DEATH OF THE PARSON
CARLTON was above thirty years of age, standing on the last legs
of a young man, and entering on the first of a bachelor. He had
never dabbled in matters of love, and looked upon all women
alike. Although he respected woman for her virtues, and often
spoke of the goodness of heart of the sex, he had never dreamed
of marriage. At first he looked upon Miss Peck as a pretty young
woman, but after she became his religious teacher, he regarded
her in that light, that every one will those whom they know to be
their superiors. It was soon seen, however, that the young man not
only respected and reverenced Georgiana for the incalculable
service she had done him, in awakening him to a sense of duty to
his soul, but he had learned to bow to the shrine of Cupid. He
found, weeks after he had been in her company, that when he met
her at table, or alone in the drawing room, or on the piazza, he
felt a shortness of breath, a palpitating of the heart, a kind of
dizziness of the head; but he knew not its cause.
This was love in its first stage. Mr. Peck saw, or thought he
saw, what would be the result of Carlton's visit, and held out
every inducement in his power to prolong his stay. The hot season
was just commencing, and the young Northerner was talking of his
return home, when the parson was very suddenly taken ill. The
disease was the cholera, and the physicians pronounced the case
incurable. In less than five hours John Peck was a corpse. His
love for Georgiana, and respect for her father, had induced
Carlton to remain by the bedside of the dying man, although
against the express orders of the physician. This act of kindness
caused the young orphan henceforth to regard Carlton as her best
friend. He now felt it his duty to remain with the young woman
until some of her relations should be summoned from Connecticut.
After the funeral, the family physician advised that Miss Peck
should go to the farm, and spend the time at the country seat;
and also advised Carlton to remain with her, which he did.
At the parson's death his Negroes showed little or no signs of
grief. This was noticed by both Carlton and Miss Peck, and caused
no little pain to the latter. "They are ungrateful," said
Carlton, as he and Georgiana were seated on the piazza. "What,"
asked she, "have they to be grateful for?" "Your father was kind,
was he not?" "Yes, as kind as most men who own slaves; but the
kindness meted out to blacks would be unkindness if given to
whites. We would think so, should we not?" "Yes," replied he.
"If we would not consider the best treatment which a slave receives
good enough for us, we should not think he ought to be grateful
for it. Everybody knows that slavery in its best and mildest form
is wrong. Whoever denies this, his lips libel his heart. Try him!
Clank the chains in his ears, and tell him they are for him; give
him an hour to prepare his wife and children for a life of
slavery; bid him make haste, and get ready their necks for the
yoke, and their wrists for the coffle chains; then look at his
pale lips and trembling knees, and you have nature's testimony
against slavery."
"Let's take a walk," said Carlton, as if to turn the
conversation. The moon was just appearing through the tops of
the trees, and the animals and insects in an adjoining wood kept
up a continued din of music. The croaking of bull-frogs, buzzing
of insects, cooing of turtle-doves, and the sound from a thousand
musical instruments, pitched on as many different keys, made the
welkin ring. But even all this noise did not drown the singing of
a party of the slaves, who were seated near a spring that was
sending up its cooling waters. "How prettily the Negroes sing,"
remarked Carlton, as they were wending their way towards the
place from whence the sound of the voices came. "Yes," replied
Georgiana; "master Sam is there, I'll warrant you: he's always on
hand when there's any singing or dancing. We must not let them
see us, or they will stop singing." "Who makes their songs for
them?" inquired the young man. "Oh, they make them up as they
sing them; they are all impromptu songs." By this time they were
near enough to hear distinctly every word; and, true enough,
Sam's voice was heard above all others. At the conclusion of each
song they all joined in a hearty laugh, with an expression of
"Dats de song for me;" "Dems dems."
"Stop," said Carlton, as Georgiana was rising from the log upon
which she was seated; "stop, and let's hear this one." The piece
was sung by Sam, the others joining in the chorus, and was as
follows:
Sam.
"Come, all my brethren, let us take a rest,
While the moon shines so brightly and clear;
Old master is dead, and left us at last,
And has gone at the Bar to appear.
Old master has died, and lying in his grave,
And our blood will awhile cease to flow;
He will no more trample on the neck of the slave;
For he's gone where the slaveholders go.
Chorus.
"Hang up the shovel and the hoe
Take down the fiddle and the bow--
Old master has gone to the slaveholder's rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go.
Sam.
"I heard the old doctor say the other night,
As he passed by the dining-room door
'Perhaps the old man may live through the night,
But I think he will die about four.'
Young mistress sent me, at the peril of my life,
For the parson to come down and pray,
For says she, 'Your old master is now about to die,'
And says I, 'God speed him on his way.'
"Hang up the shovel, &c.
"At four o'clock at morn the family was called
Around the old man's dying bed;
And oh! but I laughed to myself when I heard
That the old man's spirit had fled.
Mr. Carlton cried, and so did I pretend;
Young mistress very nearly went mad;
And the old parson's groans did the heavens fairly rend;
But I tell you I felt mighty glad.
"Hang up the shovel, &c.
"We'll no more be roused by the blowing of his horn,
Our backs no longer he will score;
He no more will feed us on cotton-seeds and corn;
For his reign of oppression now is o'er.
He no more will hang our children on the tree,
To be ate by the carrion crow;
He no more will send our wives to Tennessee;
For he's gone where the slaveholders go.
"Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Take down the fiddle and the bow,
We'll dance and sing,
And make the forest ring,
With the fiddle and the old banjo."
The song was not half finished before Carlton regretted that he
had caused the young lady to remain and hear what to her must be
anything but pleasant reflections upon her deceased parent. "I
think we will walk," said he, at the same time extending his arm
to Georgiana. "No," said she; "let's hear them out. It is from
these unguarded expressions of the feelings of the Negroes, that
we should learn a lesson." At its conclusion they walked towards
the house in silence: as they were ascending the steps, the young
man said, "They are happy, after all. The Negro, situated as yours
are, is not aware that he is deprived of any just rights." "Yes,
yes," answered Georgiana: "you may place the slave where you
please; you may dry up to your utmost the fountains of his
feelings, the springs of his thought; you may yoke him to your
labour, as an ox which liveth only to work, and worketh only to
live; you may put him under any process which, without destroying
his value as a slave, will debase and crush him as a rational
being; you may do this, and the idea that he was born to be free
will survive it all. It is allied to his hope of immortality; it
is the ethereal part of his nature, which oppression cannot
reach; it is a torch lit up in his soul by the hand of Deity, and
never meant to be extinguished by the hand of man."
On reaching the drawing-room, they found Sam snuffing the
candles, and looking as solemn and as dignified as if he had
never sung a song or laughed in his life. "Will Miss Georgy have
de supper got up now?" asked the Negro. "Yes," she replied.
"Well," remarked Carlton, "that beats anything I ever met with.
Do you think that was Sam we heard singing?" "I am sure of it,"
was the answer. "I could not have believed that that fellow was
capable of so much deception," continued he. "Our system of
slavery is one of deception; and Sam, you see, has only been a
good scholar. However, he is as honest a fellow as you will find
among the slave population here. If we would have them more
honest, we should give them their liberty, and then the
inducement to be dishonest would be gone. I have resolved that
these creatures shall all be free." "Indeed!" exclaimed Carlton.
"Yes, I shall let them all go free, and set an example to those
about me." "I honour your judgment," said he. "But will the state
permit them to remain?" "If not, they can go where they can live
in freedom. I will not be unjust because the state is."