CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS.
GREAT regularity prevails on the Rosebrook plantation, and cheering
are the prospects held out to those who toil thereon. Mrs. Rosebrook
has dressed Jane (Harry's wife) in a nice new calico, which, with
her feet encased in shining calf-skin shoes, and her head done up in
a bandana, with spots of great brightness, shows her lean figure to
good advantage. Like a good wife, happy with her own dear husband,
she pours forth the emotions of a grateful heart, and feels that the
world-not so bad after all-has something good in store for her. And
then Harry looks even better than he did on Master Marston's
plantation; and, with their little ones-sable types of their
parents-dressed so neatly, they must be happy. And now that they are
duly installed at the plantation, where Harry pursues his duties as
father of the flock, and Jane lends her cheering voice and helping
hand to make comfort in the various cabins complete-and with Dad
Daniel's assurance that the people won't go astray-we must leave
them for a time, and beg the reader's indulgence while following us
through another phase of the children's history.
A slave is but a slave--an article subject to all the fluctuations of
trade--a mere item in the scale of traffic, and reduced to serving
the ends of avarice or licentiousness. This is a consequence
inseparable from his sale. It matters not whether the blood of the
noblest patriot course in his veins, his hair be of flaxen
brightness, his eyes of azure blue, his skin of Norman whiteness,
and his features classic,--he can be no more than a slave, and as
such must yield to the debasing influences of an institution that
crushes and curses wherever it exists. In proof of this, we find the
bright eyes of our little Annette, glowing with kindliest love,
failing to thaw the frozen souls of man-dealers. Nay, bright eyes
only lend their aid to the law that debases her life. She has become
valuable only as a finely and delicately developed woman, whose
appearance in the market will produce sharp bidding, and a deal of
dollars and cents. Graspum never lost an opportunity of trimming up
these nice pieces of female property, making the money invested in
them turn the largest premium, and satisfying his customers that, so
far as dealing in the brightest kind of fancy stock was concerned,
he is not a jot behind the most careful selecter in the Charleston
market. Major John Bowling--who is very distinguished, having
descended from the very ancient family of that name, and is highly
thought of by the aristocracy--has made the selection of such
merchandise his particular branch of study for more than fourteen
years. In consequence of the major's supposed taste, his pen was
hitherto most frequented by gentlemen and connoisseur; but now
Graspum assures all respectable people, gentlemen of acknowledged
taste, and young men who are cultivating their way up in the world,
that his selections are second to none; of this he will produce
sufficient proof, provided customers will make him a call and look
into the area of his fold. The fold itself is most uninviting (it
is, he assures us, owing to his determination to carry out the faith
of his plain democracy); nevertheless, it contains the white,
beautiful, and voluptuous,--all for sale. In fact--the truth must be
told--Mr. Graspum assures the world that he firmly believes there is
a sort of human nature extant--he is troubled sometimes to know just
where the line breaks off--which never by any possibility could have
been intended for any thing but the other to traffic in-to turn into
the most dollars and cents. In proof of this principle he kept
Annette until she had well nigh merged into womanhood, or until such
time as she became a choice marketable article, with eyes worth so
much; nose, mouth, so much; pretty auburn hair, worth so much; and
fine rounded figure--with all its fascinating appurtenances--worth so
much;--the whole amounting to so much; to be sold for so much, the
nice little profit being chalked down on the credit side of his
formidable ledger, in which stands recorded against his little soul
(he knows will get to heaven) the sale of ten thousand black souls,
which will shine in brightness when his is refused admittance to the
portal above.
Having arrived at the point most marketable, he sells her to Mr.
Gurdoin Choicewest, who pays no less a sum than sixteen hundred
dollars in hard cash for the unyielding beauty-money advanced to him
by his dear papa, who had no objection to his having a pretty
coloured girl, provided Madam Choicewest-most indulgent mother she
was, too-gave her consent; and she said she was willing, provided-;
and now, notwithstanding she was his own, insisted on the
preservation of her virtue, or death. Awful dilemma, this! To lash
her will be useless; and the few kicks she has already received have
not yet begun to thaw her frozen determination. Such an unyielding
thing is quite useless for the purpose for which young Choicewest
purchased her. What must be done with her? The older Choicewest is
consulted, and gives it as his decided opinion that there is one of
two things the younger Choicewest must do with this dear piece of
property he has so unfortunately got on his hands,--he must sell her,
or tie her up every day and pump her with cold water, say fifteen
minutes at a time. Pumping niggers, the elder Mr. Choicewest
remarks, with the coolness of an Austrian diplomatist, has a
wondrous effect upon them; "it makes 'em give in when nothing else
will." He once had four prime fellows, who, in stubbornness, seemed
a match for Mr. Beelzebub himself. He lashed them, and he burned
them, and he clipped their ears; and then he stretched them on
planks, thinking they would cry "give in" afore the sockets of their
joints were drawn out; but it was all to no purpose, they were as
unyielding as granite.
About that time there was a celebrated manager of negroes keeping
the prison. This clever functionary had a peculiar way of bringing
the stubbornness out of them; so he consigned the four unbending
rascals to his skill. And this very valuable and very skilful
gaol-keeper had a large window in his establishment, with iron bars
running perpendicular; to the inside of which he would strap the
four stubborn rascals, with their faces scientifically arranged
between the bars, to prevent the moving of a muscle. Thus caged,
their black heads bound to the grating, the scientific gaoler, who
was something of a humourist withal, would enjoy a nice bit of fun
at seeing the more favoured prisoners (with his kind permission)
exercise their dexterity in throwing peas at the faces of the
bounden. How he would laugh-how the pea-punishing prisoners would
enjoy it-how the fast bound niggers, foaming with rage and maddened
to desperation, would bellow, as their very eyeballs darted fire and
blood! What grand fun it was! bull-baiting sank into a mere shadow
beside it. The former was measuredly passive, because the bull only
roared, and pitched, and tossed; whereas here the sport was made
more exhilarating by expressions of vengeance or implorings. And
then, as a change of pastime, the skilful gaoler would demand a
cessation of the pea hostilities, and enjoin the commencement of the
water war; which said war was carried out by supplying about a dozen
prisoners with as many buckets, which they would fill with great
alacrity, and, in succession, throw the contents with great force
over the unyielding, from the outside. The effect of this on naked
men, bound with chains to iron bars, may be imagined; but the older
Choicewest declares it was a cure. It brought steel out of the
"rascals," and made them as submissive as shoe-strings. Sometimes
the jolly prisoners would make the bath so strong, that the niggers
would seem completely drowned when released; but then they'd soon
come to with a jolly good rolling, a little hartshorn applied to
their nostrils, and the like of that. About a dozen times putting
through the pea and water process cured them.
So says the very respectable Mr. Choicewest, with great dignity of
manners, as he seriously advises the younger Choicewest to try a
little quantity of the same sort on his now useless female purchase.
Lady Choicewest must, however, be consulted on this point, as she is
very particular about the mode in which all females about her
establishment are chastised. Indeed, Lady Choicewest is much
concerned about the only male, heir of the family, to whom she looks
forward for very distinguished results to the family name. The
family (Lady Choicewest always assures those whom she graciously
condescends to admit into the fashionable precincts of her small but
very select circle), descended from the very ancient and chivalric
house of that name, whose celebrated estate was in Warwickshire,
England; and, in proof of this, my Lady Choicewest invariably points
to a sad daub, illustrative of some incomprehensible object,
suspended over the antique mantelpiece. With methodical grace, and
dignity which frowns with superlative contempt upon every thing very
vulgar--for she says "she sublimely detests them very low creatures
what are never brought up to manners at the north, and are worse
than haystacks to larn civility"--my lady solicits a near inspection
of this wonderful hieroglyphic, which she tells us is the family
arms,--an ancient and choice bit of art she would not part with for
the world. If her friends evince any want of perception in tracing
the many deeds of valour it heralds, on behalf of the noble family
of which she is an undisputed descendant, my lady will at once enter
upon the task of instruction; and with the beautiful fore-finger of
her right hand, always jewelled with great brilliancy, will she
satisfactorily enlighten the stupid on the fame of the ancient
Choicewest family, thereon inscribed. With no ordinary design on the
credulity of her friends, Lady Choicewest has several times strongly
intimated that she was not quite sure that one or two of her
ancestors in the male line of the family were not reigning dukes as
far down as the noble reign of the ignoble Oliver Cromwell! The
question, nevertheless, is whether the honour of the ancient
Choicewest family descended from Mr. or Mrs. Choicewest. The vulgar
mass have been known to say (smilingly) that Lady Choicewest's name
was Brown, the father of which very ancient family sold herrings and
small pigs at a little stand in the market: this, however, was a
very long time ago, and, as my lady is known to be troubled with an
exceedingly crooked memory, persons better acquainted with her are
more ready to accept the oblivious excuse.
Taking all these things into consideration, my Lady Choicewest is
exceedingly cautious lest young Gourdoin Choicewest should do aught
to dishonour the family name; and on this strange perplexity in
which her much indulged son is placed being referred to her, she
gives it as her most decided opinion that the wench, if as obstinate
as described, had better be sold to the highest bidder-the sooner
the better. My lady lays great emphasis on "the sooner the better."
That something will be lost she has not the slightest doubt; but
then it were better to lose a little in the price of the stubborn
wretch, than to have her always creating disturbance about the
genteel premises. In furtherance of this-my lady's mandate-Annette
is sold to Mr. Blackmore Blackett for the nice round sum of fifteen
hundred dollars. Gourdoin Choicewest hates to part with the beauty,
grieves and regrets,--she is so charmingly fascinating. "Must let her
slide, though; critter won't do at all as I wants her to," he lisps,
regretting the serious loss of the dollars. His friend Blackmore
Blackett, however, is a gentleman, and therefore he would not
deceive him in the wench: hence he makes the reduction, because he
finds her decidedly faulty. Had Blackmore Blackett been a regular
flesh trader, he would not have scrupled to take him in. As it is,
gentlemen must always be gentlemen among themselves. Blackett, a
gentleman of fortune, who lives at his ease in the city, and has the
very finest taste for female beauty, was left, most unfortunately, a
widower with four lovely daughters, any one of which may be
considered a belle not to be rung by gentlemen of ordinary rank or
vulgar pretension. In fact, the Blackett girls are considered very
fine specimens of beauty, are much admired in society, and expect
ere long, on the clear merit of polish, to rank equal with the first
aristocracy of the place.
Mr. Blackmore Blackett esteems himself an extremely lucky fellow in
having so advantageously procured such a nice piece of property,--so
suited to his taste. Her price, when compared with her singularly
valuable charms, is a mere nothing; and, too, all his fashionable
friends will congratulate him upon his good fortune. But as
disappointments will come, so Mr. Blackmore Blackett finds he has
got something not quite so valuable as anticipated; however, being
something of a philosopher, he will improve upon the course pursued
by the younger Choicewest: he makes his first advances with great
caution; whispers words of tenderness in her ear; tells her his
happy jewel for life she must be. Remembering her mother, she turns
a deaf ear to Mr. Blackett's pleadings. The very cabin which he has
provided for her in the yard reminds her of that familiar domicile
on Marston's plantation. Neither by soft pleadings, nor threatenings
of sale to plantation life, nor terrors of the lash, can he soften
the creature's sympathies, so that the flesh may succumb. When he
whispered soft words and made fascinating promises, she would shake
her head and move from him; when he threatened, she would plead her
abject position; when he resorted to force, she would struggle with
him, making the issue her virtue or death. Once she paid the penalty
of her struggles with a broken wrist, which she shows us more in
sorrow than anger. Annette is beautiful but delicate; has soft eyes
beaming with the fulness of a great soul; but they were sold,
once,--now, sympathy for her is dead. The law gives her no protection
for her virtue; the ruffian may violate it, and Heaven only can
shelter it with forgiveness. As for Blackett, he has no forgiveness
in his temperament,--passion soars highest with him; he would slay
with violent hands the minion who dared oppose its triumph.
About this time, Mr. Blackett, much to his surprise, finds a storm
of mischief brewing about his domestic domain. The Miss Blacketts,
dashing beauties, have had it come to their ears over and over again
that all the young men about the city say Annette Mazatlin (as she
is now called) is far more beautiful than any one of the Blacketts.
This is quite enough to kindle the elements of a female war. In the
south nothing can spread the war of jealousy and vanity with such
undying rage as comparing slave beauty with that of the more
favoured of the sexes. A firman of the strongest kind is now issued
from the portfolio of the Miss Blacketts, forbidding the wretched
girl entering the house; and storms of abuse are plentifully and
very cheaply lavished on her head, ere she puts it outside the
cabin. She was a nasty, impudent hussy; the very worst of all kind
of creatures to have about a respectable mansion,--enough to shock
respectable people! The worst of it was, that the miserable white
nigger thought she was handsome, and a lot of young, silly-headed
men flattered her vanity by telling the fool she was prettier than
the Blacketts themselves,--so said the very accomplished Miss
Blacketts. And if ever domicile was becoming too warm for man to
live in, in consequence of female indignation, that one was Mr.
Blackmore Blackett's. It was not so much that the father had
purchased this beautiful creature to serve fiendish purposes. Oh
no!-that was a thing of every-day occurrence,--something excusable in
any respectable man's family. It was beauty rivalling, fierce and
jealous of its compliments. Again, the wretch-found incorrigible,
and useless for the purpose purchased-is sold. Poor, luckless
maiden! she might add, as she passed through the hands of so many
purchasers. This time, however, she is less valuable from having
fractured her left wrist, deformity being always taken into account
when such property is up at the flesh shambles. But Mr. Blackmore
Blackett has a delicacy about putting her up under the hammer just
now, inasmuch as he could not say she was sold for no fault; while
the disfigured wrist might lead to suspicious remarks concerning his
treatment of her. Another extremely unfortunate circumstance was its
getting all about the city that she was a cold, soulless thing, who
declared that sooner than yield to be the abject wretch men sought
to make her, she would die that only death. She had but one life,
and it were better to yield that up virtuously than die degraded.
Graspum, then, is the only safe channel in which to dispose of the
like. That functionary assures Mr. Blackmore Blackett that the girl
is beautiful, delicate, and an exceedingly sweet creature yet! but
that during the four months she has depreciated more than fifty per
cent in value. His remarks may be considered out of place, but they
are none the less true, for it is ascertained, on private
examination, that sundry stripes have been laid about her bare
loins. Gurdoin Choicewest declared to his mother that he never for
once had laid violent hands on the obstinate wench; Mr. Blackmore
Blackett stood ready to lay his hand on the Bible, and lift his eyes
to heaven for proof of his innocence; but a record of the
infliction, indelible of blood, remained there to tell its sad
tale,--to shame, if shame had aught in slavery whereon to make itself
known. Notwithstanding this bold denial, it is found that Mr.
Blackmore Blackett did on two occasions strip her and secure her
hands and feet to the bed-post, where he put on "about six at a
time," remarkably "gently." He admired her symmetrical form, her
fine, white, soft, smooth skin-her voluptuous limbs, so beautifully
and delicately developed; and then there was so much gushing
sweetness, mingled with grief, in her face, as she cast her soft
glances upon him, and implored him to end her existence, or save her
such shame! Such, he says, laconically, completely disarmed him, and
he only switched her a few times.
"She's not worth a dot more than a thousand dollars. I couldn't give
it for her, because I couldn't make it out on her. The fact is,
she'll get a bad name by passing through so many hands-a deuced bad
name!" says Graspum, whose commercial language is politically cold.
"And then there's her broken wrist-doubtful! doubtful! doubtful!
what I can do with her. For a plantation she isn't worth seven
coppers, and sempstresses and housemaids of her kind are looked on
suspiciously. It's only with great nicety of skill ye can work such
property to advantage," he continues, viewing her in one of Mr.
Blackmore Blackett's ante-rooms.
The upshot of the matter is, that Mr. Blackmore Blackett accepts the
offer, and Graspum, having again taken the damaged property under
his charge, sends it back to his pen. As an offset for the broken
wrist, she has three new dresses, two of which were presented by the
younger Choicewest, and one by the generous Blackmore Blackett.
Poor Annette! she leaves for her home in the slave-pen, sad at
heart, and in tears. "My mother! Oh, that I had a mother to love me,
to say Annette so kindly,--to share with me my heart's bitter
anguish. How I could love Nicholas, now that there is no mother to
love me!" she mutters as she sobs, wending her way to that place of
earthly torment. How different are the feelings of the oppressor. He
drinks a social glass of wine with his friend Blackett, lights his
cigar most fashionably, bids him a polite good morning, and
intimates that a cheque for the amount of the purchase will be ready
any time he may be pleased to call. And now he wends his way
homeward, little imagining what good fortune awaits him at the pen
to which he has despatched his purchase.
Annette has reached the pen, in which she sits, pensively, holding
her bonnet by the strings, the heavy folds of her light auburn hair
hanging dishevelled over her shoulders. Melancholy indeed she is,
for she has passed an ordeal of unholy brutality. Near her sits one
Pringle Blowers, a man of coarse habits, who resides on his
rice-plantation, a few miles from the city, into which he frequently
comes, much to the annoyance of quietly disposed citizens and
guardsmen, who are not unfrequently called upon to preserve the
peace he threatens to disturb. Dearly does he love his legitimate
brandy, and dearly does it make him pay for the insane frolics it
incites him to perpetrate, to the profit of certain saloons, and
danger of persons. Madman under the influence of his favourite
drink, a strange pride besets his faculties, which is only appeased
with the demolition of glass and men's faces. For this strange
amusement he has become famous and feared; and as the light of his
own besotted countenance makes its appearance, citizens generally
are not inclined to interpose any obstacle to the exercise of his
belligerent propensities.
Here he sits, viewing Annette with excited scrutiny. Never before
has he seen anything so pretty, so bright, so fascinating-all
clothed with a halo of modesty-for sale in the market. The nigger is
completely absorbed in the beauty, he mutters to himself: and yet
she must be a nigger or she would not be here. That she is an
article of sale, then, there can be no doubt. "Van, yer the nicest
gal I've seen! Reckon how Grasp. paid a tall shot for ye, eh?" he
says, in the exuberance of his fascinated soul. He will draw nearer
to her, toss her undulating hair, playfully, and with seeming
unconsciousness draw his brawny hand across her bosom. "Didn't mean
it!" he exclaims, contorting his broad red face, as she puts out her
hand, presses him from her, and disdains his second attempt. "Pluck,
I reckon! needn't put on mouths, though, when a feller's only
quizzin." He shrugs his great round shoulders, and rolls his wicked
eyes.
"I am not for you, man!" she interrupts: "I would scorn you, were I
not enslaved," she continues, a curl of contempt on her lip, as her
very soul kindles with grief. Rising quickly from his side she
walked across the pen, and seated herself on the opposite side. Here
she casts a frowning look upon him, as if loathing his very
presence. This, Mr. Pringle Blowers don't altogether like: slaves
have no right to look loathingly on white people. His flushed face
glows red with excitement; he runs his brawny fingers through the
tufted mats of short curly hair that stand almost erect on his head,
draws his capacious jaws into a singular angle, and makes a hideous
grimace.
The terrified girl has no answer to make; she is a forlorn outcast
of democracy's rule. He takes the black ribbon from round his neck,
bares his bosom more broadly than before, throws the plaid sack in
which he is dressed from off him, and leaping as it were across the
room, seizes her in his arms. "Kisses are cheap, I reckon, and a
feller what don't have enough on 'em 's a fool," he ejaculates, as
with a desperate struggle she bounds from his grasp, seizes the
knife from a negro's hand as she passes him, and is about to plunge
the shining steel into her breast. "Oh, mother, mother!-what have I
done?-is not God my Saviour?-has he forsaken me?-left me a prey to
those who seek my life?"
"I settle those things," said a voice in the rear, and immediately a
hand grasped her arm, and the knife fell carelessly upon the floor.
It was Graspum; the sudden surprise overcame her; she sank back in
his arms, and swooned. "She swoons,--how limber, how lifeless she
seems!" says Graspum, as with great coolness he calls a negro
attendant, orders him to remove her to the grass plat, and bathe her
well with cold water. "A good dowsing of water is the cure for
fainting niggers," he concludes.
The black man takes her in his arms, and with great kindness, lays
her on the plat, bathes her temples, loosens her dress, and with his
rough hand manipulates her arms. How soft and silky they seem to his
touch! "Him hard to slave ye, miss," he says, laying his hand upon
her temples, gently, as with commiseration he looks intently on her
pallid features.
"Now, Blowers," says Graspum, as soon as they are by themselves,
"what in the name of the Gentiles have you been up to?"
"Wal-can't say its nothin, a'cos that wouldn't do. But, ye see, the
critter made my mouth water so; there was no standin on't! And I
wanted to be civil, and she wouldn't,--and I went t' fumlin with her
hair what looked so inviting, as there was no resistin on't, and she
looked just as sassy as sixty; and to stun the whole, when I only
wanted to kiss them ar' temptin lips, the fool was going to kill
herself. It wasn't how I cared two buttons about it; but then the
feelin just came over me at the time," he answers, shaking his huge
sides, giving Graspum a significant wink, and laughing heartily.
"Never at a loss, I see!" returns the other, nodding his head,
pertinently: "If I didn't know ye, Blowers, that might go down
without sticking."
"Ye don't tell where ye raised that critter, eh?" he interrupts,
inquisitively, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder, and
crooking his finger, comically.
"Raised her with shiners-lots on 'em!" he rejoins, pushing Mr.
Pringle Blowers in the stomach, playfully, with his forefinger.
"Graspum! yer a wicked 'un."
"Suit ye, kind 'a-eh, Blowers?" he rejoins, enquiringly, maintaining
great gravity of manner as he watches each change of Blowers'
countenance.
Blowers laughs in reply. His laugh has something sardonic in it,
seeming more vicious as he opens his great wicked mouth, and
displays an ugly row of coloured teeth.
"Sit down, Blowers, sit down!" says Graspum, motioning his hand,
with a studied politeness. The two gentlemen take seats side by
side, on a wooden bench, stretched across the centre of the pen, for
negroes to sit upon. "As I live, Blowers, thar ain't another
individual like you in the county. You can whip a file of common
guardsmen, put the Mayor's court through a course of affronts,
frighten all the females out of the fashionable houses, treat a
regiment of volunteers, drink a bar-room dry-"
"Compliments thick, long and strong," interposes Blowers, winking
and wiping his mouth. "Can elect half the members of the assembly!"
he concludes.
"True! nevertheless," rejoins Graspum, "a great man cannot be
flattered-compliments are his by merit! And the city knows you're a
man of exquisite taste."
Blowers interrupts with a loud laugh, as he suggests the propriety
of seeing the "gal get round again."
"Not so fast, Blowers; not so fast!" Graspum ejaculates, as Blowers
is about to rise from his seat and follow Annette.
"Well, now!" returns Blowers, remaining seated, "Might just as well
come square to the mark,--ye want to sell me that wench?"
"Truth's truth!" he replies. "Blowers is the man who's got the gold
to do it."
"Name yer price; and no rounding the corners!" exclaims Blowers, his
countenance quickening with animation. He takes Graspum by the arm
with his left hand, turns him half round, and waits for a reply.
Seeing it's Blowers, (the keen business man replies, in an off-hand
manner), who's a trump in his way, and don't care for a few dollars,
he'll take seventeen hundred for her, tin down; not a fraction less!
He will have no bantering, inasmuch as his friends all know that he
has but one price for niggers, from which it is no use to seek a
discount. Mr. Blowers, generally a good judge of such articles,
would like one more view at it before fully making up his mind.
Graspum calls "Oh, boy!" and the negro making his appearance, says:
"Dat gal 'um all right agin; went mos asleep, but am right as
parched pen now."
"Have her coming," he returns, facing Blowers. "Nothing the matter
with that gal," he exclaims, touching his elbow. "It is merely one of
her flimsy fits; she hasn't quite come to maturity."
Slowly the negro leads her, weeping (Graspum says they will cry-it's
natural!) into the presence of the far-famed and much-feared Mr.
Pringle Blowers. Her hair hangs carelessly about her neck and
shoulders, the open incision of her dress discloses a neatly worked
stomacher; how sweetly glows the melancholy that broods over her
countenance! "I'll take her-I'll take her!" exclaims Blowers, in
spasmodic ecstasy.
"I know'd you would; I'll suit you to a charm," rejoins the man of
trade, laconically, as the negro steps a few feet backward, and
watches the process. "Considers it a trade," is the reply of
Blowers, as he orders his waggon to be brought to the door.
"Oh! master, master! save me-save me! and let me die in peace.
Don't, good master, don't sell me again!" Thus saying she falls on
her knees at Graspum's feet, and with hands uplifted beseeches him
to save her from the hands of a man whose very sight she loathes.
She reads the man's character in his face; she knows too well the
hellish purpose for which he buys her. Bitter, bitter, are the tears
of anguish she sheds at his feet, deep and piercing are her
bemoanings. Again her soft, sorrowing eyes wander in prayer to
heaven: as Graspum is a husband, a brother, and a father,--whose
children are yet in the world's travel of uncertainty, she beseeches
him to save her from that man.
"Don't be mad, girl," he says, pushing her hand from him.
"Frightened, eh? Make ye love me, yet! Why, gal, ye never had such a
master in the world as I'll be to ye. I lay I makes a lady on ye,
and lets ye have it all yer own way, afore a fortnight," he rejoins,
spreading his brawny arms over her, as she, in an attitude of
fright, vaults from beneath them, and, uttering a faint cry, glides
crouching into a corner of the pen. There is no protection for her
now; her weepings and implorings fall harmless on the slavedealer's
ears; heaven will protect her when earth knows her no more!
"There's two can play a game like that, gal!" exclaims Blowers.
"Rough play like that don't do with this ere citizen. Can just take
the vixen out on a dozen on ye as what don't know what's good for
'em." Blowers is evidently allowing his temper to get the better of
him. He stands a few feet from her, makes grim his florid face,
gesticulates his hands, and daringly advances toward her as the
negro announces the arrival of his waggon.
"You must go with him, girl; stop working yourself into a fever;
stop it, I say," interposes Graspum, peremptorily. "The waggon! the
waggon! the waggon! to carry me away, away;--never, never to return
and see my mother?" she exclaims, as well nigh in convulsions she
shrieks, when Blowers grasps her in his arms (Graspum saying, be
gentle, Blowers), drags her to the door, and by force thrusts her
into the waggon, stifling her cries as on the road they drive
quickly away. As the last faint wail dies away, and the vehicle
bearing its victim disappears in the distance, we think how sweet is
liberty, how prone to injustice is man, how crushing of right are
democracy's base practices.
"Does seem kind of hard; but it's a righteous good sale. Shouldn't
wonder if she played the same game on him she did with t'other two
fools. Get her back then, and sell her over again. Well! come now;
there's no great loss without-some-small-gain!" says Graspum, as,
standing his prominent figure in the door of his man pen, he watches
the woman pass out of sight, thrusts his hands deep into his
breeches pockets, and commences humming an air for his own special
amusement.