WORKINGS OF THE SLAVE SYSTEM.
DEMOCRACY! thy trumpet voice for liberty is ever ringing in our
ears; but thy strange workings defame thee. Thou art rampant in love
of the "popular cause," crushing of that which secures liberty to
all; and, whilst thou art great at demolishing structures, building
firm foundations seems beyond thee, for thereto thou forgetteth to
lay the cornerstone well on the solid rock of principle. And, too,
we love thee when thou art moved and governed by justice; we hate
thee when thou showest thyself a sycophant to make a mad mob serve a
pestilential ambition. Like a young giant thou graspest power; but,
when in thy hands, it becomes a means of serving the baser ends of
factious demagogues. Hypocrite! With breath of poison thou hast sung
thy songs to liberty while making it a stepping-stone to injustice;
nor hast thou ever ceased to wage a tyrant's war against the rights
of man. Thou wearest false robes; thou blasphemest against heaven,
that thy strength in wrong may be secure-yea, we fear thy end is
fast coming badly, for thou art the bastard offspring of
Republicanism so purely planted in our land. Clamour and the lash
are thy sceptres, and, like a viper seeking its prey, thou charmest
with one and goadeth men's souls with the other. Having worked thy
way through our simple narrative, show us what thou hast done. A
father hast thou driven within the humid wall of a prison, because
he would repent and acknowledge his child. Bolts and bars, in such
cases, are democracy's safeguards; but thou hast bound with heavy
chains the being who would rise in the world, and go forth healing
the sick and preaching God's word. Even hast thou turned the hearts
of men into stone, and made them weep at the wrong thou gavest them
power to inflict. That bond which God gave to man, and charged him
to keep sacred, thou hast sundered for the sake of gold,--thereby
levelling man with the brutes of the field. Thou hast sent two
beautiful children to linger in the wickedness of slavery,--to die
stained with its infamy! Thou hast robbed many a fair one of her
virtue, stolen many a charm; but thy foulest crime is, that thou
drivest mothers and fathers from the land of their birth to seek
shelter on foreign soil. Would to God thou could'st see thyself as
thou art,--make thy teachings known in truth and justice,--cease to
mock thyself in the eyes of foreign tyrants, nor longer serve
despots who would make thee the shield of their ill-gotten power!
Within those malarious prison walls, where fast decays a father who
sought to save from slavery's death the offspring he loved, will be
found a poor, dejected negro, sitting at the bedside of the
oppressed man, administering to his wants. His friendship is true
unto death,--the oppressed man is his angel, he will serve him at
the sacrifice of life and liberty. He is your true republican, the
friend of the oppressed! Your lessons of democracy, so swelling, so
boastfully arrayed for a world's good, have no place in his
soul,--goodness alone directs his examples of republicanism. But we
must not be over venturous in calling democracy to account, lest we
offend the gods of power and progress. We will, to save ourselves,
return to our narrative.
Marston, yet in gaol, stubbornly refuses to take the benefit of the
act,--commonly called the poor debtor's act. He has a faithful friend
in Daddy Bob, who has kept his ownership concealed, and, with the
assistance of Franconia, still relieves his necessities. Rumour,
however, strongly whispers that Colonel M'Carstrow is fast gambling
away his property, keeping the worst of company, and leading the
life of a debauchee,--which sorely grieves his noble-hearted wife. In
fact, Mrs. Templeton, who is chief gossip-monger of the city,
declares that he is more than ruined, and that his once beautiful
wife must seek support at something.
An honest jury of twelve free and enlightened citizens, before the
honourable court of Sessions, have declared Romescos honourably
acquitted of the charge of murder, the fatal blow being given in
commendable self-defence.
The reader will remember that in a former chapter we left the stolen
clergyman (no thanks to his white face and whiter necked brethren of
the profession), on the banks of the Mississippi, where, having
purchased his time of his owner, he is not only a very profitable
investment to that gentleman, but of great service on the
neighbouring plantations. Earnest in doing good for his fellow
bondmen, his efforts have enlisted for him the sympathy of a
generous-hearted young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring planter.
Many times had he recounted Mrs. Rosebrook's friendship for him to
her, and by its influence succeeded in opening the desired
communication. Mrs. Rosebrook had received and promptly answered all
his fair friend's letters: the answers contained good news for
Harry; she knew him well, and would at once set about inducing her
husband to purchase him. But here again his profession interposed a
difficulty, inasmuch as its enhancing the value of the property to
so great an extent would make his master reluctant to part with him.
However, as nothing could be more expressive of domestic attachment
than the manner in which the Rosebrooks studied each other's
feelings for the purpose of giving a more complete happiness, our
good lady had but to make known her wish, and the deacon stood ready
to execute it. In the present case he was but too glad of the
opportunity of gratifying her feelings, having had the purchase of a
clergyman in contemplation for some months back. He sought Harry
out, and, after bartering (the planter setting forth what a deal of
money he had made by his clergyman) succeeded in purchasing him for
fourteen hundred dollars, the gentleman producing legalised papers
of his purchase, and giving the same. As for his running away, there
is no evidence to prove that; nor will Harry's pious word be taken
in law to disclose the kidnapping. M'Fadden is dead,--his estate has
long since been administered upon; Romescos murdered the proof, and
swept away the dangerous contingency.
Here, then, we find Harry-we must pass over the incidents of his
return back in the old district-about to administer the Gospel to
the negroes on the Rosebrook estates. He is the same good,
generous-hearted black man he was years ago. But he has worked hard,
paid his master a deal of money for his time, and laid up but little
for himself. His clothes, too, are somewhat shabby, which, in the
estimation of the Rosebrook negroes-who are notoriously aristocratic
in their notions-is some detriment to his ministerial character. At
the same time, they are not quite sure that Harry Marston, as he
must now be called, will preach to please their peculiar mode of
thinking. Master and missus have given them an interest in their
labour; and, having laid by a little money in missus's savings bank,
they are all looking forward to the time when they will have gained
their freedom, according to the promises held out. With these
incitements of renewed energy they work cheerfully, take a deep
interest in the amount of crop produced, and have a worthy regard
for their own moral condition. And as they will now pay tribute for
the support of a minister of the Gospel, his respectability is a
particular object of their watchfulness. Thus, Harry's first
appearance on the plantation, shabbily dressed, is viewed with
distrust. Uncle Bradshaw, and old Bill, the coachman, and Aunt
Sophy, and Sophy's two gals, and their husbands, are heard in
serious conclave to say that "It won't do!" A clergy gentleman, with
no better clothes than that newcomer wears, can't preach good and
strong, nohow! Dad Daniel is heard to say. Bradshaw shakes his white
head, and says he's goin' to have a short talk with master about it.
Something must be done to reconcile the matter.
Franconia and good Mrs. Rosebrook are not so exacting: the latter
has received him with a warm welcome, while the former, her heart
bounding with joy on hearing of his return, hastened into his
presence, and with the affection of a child shook, and shook, and
shook his hand, as he fell on his knees and kissed hers. "Poor
Harry!" she says, "how I have longed to see you, and your poor wife
and children!"
"Ah, Franconia, my young missus, it is for them my soul fears."
"But we have found out where they are," she interrupts.
"Where they are!" he reiterates.
"Indeed we have!" Franconia makes a significant motion with her
head.
"It's true, Harry; and we'll see what can be done to get them back,
one of these days," adds Mrs. Rosebrook, her soul-glowing eyes
affirming the truth of her assertion. They have come out to spend
the day at the plantation, and a happy day it is for those whose
hearts they gladden with their kind words. How happy would be our
south-how desolate the mania for abolition--if such a comity of good
feeling between master and slaves existed on every plantation! And
there is nothing to hinder such happy results of kindness.
"When that day comes, missus,--that day my good old woman and me will
be together again,--how happy I shall be! Seems as if the regaining
that one object would complete my earthly desires. And my
children,--how much I have felt for them, and how little I have
said!" returns Harry, as, seated in the veranda of the plantation
mansion, the two ladies near him are watching his rising emotions.
"Never mind, Harry," rejoins Franconia; "it will all be well, one of
these days. You, as well as uncle, must bear with trouble. It is a
world of trouble and trial." She draws her chair nearer him, and
listens to his narrative of being carried off,--his endeavours to
please his strange master down in Mississippi,--the curious manner in
which his name was changed,--the sum he was compelled to pay for his
time, and the good he effected while pursuing the object of his
mission on the neighbouring plantations. Hope carried him through
every trial,--hope prepared his heart for the time of his
delivery,--hope filled his soul with gratitude to his Maker, and
hope, which ever held its light of freedom before him, inspired him
with that prayer he so thankfully bestowed on the head of his
benefactor, whose presence was as the light of love borne to him on
angels' wings.
Moved to tears by his recital of past struggles, and the expression
of natural goodness exhibited in the resignation with which he bore
them, ever praying and trusting to Him who guides our course in
life, Franconia in turn commenced relating the misfortunes that had
befallen her uncle. She tells him how her uncle has been reduced to
poverty through Lorenzo's folly, and Graspum, the negro dealer's
undiscoverable mode of ensnaring the unwary. He has been importuned,
harassed, subjected to every degradation and shame, scouted by
society for attempting to save those beautiful children, Annette and
Nicholas, from the snares of slavery. And he now welters in a
debtor's prison, with few save his old faithful Daddy Bob for
friends.
"Master, and my old companion, Daddy Bob!" exclaims Harry,
interrupting her at the moment.
"Yes: Daddy takes care of him in his prison cell."
"How often old Bob's expressive face has looked upon me in my
dreams! how often he has occupied my thoughts by day!"
"Goodness belongs to him by nature."
"And master is in prison; but Daddy is still his friend and
faithful! Well, my heart sorrows for master: I know his proud heart
bleeds under the burden," he says, shaking his head sorrowfully.
There is more sympathy concealed beneath that black exterior than
words can express. He will go and see master; he will comfort him
within his prison walls; he will rejoin Daddy Bob, and be master's
friend once more. Mrs. Rosebrook, he is sure, will grant him any
privilege in her power. That good lady is forthwith solicited, and
grants Harry permission to go into the city any day it suits his
convenience-except Sunday, when his services are required for the
good of the people on the plantation. Harry is delighted with this
token of her goodness, and appoints a day when he will meet Miss
Franconia,--as he yet calls her,--and go see old master and Daddy. How
glowing is that honest heart, as it warms with ecstasy at the
thought of seeing "old master," even though he be degraded within
prison walls!
While this conversation is going on in the veranda, sundry aged
members of negro families--aunties and mammies--are passing backwards
and forwards in front of the house, casting curious glances at the
affection exhibited for the new preacher by "Miss Franconia." The
effect is a sort of reconciliation of the highly aristocratic
objections they at first interposed against his reception. "Mus' be
somebody bigger dan common nigger preacher; wudn't cotch Miss
Frankone spoken wid 'um if 'um warn't," says Dad Timothy's Jane, who
is Uncle Absalom's wife, and, in addition to having six coal-black
children, as fat and sleek as beavers, is the wise woman of the
cabins, around whom all the old veteran mammies gather for
explanations upon most important subjects. In this instance she is
surrounded by six or seven grave worthies, whose comical faces add
great piquancy to the conclave. Grandmumma Dorothy, who declares
that she is grandmother to she don't know how much little growing-up
property, will venture every grey hair in her head-which is as white
as the snows of Nova Scotia-that he knows a deal o' things about the
gospel, or he wouldn't have missus for such a close acquaintance.
"But his shirt ain't just da'h fashon fo'h a 'spectable minister ob
de gospel," she concludes, with profound wisdom evinced in her
measured nod.
Aunt Betsy, than whose face none is blacker, or more comically
moulded, will say her word; but she is very profound withal. "Reckon
how tain't de clo' what make e' de preacher tink good" (Aunty's lip
hangs seriously low the while). "Lef missus send some calico fum
town, and dis old woman son fix 'um into shirt fo'h him," she says,
with great assurance of her sincerity.
Harry-Mister Harry, as he is to be called by the people-finds
himself comfortably at home; the only drawback, if such it may be
called, existing in the unwillingness exhibited on the part of one
of the overseers to his being provided with apartments in the
basement of the house instead of one of the cabins. This, however,
is, by a few conciliatory words from Mrs. Rosebrook, settled to the
satisfaction of all. Harry has supper provided for him in one of the
little rooms downstairs, which he is to make his Study, and into
which he retires for the night.
When daylight has departed, and the very air seems hanging in
stillness over the plantation, a great whispering is heard in Dad
Daniel's cabin-the head quarters, where grave matters of state, or
questions affecting the moral or physical interests of the
plantation, are discussed, and Dad Daniel's opinion held as most
learned-the importance of which over the other cabins is denoted by
three windows, one just above the door being usually filled with
moss or an old black hat. Singular enough, on approaching the cabin
it is discovered that Daniel has convoked a senate of his sable
brethren, to whom he is proposing a measure of great importance.
"Da'h new precher, gemen! is one ob yer own colur-no more Buckra
what on'e gib dat one sarmon,--tank God fo'h dat!-and dat colour
geman, my children, ye must look up to fo'h de word from de good
book. Now, my bredren, 'tis posin' on ye dat ye make dat geman
'spectable. I poses den, dat we, bredren, puts in a mite apiece, and
gib dat ar' geman new suit ob fus' bes'clof', so 'e preach fresh and
clean," Dad Daniel is heard to say. And this proposition is carried
out on the following morning, when Daddy Daniel-his white wool so
cleanly washed, and his face glowing with great
good-nature-accompanied by a conclave of his sable companions,
presents himself in the front veranda, and demands to see "missus."
That all-conciliating personage is ever ready to receive
deputations, and on making her appearance, and receiving the usual
salutations from her people, receives from the hand of that
venerable prime minister, Daddy Daniel, a purse containing twelve
dollars and fifty cents. It is the amount of a voluntary
contribution-a gift for the new preacher. "Missus" is requested,
after adding her portion, to expend it in a suit of best black for
the newcomer, whom they would like to see, and say "how de, to."
Missus receives this noble expression of their gratitude with thanks
and kind words. Harry is summoned to the veranda, where, on making
his appearance, he is introduced to Dad Daniel, who, in return,
escorts him down on the plazza where numbers of the people have
assembled to receive him. Here, with wondrous ceremony, Dad Daniel
doing the polite rather strong, he is introduced to all the
important people of the plantation. And such a shaking of hands,
earnest congratulations, happy "how des," bows, and joyous laughs,
as follow, place the scene so expressive of happiness beyond the
power of pen to describe. Then he is led away, followed by a train
of curious faces, to see Dad Daniel's neatly-arranged cabin; after
which he will see plantation church, and successively the people's
cabins. To-morrow evening, at early dusk, it is said, according to
invitation and arrangement, he will sup on the green with his sable
brethren, old and young, and spice up the evening's entertainment
with an exhortation; Dad Daniel, as is his custom, performing the
duties of deacon.
Let us pass over this scene, and-Harry having ingratiated himself
with the plantation people, who are ready to give him their
distinguished consideration-ask the reader to follow us through the
description of another, which took place a few days after.
Our clergyman has delivered to his sable flock his first sermon,
which Dad Daniel and his compatriots pronounce great and good,--just
what a sermon should be. Such pathos they never heard before; the
enthusiasm and fervency with which it was delivered inspires
delight; they want no more earnestness of soul than the fervency
with which his gesticulations accompanied the words; and now he has
obtained a furlough that he may go into the city and console his old
master. A thrill of commiseration seizes him as he contemplates his
once joyous master now in prison; but, misgivings being useless,
onward he goes. And he will see old Bob, recall the happy incidents
of the past, when time went smoothly on.
He reaches the city, having tarried a while at missus's villa, and
seeks M'Carstrow's residence, at the door of which he is met by
Franconia, who receives him gratefully, and orders a servant to show
him into the recess of the hall, where he will wait until such time
as she is ready to accompany him to the county prison. M'Carstrow
has recently removed into plainer tenements: some whisper that
necessity compelled it, and that the "large shot" gamblers have
shorn him down to the lowest imaginable scale of living. Be this as
it may, certain it is that he has not looked within the doors of his
own house for more than a week: report says he is enjoying himself
in a fashionable house, to the inmates of which he is familiarly
known. He certainly leads his beautiful wife anything but a pleasant
or happy life. Soon Franconia is ready, and onward wending her way
for the gaol, closely followed by Harry. She would have no objection
to his walking by her side, but custom (intolerant interposer) will
not permit it. They pass through busy thoroughfares and narrow
streets into the suburbs, and have reached the prison outer gate, on
the right hand of which, and just above a brass knob, are the
significant words, "Ring the bell."
"What a place to put master in!" says Harry, in a half whisper,
turning to Franconia, as he pulls the brass handle and listens for
the dull tinkling of the bell within. He starts at the muffled
summons, and sighs as he hears the heavy tread of the officer,
advancing through the corridor to challenge his presence. The man
advances, and has reached the inner iron gate, situated in a narrow,
vaulted arch in the main building. A clanking and clicking sound is
heard, and the iron door swings back: a thick-set man, with features
of iron, advances to the stoop, down the steps, and to the gate.
"What's here now?" he growls, rather than speaks, looking sternly at
the coloured man, as he thrusts his left hand deep into his side
pocket, while holding the key of the inner door in his right.
"Visitor," returns Franconia, modestly.
"Who does the nigger want to see?" he enquires, with pertinacity in
keeping with his profession.
"His old master!" is the quick reply.
"You both? I guess I know what it is,--you want to see Marston: he
used to be a rice-planter, but's now in the debtor's ward for a
swimming lot of debts. Well, s'pose I must let you in: got a lot o'
things, I s'pose?" he says, looking wickedly through the bars as he
springs the bolts, and swings back the gate. "I beg yer pardon a
dozen times! but I didn't recognise ye on the outer side," continues
the official, becoming suddenly servile. He makes a low bow as he
recognises Franconia-motions his hand for them to walk ahead. They
reach the steps leading to the inner gate, and ascending, soon are
in the vaulted passage.
If they will allow him, the polite official will unlock the grated
door. Stepping before Franconia, who, as the clanking of the locks
grate on her ear, is seized with sensations she cannot describe, he
inserts the heavy key. She turns to Harry, her face pallid as
marble, and lays her tremulous hand on his arm, as if to relieve the
nervousness with which she is seized. Click! click! sounds forth:
again the door creaks on its hinges, and they are in the confines of
the prison. A narrow vaulted arch, its stone walls moistened with
pestilential malaria, leads into a small vestibule, on the right
hand of which stretched a narrow aisle lined on both sides with
cells. Damp and pestiferous, a hollow gloominess seems to pervade
the place, as if it were a pest-house for torturing the living.
Even the air breathes of disease,--a stench, as of dead men buried in
its vaults, darts its poison deep into the system. It is this,
coupled with the mind's discontent, that commits its ravages upon
the poor prisoner,--that sends him pale and haggard to a soon-
forgotten grave.
"Last door on the right,--you know, mum," says the official: "boy
will follow, lightly: whist! whist!"
"I know, to my sorrow," is her reply, delivered in a whisper. Ah!
her emotions are too tender for prison walls; they are yielding
tears from the fountain of her very soul.
"He's sick: walk softly, and don't think of the prisoners. Knock at
the door afore enterin'," says a staid-looking warden, emerging
from a small door on the left hand of the vestibule.
"Zist! zist!" returns the other, pointing with the forefinger of his
right hand down the aisle, and, placing his left, gently, on
Franconia's shoulder, motioning her to move on.
Slowly, her handkerchief to her face, she obeys the sign, and is
moving down the corridor, now encountering anxious eyes peering
through the narrow grating of huge black doors. And then a faint,
dolorous sound strikes on their listening ears. They pause for a
moment,--listen again! It becomes clearer and clearer; and they
advance with anxious curiosity. "It's Daddy Bob's voice," whispers
Harry; "but how distant it sounds!
"Even that murmurs in his confinement," returns Franconia.
"How, like a thing of life, it recalls the past-the past of
happiness!" says Harry, as they reach the cell door, and,
tremulously, hesitate for a few moments.
"Listen again!" continues Harry. The sound having ceased a moment or
two, again commences, and the word "There's a place for old mas'r
yet, And de Lord will see him dar," are distinctly audible. "How the
old man battles for his good master!" returns Harry, as Franconia
taps gently on the door. The wooden trap over the grating is closed;
bolts hang carelessly from their staples; and yet, though the door
is secured with a hook on the inside, disease and death breathe
their morbid fumes through the scarce perceptible crevices. A
whispering-"Come in!" is heard in reply to the tap upon the door,
which slowly opens, and the face of old Bob, bathed in grief,
protrudes round the frame. "Oh, missus-missus-missus-God give good
missus spirit!" he exclaims, seizing Franconia fervently by the
hand, and looking in her face imploringly. A fotid stench pervaded
the atmosphere of the gloomy cell; it is death spreading its humid
malaria. "Good old master is g-g-g-gone!" mutters the negro, in
half-choked accents.
With a wild shriek, the noble woman rushes to the side of his prison
cot, seizes his blanched hand that hangs carelessly over the iron
frame, grasps his head frantically, and draws it to her bosom, as
the last gurgle of life bids adieu to the prostrate body. He is
dead!
The old slave has watched over him, shared his sorrows and his
crust, has sung a last song to his departing spirit. How truthful
was that picture of the dying master and his slave! The old man,
struggling against the infirmities of age, had escaped the hands of
the man-seller, served his master with but one object-his soul's
love-and relieved his necessities, until death, ending his troubles,
left no more to relieve. Now, distracted between joy at meeting
Harry, and sorrow for the death of master, the poor old man is lost
in the confusion of his feelings. After saluting Franconia, he
turned to Harry, threw his arms around his neck, buried his head in
his bosom, and wept like a child. "Home-home again,--my Harry! but
too late to see mas'r," he says, as the fountains of his soul give
out their streams.
"We must all go where master has gone," returns Harry, as he, more
calm, fondles the old man, and endeavours to reconcile his feelings.
"Sit there, my old friend-sit there; and remember that God called
master away. I must go to his bed-side," whispers Harry, seating the
old man on a block of wood near the foot of the cot, where he pours
forth the earnest of his grief.