Upon the stained deal table, standing a little in the rear and partially

between the two, reposed an open Bible. Between its leaves lay a pair of

large, old-fashioned, silver-bowed spectacles, which the husband had but

recently laid there, after reading the usual daily chapter of Holy Writ.

He had ceased but a moment before, and had laid them down with a heavy

sigh, for his heart to-day was sorely oppressed; and no wonder; for,

following his gaze around the room, we find upon the otherwise bare

walls five sad mementos of those who had "gone before,"--five coarse and

unartistic, but loving tributes to the dead.

There they hang, framed in black, each with its white tomb and

overhanging willow, and severally inscribed to the memories of Mark,

John, James, Martha, and Mary Newell. All their flock. None left to

honor and obey, none to cheer, none to lighten the labor or soothe the

cares. All gone, and these two left behind to travel hand in hand, but

desolate, though together, to the end of their earthly pilgrimage.

There had, indeed, been one other, but for him there hung no loving

memorial. He was the youngest of all, and such a noble, strong, and

lusty infant, that the father, in the pride of his heart, and with his

fondness for Scriptural names, had christened him Samson. He, too, had

gone; but in the dread gallery that hung about the room there was no

framed funereal picture "To the Memory of Samson Newell." If in the tomb

of his father's or mother's heart he lay buried, no outward token gave

note thereof.

So the old couple sat alone before the sitting-room fire. It was not

often used, this room,--scarcely ever now, except upon Sunday, or on

those two grave holidays that the Newells kept,--Thanksgiving- and

Fast-Day. This was Thanksgiving-Day. The snow without was falling thick

and fast. It came in great eddies and white whirls, obscuring the

prospect from the windows and scudding madly around the corners. It lay

in great drifts against the fences, and one large pile before the middle

front-window had gathered volume till it reached half up the second row

of panes; for it had snowed all night and half the day before. The roads

were so blocked by it that they would have been rendered impassable but

for the sturdy efforts of the farmers' boys, who drove teams of four and

five yokes of oxen through the drifts with heavily laden sleds, breaking

out the ways. The sidewalks in the little village were shovelled and

swept clean as fast as the snow fell; for, though all business was

suspended, according to the suggestion in the Governor's proclamation,

and in conformity to old usage, still they liked to keep the paths open

on Thanksgiving-Day,--the paths and the roads; for nearly half the

families in the place expected sons and daughters from far away to

arrive on the train which should have been at the railroad-station on

the previous evening, but had been kept back by the snow.

But Jacob and Ruth Newell had neither son nor daughter, grandchild,

cousin, relation of any nearness or remoteness, to expect; for the white

snow covered with a cold mantle scores of mounds in many graveyards

where lay their dead. And they sat this day and thought of all their

kindred who had perished untimely,--all save one.

Whether he lived, or whether he had died,--where he lay buried, if

buried he were,--or where he rioted, if still in the land of the living,

they had no notion. And why should they care?

He had been a strong-willed and wild lad. He had disobeyed the

injunctions of his parents while yet a boy. He had not loved the stiff,

sad Sabbaths, nor the gloomy Saturday nights. He had rebelled against

the austerities of Fast- and Thanksgiving-Days. He had learned to play

at cards and to roll tenpins with the village boys. He had smoked in the

tavern bar-room of evenings. In vain had his father tried to coerce him

into better ways; in vain had his mother used all the persuasions of

a maternal pride and fondness that showed themselves only, of all her

children, to this brave, handsome, and reckless boy. He had gone from

worse to worse, after the first outbreaking from the strict home rules,

until he had become at length a by-word in the village, and anxious

mothers warned their sons against companionship with wicked Samson

Newell,--and this when he was only seventeen years of age.

Perhaps mildness might have worked well with the self-willed boy, but

his father knew nothing but stern command and prompt obedience in family

management; and so the son daily fell away, until came the inevitable

day when his wrong-doing reached a climax and he left his father's roof

forever.

It was on a Thanksgiving-Day, fifteen years ago, that the boy Samson,

then seventeen years old, was brought home drunk and bleeding. He had

passed the previous night at a ball at the tavern, against the express

command of his father, who would have gone to fetch him away, but that

he could not bear to enter upon a scene he thought so wicked, and

especially upon such an errand. When the dance was over, the boy had

lingered at the bar, drinking glass after glass, until he got into a

fight with the bully of the village, whom he thrashed within an inch

of his life, and then he had sat down in a small side-room with a few

choice spirits, with the avowed purpose of getting drunk over his

victory. He had got drunk, "gloriously drunk" his friends at the tavern

styled it, and had been carried in that state home.

Oh, the bitterness of the misery of that Thanksgiving-Day to Jacob

Newell! He may live a hundred years and never know such another.

The next day Samson awoke from a wretched stupor to find himself weak,

nervous, and suffering from a blinding headache. In this condition his

father forced him to the barn, and there, with a heavy raw-hide, flogged

him without mercy. That night Samson Newell disappeared, and was

thenceforward seen no more in the village.

The same night one of the village stores was entered, the door of an

ancient safe wrenched open, and something over a hundred dollars in

specie taken therefrom. So that on Samson Newell's head rested the crime

of filial disobedience, and the suspicion, amounting, with nearly all,

to a certainty, that he had added burglary to his other wrong-doing.

His name was published in the papers throughout the county, together

with a personal description and the offer of a reward for his arrest and

return. But as he was never brought back nor heard of more, the matter

gradually died away and was forgotten by most in the village; the more

so as, from respect and pity for Jacob Newell, it was scarce ever

mentioned, except privately.

Eight years elapsed from the time of his flight and supposed crime, when

the fellow he had thrashed at the tavern was arrested, tried,

convicted, and sentenced to death for a murder committed in a midnight

tavern-brawl. In a confession that he made he exonerated Samson Newell

from any participation in or knowledge of the burglary for which his

reputation had so long suffered, stating in what manner he had himself

committed the deed. So the memory of the erring son of Jacob Newell was

relieved from the great shadow that had darkened it. Still he was never

mentioned by father or mother; and seven years more rolled wearily on,

till they sit, to-day, alone and childless, by the flickering November

fire.

Sore trouble had fallen on them since their youngest son had

disappeared. One by one, the elder children had passed away, each

winter's snow for five years covered a fresh grave, till the new

afflictions that were in store for them scarcely seemed to affect them

otherwise than by cutting yet deeper into the sunken cheeks the deep

lines of sorrow and regret.

Jacob Newell had been known for years as a "forehanded man" in the rural

neighborhood. His lands were extensive, and he had pursued a liberal

system of cultivation, putting into the soil in rich manures more in

strength than he took from it, until his farm became the model one of

the county, and his profits were large and ever increasing. Particularly

in orchards of choice fruit did he excel his neighbors, and his apples,

pears, and quinces always commanded the best price in the market. So he

amassed wealth, and prospered.

But, unfortunately, after death had taken away his children, and the

work in the fields was all done by hired hands, the old man became

impatient of the dulness of life, and a spirit of speculation seized

him. Just at that time, railroad-stock was in high favor throughout the

country. Steam-drawn carriages were to do away with all other modes of

public travel, (as, indeed, they generally have done,) and the fortunate

owners of railroad-stock were to grow rich without trouble in a short

time. In particular, a certain line of railroad, to run through the

village where he lived, was to make Jacob Newell and all his neighbors

rich. It would bring a market to their doors, and greatly increase the

value of all they produced; but above all, those who took stock in it

would be insured a large permanent income. Better the twenty and thirty

per cent. that must accrue from this source than to loan spare cash at

six per cent., or invest their surplus in farm improvements. So said

a very fluent and agreeable gentleman from Boston, who addressed the

people on the subject at a "Railroad Meeting" held in the town-hall;

and incautious Jacob Newell (hitherto most prudent throughout his life)

believed.

Only twenty per cent. was to be paid down; no more, said the circular

issued by the directors, might be required for years; perhaps there

would never be any further call: but that would depend very materially

on how generously the farmers through whose lands the road would pass

should give up claims for land-damages. Jacob Newell needed excitement

of some sort, and it took the form of speculation. He believed in the

railroad, and subscribed for two hundred shares of the stock, for which

he paid four thousand dollars down. He also gave the company the right

of way where the track crossed his farm.

In six months he was called upon for two thousand dollars more; three

months afterwards another two thousand was wanted; and so it ran till he

was obliged to mortgage his farm, and finally to sell the greater part

of it, to meet his subscription. In vain he begged for mercy, and

pleaded the statement that only twenty per cent. would be needed. A new

set of directors laughed him, and others like him, to scorn. He would

have sold his stock, but he found it quoted at only twenty-five cents on

the dollar, and that price he could not prevail upon himself to take.

So he sat on this drear Thanksgiving-Day despondent beside his hearth.

With a hundred hard lines furrowing his pale face, telling of the work

of time and struggle and misfortune, he looked the incarnation of silent

sorrow and hopelessness, waiting in quiet meekness for the coming of

Death,--without desire, but without dread.

It was not strange that on this day there should come into the hearts of

both Jacob and Ruth, his wife, sad and dismal memories. Still his gaze

wandered silently about the room, and she plied unceasingly her stiff,

bright knitting-needles. One would have thought her a figure of stone,

sitting so pale and bolt upright, but for the activity of the patiently

industrious fingers.

Presently Jacob spoke.

"Ruth," he said, "it is a bitter time for us, and we are sore oppressed;

but what does the Psalmist say to such poor, worn-out creatures as we

are? 'The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth

in his way. Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the

Lord upholdeth him with his hand. I have been young, and now am old; yet

have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'

Wife, we are not forsaken of the Lord, although all earthly things seem

to go wrong with us."

She made no verbal reply; but there was a nervous flutter in the poor,

wan fingers, as she still plied the needles, and two large tears rolled

silently down her checks and fell upon the white kerchief she wore over

her shoulders.

"We have still a house over our heads," continued Jacob, "and

wherewithal to keep ourselves fed and clothed and warmed; we have but a

few years more to live; let us thank God for what blessings He has yet

vouchsafed us."

She arose without a word, stiff, angular, ungainly, and they knelt

together on the floor.

Meanwhile the snow fell thicker and faster without, and blew in fierce

clouds against the windows. The wind was rising and gaining power, and

it whistled wrathfully about the house, howling as in bitter mockery at

the scene within. Sometimes it swelled into wild laughter, and again

dropped into low and plaintive wailings. It was very dismal out in the

cold, and hardly more cheerful in the warm sitting-room, where those two

jaded souls knelt in earnest prayer.

* * * * *

A railway-train was fast in a snow-bank. There it had stuck, unable

to move either backward or forward, since nine o'clock on Wednesday

evening; it was now Thursday morning, the snow was still falling, and

still seemed likely to fall, blocking up more and more the passage

of the unfortunate train. There were two locomotives, with a huge

snow-plough on the forward one, a baggage and express-car, and four cars

filled with passengers. Two hundred people, all anxious, most of them

grumbling, were detained there prisoners, snow-bound and helpless. It

was a hard case, for they were more than two miles distant--with three

feet depth of snow between--from the nearest house. The nearest village

was five miles away at least.

It was Thanksgiving-Day, too, and they had almost all of them "lotted"

upon a New-England Thanksgiving-dinner with old friends, brothers,

fathers, mothers, and grandparents. And there they were, without so much

as a ration of crackers and cheese.

It was noticeable that the women on the train--and there were quite

a number, and most of them with children in their arms or by their

sides--made, as a general rule, less disturbance and confusion than the

men. The children, however, were getting very hungry and noisy by this

Thanksgiving-morning.

In one of the cars were clustered as fine a family-group as the eye

would desire to rest upon. It consisted of a somewhat large and florid,

but firmly and compactly built man of thirty years or thereabout,

a woman, evidently his wife and apparently some two or three years

younger, and three beautiful children.

The man was large in frame, without being coarse, with a chest broad and

ample as a gymnast's, and with arms whose muscular power was evident at

every movement. His hair and beard (which latter he wore full, as was

just beginning to be the custom) were dark brown in color, and thick and

strong almost to coarseness in texture; his eye was a clear hazel, full,

quick, and commanding, sometimes almost fierce; while an aquiline nose,

full, round forehead, and a complexion bronzed by long exposure to all

sorts of weather, gave him an aspect to be noted in any throng he might

be thrown into. There was a constant air of pride and determination

about the man, which softened, however, whenever his glance fell upon

wife or children. At such times his face lighted up with a smile of

peculiar beauty and sweetness.

The woman was of middle size, with fair hair, inclining towards auburn,

blue eyes, and a clear red and white complexion. Her expression was

one of habitual sweetness and good-humor, while a continual half-smile

played about her rosy mouth. She was plump, good-natured, and

cozy,--altogether a most lovable and delicious woman.

This pair, with their bright-looking children, occupied two seats

near the stove, and were in constant pleasant converse, save when an

occasional anxious and impatient shadow flitted across the face of

the husband and father. On the rack over their heads reposed a small

travelling-bag, which the day before had been filled with luncheon for

the children. Upon its bottom was painted in small white letters the

name, "Samson Newell."

It was, indeed, the long-lost son, returning on this day to answer, so

much as in him lay, the prayers repeated for fifteen years by his father

and mother,--returning to see his former home once more, and here,

nearly on the threshold, stopped by a snow-storm almost unprecedented at

that season. There was occasional bitterness in his impatience at the

wearying detention, but he controlled it as well as he was able.

During the night the passengers had been quiet and uncomplaining. Wood

taken from the tenders of the two locomotives in small quantities, and,

when the engineers stopped the supplies in that quarter, rails torn from

neighboring fences and broken up for firewood, kept them warm; but

after the day had dawned, when the little treasures of luncheon were

exhausted, and all began to feel the real pangs of hunger, things

assumed a more serious aspect. Children in all the cars were crying for

breakfast, and even the older passengers began to feel cross and jaded.

One pleasant fellow, with an apparently inexhaustible flask of whiskey

in his pocket, and good-humor oozing from every pore of his jolly

countenance, passed from car to car, retailing a hundred jokes to every

fresh batch of listeners. But presently the passengers began to tire of

his witticisms, and one after another "poohed" and "pshawed" at him as

he approached. Then with infinite good-nature and philosophy he retired

to one of the saloons and peacefully fell asleep.

Almost equally amusing was a wizened, bent, and thin old man, draped

from head to foot in coarse butternut-colored homespun, and called "Old

Woollen" by the funny fellow, who walked from car to car bewailing his

hard lot.

"I've left the old woman to home," he whined, "with all the things on

her hands, an' more 'n fifty of our folks comin' to eat dinner with

us to-day; an' I've got a note of a hundred an' fifty dollars to

pay,--to-morrow's the last day of grace,--an' I've been sixty-five mile

to get the money to pay it. Now look here!" suddenly and sharply to the

Funny Man, "what do _you_ think o' _that_?"

"Old Woollen," said the Funny Man, with a tremulous voice and tears in

his eyes, "it's a hard case!"

"So't is! That's a fact! Call an' see us, when you come round our way!"

And the old gentleman, greatly mollified by the sympathy of his new

friend, moved on to find fresh auditors for his tale of woe.

It came to be nine o'clock on the morning of Thanksgiving-Day, and still

the snow fell with unabated violence, and still drifts piled higher and

higher about the captive train. The conductor and one of the firemen had

started off on foot at early dawn in search of food for the passengers,

and now there arrived, ploughing nearly breast-high through the snow, a

convoy from one of the nearest farm-houses carefully guarding a valuable

treasure of bread, cheese, bacon, eggs, and pumpkin-pies; but so many

were the mouths to fill that it scarcely gave a bite apiece to the men,

after the women and children had been cared for.

Then the passengers began to grow clamorous. Even the Funny Man had his

woes, for some rogue entered the saloon where he slept and stole the

whiskey-flask from his pocket. When he awoke and discovered his loss, he

remarked that he knew where there was more of the same sort, and turned

over to sleep again. But all were not so philosophical as he. Some

cursed the railroad company, some cursed the fate that had placed them

there, some cursed their folly in leaving comfortable quarters in order

to fast in the snow on Thanksgiving-Day.

Presently the impatiently-pulled-out watches showed ten o'clock, and

still it snowed. Then a rumor ran through the train that there were

a couple of barrels of chickens, ready-dressed for market, in the

express-car, and a general rush in that direction followed. One of the

first to hear of it, and one of the first to be on the spot, was Samson

Newell.

"Stand back, gentlemen," he cried to the foremost of the throng that

poured eagerly into the car,--"stand back a moment. This poultry is in

charge of the express messenger, and we have no right to take it without

his license."

As he spoke, he placed himself beside the messenger. There was a

determination in his eye and manner that held the crowd back for a short

time.

"The chickens are mine," the messenger said; "I bought them on

speculation; they will spoil before I can get anywhere with them, and

they are now too late for Thanksgiving. You may have them for what I

gave."

"I will give five dollars towards paying for them"; and Samson Newell

drew out his pocket-book.

"Here's a dollar!" "I'll give a half!" "Count me in for two dollars!"

cried the crowd, favorably struck with the notion of paying for their

provender.

But one hulking fellow, with a large mock diamond in his shirt-front,

and clumsy rings on his coarse and dirty fingers, stepped forward and

said that he was a hungry man, that he had lost money by the----

company already, waiting a day and a night in that blamed snow-bank,

and that he was going to have a chicken,--or two chickens, if he wanted

them,--and he was decidedly of the opinion that there was no express

messenger on the train who would see the color of _his_ money in the

transaction.

Samson Newell was evidently a man of few words in a case of emergency.

He paused for only an instant to assure himself that the man was in

earnest, then he slid open one of the side-doors of the express-car, and

stretched forth a hand whose clutch was like the closing of a claw of

steel. He seized the bejewelled stranger by the coat-collar, shook him

for an instant, and dropped him,--dropped him into a soft snow-drift

whose top was level with the car-floor. Whether the unfortunate worked

a subterranean passage to one of the passenger-cars and there buried

himself in the privacy of a saloon is not known; he certainly was not

seen again till after relief came to the imprisoned train.

There was neither noise nor confusion in the matter of paying for and

dividing the poultry. Samson Newell had already made himself prominent

among the captive travellers. He had eaten nothing himself, that he

might the better provide, so far as his limited provision went, for his

wife and children; he had even gone through the cars with his scanty

luncheon of cakes and apples, and economically fed other people's little

ones, besides administering to the wants of an invalid lady upon the

train, who was journeying alone. He was, therefore, a favorite with all

on board. His action, enforcing payment for the provision that would

very likely, but for him, have been taken by force, caused the

passengers to defer to him as a leader whose strength and courage fitted

him for the post, and so he presided at the distribution of the chickens

without dispute.

The fuel in the stoves was replenished, and quite a large space was

cleared to the leeward of the locomotive, where a fire was built from

the neighboring fences, so that in an hour's time from the finding of

the poultry the entire body of passengers were busy picking the bones of

roasted and broiled fowls. It was not so bad a dinner! To be sure, it

was rather chilly, now and then, when the opening of a car-door, to

let in a half-frozen gentleman with a half-cooked chicken in his hand,

admitted with him a snow-laden blast from without; and then the viands

were not served _à la Soyer_, but there was an appetite for sauce and a

certain gypsy-like feeling of being at a picnic that served as a relish.

And so, in the year of our Lord 18--, two hundred strangers sat down

together at a most extraordinary Thanksgiving-dinner, of which no

account has hitherto been published, if I except a vote of thanks,

"together with an exceedingly chaste and richly chased silver goblet,"

(so the newspaper description read,) which were presented to the

conductor by "the surviving passengers," after he had procured help and

rescued them from their perplexing predicament.

But dinners end. Twelve o'clock came, and still the snow was falling

thick and fast, and still the white plain about them mounted slowly and

surely towards the skies. Then the passengers became yet more weary and

unhappy. Old Woollen, the unfortunate, detailed his woes to more and

more appreciative audiences. Even the Funny Man--with a fresh flask of

whiskey--sighed almost dismally between frequent uneasy "cat-naps." And

Samson Newell, first seeing his wife comfortably settled, and his little

ones safely disposed about her, strode up and down, from car to car,

with a gloom of disappointment on his face that was almost ferocious.

"Too bad!" he muttered, "too bad! too bad! too bad!"

One o'clock came, and the snow held up! At first the passengers noticed

that the flakes fell less thickly. Then, gradually and ever slowly

decreasing, they finally ceased falling altogether. The clouds drifted

from before the face of the heavens, and the sun came out. It shone over

a broad surface of glistening snow, with here and there a fence-post

obtruding into notice, but otherwhere a cold, blank expanse of

whiteness. One or two remote farm-houses, with blue smoke rising in

thin, straight columns from their chimneys, a wide stretch of woodland

to the right, distant hills bounding all the prospect,--and everywhere

snow. No fences, no roads, no paths,--but only snow!

The passengers gazed out of the windows or stood upon the

platforms,--drawn thither by the warmth of the sun,--with feelings

almost akin to despair. Presently it was proposed to make for the

farm-houses, and fifteen of the more adventurous started. A few struggled

through and arrived in something over an hour at the nearest house,

wet to the skin with melted snow, and too much fatigued to think of

returning,--but most of them gave out at the end of the first half-mile,

and came back to the train.

So the prisoners sat down and whiled away the time as best they might,

in the relation of anecdotes, telling stories, and grumbling. A few

slept, and a large number tried to do so, without success.

The slow hand of Time, moving more slowly for them than they remembered

it to have ever moved before, crept on to three o'clock, and still there

was no prospect of relief and no incident of note save the arrival

through the snow of a dozen men sent by the conductor. They brought word

that help was approaching from the nearest station where a sufficiently

powerful locomotive could be obtained, and that they would probably be

started on their way during the next forenoon. These messengers also

brought a small supply of provisions and a number of packs of cards,

with the latter of which many of the passengers were soon busy. They now

resigned themselves to another night in the drift.

But at half after three occurred an incident that restored hope of a

more speedy deliverance to a few of the captives.

Through the low pine-lands to the right ran a road which was very

thoroughly protected from drifting snow by the overhanging trees, and

along this road there now appeared two pair of oxen. In front of the

oxen were five men armed with wooden snow-shovels, with which they beat

down and scattered the snow. Behind all was a small, square box on

runners. It was very small and contained only one board seat. Three

persons could sit and three stand in it: no more.

Upon the appearance of this squad of road-breakers with their team,

three hearty cheers went up from the train. They were immediately

answered by the approach of the apparent leader of the expedition. He

was a small, active, spare old fellow, so incrusted with frozen snow,

which hung all over him in tiny white pellets, as to resemble more an

active, but rather diminutive white bear, than anything else known to

Natural History. He scrambled and puffed through the snow till he found

a mounting-place upon an unseen fence, when he arose two or three feet

above the surrounding surface, and spoke,--

"There's five on us, an' two yoke."

A pause.

"Two yoke yender, an' five on us."

"Well! supposing there is?" from the train.

"Five mile to town," continued the White Bear, "an' been sence nine this

mornin' gittin' here. Five times five is twenty-five, but, seein' it's

you, I'll call it twelve 'n' 'arf."

"Call _what_ 'twelve 'n' 'arf,' Sheep-Shanks?" from the train.

"_That_ man don't ride, nohow! I've marked _him_! I don't cal'late to

take no sarse _this_ trip! Take any six or eight for twelve dollars an'

fifty cents right straight to the tahvern! Who bids?"

"I'll give you fifteen dollars, my friend, to take myself, my wife, and

three children to the village."

It was Samson Newell who spoke.

"'M offered fifteen," cried the White Bear, pricking up his ears; "goin'

to the tahvern at fifteen; who says fifteen 'n' arf?"

"I do!" from a pursy passenger with a double chin and a heavy fob-chain.

He glanced round a little savagely, having made his bid, as who should

say, "And I should like to see the man who will raise it!"

"'N' 'arf! 'n' 'arf! 'n' 'arf! 'n' 'arf!" cried the White Bear, growing

much excited,--"an' who says sixteen?"

Samson Newell nodded.

"Sixteen dollars! sixteen! sixteen! We can't tarry, gentlemen!"

The White Bear proved the truth of this latter assertion by suddenly

disappearing beneath the snow. He reappeared in an instant and resumed

his outcry.

"I see the gentleman's sixteen," quoth the man who had called the White

Bear "Sheep-Shanks," "and go fifty cents better!"

"I see _you_," replied the auctioneer, "an' don't take your bid! Who

says sixteen 'n' 'arf?"

"I do!" quoth the Double Chin; and he glowered upon his

fellow-passengers wrathfully.

At this instant appeared Old Woollen on the scene. In one hand he bore

his pocket-book; in the other, a paper covered with calculations. The

latter he studied intently for a moment, then,--

"I'll give you sixteen dollars an' sixty-two 'n' a half cents; an' if

you ever come round our way"--

The jubilant auctioneer, fairly dancing upon the fence in the energy of

his delight, broke in here,--

"Can't take no bids, gentlemen, short of a half-dollar rise, each time!"

Old Woollen retired, discomfited, and was seen no more.

From this point the bidding ran up rapidly till it reached twenty-five

dollars, where it stopped, Samson Newell being the successful bidder.

It was a study to watch the man, now that his chance for reaching home

that day brightened. Instead of being elate, his spirits seemed to fall

as he made his arrival at the village certain.

"Ah!" he thought, "are my father and mother yet living? How will my

brothers and sisters welcome me home?"

How, indeed?

* * * * *

In the village where dwelt Jacob Newell and his wife, an old man, lame

and totally blind, had been for over thirty years employed by the town

to ring the meetinghouse-bell at noon, and at nine o'clock in the

evening. For this service, the salary fixed generations before was five

dollars, and summer and winter, rain or shine, he was always at his post

at the instant.

When the old man rang the evening-bell on the Thanksgiving-Day whereof I

write, he aroused Jacob and his wife from deep reverie.

"Oh, Jacob!" said the latter, "such a waking dream as I have had! I

thought they all stood before me,--all,--every one,--none missing! And

they were little children again, and had come to say their prayers

before going to bed! They were all there, and I could not drive it from

my heart that I loved Samson best!"

His name had hardly been mentioned between them for fifteen years.

Jacob Newell, with a strange look, as though he were gazing at some

dimly defined object afar off, slowly spoke,--

"I have thought sometimes that I should like to know where he lies, if

he is dead,--or how he lives, if he be living. Shall we meet him? Shall

we meet him? Five goodly spirits await us in heaven; will _he_ be there,

also? Oh, no! he was a bad, bad, bad son, and he broke his father's

heart!"

"He was a bad son, Jacob, giddy and light-headed, but not wholly bad.

Oh, he was so strong, so handsome, so bright and brave! If he is living,

I pray God that he may come back to see us for a little, before we

follow our other lost ones!"

"If he should come back," said Jacob, turning very white, but speaking

clearly and distinctly, "I would drive him from my door, and tell him

to be gone forever! A wine-bibber, dissolute, passionate, headstrong,

having no reverence for God or man, no love for his mother, no sense

of duty towards his father; I have disowned him, once and forever, and

utterly cast him out! Let him beware and not come back to tempt me to

curse him!"

Still from the distance, overpowering and drowning the headlong rush of

passion, came the soft booming of the evening-bell.

"I hear the church-bell, Jacob: we have not long to hear it. Let us not

die cursing our son in our hearts. God gave him to us; and if Satan led

him astray, we know not how strong the temptation may have been, nor how

he may have fought against it."

Jacob Newell had nought to say in answer to this, but, from the passion

in his heart, and from that egotism that many good men have whose

religious education has taught them to make their personal godliness a

matter to vaunt over, he spoke, foolishly and little to the point,--

"Ruth, did Satan ever lead _me_ astray?"

"God knows!" she replied.

There came a rap at the door.

The melody of the church-bell was fast dying away. The last cadences of

sound, the last quiver in the air, when the ringer had ceased to ring

and the hammer struck the bell no more, lingered still, as a timid and

uncertain tapping fell upon the door.

"Come in!" said Jacob Newell.

The door was slowly opened.

Then there stood within it a tall, muscular man, a stranger in those

parts, with a ruddy face, and a full, brown beard. He stood grasping

the door with all his might, and leaning against it as for support.

Meanwhile his gaze wandered about the room with a strange anxiety, as

though it sought in vain for what should assuredly have been found

there.

"Good evening, Sir," said Jacob Newell.

The stranger made no reply, but still stood clinging to the door, with a

strange and horrible expression of mingled wonder and awe in his face.

"'Tis a lunatic!" whispered Ruth to her husband.

"Sir," said Jacob, "what do you want here to-night?"

The stranger found voice at length, but it was weak and timorous as that

of a frightened child.

"We were on the train, my wife and I, with our three little ones,--on

the train snowed in five miles back,--and we ask, if you will give it,

a night's lodging, it being necessary that we should reach home without

paying for our keeping at the hotel. My wife and children are outside

the door, and nearly frozen, I assure you."

Then Ruth's warm heart showed itself.

"Come in," she said. "Keep you?--of course we can. Come in and warm

yourselves."

A sweet woman, with one child in her arms, and two shivering beside her,

glided by the man into the room. They were immediately the recipients of

the good old lady's hospitality; she dragged them at once, one and all,

to the warmest spot beside the hearth.

Still the man stood, aimless and uncertain, clutching the door and

swaying to and fro.

"Why do you stand there at the door? Why not come in?" said Jacob

Newell. "You must be cold and hungry. Ruth--that's my wife, Sir--will

get you and your family some supper."

Then the man came in and walked with an unsteady step to a chair placed

for him near the fire. After he had seated himself he shook like one in

an ague-fit.

"I fear you are cold," said Ruth.

"Oh, no!" he said.

His voice struggled to his lips with difficulty and came forth

painfully.

The old lady went to a corner cupboard, and, after a moment's search,

brought forth a black bottle, from which she poured something into a

glass. It smelt like Jamaica rum. With this she advanced towards the

stranger, but she was bluntly stopped by Jacob,--

"I am afraid the gentleman has had too much of that already!"

For an instant, like a red flash of lightning, a flush of anger passed

across his features before the stranger meekly made answer that he had

tasted no liquor that day. Ruth handed him the glass and he drained it

at a gulp. In a moment more he sat quietly upright and proceeded gravely

to divest himself of his heavy shawl and overcoat, after which he

assisted in warming and comforting the children, who were growing sleepy

and cross.

Ruth bustled about with her preparations for giving the strangers a

comfortable supper, and Jacob and his unexpected guest entered into

conversation.

"I used to be acquainted hereabout," the stranger began, "and I feel

almost like getting among friends, whenever I visit the place. I rode

over with old Gus Parker to-day, from where the train lies bedded near

the five-mile cut, but I was too busy keeping the children warm to ask

him any questions. I came here because your son Mark Newell and I were

old cronies at school together. I--I don't see him here to-night,"--the

stranger's voice trembled now,--"where is he?"

"Where we must all follow him, sooner or later,--in the grave!"

"But he had brothers,--I've heard him say," the stranger

continued,--with an anxiety in his tone that he could by no means

conceal; "I believe he had--let me see--three brothers and two sisters.

Where are _they_?"

"All gone!" cried Jacob Newell, rising and pacing the room. Then

suddenly facing his singular guest, he continued, speaking rapidly and

bitterly, "You have three children,--I had six! Yours are alive and

hearty; but so were mine; and when I was a young man, like you, I

foolishly thought that I should raise them all, have them clustering

around me in my old age, die before any of them, and so know no

bereavements! To-day I stand here a solitary old man, sinking rapidly

into the grave, and without a relation of any kind, that I know of, on

the face of the earth! Think that such a fate may yet be yours! But the

bitterness of life you will not fully know, unless one of your boys--as

one of mine did--turns out profligate and drunken, leaves your fireside

to associate with the dissolute, and finally deserts his home and all,

forever!"

"If that son of yours be yet alive, and were ever to return,--suddenly

and without warning, as I have broken in upon you to-night,--if he

should come to you and say, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and

before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son!' what should

you say to him?"

"I should say, 'For fifteen years you have deserted me without giving

mark or token that you were in the body; now you have come to see me

die, and you may stay to bury me!' I should say that, I think, though

I swore to Ruth but now that I would curse him, if ever he

returned,--curse him and drive him from my door!"

"But if he came back penitent indeed for past follies and offences, and

only anxious to do well in the future,--if your son should come in that

way, convincing you with tears of his sincerity, you surely would be

more gentle to him than that! You would put away wrath, would you not? I

ask you," the stranger continued, with emotion, "because I find myself

in the position we suppose your son to be placed in. I am going home

after an absence of years, during all which time I have held no

communication with my family. I have sojourned in foreign lands, and now

I come to make my father and my mother happy, if it be not too late for

that! I come half hoping and half fearing; tell me what I am to expect?

Place yourself in my father's position and read me my fate!"

While he spoke, his wife, sitting silent by the fire, bent low over the

child she held, and a few quiet tears fell upon the little one's frock.

Ruth Newell, moving back and forth, in the preparation of the stranger's

supper, wore an unquiet and troubled aspect, while the old farmer

himself was agitated in a manner painful to see. It was some seconds

before he broke the silence. When he spoke, his voice was thick and

husky.

"If I had a son like you,--if those little children were my

grandchildren,--if the sweet lady there was my son's wife,--ah,

then!----But it is too late! Why do you come here to put turbulent,

raging regrets into my heart, that but for you would be beating calmly

as it did yesterday, and the day before, and has for years? Ah! if my

son were indeed here! If Samson were indeed here!"

The stranger half arose, as though to spring forward, then sank back

into his seat again.

But the little child sitting in her mother's lap by the fire clapped her

hands and laughed a childish, happy laugh.

"What pleases my little girl?" asked the mother.

"Why, '_Samson_'" the child said,--"_that's what you call papa!_"

Then Ruth, who stood by the table with a pitcher of water in her

hand, staggered backwards like one stricken a violent and sudden

blow!--staggered backwards, dropping the pitcher with a heavy crash as

she retreated, and crossing her hands upon her bosom with quick, short

catchings of the breath! Then crying, "My son! my son!" she threw

herself, with one long, long sob, upon the stranger's neck!

* * * * *

The story is told. What lay in his power was done by the returned

prodigal, who did not come back empty-handed to the paternal roof. His

wife and children fostered and petted the old people, till, after the

passage of two or three more Thanksgiving-Days, they became as cheerful

as of old, and they are now considered one of the happiest couples in

the county. Do not, on that account, O too easily influenced youth,

think that happiness for one's self and others is usually secured by

dissolute habits in early life, or by running away from home. Half the

occupants of our jails and alms-houses can tell you to the contrary.

* * * * *

SONG IN A DREAM.

Winter rose-leaves, silver-white,

Drifting o'er our darling's bed,--

He's asleep, withdrawn from sight,--

All his little prayers are said,

And he droops his shining head.

Winter rose-leaves, falling still,

Go and waken his sad eyes,

Touch his pillowed rest, until

He shall start with glad surprise,

And from slumber sweet arise!

* * * * *

ENGLAND AND EMANCIPATION.

In the British House of Commons, some eighty years ago, two newly chosen

members took their places, each of whom afterwards became distinguished

in the history of that body. They had become acquainted at the

University of Cambridge, were strongly united by friendship, and had

each, on attaining to manhood, formed the deliberate purpose of entering

public life. Of these two, one was William Pitt, the other was William

Wilberforce.

Neither of these members of Parliament had at this time passed the age

of twenty-one, and the latter was of extremely youthful appearance.

Small of stature and slight in frame, his delicate aspect was redeemed

from effeminacy by a head of classic contour, a penetrating and

melodious voice, an address which always won attention. His superior

social endowments were fully recognized by the companions of his

leisure; nor was his influence lessened by the fact, that by the death

of his father and uncle he had become the only male representative of

his family and the master of a goodly inheritance. He paid from the

first close attention to the business of the House, and, though by

no means anxious to be heard, showed, that, when called out by any

occasion, he was fully competent to meet it. Representing his native

city of Hull, his first public speech was on a topic immediately

connected with her interests.

The brilliant career of Mr. Pitt commenced, as the reader knows, in

early life. Passing by the mental exploits of his boyhood, we meet him

at his entrance upon the public service. He had no sooner become a

member of the House of Commons than it began to be remarked that in him

appeared to be reproduced those same qualities of statesmanship which

had marked his illustrious father, Lord Chatham. Such powers, evinced

by one who was but just stepping upon the stage of public life, first

excited surprise, which was quickly followed by admiration. That

strength of thought and keenness of analysis, which, seizing upon a

subject, bring out at once its real elements of importance, and present

them in their practical bearings, deducing the course dictated by a wise

policy, had hitherto been regarded, by those who found themselves the

willing auditors of a youth, as the ripened fruits of experience alone.

England was at this time at war not only with her American colonies, but

with France, Spain, and Holland. Weakened by these prolonged conflicts,

her finances drained, her huge debt increasing every day, her condition

called loudly for a change of policy. The cause of American Independence

was not without its advocates in the House, and among these Mr. Pitt

was soon found, uttering his sentiments without reserve. Probably no

individual of that body exerted a stronger influence than he in securing

for this country the full recognition of her rights. Of the manner in

which he was accustomed to treat of the American War, here is a single

specimen. After speaking of it as "conceived in injustice, brought forth

and nurtured in folly," and continually draining the country of its

vital resources of men and treasure, he proceeds:--

"And what had the British nation gained in return? Nothing but a series

of ineffective victories and severe defeats,--victories celebrated only

by a temporary triumph over our brethren, whom we were endeavoring to

trample down and destroy,--which filled the land with mourning for

dear and valuable relatives slain in the vain attempt to enforce

unconditional submission, or with narratives of the glorious exertions

of men struggling under every difficulty and disadvantage in the sacred

cause of liberty. Where was the Englishman, who, on reading the accounts

of these sanguinary and well-fought battles, could refrain from

lamenting the loss of so much British blood spilled in such a contest,

or from weeping, whichever side victory might be declared?"

It was not unusual for Mr. Pitt, when he addressed the House on a topic

of sufficient magnitude to call forth his powers, to be followed

by plaudits so loud and long-continued that the next speaker found

difficulty in securing quiet in order to be heard. While in the youth

was recognized the sagacity of the late Lord Chatham, it was declared

that the eloquence of the father was exceeded by that of the son. Signal

services to the country were augured, even by his opponents, from one of

such extraordinary abilities and manifest integrity of purpose. He began

to be looked upon as capable of holding the highest trusts, fitted for

the gravest responsibilities. Hardly can history furnish a parallel to

the case of so young a person solicited by his sovereign to take the

lead of his administration, and declining the honor. Yet such, in this

instance, was the fact.

A change in the Ministry having become necessary, it was proposed that

Mr. Pitt should be appointed First Lord of the Treasury in the place of

Lord Shelburne. That this appointment should be made was known to be

expressly desired by the King. The friends of the young statesman were

delighted. They advised by all means that the offer should at once be

accepted. But, undazzled by his own unprecedented success, he weighed

the matter coolly and deliberately.

That Mr. Pitt had a due sense of his own powers is evident. Early in his

political life he had expressed his unwillingness to hold office under

circumstances where he must execute measures which had originated in

other minds rather than his own. As this was declining beforehand all

subordinate office, an excessive modesty could hardly have been the

cause of his backwardness at this juncture. It must be sought elsewhere.

It is found in the opinion which he entertained that the Ministry now

about to be formed could never be an efficient one. The union which had

recently taken place between parties whose political enmity had

been extreme indicated to him an equally extreme opposition to the

Government. The coalition between Lord North and Mr. Fox would, he

anticipated, be the occasion of such a tide of hostility in the House of

Commons as he was too wary to be willing to stem.

It was argued that he was needed; that an exigency had arisen which no

one but himself could adequately meet; the country, in her adverse hour,

must have his services; the King desired them, solicited them. With a

remarkable degree of reticence he declined all these overtures, and in

a letter addressed to his sovereign gave a most respectful, but decided

negative.

Yet fame still followed him, and honor and office still claimed him

as their rightful recipient. With the lapse of time came changes, and

public affairs presented themselves in new and unexpected aspects. The

vast empire of the East loomed up before the vision of statesmen and

legislators in hitherto unimagined splendors, and with claims

upon attention which could not be set aside. At the India House

considerations of momentous interest had arisen. Mr. Pitt entered deeply

into these affairs, connected as they were with the onward progress of

British rule in Hindostan. A crisis occurred at this time, in which,

having the power, he could serve his country with manifest advantage to

her interests. At this juncture the offer of the King was renewed. It

came now just at the right time, and the young statesman was found as

ready to accept as he had before been prompt to decline. Mr. Pitt became

the Prime-Minister of George III., and henceforth his history is blended

with the movements of the Government.

Mr. Wilberforce had also at this time taken a strong hold upon public

life. His energies were enlisted in favor of the Governmental party,

of which Mr. Pitt had become the leader. Returning from a journey into

France, which they had made together, these two friends entered

upon their respective duties. With regard to the question at issue,

Yorkshire, the largest county in England, had not yet defined her

position with a sufficient degree of distinctness. Here Mr. Wilberforce

possessed landed estates, and here he was prepared to uphold the

consistency and integrity of the Administration. That peculiar

persuasive power, that silver-toned eloquence, which in after years won

for him so much influence in the House of Commons, here perhaps for the

first time found full play and triumphant success. His power over the

minds of men certainly was brought to a rigorous test.

It was on a chilly day, amid falling hail, that he addressed a crowd of

people in the castle-yard at York. They had listened already to several

speakers, were weary, and about to separate, when Mr. Wilberforce

appeared on the stand and began to speak. Silence was at once secured,

and so perfectly were they swayed by his words that all signs

of opposition or impatience disappeared. For more than an hour,

notwithstanding unfavorable circumstances, he held their attention,

winning them to harmony with his own political views. This was not all.

Before the assembly dispersed, it was whispered from one to another, "We

must have this man for our county member." The election of a member for

Yorkshire was nigh at hand, and when its results were made known, he

found himself in the influential position of "a representative of the

tenth part of England."

To this same member for Yorkshire, in conjunction with the

Prime-Minister of England, we are indebted for the first Parliamentary

agitation of a topic which has since been fruitful enough in discussion,

--AFRICAN SLAVERY.

The introduction of this subject into Parliament, during the

administration of Pitt, was by no means the fruit of a sudden impulse,

but was rather the matured expression of a series of preliminary

efforts. In private circles, the Slave-Trade had been already denounced

and protested against, as unworthy of a civilized, not to say a

Christian people. In certain quarters, too, the press had become the

exponent of these sentiments. Possibly, in their beginnings, no person

did more in the exertion of those means which have wrought into the

heart of the English people such undying hatred to Negro Slavery than

the amiable recluse whose writings can never die so long as lovers of

poetry continue to live. Who has not at times turned away from the

best-loved of the living poets, to regale himself with the compact,

polished, sweetly ringing numbers of Cowper? On the subject of Slavery

he had already given expression to his thoughts in language which at the

present day, in certain portions of the United States, must subject his

works to a strict expurgatorial process. He had exposed to the world the

injustice of the system, and had thrown around his words the magic of

song.

It would not, of course, be possible to proceed in these reminiscences

without coming at once upon the names of Granville Sharp and Thomas

Clarkson. The clerk who became a law-student, that he might be qualified

to substantiate the truth that a slave could not exist on British

soil, the Cambridge graduate, awakened by the preparation of his own

prize-essay to a sympathy with the slave, which never, during a long

life, flagged for an hour, need not be eulogized to-day. The latter of

these gentlemen repeatedly visited Mr. Wilberforce and conferred with

him upon this subject, imparting to him the fruit of his own careful and

minute investigations. These consisted of certain well-authenticated

items of information and documentary evidence concerning the trade and

the cruelties growing out of it. The public efforts which followed,

though hardly originated by these conferences, were probably hastened

by them. Nor should it be forgotten that a small knot of individuals,

mostly Quakers, had associated themselves under the name of "The London

Committee." This, if not an anti-slavery society, was the nucleus of

what afterwards became one. These hitherto unrecognized efforts were

about to receive fresh encouragement and acquire new efficiency. The

influences which had worked in silence and among a few were about to be

brought out to the light.

It was on the 5th of May, 1788, that a motion was introduced into the

House of Commons having for its object the abolition of the Slave-Trade.

It was brought forward by Mr. Pitt. He intended to secure its discussion

early in the next session. Mr. Wilberforce, he hoped, would then be

present, whose seat was now vacant by reason of severe illness. He had

been, indeed, at one time, given over by his physicians, but had been

assured by Mr. Pitt, that, even in case of a fatal result of his

disease, the cause of African freedom should not die.

The idea of possible legislation on this subject was no sooner broached

than it was at once taken up and found able advocates. Here Pitt and Fox

were of one mind, and were supported by the veteran advocate for justice

and right, Edmund Burke. The latter had some years before attempted to

call attention to this very subject. Certain Bristol merchants,

his wealthy constituents, had thus been grievously offended at the

aberrations of the representative of their city. As early as 1780 he had

drawn up an elaborate "Negro Code," of which it may be said, that, had

some of its regulations been heeded, at least one leaf in the world's

history would have presented a different reading from that which it now

bears. Mr. Burke was at this time in the decline of life, and was well

pleased that other and younger advocates were enlisted in the same great

cause.

A bill was brought forward at this session, by one of the friends of the

cause, Sir W. Dolben, for lessening immediately the cruelties of the

trade. It will be remembered that up to this time slave-ships had sailed

up the Thames all unmolested, were accustomed to fit out for their

voyages, and, having disposed of their cargoes, to return. A vessel of

this description had arrived at the port of London. The subject of the

traffic having become invested with interest, a portion of the members

of the House paid a visit to the ill-starred craft. The deplorably

narrow quarters where hundreds of human beings were to be stowed away

during the weeks that might be necessary to make their passage produced

upon the minds of these gentlemen a most unfavorable impression. The

various insignia of the trade did not tend to lessen this, but rather

changed disgust into horror. Something must be done for the reformation

of these abuses, and that immediately. The bill for regulating the trade

passed both Houses, notwithstanding a vigorous opposition, and became

a law. By the provisions of this bill the trade was so restricted that

owners and officers of vessels were forbidden by law to receive such

excessive cargoes as they had hitherto done. The number of slaves should

henceforth be limited and regulated by the tonnage of the ship. This was

something gained. But the anti-slavery party, though in its infancy, had

already begun to show the features of its maturer days. Its strenuous

and uncompromising nature began to manifest itself. The law for

regulating the trade displeased the members who sought its abolition.

They were, however, pacified by the assurance that this was by no means

regarded as a remedy for the evil, but simply as a check upon its

outrages.

In the spring of the following year, in pursuance of Mr. Pitt's motion,

the subject was again brought forward. Mr. Wilberforce was now ready for

the occasion, and on the 12th of May, 1789, in a speech of three hours

and a half, he held the attention of the House, while he unfolded the

African Slave-Trade in its several points of view,--its nature, being

founded in injustice, its cruelties, the terrible mortality of the

slave-ship, the demoralizing influence of the trade upon British

sailors, and the astonishing waste of life among them, as well as among

the captive negroes.

The speech was declared to be one of the ablest ever delivered before

the House. The speaker was also well sustained by Pitt and Fox. Mr.

Burke said of this performance,--"The House, the nation, and Europe are

under great and serious obligations to the honorable gentleman, for

having brought forward the subject in a manner the most masterly,

impressive, and eloquent." "It was," said Bishop Porteus, who was

present, "a glorious night for this country."

The subject was now fairly afloat. The anti-slavery agitation had sprung

to a vigorous life. The "irrepressible conflict" was begun. Nor can it

be denied that its beginning was highly respectable. If there be any

good in elevated social rank joined to distinguished ability, if there

be any advantage in the favor of honorable and right-minded men, any

dignity in British halls of legislation, the advocate of anti-slavery

doctrines may claim alliance with them all.

One inevitable effect of the interest thus awakened was to render those

enlisted in favor of the trade aware of their position, and alert to

prevent any interference on the part of the Government. The alarm

spread. The merchants of Liverpool and Bristol must maintain their

ground. In various quarters were set forth the advantages of the trade.

It was no injustice to the negro, but rather a benefit. The trader was

no robber or oppressor; he was a benefactor, in that by his means the

native African was taken from a heathen land and brought to live among

Christians. At home, he was the victim of savage warfare; by the

slave-ship his life was prolonged and his salvation rendered possible.

Witnesses on both sides were now summoned for examination before

Parliamentary committees. The premises from which conclusions had been

drawn must be thoroughly sifted. The evidence collected was manifold;

to dispose of it required time, and with time the opponents of the

Abolition Bill gathered strength. The next year and the following

its advocates still maintained its claims. The third year of its

presentation opened with high hopes of its success. Its friends had

increased in number, and so marked was the inferiority of their

opponents in talents and influence, at this time, that the contest was

known as "The War of the Pigmies against the Giants." But the pigmies,

being numerous, gained the vote, and it only remained for the giants to

return with renewed vigor to the contest in the following year.

In 1792 the debate began with spirit. During this discussion Mr. Pitt

was most prominent. The great subject of the Resources of Africa had

recently engaged his attention. This subject, then an almost untried

theme, seems not unlikely in our day to take precedence of all others

in connection with the fate of the negro. It has been argued, and that

wisely, that only by strengthening the African at home can he ever be

respected abroad. In the productions of his native soil lie materials

for trade vastly better than the buying and selling of men, women, and

children. The fomenting of wars, whereby captives may be secured,

may well be superseded by the culture of the coffee-tree and the

cotton-plant.

Mr. Clarkson, who left no effort untried which might in any manner

promote the interests of the cause, regarded as one important means

to this end the diffusion of knowledge concerning that unknown and

mysterious region. He had therefore procured from Africa specimens of

some of the actual products of the country, to which he called the

attention of the Premier. The specimens of ivory and gold, of ebony and

mahogany, of valuable gums and cotton cloth, awoke a new vein of thought

in the mind of the statesman. The resources of such a country should be

brought into use for her own benefit and for the promotion of commerce.

When his turn came to address the House, he presented this view,

pursuing it at some length, and attacking on this ground the trade in

slaves. That exuberant imagination which he was accustomed to rein in,

yet which well knew how to sport itself in its own airy realm, was

here suffered to take wing. He pictured to his enraptured audience the

civilization and glory of Africa, when, in coming years, delivered

from the curse of the Slave-Trade, she should take her place among the

nations.

Wilberforce, in writing to one of his friends concerning this speech,

after mentioning the admiration expressed by one who was no friend to

Pitt, adds,--"For the last twenty minutes he seemed really inspired."

A bill was introduced at this time for putting an end to the whole

business in a certain number of years. The year 1800 was named as the

extreme limit of the continuance of the traffic, that department of it

by which British vessels supplied foreign nations being abandoned at

once.

The bill for gradual abolition displeased those who were most deeply

interested in the matter. The clear-headed sagacity of Pitt, the

patriotism of Fox, and the moral sense of Wilberforce led them to the

expression of the same view. There could be no compromise between right

and wrong; that which required redress some years hence required it now.

It was, moreover, they were certain, in some minds only a pretext for

delay, as the event proved.

If the advocates of the discontinuance of the Slave-Trade had in the

beginning anticipated an easy victory, they had before this become

convinced of their mistake. The prospect, which had looked bright

and hopeful, pointing to a happy consummation, after a period of

encouragement again grew dark and doubtful. Instead of a speedy

adjustment, they found themselves involved in a long contest. Opponents

increased in strength and activity. Wars and convulsions, rending the

nations of Europe, engrossed the thoughts of public men. As years passed

on, the Abolition Bill became a sort of fixture. It grew into a saying,

that "only the eloquence of Pitt and Wilberforce" made the House willing

to endure its mention at all. The amount of documentary evidence became

formidable in quantity and tedious in detail. For collecting this

evidence Mr. Clarkson had now the most ample means, in the persons of

those who, whether as sailors, soldiers, or scientific men, had become

acquainted with Western Africa. In the work of reducing these masses of

facts to a system, making them available for purposes of public debate,

a most efficient aid was found in Mr. Zachary Macaulay. The father of

the celebrated historian was most unrelaxing in his zeal for Abolition,

and, possessing a memory of singular tenacity, he came to be

regarded, in this peculiar department of knowledge, as a very perfect

encyclopedia. Nor, in mentioning the advocates of the suppression of the

monster evil, should we ever forget one who to an overflowing goodness

of heart added an inimitable richness and delicacy of humor,--James

Stephen. His influence in Parliament was always given in favor of

Abolition, and he was also the author of several able pamphlets on the

subject. He had been at one period of his life a resident in the West

India Colonies, and the hatred of the slave-system which he there

imbibed remained unchanged through life.

While, as has been seen, these labors were becoming complicated and

arduous, the opposition was growing not only strong, but violent.

Anti-slavery petitions, intended for presentation in Parliament, must be

sent in strong boxes, addressed, not to the leaders of the cause, but

to private persons, lest they should be opened and their contents

destroyed. Mr. Wilberforce is requested, when writing to a friend

in Liverpool, not to frank his own letter, lest it should never be

received. Correspondence on this subject must be carried on anonymously,

and addressed to persons not known to be interested. This was not the

worst. To random words of defiant opposition were added threats

of personal violence. For a space of two years the friends of Mr.

Wilberforce were annoyed by a desperate man who had declared that he

would take the life of the Yorkshire member. But, to do justice to the

advocates of the trade, there was one form of violence which they appear

never to have contemplated:--secession. The injured slave-merchants of

that time never thought of conspiring against the government under which

they lived. That was reserved for a later day.

Yet, while appearances were so dark, the cause was actually gaining

ground. The moral sense of the nation was becoming aroused. The

scattered sympathies of the religious classes were concentrating.

Already public sentiment in certain quarters was outgrowing the

movements of Parliament, and the impatient friends of the negro declared

that the leaders of the cause had given up!

In rebutting this charge, Mr. Wilberforce took high ground. He declared

that for himself his aim in this thing was the service of God, and, that

having committed himself to this enterprise, he was not at liberty to go

back. Believing that these efforts on behalf of an injured people were

in accordance with the will of the Almighty, he expressed himself

confident that the divine attributes were enlisted in the work and sure

of the ultimate success of the cause. Of his sincerity and honesty in

this matter we need not speak. By common consent he takes place among

those who in this world have been permitted to illustrate on an extended

scale the power and beauty of the Christian life. As a reformer of the

abuses of society he is often cited as a model, uniting to a singular

purity and sweetness of spirit an immovable firmness of will. To these

blended and diverse qualities was owing, in a great measure, the final

success of the long-contested Abolition Bill. Seldom, indeed, has the

patience of an advocate been put to a severer test than during the

protracted period that the bill for the suppression of the Slave-Trade

was before the House. To push it forward when there was an opening,

and to withdraw when effort was useless or worse than useless, was the

course pursued for a series of years. The subject, meanwhile, was never

lost sight of; when nothing more could be done, the House were reminded

that it was still in reserve.

Early in the present century a favorable conjuncture of events led to

vigorous efforts for the attainment of the long desired object. The

antagonistic policy was now rather to hinder the progress of the

Abolition Bill than to oppose the ultimate extinction of the trade. Of

the supporters of this policy it was remarked by Mr. Pitt, that "they

who wished to protract the season of conflict, whatever might be their

professions, really wished to uphold the system."

Notwithstanding certain covert efforts on the part of the opposition,

the prospect gradually brightened. Several new and influential members

were added to the London Society,--among them Henry Brougham. The Irish

members, who, in consequence of the completed union with England, took

their seats in Parliament, were almost to a man in favor of Abolition.

In 1805 success seemed about to be obtained. But before the final

passage of the Abolition Bill came sorrow of heart to its friends. Mr.

Pitt, having run a political career whose unexampled brilliancy and

usefulness had well fulfilled his early promise, died in the very prime

of life. A year had hardly passed, when his great political rival, Mr.

Fox, was no more. Both of these distinguished men had been, as we have

seen, from the beginning of the contest, the friends of Abolition.

Said Mr. Fox, on his death-bed,--"Two things I wish earnestly to see

accomplished: peace with Europe, and the abolition of the Slave-Trade;

but of the two I wish the latter."

Notwithstanding the death of its friends, the Abolition Bill was

steadily making its way. The "vexed question" of near twenty years was

about to be set at rest. Opposition had grown feeble, and in May, 1807,

the bill which made the Slave-Trade a crime wherever the British rule

extended passed both Houses and became a law.

It was a day of triumphant joy. This was felt by the friends of

Abolition at large, and especially by its advocates. These received

everywhere the warmest congratulations. Mr. Wilberforce, on entering the

House of Commons just before the passage of the bill, was greeted with

rounds of applause.

That Slavery had received its death-blow was fully believed at this

time. Africa being delivered from the traffic, the institution itself,

its supplies being cut off, must necessarily wither and die. This was

the common view of the matter; and the more effectually to secure this

result, negotiations were entered into with other European governments

for the suppression of the trade in their dominions. In America, the

Congress of the United States passed a law prohibiting the African

Slave-Trade after the year 1808, the period indicated in the

Constitution,--the law taking effect a few years later. Napoleon,

restored from his first banishment, and once more wielding the sceptre

of power, caused a law to be passed forbidding the trade in the French

Colonies. The friends of the negro were everywhere high in hope that the

days of Slavery were numbered. Starved out, the monster must inevitably

die. So sure were they of this result, that in England their efforts had

all along been directed against the trade. The institution itself had

been comparatively untouched.

A few years passed, and it began to be evident to those who had been

active in the great conflict that the law against the Slave-Trade was

less effectual than had been anticipated. The ocean was wide, the

African coast a thousand miles long, and desperate men were not wanting

who were disposed to elude the statute for the sake of large gains.

Nor need they fail to secure suitable markets for the sale of their

ill-gotten cargoes. But into this part of our subject it may not be well

to pry too closely.

If the friends of the African cause had supposed their work

accomplished, when their first success was attained, their error was

soon corrected. It was pleasant to repose upon the laurels so dearly

won; but another battle must be fought, and this necessity soon became

apparent. But a few years elapsed and the negro was again made the

subject of legislative consideration. Mr. Wilberforce was still a member

of the House, though most of those with whom he had been associated at

the beginning of his public life were dead. Forty years had passed since

he first took his seat, but he was ready once more to take up the cause

of the defenceless. The abuses perpetrated against the West Indian negro

called loudly for Governmental interference.

Since 1807 little had been done save the passage of the Registry Bill,

which had been secured by Mr. Wilberforce in 1816. This was of the

nature of an investigation into the actual state of the West India

Colonies with respect to the illicit commerce in slaves. Mild as this

measure appeared, it proved the opening wedge of much that followed. It

was in fact the first of a series of movements which issued in momentous

events, even the emancipation of all the slaves in the British Colonies.

The passage of this bill was followed by an increased expression of

interest in the matter of Negro Slavery; this was evinced in a number of

valuable publications issued at this time,--able pamphlets from the pens

of Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. Stephen, and others. The labors of the London

Society have already been noticed; and after the passage of the law of

1807 we find in existence the "African Institution," under which name

the friends of the negro were associated for the purpose of watching

over his interests, more particularly with regard to the operation

of the law. But during the period of repose which followed the first

anti-slavery triumph, a portion of this body, losing its original

activity, had become comparatively supine.

In 1818, Thomas Fowell Buxton, whose Quaker mother had instilled into

him a hatred of African Slavery, became a member of Parliament. Having

soon after joined himself to the African Institution, he became somewhat

mortified at the apathy of the friends of the slave, as here embodied.

He was frank and outspoken, and gave expression to his indignant feeling

without reserve. The next day the young member for Weymouth found

himself addressed by Wilberforce, for whom he entertained a high

veneration, and warmly thanked for the earnest utterance of his

sentiments the evening before.

After this Mr. Wilberforce conferred freely with Mr. Buxton upon the

subject of Slavery in its manifold details. In a letter written not far

from this time he unfolded the matter concerning the negroes of the West

Indian plantations, the cruelties to which they were subjected, and the

abuses which grew out of the system. Something must be done. Measures

must be taken of a protective character at least, and the work must be

prosecuted with vigor. Such was the view presented by Mr. Wilberforce.

Warned by age and infirmity that the period of his retirement from

public life could not be far distant, he wished that the cause which

had been with him a paramount one might be passed to able and faithful

hands.

How Mr. Buxton responded to this call the subsequent history of the

anti-slavery cause unfolds. He had already shown, that, as a member of

the House, he was to make no light impression, whatever might be the

objects which should enlist his efforts.

At this juncture there was formed in London a new anti-slavery society.

Its object was explicitly stated to be "the mitigation and gradual

abolition of Slavery throughout the British dominions." In looking over

the names of its officers and leading members, we find not those of the

early Abolitionists alone: by the side of Zachary Macaulay we find the

name of his more distinguished son, and that of Wilberforce is similarly

followed.

In behalf of the African there existed a somewhat widely spread public

sympathy, the fruit of the previous long-continued presentation of

the subject, and at this time it seemed about to be aroused. Several

petitions, having reference to Slavery, were sent into the House of

Commons. The first of these came from the Quakers, and Mr. Wilberforce,

on presenting it, took occasion to make an address to the House. In

place of Mr. Pitt now stood Mr. Canning, who inquired of Mr. Wilberforce

if he intended to found upon his remarks any motion. He replied,--"No;

but that such was the intention of an esteemed friend of his." Mr.

Buxton then announced his intention of submitting to the House a

motion that the state of Slavery in the British Colonies be taken into

consideration.

On the 15th of May, 1823, the expected debate took place. Mr. Buxton

began by moving a resolution, "That the state of Slavery is repugnant

to the principles of the British Constitution and of the Christian

Religion, and that it ought to be gradually abolished throughout the

British Colonies, with as much expedition as may be found consistent

with a due regard to the well-being of the parties concerned."

A lively debate followed, and certain resolutions drawn up by Mr.

Canning were finally carried. These articles, as well as Mr. Buxton's

motion, had in view a gradual improvement in the condition and character

of the slaves. In pursuance of the object to be attained, circular

letters were addressed to the Colonial authorities, recommending, with

regard to the negroes, certain enlargements of privileges. These

letters were extremely moderate in their tone. The reforms were simply

recommended, not authoritatively enjoined; in the language of Mr.

Canning, the movement was such a one "as should be compatible with the

well-being of the slaves themselves, with the safety of the Colonies,

and with a fair and equitable consideration of the rights of private

property."

Moderate as were the measures first set on foot for the improvement

of the social state of the slaves, the authors were not by that means

secured from opposition. This was accompanied, on the part of the West

India planters, by such an extreme violence as was hardly expected, at

least by the Premier, who had so favorably met the introduction of the

subject, if he had not actually committed himself to the work. The

leaders of the movement, who had but just now been borne onward by the

wave of public approval, found themselves fiercely denounced. Here is a

brief paragraph which appeared at that time in a Jamaica newspaper:--

"We pray the imperial Parliament to amend their origin, which is

bribery; to cleanse their consciences, which are corrupt; to throw

off their disguise, which is hypocrisy; to break off with their false

allies, who are the saints; and finally, to banish from among them the

purchased rogues, who are three-fourths of their number."

Among the reforms recommended to the Colonists, by the circular letters

of the Government, was one which had reference to the indecent flogging

of the female slaves, and also a suggestive restraint upon corporal

punishment in general. This called forth in a Colonial paper

the following, which certainly has the merit of being entirely

unambiguous:--

"We did and do declare the whip to be essential to West India

discipline, ay, as essential, my Lord Calthorpe, as the freedom of the

press and the trial by jury to the liberty of the subject in Britain,

and to be justified on equally legitimate ground. The comfort, welfare,

and happiness of our laboring classes cannot subsist without it."

These specimens of the fierceness of abuse with which the Government

was assailed may perhaps prepare the reader for that last resort of

indignant discontent on the part of the governed,--the threat of

secession! Yes; Jamaica will break away from the tyranny of which she is

the much abused object, she will free herself from the oppression of the

mother country, and then,--what next?--she will seek for friendship and

protection from the United States! How soon this threat, if persisted in

and carried out into action, would have been silenced by the thunder of

British cannon, we need not stay to consider.

To this clamor of the opposition the more timid of the Anti-Slavery

party were disposed to yield, at least for a season. The Government

showed little disposition to press the improvements which it had

recommended. Mr. Canning seemed apprehensive that he had committed

himself too far, and was inclined to postpone, to wait for a season, to

give the West Indians time for reflection, before legislating further.

The chief advocate of the slave began to realize, that, of those who

had encouraged and coöperated with him, but few, in a moment of real

difficulty, could be relied upon. But he was not to be baffled. "Good,

honest Buxton" had made up his mind that the world should be somewhat

the better for his having lived in it, and he had chosen as the object

of his beneficent labors the very lowest of his fellow-subjects,--the

negro slave of the West Indies. He was, moreover, a vigorous thinker

and an invincible debater, and, once embarked in this cause, he had no

thought of drawing back. So exclusive was his zeal, that at one time Mr.

O'Connell, vexed that the claims of his constituents were set aside,

electrified the House by exclaiming, "Oh! I wish we were blacks!" The

Irish orator had all along supported the Abolition cause, and spoken

words of good cheer to Mr. Buxton; but now his impatient patriotism

finds vent in exclaiming,--"If the Irish people were but black, we

should have the honorable member from Weymouth coming down as large as

life, supported by all the 'friends of humanity' in the back rows, to

advocate their cause."

There was truth here, as well as wit, showing not only Mr. Buxton's

absorption in the cause which he had espoused, but his inspiring

influence on other minds. His indomitable energy was always sure to grow

stronger after defeat, and the strength of his own belief in the justice

of his cause of itself increased the faith of its friends.

In the onward course of events the violence of the West Indians assumed

different phases, and one of the most memorable of these had respect to

the religious teachers of the slaves. They had been sent out by various

bodies of Christians in England, commencing nearly a hundred years

before these anti-slavery efforts. The object of the missionary was a

definite one, to christianize the negroes. He knew well, before engaging

in his work, that those who might come under his instruction were

slaves, and because they were slaves the call was all the louder upon

his compassion. Yet his path of duty lay wide enough from any attempt

to render the objects of his Christian efforts other than they were in

their civil relations. Such were the instructions which the missionaries

were accustomed to receive, on leaving England for a residence among the

Colonists. Nor was there ever, from the beginning to the ending of this

stirring chapter in the history of Slavery, reason to believe that these

instructions had been disobeyed. Their labors had in some instances been

encouraged by the planters, and their influence acknowledged to be a

valuable aid in the management of the negroes. But in these days

of excitement and insubordination the missionaries were accused of

encouraging disobedience in the slaves. When outbreaks occurred, the

guilt was laid to the charge of the Christian teachers. Upon a mere

suspicion, without a shadow of evidence, they were seized and thrown

into prison. One of the most melancholy instances of this was that of

the Rev. J. Smith, who was sentenced to be hanged, but died in prison,

through hardships endured, before the day of execution arrived. He was

only one of several who suffered at the hands of the West Indians the

grossest injustice. The case of Mr. Shrewsbury was at one time brought

before the House. Mr. Canning made reference to him as "a gentleman in

whose conduct there did not appear to be the slightest ground of blame

or suspicion." He was a Wesleyan missionary at Barbadoes, and, having

fallen under suspicion, was also condemned to die. Among other charges,

he was accused of having corresponded with Mr. Buxton. Said the latter,

in an address to the House,--"I never wrote to him a single letter,

nor did I know that such a man existed, till I happened to take up a

newspaper, and there read, with some astonishment, that _he was going to

be hanged for corresponding with me!_"

If Englishmen and Christian ministers were condemned to death on such

allegations, adduced at mock trials, it is not strange that negroes

sometimes lost their lives on similar grounds. After a rising among

these people, several having been executed, the evidence of the guilt of

a certain portion was reviewed in the House of Commons. The witness was

asked whether he had found guns among the insurgents. He replied, "No;

but he was shown a place where guns had been"! Had he found bayonets?

"No; but he was shown a basket where bayonets had been"! Unfortunately,

the victims of this species of evidence were already hung when the

review of the trial took place.

This last incident brings us to another feature of those times, the

actual insurrections which took place among the slaves. Passing by the

lesser excitements of Barbadoes and Demerara, we come to the great

rising in Jamaica in 1832. A servile war is generally represented as

displaying at every point its banners of flame, plashing its feet

meanwhile in the blood of women and children. But the great insurrection

of 1832, which, as it spread, included fifty thousand negroes in its

train, was in the beginning simply a refusal to work.

Fiercely discussed by the masters, emancipation began to be spoken of

among the slaves. Necessarily they must know something about it; but, in

their distorted and erroneous impressions, they believed that "the

Great King of England" had set them free, and the masters were wilfully

withholding the boon.