for the
benefit of M'Fadden, and the rest of mankind interested in slavery,
he rises from his seat, elongates himself into a consequential posi-
tion, and stands biting his lips, and dangling his watch chain with
the fingers of his left hand.
"Take ye up, there," the other suddenly interrupts, as if he has
drawn the point from his antagonist, and is prepared to sustain the
principle, having brought to his aid new ideas from the deepest
recesses of his logical mind. Grasping the vender firmly by the arm,
he looks him in the face, and reminds him that the runaway part of
niggers belongs to the heels, and not to the head.
The vender exhibits some discomfiture, and, at the same time, a
decided unwillingness to become a disciple of such philosophy. Nor
is he pleased with the familiarity of his importuning customer,
whose arm he rejects with a repulsive air.
There has evidently become a very nice and serious question, of
which Mr. M'Fadden is inclined to take a commonsense view. His
opponent, however, will not deviate from the strictest usages of
business. Business mentioned the mental qualities of the property,
but warranted only the physical,--hence the curious perplexity.
While the point stands thus nicely poised between their logic,
Romescos rushes into the office, and, as if to surprise M'Fadden,
extends his hand, smiling and looking in his face gratefully, as if
the very soul of friendship incited him. "Mighty glad to see ye, old
Buck!" he ejaculates, "feared ye war going to kick out."
The appalled man stands for a few seconds as unmoved as a statue;
and then, turning with a half-subdued smile, takes the hand of the
other, coldly.
"Friends again! ain't we, old boy?" breaks forth from Romescos, who
continues shaking his hand, at the same time turning his head and
giving a significant wink to a clerk at one of the desks. "Politics
makes bad friends now and then, but I always thought well of you,
Mack! Now, neighbour, I'll make a bargain with you; we'll live as
good folks ought to after this," Romescos continues, laconically.
His advance is so strange that the other is at a loss to comprehend
its purport. He casts doubting glances at his wily antagonist, seems
considering how to appreciate the quality of such an unexpected
expression of friendship, and is half inclined to demand an earnest
of its sincerity. At the same time, and as the matter now stands, he
would fain give his considerate friend wide space, and remain within
a proper range of etiquette until his eyes behold the substantial.
He draws aside from Romescos, who says tremblingly: "Losing that
preacher, neighbour, was a hard case-warn't it? You wouldn't a'
catched this individual buyin' preachers-know too much about 'em, I
reckon! It's no use frettin, though; the two hundred dollars 'll
bring him. This child wouldn't want a profitabler day's work for his
hound dogs." Romescos winks at the vender, and makes grimaces over
M'Fadden's shoulder, as that gentleman turns and grumbles out,--"He
warranted him in every partikler; and running away is one of a
nigger's partiklers?"
"My pertinacious friend!" exclaims the vender, turning suddenly
towards his dissatisfied customer, "seeing you are not disposed to
comprehend the necessities of my business, nor to respect my
position, I will have nothing further to say to you upon the
subject-not another word, now!" The dignified gentleman expresses
himself in peremptory tones. It is only the obtuseness of his innate
character becoming unnecessarily excited.
Romescos interposes a word or two, by way of keeping up the zest;
for so he calls it. Things are getting crooked, according to his
notion of the dispute, but fightin' won't bring back the lost.
"'Spose ye leaves the settlin on't to me? There's nothing like
friendship in trade; and seeing how I am up in such matters, p'raps
I can smooth it down."
"There's not much friendship about a loss of this kind; and he was
warranted sound in every particular!" returns the invincible man,
shaking his head, and affecting great seriousness of countenance.
"Stop that harpin, I say!" the vender demands, drawing himself into
a pugnacious attitude; "your insinuations against my honour
aggravate me more and more."
"Well! just as you say about it," is the cool rejoinder. "But you
'll have to settle the case afore lawyer Sprouts, you will!"
Stupidly inclined to dog his opinions, the sensitive gentleman,
claiming to be much better versed in the mode of selling human
things, becomes fearfully enraged. M'Fadden contends purely upon
contingencies which may arise in the mental and physical
complications of property in man; and this the gentleman man-seller
cannot bear the reiteration of.
"Romescos thinks it is at best but a perplexin snarl, requiring
gentlemen to keep very cool. To him they are both honourable men,
who should not quarrel over the very small item of one preacher.
"This warrantin' niggers' heads never amounts to anything,--it's just
like warrantin' their heels; and when one gets bad, isn't t'other
sure to be movin? Them's my sentiments, gratis!" Stepping a few feet
behind M'Fadden, Romescos rubs his hands in great anxiety, makes
curious signs to the clerks at the desk, and charges his mouth with
a fresh cut of tobacco.
"Nobody bespoke your opinion," says the disconsolate M'Fadden,
turning quickly, in consequence of a sign he detected one of the
clerks making, and catching Romescos bestowing a grimace of no very
complimentary character, "Your presence and your opinion are, in my
estimation, things that may easily be dispensed with."
"I say!" interrupts Romescos, his right hand in a threatening
attitude, "not quite so fast"-he drawls his words-"a gentleman don't
stand an insult o' that sort. Just draw them ar' words back, like a
yard of tape, or this individual 'll do a small amount of bruising
on that ar' profile, (he draws his hand backward and forward across
M'Fadden's face). 'Twon't do to go to church on Sundays with a
broken phiz?" His face reddens with anger, as he works his head into
a daring attitude, grates his teeth, again draws his fist across
M'Fadden's face; and at length rubs his nasal organ.
"I understand you too well!" replies M'Fadden, with a curt twist of
his head. "A man of your cloth can't insult a gentleman like me;
you're lawless!" He moves towards the door, stepping sideways,
watching Romescos over his left shoulder.
"I say!-Romescos takes his man by the arm-Come back here, and make a
gentleman's apology!" He lets go M'Fadden's arm and seizes him by
the collar violently, his face in a blaze of excitement.
"Nigger killer!" ejaculates M'Fadden, "let go there!" He gives his
angry antagonist a determined look, as he, for a moment, looses his
hold. He pauses, as if contemplating his next move.
The very amiable and gentlemanly man-vender thinks it time he
interposed for the purpose of reconciling matters. "Gentlemen!
gentlemen! respect me, if you do not respect yourselves. My office
is no place for such disgraceful broils as these; you must go
elsewhere." The modest gentleman, whose very distinguished family
connexions have done much to promote his interests, would have it
particularly understood that his office is an important place, used
only for the very distinguished business of selling men, women, and
little children. But Romescos is not so easily satisfied. He pushes
the amiable gentleman aside, calls Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden a tyrant
what kills niggers by the detestably mean process of starving them
to death. "A pretty feller he is to talk about nigger killin! And
just think what our state has come to when such fellers as him can
make votes for the next election!" says Romescos, addressing himself
to the vender. "The Irish influence is fast destroying the political
morality of the country."
Turning to Mr. M'Fadden, who seems preparing for a display of his
combativeness, he adds, "Ye see, Mack, ye will lie, and lie crooked
too! and ye will steal, and steal dishonourably; and I can lick a
dozen on ye quicker nor chain lightnin? I can send the hol batch on
ye-rubbish as it is-to take supper t'other side of sundown." To be
equal with his adversary, Romescos is evidently preparing himself
for the reception of something more than words. Twice or thrice he
is seen to pass his right hand into the left breast pocket of his
sack, where commonly his shining steel is secreted. In another
moment he turns suddenly towards the vender, pushes him aside with
his left hand, and brings his right in close proximity with Mr.
M'Fadden's left listener. That individual exhibits signs of renewed
courage, to which he adds the significant warning: "Not quite so
close, if you please!"
"As close as I sees fit!" returns the other, with a sardonic grin.
"Why don't you resent it?-a gentleman would!"
Following the word, Mr. M'Fadden makes a pass at his antagonist,
which, he says, is only with the intention of keeping him at a
respectful distance. Scarcely has his arm passed when Romescos cries
out, "There! he has struck me! He has struck me again!" and deals
M'Fadden a blow with his clenched fist that fells him lumbering to
the floor. Simultaneously Romescos falls upon his prostrate victim,
and a desperate struggle ensues.
The vender, whose sacred premises are thus disgraced, runs out to
call the police, while the clerks make an ineffectual attempt to
separate the combatants. Not a policeman is to be found. At night
they may be seen swarming the city, guarding the fears of a white
populace ever sensitive of black rebellion.
Like an infuriated tiger, Romescos, nimble as a catamount, is fast
destroying every vestige of outline in his antagonist's face,
drenching it with blood, and adding ghastliness by the strangulation
he is endeavouring to effect.
"Try-try-trying to-kill-me-eh? You-you mad brute!" gutters out the
struggling man, his eyes starting from the sockets like balls of
fire, while gore and saliva foam from his mouth and nostrils as if
his struggles are in death.
"Kill ye-kill ye?" Romescos rejoins, the shaggy red hair falling in
tufts about his face, now burning with desperation: "it would be
killin' only a wretch whose death society calls for."
At this, the struggling man, like one borne to energy by the last
throes of despair, gives a desperate spring, succeeds in turning his
antagonist, grasps him by the throat with his left hand, and from
his pocket fires a pistol with his right. The report alarms; the
shrill whistle calls to the rescue; but the ball has only taken
effect in the flesh of Romescos's right arm. Quick to the moment,
his arm dripping with gore from the wound, he draws his glittering
dirk, and plunges it, with unerring aim, into the breast of his
antagonist. The wounded man starts convulsively, as the other coolly
draws back the weapon, the blood gushing forth in a livid stream.
"Is not that in self-defence?" exclaims the bloody votary, turning
his haggard and enraged face to receive the approval of the
bystanders. The dying man, writhing under the grasp of his murderer,
utters a piercing shriek. "Murdered! I'm dying! Oh, heaven! is this
my last-last-last? Forgive me, Lord,--forgive me!" he gurgles; and
making another convulsive effort, wrings his body from under the
perpetrator of the foul deed. How tenacious of life is the dying
man! He grasps the leg of a desk, raises himself to his feet, and,
as if goaded with the thoughts of hell, in his last struggles
staggers to the door,--discharges a second shot, vaults, as it were,
into the street, and falls prostrate upon the pavement, surrounded
by a crowd of eager lookers-on. He is dead! The career of Mr.
M'Fadden is ended; his spirit is summoned for trial before a just
God.
The murderer (perhaps we abuse the word, and should apply the more
southern, term of renconterist), sits in a chair, calling for water,
as a few among the crowd prepare to carry the dead body into
Graspum's slave-pen, a few squares below.
Southern sensibility may call these scenes by whatever name it will;
we have no desire to change the appropriateness, nor to lessen the
moral tenor of southern society. It nurtures a frail democracy, and
from its bastard offspring we have a tyrant dying by the hand of a
tyrant, and the spoils of tyranny serving the good growth of the
Christian church. Money constructs opinions, pious as well as
political, and even changes the feelings of good men, who invoke
heaven's aid against the bondage of the souls of men.
Romescos will not flee to escape the terrible award of earthly
justice. Nay, that, in our atmosphere of probity, would be
dishonourable; nor would it aid the purpose he seeks to gain.