THE CHILDREN ARE IMPROVING.
THREE years have rolled round, and wrought great changes in the
aspect of affairs. M'Fadden was buried on his plantation, Romescos
was bailed by Graspum, and took his trial at the sessions for
manslaughter. It was scarcely worth while to trouble a respectable
jury with the paltry case-and then, they were so frequent! We need
scarcely tell the reader that he was honourably acquitted, and borne
from the court amid great rejoicing. His crime was only that of
murder in self-defence; and, as two tyrants had met, the successful
had the advantage of public opinion, which in the slave world soars
high above law. Romescos being again on the world, making his
cleverness known, we must beg the reader's indulgence, and request
him to accompany us while we return to the children.
Annette and Nicholas are, and have been since the sale, the property
of Graspum. They develope in size and beauty-two qualities very
essential in the man-market of our democratic world, the South.
Those beautiful features, intelligence, and reserve, are much
admired as merchandise; for southern souls are not lifted above this
grade of estimating coloured worth. Annette's cherub face, soft blue
eyes, clear complexion, and light auburn hair, add to the sweetness
of a countenance that education and care might make brilliant; and
yet, though reared on Marston's plantation, with unrestricted
indulgence, her childish heart seems an outpouring of native
goodness. She speaks of her mother with the affection of one of
maturer years; she grieves for her return, wonders why she is left
alone, remembers how kind that mother spoke to her when she said
good by, at the cell door. How sweet is the remembrance of a mother!
how it lingers, sparkling as a dewdrop, in a child's memory. Annette
feels the affliction, but is too young to divine the cause thereof.
She recalls the many happy plantation scenes; they are bright to her
yet! She prattles about Daddy Bob, Harry, Aunt Rachel, and old Sue,
now and then adding a solicitous question about Marston. But she
does not realise that he is her father; no, it was not her lot to
bestow a daughter's affection upon him, and she is yet too young to
comprehend the poison of slave power. Her childlike simplicity
affords a touching contrast to that melancholy injustice by which a
fair creature with hopes and virtues after God's moulding, pure and
holy, is made mere merchandise for the slave-market.
Annette has learned to look upon Nicholas as a brother; but, like
herself, he is kept from those of his own colour by some, to him,
unintelligible agency. Strange reflections flit through her youthful
imagination, as she embraces him with a sister's fondness. How oft
she lays her little head upon his shoulder, encircles his neck with
her fair arm, and braids his raven hair with her tiny fingers! She
little thinks how fatal are those charms she bears bloomingly into
womanhood.
But, if they alike increase in beauty as they increase in age, their
dispositions are as unlike as two opposites can be moulded. Nicholas
has inherited that petulant will, unbending determination, and
lurking love of avenging wrong, so peculiar to the Indian race. To
restlessness he adds distrust of those around him; and when
displeased, is not easily reconciled. He is, however, tractable, and
early evinced an aptitude for mechanical pursuits that would have
done credit to maturer years. Both have been at service, and during
the period have created no small degree of admiration-Annette for
her promising personal appearance, Nicholas for his precocious
display of talent. Both have earned their living; and now Nicholas
is arrived at an age when his genius attracts purchasers.
Conspicuous among those who have been keeping an eye on the little
fellow, is Mr. Jonathan Grabguy, a master-builder, largely engaged
in rearing dwellings. His father was a builder, and his mother used
to help the workmen to make Venetian blinds. Fortune showered her
smiles upon their energies, and brought them negro property in great
abundance. Of this property they made much; the father of the
present Mr. Grabguy (who became a distinguished mayor of the city)
viewing it peculiarly profitable to use up his niggers in five
years. To this end he forced them to incessant toil, belabouring
them with a weapon of raw hide, to which he gave the singular
cognomen of "hell-fire." When extra punishment was-according to his
policy-necessary to bring out the "digs," he would lock them up in
his cage (a sort of grated sentry-box, large enough to retain the
body in an upright position), and when the duration of this
punishment was satisfactory to his feelings, he would administer a
counter quantity of stings with his "hell-fire" wattle. Indeed, the
elder Mr. Grabguy, who afterwards became "His Worship the Mayor,"
was a wonderful disciplinarian, which very valuable traits of
character his son retains in all their purity. His acts deserve more
specific notice than we are at present able to give them, inasmuch
as by them the safety of a state is frequently endangered, as we
shall show in the climax.
Our present Mr. Grabguy is a small man, somewhat slender of person,
about five feet seven inches high, who usually dresses in the
habiliments of a working man, and is remarkable for his quickness.
His features are dark and undefinable, marked with that
thoughtfulness which applies only to the getting of wordly goods.
His face is narrow and careworn, with piercing brown eyes, high
cheek bones, projecting nose and chin, low forehead, and greyish
hair, which he parts in the centre. These form the strongest index
to his stubborn character; nevertheless he hopes, ere long, to reach
the same distinguished position held by his venerable father, who,
peace to his ashes! is dead.
"Now, good neighbour Graspum," says our Mr. Grabguy, as he stands in
Graspum's warehouse examining a few prime fellows, "I've got a small
amount to invest in stock, but I wants somethin' choice-say two or
three prime uns, handy at tools. I wants somethin' what 'll make
mechanics. Then I wants to buy," he continues, deliberately, "a few
smart young uns, what have heads with somethin' in 'um, that ye can
bring up to larn things. White mechanics, you see, are so
independent now-a-days, that you can't keep 'um under as you can
niggers.
"I've bin thinkin' 'bout tryin' an experiment with nigger prentices;
and, if it goes, we can dispense with white mechanics entirely. My
word for it, they're only a great nuisance at best. When you put 'um
to work with niggers they don't feel right, and they have notions
that our society don't respect 'um because they must mix with the
black rascals in following their trades; and this works its way into
their feelings so, that the best on 'um from the north soon give
themselves up to the worst dissipation. Ah! our white mechanics are
poor wretches; there isn't twenty in the city you can depend on to
keep sober two days."
"Well, sir," interrupts Graspum, with an air of great importance,
as, with serious countenance, he stands watching every change in Mr.
Grabguy's face, at intervals taking a cursory survey of his
merchandise, "can suit you to most anything in the line. You
understand my mode of trade, perfectly?" He touches Mr. Grabguy on
the arm, significantly, and waits the reply, which that gentleman
makes with a bow. "Well, if you do," he continues, "you know the
means and markets I have at my command. Can sell you young uns of
any age, prime uns of various qualities-from field hands down to
watch-makers, clergymen!" He always keeps a good supply on hand, and
has the very best means of supply. So Mr. Grabguy makes a purchase
of three prime men, whom he intends to transform into first-rate
mechanics. He declares he will not be troubled hereafter with those
very miserable white workmen he is constrained to import from the
north. They are foolish enough to think they are just as good as any
body, and can be gentlemen in their profession. They, poor fools!
mistake the south in their love of happy New England and its
society, as they call it.
Having completed his bargain, he hesitates, as if there is something
more he would like to have. "Graspum!" he says, "What for trade? can
we strike for that imp o' yours at Mrs. Tuttlewill's?" Without
waiting for Graspum's reply, he adds-"That chap 's goin to make a
tall bit of property one of these days!"
"Ought to," rejoins Graspum, stoically; "he's got right good stock
in him." The man of business gives his head a knowing shake, and
takes a fresh quid of tobacco. "Give that 'sprout' a chance in the
world, and he'll show his hand!" he adds.
"That's what I wants," intimates our tradesman. He has had his eye
on the fellow, and knows he's got a head what 'll make the very best
kind of a workman. But it will be necessary to take the stubborn out
without injuring the "larning" part. Mr. Grabguy, with great
unconcern, merely suggests these trifling matters for the better
regulating of Mr. Graspum's price.
"Can do that easy enough, if you only study the difference between a
nigger's hide and head. Can put welts on pretty strong, if you
understand the difference a'tween the too," intimates our man of
business, as he places his thumbs in his vest, and commences humming
a tune. Then he stops suddenly, and working his face into a very
learned contortion, continues-"Ye see, Grabguy, a man has to study
the human natur of a nigger just the same as he would a mule or a
machine. In truth, Grabguy, niggers are more like mules nor anything
else, 'cause the brute 'll do everything but what ye wants him to
do, afore he's subdued. You must break them when they are young.
About ten or a dozen welts, sir, well laid on when ye first begin,
and every time he don't toe the mark, will, in the course of a year,
make him as submissive as a spaniel-it will! The virtue of
submission is in the lash, it supples like seeds."
"About the stock, Graspum: I don't quite agree with you about
that,--I never believed in blood, ye know. As far as this imp goes, I
have my doubts about the blood doin on him much good; seein' how it
kind o' comes across my mind that there's some Ingin in him. Now, if
my philosophy serves me right, Ingin blood makes slave property want
to run away (the speaker spreads himself with great nonchalance),
the very worst fault."
"Poh! poh!-isn't a bit o' that about him. That imp 's from Marston's
estate, can't scare up nothin so promisin' in the way of likely
colour," Graspum interposes, with great assurance of manner. "You
didn't see the gal-did you?" he concludes.
"I reckon I've taken a squint at both on 'em! Pretty fine and
likely. From the same bankrupt concern, I s'pose?" Mr. Grabguy looks
quite serious, and waits for a reply.
"Yes-nothing less," Graspum replies, measuredly. "But won't it make
your eye water, neighbour Grabguy, one of these days! Bring a tall
price among some of our young bucks, eh!" He gives neighbour Grabguy
a significant touch on the arm, and that gentleman turns his head
and smiles. How quaintly modest!
"By the by, talking of Marston, what has become of him? His affairs
seem to have died out in the general levity which the number of such
cases occasion. But I tell you what it is, Graspum," (he whispers,
accompanying the word with an insinuating look), "report implicates
you in that affair."
"Me?-Me?-Me, Sir? God bless you! why, you really startle me. My
honour is above the world's scandal. Ah! if you only knew what I've
done for that man, Marston;--that cussed nephew of his came within a
feather of effecting my ruin. And there he lies, stubborn as a door-
plate, sweating out his obstinacy in gaol. Lord bless your soul, I'm
not to blame, you know!-I have done a world of things for him; but
he won't be advised."
"His creditors think he has more money, and money being the upshot
of all his troubles, interposes the point of difficulty in the
present instance. I tell them he has no more money, but--I know not
why--they doubt the fact the more, and refuse to release him, on the
ground of my purchasing their claims at some ulterior period, as I
did those two fi fas when the right of freedom was being contested
in the children. But, you see, Grabguy, I'm a man of standing; and
no money would tempt me to have anything to do with another such
case. It was by a mere quirk of law, and the friendship of so many
eminent lawyers, that I secured that fifteen hundred dollars from
M'Carstrow for the gal what disappeared so mysteriously."
"Graspum!" interrupts Mr. Grabguy, suddenly, accompanying his remark
with a laugh, "you're a good bit of a lawyer when it comes to the
cross-grained. You tell it all on one side, as lawyers do. I know
the risk you run in buying the fi fas on which those children were
attached!" Mr. Grabguy smiles, doubtingly, and shakes his head.
"There are liabilities in everything," Graspum drawls out,
measuredly. "Pardon me, my friend, you never should found opinion on
suspicion. More than a dozen times have I solicited Marston to file
his schedule, and take the benefit of the act. However, with all my
advice and kindness to him, he will not move a finger towards his
own release. Like all our high-minded Southerners, he is ready to
maintain a sort of compound between dignity and distress, with which
he will gratify his feelings. It's all pride, sir-pride!-you may
depend upon it." (Graspum lays his hands together, and affects
wondrous charity). "I pity such men from the very bottom of my
heart, because it always makes me feel bad when I think what they
have been. Creditors, sir, are very unrelenting; and seldom think
that an honourable man would suffer the miseries of a prison rather
than undergo the pain of being arraigned before an open court, for
the exposition of his poverty. Sensitiveness often founds the charge
of wrong. The thing is much misunderstood; I know it, sir! Yes, sir!
My own feelings make me the best judge," continues Graspum, with a
most serious countenance. He feels he is a man of wonderful parts,
much abused by public opinion, and, though always trying to promote
public good, never credited for his many kind acts.
Turning his head aside to relieve himself of a smile, Mr. Grabguy
admits that he is quite an abused man; and, setting aside small
matters, thinks it well to be guided by the good motto:--'retire
from business with plenty of money.' It may not subdue tongues, but
it will soften whispers. "Money," Mr. Grabguy intimates, "upon the
strength of his venerable father's experience, is a curious medium
of overcoming the ditchwork of society. In fact," he assures Graspum,
"that with plenty of shiners you may be just such a man as you
please; everybody will forget that you ever bought or sold a nigger,
and ten chances to one if you do not find yourself sloped off into
Congress, before you have had time to study the process of getting
there. But, enough of this, Graspum;--let us turn to trade matters.
What's the lowest shot ye'll take for that mellow mixture of Ingin
and aristocracy. Send up and bring him down: let us hear the lowest
dodge you'll let him slide at."
Mr. Grabguy evinces an off-handedness in trade that is quite equal
to Graspum's keen tact. But Graspum has the faculty of preserving a
disinterested appearance singularly at variance with his object.
A messenger is despatched, receipt in hand, for the boy Nicholas.
Mrs. Tuttlewell, a brusque body of some sixty years, and with
thirteen in a family, having had three husbands (all gentlemen of
the highest standing, and connected with first families), keeps a
stylish boarding-house, exclusively for the aristocracy, common
people not being competent to her style of living; and as nobody
could ever say one word against the Tuttlewell family, the present
head of the Tuttlewell house has become very fashionably
distinguished. The messenger's arrival is made known to Mrs.
Tuttlewell, who must duly consider the nature of the immediate
demand. She had reason to expect the services of the children would
have been at her command for some years to come. However, she must
make the very best of it; they are Graspum's property, and he can do
what he pleases with them. She suggests, with great politeness, that
the messenger take a seat in the lower veranda. Her house is located
in a most fashionable street, and none knew better than good lady
Tuttlewell herself the value of living up to a fashionable nicety;
for, where slavery exists, it is a trade to live.
Both children have been "waiting on table," and, on hearing the
summons, repair to their cabin in the yard. Mrs. Tuttlewell,
reconsidering her former decision, thinks the messenger better
follow them, seeing that he is a nigger with kindly looks. "Uncle!"
says Annette, looking up at the old Negro, as he joins them: "Don't
you want me too?"
"No," returns the man, coolly shaking his head.
"I think they must be going to take us back to the old plantation,
where Daddy Bob used to sing so. Then I shall see mother-how I do
want to see her!" she exclaims, her little heart bounding with
ecstasy. Three years or more have passed since she prattled on her
mother's knee.
The negro recognizes the child's simplicity. "I on'e wants dat
child; but da'h an't gwine t' lef ye out on da plantation, nohow!"
he says.
"Not going to take us home!" she says, with a sigh. Nicholas moodily
submits himself to be prepared, as Annette, more vivacious, keeps
interposing with various enquiries. She would like to know where
they are going to take little Nicholas; and when they will let her
go and see Daddy Bob and mother? "Now, you can take me; I know you
can!" she says, looking up at the messenger, and taking his hand
pertly.
"No-can't, little 'un! Mus' lef' 'um fo'h nuder time. You isn't
broder and sister-is ye?"
"No!" quickly replies the little girl, swinging his hand playfully;
"but I want to go where he goes; I want to see mother when he does."
"Well, den, little 'un (the negro sees he cannot overcome the
child's simplicity by any other means), dis child will come fo'h 'um
to-morrow-dat I will!"
"And you'll bring Nicholas back-won't you?" she enquires, grasping
the messenger more firmly by the hand.
"Sartin! no mistake 'bout dat, little 'uman." At this she takes
Nicholas by the hand, and retires to their little room in the cabin.
Here, like one of older years, she washes him, and dresses him, and
fusses over him.
He is merely a child for sale; so she combs his little locks, puts
on his new osnaburgs, arranges his nice white collar about his neck,
and makes him look so prim. And then she ties a piece of black
ribbon about his neck, giving him the bright appearance of a
school-boy on examination-day. The little girl's feelings seem as
much elated as would be a mother's at the prospect of her child
gaining a medal of distinction.
"Now, Nicholas!" she whispers, with touching simplicity, as she
views him from head to foot with a smile of exultation on her face,
"your mother never dressed you so neat. But I like you more and
more, Nicholas, because both our mothers are gone; and maybe we
shall never see 'um again." And she kisses him fondly,--tells him not
to stay long,--to tell her all he has seen and heard about mother,
when he returns.
"I don't know, 'Nette, but 'pears to me we ain't like other
children-they don't have to be sold so often; and I don't seem to
have any father."
"Neither do I; but Mrs. Tuttlewell says I mustn't mind that, because
there's thousands just like us. And then she says we ain't the same
kind o' white folks that she is; she says we are white, but niggers
for all that. I don't know how it is! I'm not like black folks,
because I'm just as white as any white folks," she rejoins, placing
her little arms round his neck and smoothing his hair with her left
hand.
"I'll grow up, one o' these days."
"And so will I," she speaks, boldly.
"And I'm goin' to know where my mother's gone, and why I ain't as
good as other folks' white children," he rejoins sullenly, shaking
his head, and muttering away to himself. It is quite evident that
the many singular stages through which he is passing, serve only to
increase the stubborness of his nature. The only black
distinguishable in his features are his eyes and hair; and, as he
looks in the glass to confirm what he has said, Annette takes him by
the hand, tells him he must not mind, now; that if he is good he
shall see Franconia,--and mother, too, one of these days. He must not
be pettish, she remarks, holding him by the hand like a sister whose
heart glows with hope for a brother's welfare. She gives him in
charge of the messenger, saying, "Good by!" as she imprints a kiss
on his cheek, its olive hues changing into deep crimson.
The negro answers her adieu with "Good by, little dear! God bless
'um!" Nay, the native goodness of his heart will not permit him to
leave her thus. He turns round, takes her in his arms, kisses and
kisses her fair cheek. It is the truth of an honest soul, expressed
with tears glistening in his eyes. Again taking Nicholas by the
hand, he hastens through the passage of Mrs. Tuttlewell's house
where, on emerging into the street, he is accosted by that very
fashionable lady, who desires to know if he has got the boy "all
right!" Being answered in the affirmative, she gives a very
dignified-"Glad of it," and desires her compliments to Mr. Graspum,
who she hopes will extend the same special regards to his family,
and retires to the quietude of her richly-furnished parlour.
The gentleman dealer and his customer are waiting in the man
shambles, while the negro messenger with his boy article of trade
plod their way along through the busy streets. The negro looks on
his charge with a smile of congratulation. "Mas'r 'll laugh all over
'e clothes when he sees ye-dat he will!" he says, with an air of
exultation.
"I'd like to know where I'm goin' to afore I go much further,"
returns the boy, curtly, as he walks along, every few minutes asking
unanswerable questions of the negro.
"Lor, child!" returns the negro, with a significant smile, "take ye
down to old massa what own 'um! Fo'h true!"
"Own me!" mutters the child, surlily. "How can they own me without
owning my mother?--and I've no father."
"White man great 'losipher; he know so much, dat nigger don't know
nofin," is the singularly significant answer.
"But God didn't make me for a nigger,--did he?"
"Don' know how dat is, child. 'Pears like old mas'r tink da' ain't
no God; and what he sees in yander good book lef 'um do just as 'e
mind to wid nigger. Sometimes Buckra sell nigger by de pound, just
like 'e sell pig; and den 'e say 't was wid de Lord's will."
"If mas'r Lord be what Buckra say he be, dis child don' want t'be
'quainted wid 'um," he coolly dilates, as if he foresees the
mournful result of the child's bright endowments.
The negro tries to quiet the child's apprehensions by telling him he
thinks "Buckra, what's waiting down in da'h office, gwine t' buy 'um
of old mas'r. Know dat Buckra he sharp feller. Get e' eye on ye, and
make up 'e mind what 'e gwine to give fo'h 'um, quicker!" says the
negro.
Graspum has invited his customer, Mr. Grabguy, into his more
comfortable counting-room, where, as Nicholas is led in, they may be
found discussing the rights of the south, as guaranteed by the
federal constitution. The south claim rights independent of the
north; and those rights are to secede from the wrongs of the north
whenever she takes into her head the very simple notion of carrying
them out. Graspum, a man of great experience, whose keen sense of
justice is made keener by his sense of practical injustice,--thinks
the democracy of the south was never fully understood, and that the
most sure way of developing its great principles is by hanging every
northerner, whose abolition mania is fast absorbing the liberties of
the country at large.
"That's the feller!" says Mr. Grabguy, as the negro leads Nicholas
into his presence, and orders him to keep his hands down while the
gentleman looks at him. "Stubborn sticks out some, though, I
reckon," Mr. Grabguy adds, rather enthusiastically. "Absalom! Isaac!
Joe! eh? what's your name?"
"He's a trump!" interposes Graspum, rubbing his hands together, and
giving his head a significant shake.
"Nicholas, they call me, master," answers the boy, pettishly.
Mr. Grabguy takes him by the arms, feels his muscle with great care
and caution, tries the elasticity of his body by lifting him from
the floor by his two ears. This is too much, which the child
announces with loud screams. "Stuff! out and out," says Mr. Grabguy,
patting him on the back, in a kind sort of way. At the same time he
gives a look of satisfaction at Graspum.
"Everything a man wants, in that yaller skin," returns that
methodical tradesman, with a gracious nod.
"Black lightnin' eyes-long wiry black hair, a skin full of Ingin
devil, and a face full of stubborn," Mr. Grabguy discourses, as he
contemplates the article before him.
"Well, now, about the lowest figure for him?" he continues, again
looking at Graspum, and waiting his reply. That gentleman, drawing
his right hand across his mouth, relieves it of the virtueless
deposit, and supplies it with a fresh quid.
"Sit down, neighbour Grabguy," he says, placing a chair beside him.
They both sit down; the negro attendant stands a few feet behind
them: the boy may walk a line backward and forward. "Say the word!
You know I'll have a deal o' trouble afore breaking the feller in,"
Grabguy exclaims, impatiently.
Graspum is invoking his philosophy. He will gauge the point of value
according to the coming prospect and Mr. Grabguy's wants. "Well,
now, seeing it's you, and taking the large amount of negro property
I have sold to your distinguished father into consideration-I hope
to sell forty thousand niggers yet, before I die-he should bring six
hundred." Graspum lays his left hand modestly on Mr. Grabguy's right
arm, as that gentleman rather starts with surprise. "Take the
extraordinary qualities into consideration, my friend; he's got a
head what's worth two hundred dollars more nor a common nigger,--that
is, if you be going to turn it into knowledge profit. But that
wasn't just what I was going to say" (Graspum becomes profound, as
he spreads himself back in his chair). "I was going to say, I'd let
you-you mustn't whisper it, though-have him for five hundred and
twenty; and he's as cheap at that as bull-dogs at five dollars."
Grabguy shakes his head: he thinks the price rather beyond his mark.
He, however, has no objection to chalking on the figure; and as both
are good democrats, they will split the difference.
Graspum, smiling, touches his customer significantly with his elbow.
"I never do business after that model," he says. "Speaking of
bull-dogs, why, Lord bless your soul, Sam Beals and me traded
t'other day: I gin him a young five-year old nigger for his hound,
and two hundred dollars to boot. Can't go five hundred and twenty
for that imp, nohow! Could o' got a prime nigger for that, two years
ago."
"Wouldn't lower a fraction! He's extraordinary prime, and'll
increase fifty dollars a year every year for ten years or more."
Mr. Grabguy can't help that: he is merely in search of an article
capable of being turned into a mechanic, or professional
man,--anything to suit the exigencies of a free country, in which
such things are sold. And as it will require much time to get the
article to a point where it'll be sure to turn the pennies back,
perhaps he'd as well let it alone: so he turns the matter over in
his head. And yet, there is a certain something about the "young
imp" that really fascinates him; his keen eye, and deep sense of
nigger natur' value, detect the wonderful promise the article holds
forth.
"Not one cent lower would I take for that chap. In fact, I almost
feel like recanting now," says Graspum, by way of breaking the
monotony.
"Well, I'll bid you good day," says the other, in return, affecting
preparation to leave. He puts out his hand to Graspum, and with a
serious look desires to know if that be the lowest figure.
"Fact! Don't care 'bout selling at that. Couldn't have a better
investment than to keep him!"
Mr. Grabguy considers and reconsiders the matter over in his mind;
paces up and down the floor several times, commences humming a tune,
steps to the door, looks up and down the street, and says, "Well,
I'll be moving homeward, I will."
"Like yer custom, that I do; but then, knowing what I can do with
the fellow, I feels stiff about letting him go," interposes Graspum,
with great indifference, following to the door, with hands extended.
This is rather too insinuating for Mr. Grabguy. Never did piece of
property loom up so brightly, so physically and intellectually
valuable. He will return to the table. Taking his seat again, he
draws forth a piece of paper, and with his pencil commences figuring
upon it. He wants to get at the cost of free and slave labour, and
the relative advantages of the one over the other. After a deal of
multiplying and subtracting, he gives it up in despair. The fine
proportions of the youth before him distract his very brain with
contemplation. He won't bother another minute; figures are only
confusions: so far as using them to compute the relative value of
free and slave labour, they are enough to make one's head ache.
"Would ye like to go with me, boy? Give ye enough to eat, but make
ye toe the mark!" He looks at Nicholas, and waits a reply.
"Don't matter!" is the boy's answer. "Seems as if nobody cared for
me; and so I don't care for nobody."
"That's enough," he interrupts, turning to Graspum: "there's a
showing of grit in that, eh?"
"Soon take it out," rejoins that methodical gentleman. "Anyhow, I've
a mind to try the fellow, Graspum. I feel the risk I run; but I
don't mind-it's neck or nothin here in the south! Ye'll take a long
note, s'pose? Good, ye know!"
Graspum motions his head and works his lips, half affirmatively.
"Good as old gold, ye knows that," insinuates Mr. Grabguy.
"Yes, but notes aint cash; and our banks are shut down as tight as
steel traps. At all events make it bankable, and add the interest
for six months. It's against my rules of business, though," returns
Graspum, with great financial emphasis.
After considerably more very nice exhibitions of business tact, it
is agreed that Mr. Grabguy takes the "imp" at five hundred and
twenty dollars, for which Graspum accepts his note at six months,
with interest. Mr. Grabguy's paper is good, and Graspum considers it
equal to cash, less the interest. The "imp" is now left in charge of
the negro, while the two gentlemen retire to the private
counting-room, where they will settle the preliminaries.
A grave-looking gentleman at a large desk is ordered to make the
entry of sale; as the initiate of which he takes a ponderous ledger
from the case, and, with great coolness, opens its large leaves.
"Nicholas, I think his name is?" he ejaculates, turning to Graspum,
who, unconcernedly, has resumed his seat in the great arm-chair.
"Yes; but I suppose it must be Nicholas Grabguy, now," returns
Graspum, bowing to his book-keeper, and then turning to Mr. Grabguy.
"One minute, if you please!" rejoins that gentlemen, as the sedate
book-keeper turns to his page of N's in the index. Mr. Grabguy will
consider that very important point for a few seconds.
"Better drop the Marston, as things are. A good many high feeling
connections of that family remain; and to continue the name might be
to give pain." This, Graspum says, he only puts out as a suggestion.
"Enter him as you say, gentlemen," interposes the clerk, who will
mend his pen while waiting their pleasure.
Mr. Grabguy runs his right hand several times across his forehead,
and after a breathless pause, thinks it as well not to connect his
distinguished name with that of the nigger,--not just at this moment!
Being his property, and associating with his business and people,
that will naturally follow. "Just enter him, and make out the bill
of sale describing him as the boy Nicholas," he adds.
"Boy Nicholas!" reiterates the book-keeper, and straight-way enters
his name, amount fetched, to whom sold, and general description, on
his files. In a few minutes more-Graspum, in his chair of state, is
regretting having sold so quick,--Mr. Grabguy is handed his bill of
sale, duly made out. At the same time, that sedate official places
the note for the amount into Graspum's hands. Graspum examines it
minutely, while Mr. Grabguy surveys the bill of sale. "Mr. Benson,
my clerk here, does these things up according to legal tenour; he,
let me inform you, was brought up at the law business, and was
rather celebrated once; but the profession won't pay a man of his
ability," remarks Graspum, with an "all right!" as he lays the note
of hand down for Mr. Grabguy's signature.
Mr. Benson smiles in reply, and adjusts the very stiffly starched
corners of his ponderous shirt collar, which he desires to keep well
closed around his chin. "An honourable man, that's true, sir, can't
live honestly by the law, now-a-days," he concludes, with measured
sedateness. He will now get his bill-book, in which to make a record
of the piece of paper taken in exchange for the human 'imp.'
"Clap your name across the face!" demands Graspum; and Grabguy
seizes a pen, and quickly consummates the bargain by inscribing his
name, passing it to Mr. Benson, and, in return, receiving the bill
of sale, which he places in his breast pocket. He will not trouble
Mr. Benson any further; but, if he will supply a small piece of
paper, Mr. Grabguy will very kindly give the imp an order, and send
him to his workshop.
"Will the gentleman be kind enough to help himself," says Mr.
Benson, passing a quire upon the table at which Mr. Grabguy sits.
"I'll trim that chap into a first-rate mechanic," says Mr. Grabguy,
as he writes,--"I have bought the bearer, Nicholas, a promising chap,
as you will see. Take him into the shop and set him at something, if
it is only turning the grindstone; as I hav'nt made up my mind
exactly about what branch to set him at. He's got temper-you'll see
that in a minute, and will want some breakin in, if I don't calklate
'rong." This Mr. Grabguy envelopes, and directs to his master
mechanic. When all things are arranged to his satisfaction, Nicholas
is again brought into his presence, receives an admonition, is told
what he may expect if he displays his bad temper, is presented with
the note, and despatched, with sundry directions, to seek his way
alone, to his late purchaser's workshop.
"Come, boy! ain't you going to say 'good-by' to me 'afore you go? I
hav'nt been a bad master to you," says Graspum, putting out his
hand.
"Yes, master," mutters the child, turning about ere he reaches the
door. He advances towards Graspum, puts out his little hand; and in
saying "good by, master," there is so much childish simplicity in
his manner that it touches the tender chord embalmed within that
iron frame. "Be a good little fellow!" he says, his emotions rising.
How strong are the workings of nature when brought in contact with
unnatural laws! The monster who has made the child wretched--who has
for ever blasted its hopes, shakes it by the hand, and says--"good
by, little 'un!" as it leaves the door to seek the home of a new
purchaser. How strange the thoughts invading that child's mind, as,
a slave for life, it plods its way through the busy thoroughfares!
Forcibly the happy incidents of the past are recalled; they are
touching reclections-sweets in the dark void of a slave's life; but
to him no way-marks, to measure the happy home embalmed therein, are
left.