```The road of life is light and dark,
```Each journeyman will make his mark;
```The mark is seen by all behind,
```Excepting those who go stark blind.
```Men for women mark out the way,
```In spite of all the rib can say;
```But when the way is rough and hard,
```The woman's eye will come to guard
```The footsteps of her liege and lord,
```With gentle tone and loving word.=
|Since the curtain fell upon the closing sentence in the last scene,
many long and tedious seasons have passed away.
The placid waters of the beautiful Ohio have long since been disturbed
by steam navigation; and the music of the steam engine echoing from the
river hills have alarmed the bat and the owl, and broke the solitude
around the graves of many of the first settlers. Many old associations
have lived and died. The infant images of the early settlers are men
and women. In the order of time Roxie Fairfield, the heroine of the snow
storm, and Aunt Fillis Foster, claim our attention.
With a few back glances at girlhood, we hasten on to her womanhood. Aunt
Fillis permitted Roxie to attend a country school a few months in each
year. The school house was built of round logs, was twenty feet square,
with one log left out on the south side for a window. The seats were
made of slabs from the drift wood on the Ohio River, (the first cut
from the log, one side flat, the other having the shape of the log,
rounding); holes were bored in the slabs and pins eighteen inches long
inserted for legs. These benches were set against the wall of the room,
and the pupils arranged sitting in rows around the room. In the center
sat the teacher by a little square table, with a switch long enough to
reach any pupil in the house without rising from his seat. And thus the
heroine of the snow storm received the rudiments of an education, as she
grew to womanhood.
Roxie was obedient, tidy--and twenty, and like all girls of her class,
had a lover. Aunt Fillis said Roxie kept everything about the house in
the right place, and was always in the right place herself; she said
more, she could not keep house without her. By what spirit Aunt Fillis
was animated we shall not undertake to say, but she forbade Roxie's
lover the prerogative of her premises.
Roxie's family blood could never submit to slavery, and she ran
away with her lover, was married according to the common law, which
recognizes man and wife as one, and the man is that one.
They went to Louisville, and the reader has already been introduced to
the womanhood of Roxie Fairfield in the person of Daymon's wife.
The reader is referred to the closing sentence of Scene First. Daymon
was granted a new trial, which never came off, and the young couple left
Louisville and went to Chicago, Illinois. Roxie had been concealed by a
female friend, and only learned the fate of Daymon a few minutes before
she entered the court room. Daymon resolved to reform, for when future
hope departed, and all but life had fled, the faithful Roxie rose like a
spirit from the dead to come and stand by him.
Daymon and Roxie left Louisville without any intimation of
their-destination to any one, without anything to pay expenses, and
nothing but their wearing apparel, both resolved to work, for the sun
shone as brightly upon them as it did upon any man and woman in the
world.
As a day laborer Daymon worked in and around the infant city, as
ignorant of the bright future as the wild ducks that hovered 'round the
shores of the lake.
It is said that P. J. Marquette, a French missionary from Canada was the
first white man that settled on the spot where Chicago now stands. This
was before the war of the Revolution, and his residence was temporary.
Many years afterward a negro from San Domingo made some improvements
at the same place; but John Kinzie is generally regarded as the first
settler at Chicago, for he made a permanent home there in 1804. For a
quarter of a century the village had less than one hundred inhabitants.
A wild onion that grew there, called by the Indians Chikago, gave the
name to the city.
After a few years of hard, labor and strict economy a land-holder was
indebted to Daymon the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. Daymon
wished to collect his dues and emigrate farther west. By the persuasion
of Roxie he was induced to accept a deed to fifteen acres of land. In a
short time he sold one acre for more than the cost of the whole tract,
and was soon selling by the foot instead of the acre. The unparalleled
growth of the city made. Daymon rich in spite of himself. .
The ever wakeful eye of the Angel of observation is peering into the
parlor of the Daymon _palace_, to see Roxie surrounded with all the
luxuries of furniture, sitting by an ornamented table, upon which lay
gilt-edged paper; in the center of the table sat a pearl ink-stand and a
glass ornament set with variegated colors. Roxie's forehead rested upon
the palm of her left hand, elbow on the table. Profound reflections
are passing through her brain; they carry her back to the days of her
childhood. Oh, how she loved Suza; the little bright eyes gazed upon
her and the red lips pronounced the inaudible sound, “_dear sister_.”
“Yes, I will write,” said Roxie, mentally. She takes the gold pen in
her right hand, adjusting the paper with her left, she _paused_ to
thank from the bottom of her heart old Ben Robertson, who in the country
school had taught her the art of penmanship. _Hush!_ did the hall bell
ring? In a few minutes a servant appeared at the door and announced the
name of Aunt Patsy Perkins.
“Admit Aunt Patsy--tell her your mistress is at home,” said Roxie,
rising from the table.
Aunt Patsy Perkins was floating upon the surface of upper-tendom
in Chicago. She understood all of the late styles; a queen in the
drawing-room, understood the art precisely of entertaining company; the
grandest ladies in the city would listen to the council of Aunt Patsy,
for she could talk faster and more of it than any woman west of the
Alleghany Mountains.
The visitor enters the room; Roxie offers Aunt Patsy an easy chair;
Aunt Patsy is wiping away the perspiration with a fancy kerchief, in one
hand, and using the fan with the other. When seated she said:
“I must rest a little, for I have something to tell you, and I will
tell you now what it is before I begin. Old Perkins has no more love for
style than I have for his _dratted poor kin_. But as I was going to tell
you, Perkins received a letter from Indiana, stating this Cousin Sally
wished to make us a visit. She's a plain, poor girl, that knows no more
of style than Perkins does of a woman's comforts. I'll tell you what
it is, Mrs. Daymon, if she does come, if I don't make it hot for old
Perkins, it'll be because I can't talk. A woman has nothing but her
tongue, and while I live I will use mine.”
Then pointing her index finger at Roxie, continued: “I will tell you
what it is Mrs. Daymon, take two white beans out of one hull, and place
them on the top of the garden fence, and then look at 'em across the
garden, and if you can tell which one is the largest, you can seen what
difference there is in the way old Perkins hates style and I hate his
_dratted poor kin_. What wealthy families are to do in this city, God
only knows. I think sometimes old Perkins is a _wooden man_, for, with
all my style, I can make no more impression on h-i-m, than I can upon
an oak stump, Mrs. Daymon. What if he did make a thousand dollars last
week, when he wants to stick his _poor kin_ 'round me, like stumps in a
flower garden.” At this point Roxie ventured to say a word. “Aunt Patsy,
I thought Jim was kinsfolk on your side of the house.”
“Yes, but honey, I am good to Jim, poor soul, he knows it,” said Aunt
Patsy gravely, and then she paused.
Jim was a poor boy, eighteen years old, and the son of Aunt Patsy's dear
brother, long since laid under the dark green sod of Indiana. The poor
boy, hearing of the wealth of his Aunt Patsy, had come to Chicago and
was working on the streets, poorly clad.
Aunt Patsy would sometimes give him a few dollars, as you would throw
a bone to a dog, requesting him at the same time to always come to the
back door, and never be about the house when she had company.
Aunt Patsy said emphatically, as she left the Daymon palace, “I'll tell
you what it is, Mrs. Daymon, I'm goin' home to study human nature,
and if I don't find some avenue to reach old Perkim, I shall take the
liberty to insult the first one of his _dratted poor kin_ that sets foot
in my house.”
After Aunt Patsy left, Roxie thought no more of her letter of inquiry,
and company engaged her attention for some days until the subject passed
entirely out of her mind.
Soon after these events Roxie died with the cholera--leaving an only
daughter--and was buried as ignorant of the fate of her sister as the
stone that now stands upon her grave.
We must now turn back more than a decade, which brings us to the burning
of the steamboat Brandywine, on the Mississippi river. The boat was
heavily freighted, with a large number of passengers on board; the
origin of the fire has never been positively known; it was late in
the night, with a heavy breeze striking the boat aft, where the fire
occurred. In a short time all on board was in confusion; the pilot, from
the confusion of the moment, or the lack of a proper knowledge of the
river, headed the boat for the wrong shore, and she ran a-ground on
a deep sand bar a long way from shore and burned to the waters' edge;
between the two great elements of fire and water many leaped into the
river and were drowned, and some reached the shore on pieces of
the wreck. Among those fortunate enough to reach the shore was an
Englishman, who was so badly injured he was unable to walk; by the more
fortunate he was carried to the cabin of a wood cutter, where he soon
after died.
When he fully realized the situation he called for ink and paper; there
was none on the premises; a messenger was dispatched to the nearest
point where it was supposed the articles could be obtained, but he was
too late. When the last moments came the dying man made the following
statement: “My name is John A. Lasco. I have traveled for three years
in this country without finding the slightest trace of the object of
my search--an only and a dear sister. Her name is Susan Lasco; with our
father she left the old country many years ago. They were poor.--the
family fortune being held in abeyance by the loss of some papers. I
remained, but our father gave up all hope and emigrated to America,
taking Susan with him. In the course of nature the old man is dead,
and my sister Susan, if she is living, is the last, or soon will be the
last, link of the family. I am making this statement as my last will and
testament. Some years ago the post-master in my native town received
a letter from America stating that by the confession of one, Alonzo
Phelps, who was condemned to die, that there was a bundle of papers
concealed in a certain place by him before he left the country. Search
was made and the papers found which gave me the possession of the family
estate. The letter was subscribed D. C., which gave a poor knowledge of
the writer. I sold the property and emigrated to this country in search
of my sister; I have had poor success. She probably married, and the
ceremony changed her name, and I fear she is hopelessly lost to her
rights; her name was Susan Lasco--what it is now, God only knows. But
to Susan Lasco, and her descendants, I will the sum of twenty thousand
dollars, now on deposit in a western bank; the certificate of deposit
names the bank; the papers are wet and now upon my person; the money in
my pocket, $110, I will to the good woman of this house--with a request
that she will carefully dry and preserve my papers, and deliver them
to some respectable lawyer in Memphis----” at this point the speaker was
breathing hard--his tone of voice almost inaudible. At his request,
made by signs, he was turned over and died in a few moments without any
further directions.
The inmates of the cabin, besides the good woman of the house, were only
a few wood cutters, among whom stood Brindle Bill, of Shirt-Tail
Bend notoriety. Bill, to use his own language, was _strap'd_, and was
chopping wood at this point to raise a little money upon which to make
another start. Many years had passed away since he left Shirt Tail Bend.
He had been three times set on shore, from steamboats, for playing sharp
tricks at three card monte upon passengers, and he had gone to work,
which he never did until he was entirely out of money. Brindle Bill left
the cabin, _ostensibly_ to go to work; but he sat upon the log, rubbed
his hand across his forehead, and said mentally, “Susan La-s-co. By the
last card in the deck, _that is the name_; if I didn't hear Simon's
wife, in Shirt-Tail Bend, years ago, say her mother's name was S-u-s-a-n
L-a-s-c-o. I will never play another game; and--and _twenty thousand in
bank_. By hell, I've struck a lead.”
The ever open ear of the Angel of observation was catching the sound of
a conversation in the cabin of Sundown Hill in Shirt-Tail Bend. It was
as follows--
“Many changes, Bill, since you left here; the Carlo wood yard has play'd
out; Don Carlo went back to Kentucky. I heard he was blowed up on a
steamboat; if he ever come down again I did'nt hear of it.”
“Hope he never did,” said Bill, chawing the old grudge with his eye
teeth.
Hill continued: “You see, Bill, the old wood yards have given place to
plantations. Simon, your old friend, is making pretentions to be called
a planter,” said Sundown Hill to Brindle Bill, in a tone of confidence.
“Go slow, Hill, there is a hen on the nest. I come back here to play a
strong game; twenty thousand in bank,” and Brindle Bill winked with his
right eye, the language of which is, I deal and you play the cards I
give you. “You heard of the burning of the Brandywine; well, there was
an Englishman went up in that scrape, and he left twenty thousand in
bank, and Rose Simon is the _heir_,” said Bill in a tone of confidence.
“And what can that profit y-o-u?” said Hill rather indignantly.
“I am playing this game; I want you to send for Simon,” said Bill rather
commandingly.
“Simon has changed considerably since you saw him; and, besides,
fortunes that come across the water seldom prove true. Men who have
fortunes in their native land seldom seek fortunes in a strange
country,” said Hill argumentatively.
“There is no mistake in this case, for uncle John had-the _di-dapper
eggs_ in his pocket,” said Bill firmly.
Late that evening three men, in close council, were seen, in Shirt-Tail
Bend. S. S. Simon had joined the company of the other two. After Brindle
Bill had related to Simon the events above described, the following
questions and answers, passed between the two:
“Mrs. Simon's mother was named Susan Lasco?”
“Undoubtedly; and her father's name was Tom Fairfield. She is the brave
woman who broke up, or rather burned up, the gambling den in Shirt-Tail
Bend. We were married in Tennessee. Mrs. Simon was the adopted daughter
of Mrs. Evaline Estep, her parents having died when she was quite young.
The old lady Estep tried to horn me off; but I _beat her_. Well the old
Christian woman gave Rose a good many things, among which was a box of
family keep sakes; she said they were given to her in consideration of
her taking the youngest child of the orphan children. There may be
something in that box to identify the family.”
At this point Brindle Bill winked his right eye--it is my deal, you play
the cards I give you. As Simon was about to' leave the company, to break
the news to his wife, Brindle Bill said to him very confidentially:
“You find out in what part of the country this division of the orphan
children took place, and whenever you find that place, be where it
will, right there is where I was raised--the balance of them children is
_dead_, Simon,” and he again winked his right eye.
“I understand,” said Simon, and as he walked on towards home to apprise
Rose of her good fortune, he said mentally, “This is Bill's deal, I will
play the cards he gives me.” Simon was a shifty man; he stood in the
_half-way house_ between the honest man and the rogue: was always ready
to take anything he could lay hands on, as long as he could hold some
one else between himself and danger. Rose Simon received the news with
delight. She hastened to her box of keepsakes and held before Simon's
astonished eyes an old breast-pin with this inscription: “Presented to
Susan Lasco by her brother, John A. Lasco, 1751.”
“That's all the evidence we want,” said Simon emphatically. “Now,”
continued Simon, coaxingly, “What became of your sisters?”
“You know when Mrs. Estep moved to Tennessee I was quite small. I have
heard nothing of my sisters since that time. It has been more than
fifteen years,” said Rose gravely. .
“At what point in Kentucky were you separated?” said Simon inquiringly.
“Port William, the mouth of the Kentucky river,” said Rose plainly.
“Brindle Bill says they are dead,” said Simon slowly.
“B-r-i-n-d-l-e B-i-l-l, why, I would not believe him on oath,” said Rose
indignantly.
“Yes, but he can prove it,” said Simon triumphantly, and he then
continued, “If we leave any gaps down, _my dear_, we will not be able to
draw the money until those sisters are hunted up, and then it would cut
us down to less than seven thousand dollars--and that would hardly build
us a fine house,” and with many fair and coaxing words Simon obtained a
promise from Rose that she would permit him to manage the business.
At the counter of a western bank stood S. S. Simon and party presenting
the certificate of deposit for twenty thousand dollars. In addition to
the breast-pin Rose had unfolded an old paper, that had laid for years
in the bottom of her box. It was a certificate of the marriage of Tom
Fairfield and Susan Lasco. Brindle Bill and Sundown Hill were sworn and
testified that Rose Simon _alias_ Rose Fairfield was the only surviving
child of Tom Fairfield and Susan Lasco. Brindle Bill said he was raised
in Port William, and was at the funeral of the little innocent years
before, The money was paid over. Rose did not believe a word that
Bill said but she had promised Simon that she would let him manage the
business, and few people will refuse money when it is thrust upon them.
The party returned to Shirt-Tail Bend. Simon deceived Rose with the plea
of some little debts, paid over to Brindle Bill and Sundown Hill three
hundred dollars each. Brindle Bill soon got away with three hundred
dollars; “Strop'd again,” he said mentally, and then continued, “Some
call it blackmailin' or backmailin', but I call it a _back-handed_ game.
It is nothing but making use of power, and if a fellow don't use power
when it's put in his hands he had better bunch tools and quit.”
Brindle Bill said to S. S. Simon, “I have had a streak of bad luck; lost
all my money; want to borrow three hundred dollars. No use to say you
havn't got it, for I can find them sisters of your wife in less than
three weeks,” and he winked his right eye.
Simon hesitated, but finally with many words of caution paid over the
money.
Soon after these events S. S. Simon was greatly relieved by reading in
a newspaper the account of the sentence of Brindle Bill to the state
prison for a long term of years.
S. S. Simon now stood in the front rank of the planters of his
neighborhood; had built a new house and ready to furnish it; Rose was
persuaded by him to make the trip with him to New Orleans and select her
furniture for the new house. While in the city Rose Simon was attacked
with the yellow fever and died on the way home. She was buried in
Louisiana, intestate and childless.