AN ITEM IN THE COMMON CALENDAR.
THUS painfully has Marston paid his debtors. Around his lifeless
body may spring to life those sympathies which were dead while he
lived; but deplorings fall useless on dead men. There is one
consideration, however, which must always be taken into account; it
is, that while sympathy for the living may cost something, sympathy
for the dead is cheap indeed, and always to be had. How simply plain
is the dead man's cell! In this humid space, ten by sixteen feet,
and arched over-head, is a bucket of water, with a tin cup at the
side, a prison tub in one corner, two wooden chairs, a little deal
stand, (off which the prisoner ate his meals), and his trunk of
clothing. The sheriff, insisting that it was his rule to make no
distinction of persons, allowed prison cot and prison matress to
which, by the kind permission of the warden, Franconia added sheets
and a coverlit. Upon this, in a corner at the right, and opposite a
spacious fire-place, in which are two bricks supporting a small iron
kettle, lies the once opulent planter,--now with eyes glassy and
discoloured, a ghastly corpse. His house once was famous for its
princely hospitality,--the prison cot is not now his bequest: but it
is all the world has left him on which to yield up his life. "Oh,
uncle! uncle! uncle!" exclaims Franconia, who has been bathing his
contorted face with her tears, "would that God had taken me
too-buried our troubles in one grave! There is no trouble in that
world to which he has gone: joy, virtue, and peace, reign triumphant
there," she speaks, sighing, as she raises her bosom from off the
dead man. Harry has touched her on the shoulder with his left hand,
and is holding the dead man's with his right: he seems in deep
contemplation. His mind is absorbed in the melancholy scene; but,
though his affection is deep, he has no tears to shed at this
moment. No; he will draw a chair for Franconia, and seat her near
the head of the cot, for the fountains of her grief have overflown.
Discoloured and contorted, what a ghastly picture the dead man's
face presents! Glassy, and with vacant glare, those eyes, strange in
death, seem wildly staring upward from earth. How unnatural those
sunken cheeks--those lips wet with the excrement of black vomit--that
throat reddened with the pestilential poison! "Call a warden,
Daddy!" says Harry; "he has died of black vomit, I think." And he
lays the dead body square upon the cot, turns the sheets from off
the shoulders, unbuttons the collar of its shirt. "How changed! I
never would have known master; but I can see something of him left
yet." Harry remains some minutes looking upon the face of the
departed, as if tracing some long lost feature. And then he takes
his hands-it's master's hand, he says-and places them gently to his
sides, closes his glassy eyes, wipes his mouth and nostrils, puts
his ear to the dead man's mouth, as if doubting the all-slayer's
possession of the body, and with his right hand parts the matted
hair from off the cold brow. What a step between the cares of the
world and the peace of death! Harry smooths, and smooths, and
smooths his forehead with his hand; until at length his feelings get
the better of his resolution; he will wipe the dewy tears from his
eyes. "Don't weep, Miss Franconia,--don't weep! master is happy with
Jesus,--happier than all the plantations and slaves of the world
could make him" he says, turning to her as she sits weeping, her
elbow resting on the cot, and her face buried in her handkerchief.
"Bad job this here!" exclaims the warden, as he comes lumbering into
the cell, his face flushed with anxiety. "This yaller-fever beats
everything: but he hasn't been well for some time," he continues,
advancing to the bed-side, looking on the deceased for a few
minutes, and then, as if it were a part of his profession to look on
dead men, says: "How strange to die out so soon!"
"He was a good master," rejoins Harry.
"He wasn't your master-Was he?" enquires the gaoler, in gruff
accents.
"Once he was."
"But, did you see him die, boy?"
"Thank God, I did not."
"And this stupid old nigger hadn't sense to call me!" (he turns
threateningly to Bob): "Well,--must 'a drop'd off like the snuff of
a tallow candle!"
Daddy knew master was a poor man now;--calling would have availed
nothing; gaolers are bad friends of poverty.
"Could you not have sent for me, good man?" enquires Franconia, her
weeping eyes turning upon the warden, who says, by way of answering
her question, "We must have him out o' here."
"I said mas'r was sicker den ye s'posed, yesterday; nor ye didn't
notice 'um!" interposes Bob, giving a significant look at the
warden, and again at Franconia.
"What a shame, in this our land of boasted hospitality! He died
neglected in a prison cell!"
"Truth is, ma'am," interrupts the warden, who, suddenly becoming
conscious that it is polite to be courteous to ladies wherever they
may be met, uncovers, and holds his hat in his hand,--"we are sorely
tried with black-vomit cases; no provision is made for them, and
they die on our hands afore we know it, just like sheep with the
rot. It gives us a great deal of trouble;--you may depend it does,
ma'am; and not a cent extra pay do we get for it. For my own part,
I've become quite at home to dead men and prisoners. My name is-you
have no doubt heard of me before-John Lafayette Flewellen: my
situation was once, madam, that of a distinguished road contractor;
and then they run me for the democratic senator from our district,
and I lost all my money without getting the office-and here I am
now, pestered with sick men and dead prisoners. And the very worst
is that ye can't please nobody; but if anything is wanted, ma'am,
just call for me: John Lafayette Flewellen's my name, ma'am." The
man of nerve, with curious indifference, is about to turn away,--to
leave the mourning party to themselves, merely remarking, as he
takes his hand from that of the corpse, that his limbs are becoming
fridgid, fast.
"Stay-a-moment,--warden," says Franconia, sobbing: "When was he
seized with the fever?"
"Day afore yesterday, ma'am; but he didn't complain until yesterday.
That he was in a dangerous way I'm sure I'd no idea." The warden
shrugs his shoulders, and spreads his hands. "My eyes, ma'am, but he
drank strongly of late! Perhaps that, combined with the fever,
helped slide him off?"
"Ah! yes,--it was something else-it was grief! His troubles were his
destroyer." She wipes her eyes, and, with a look of commiseration,
turns from the man whose business it is to look coldly upon
unfortunate dead men.
"There was the things you sent him, ma'am; and he got his gaol
allowance, and some gruel. The law wouldn't allow us to do more for
him,--no, it wouldn't!" He shakes his head in confirmation.
"I wanted old mas'r to let 'um bring doctor; but he said no! he
would meet de doctor what cured all diseases in another world,"
interrupts old Bob, as he draws his seat close to the foot of the
cot, and, with his shining face of grief, gazes on the pale features
of his beloved master.
"Let him lie as he is, till the coroner comes," says the warden,
retiring slowly, and drawing the heavy door after him.
The humble picture was no less an expression of goodness, than proof
of the cruel severity of the law. The news of death soon brought
curious debtors into the long aisle, while sorrow and sympathy might
be read on every face. But he was gone, and with him his wants and
grievances. A physician was called in, but he could not recall life,
and, after making a few very learned and unintelligible remarks on
the appearance of the body, took his departure, saying that they
must not grieve-that it was the way all flesh would go. "He, no
doubt, died of the black vomit, hastened by the want of care," he
concluded, as he left the cell.
"Want of care!" rejoins Franconia, again giving vent to her
feelings. How deeply did the arrow dart into the recesses of her
already wounded heart!
Mr. Moon, the methodical coroner, was not long repairing to the
spot. He felt, and felt, and felt the dead man's limbs, asked a few
questions, bared the cold breast, ordered the body to be
straightened a little, viewed it from several angles, and said an
inquest was unnecessary. It would reveal no new facts, and, as so
many were dying of the same disease, could give no more relief to
his friends. Concerning his death, no one could doubt the cause
being black vomit. With a frigid attempt at consolation for
Franconia, he will withdraw. He has not been long gone, when the
warden, a sheet over his left arm, again makes his appearance; he
passes the sheet to Harry, with a request that he will wind the dead
debtor up in it.
Franconia, sobbing, rises from her seat, opens a window at the head
of the cot (the dead will not escape through the iron grating), and
paces the floor, while Harry and Daddy sponge the body, lay it
carefully down, and fold it in the winding-sheet. "Poor master,--God
has taken him; but how I shall miss him! I've spent happy days wid
'im in dis place, I have!" says Bob, as they lay his head on the
hard pillow. He gazes upon him with affection,--and says "Mas'r 'll
want no more clothes."
And now night is fast drawing its dark mantle over the scene,--the
refulgent shadows of the setting sun play through the grated window
into the gloomy cell: how like a spirit of goodness sent from on
high to lighten the sorrows of the downcast, seems the light. A
faint ray plays its soft tints on that face now pallid in death; how
it inspires our thoughts of heaven! Franconia watches, and watches,
as fainter and fainter it fades away, like an angel sent for the
spirit taking its departure. "Farewell!" she whispers, as darkness
shuts out the last mellow glimmer: "Come sombre night, and spread
thy stillness!"
The warden, moved by the spark of generosity his soul possesses, has
brought some cologne, and silently places it in Franconia's hands.
She advances to the cot, seats herself near the head of her dear
departed, encircles his head with her left arm, and with her white
'kerchief bathes his face with the liquid, Harry holding the vessel
in his hand, at her request. A candle sheds its sickly light upon
the humid walls; faintly it discloses the face of Daddy Bob,
immersed in tears, watching intently over the foot of the cot.
"Missus Frankone is alw's kind to mas'r!"
"I loved uncle because his heart was good," returns Franconia.
"'Tis dat, missus. How kindly old mas'r, long time ago, used to say,
'Good mornin', Bob! Daddy, mas'r lubs you!"
How firmly the happy recollection of these kind words is sealed in
the old man's memory.