After the other members of the family had retired, Mr. Weston, as was usual
with him, sat for a while in the parlor to read. The closing hour of the
day is, of all, the time that we love to dwell on the subject nearest our
heart. As, at the approach of death, the powers of the mind rally, and the
mortal, faint and feeble, with but a few sparks of decaying life within
him, arouses to a sense of his condition, and puts forth all his energies,
to meet the hour of parting with earth and turning his face to heaven; so,
at the close of the evening, the mind, wearied with its day's travelling,
is about to sink into that repose as necessary for it as for the body--that
repose so often compared to the one in which the tired struggler with life,
has "forever wrapped the drapery of his couch about him, and laid down to
pleasant dreams." Ere yielding, it turns with energy to the calls of
memory, though it is so soon to forget all for a while. It hears voices
long since hushed, and eyes gaze into it that have looked their last upon
earthly visions. Time is forgotten, Affection for a while holds her reign,
Sorrow appears with her train of reproachings and remorse, until
exhaustion comes to its aid, and it obtains the relief so bountifully
provided by Him who knoweth well our frames. With Mr. Weston this last hour
was well employed, for he not only read, but studied the Holy Scriptures.
Possessed of an unusually placid temperament, there had occurred in his
life but few events calculated to change the natural bent of his
disposition. The death of his wife was indeed a bitter grief; but he had
not married young, and she had lived so short a time, that after a while he
returned to his usual train of reflection. But for the constant presence of
his son, whose early education he superintended, he would have doubted if
there ever had been a reality to the remembrance of the happy year he had
passed in her society.
With his hand resting on the sacred page, and his heart engrossed with the
lessons it taught, he was aroused from his occupation by a loud noise
proceeding from the kitchen. This was a most unusual circumstance, for
besides that the kitchen was at some distance from the house, the servants
were generally quiet and orderly. It was far from being the case at
present. Mr. Weston waited a short time to give affairs time to right
themselves, but at length determined to inquire into the cause of the
confusion.
As he passed through the long hall, the faces of his ancestors looked down
upon him by the dim light. There was a fair young lady, with an arm white
as snow, unconcealed by a sleeve, unless the fall of a rich border of lace
from her shoulder could be called by that name. Her golden hair was brushed
back from her forehead, and fell in masses over her shoulders. Her face was
slightly turned, and there was a smile playing about her mouth.
Next her was a grave-looking cavalier, her husband. There were old men,
with powdered hair and the rich dress of bygone times.
There were the hoop and the brocades, and the stomacher, and the fair
bosom, against which a rose leaned, well satisfied with its lounging
place. Over the hall doors, the antlers of the stag protruded, reminding
one that the chase had been a favorite pastime with the self-exiled sons of
Merry England.
Such things have passed away from thee, my native State! Forever have they
gone, and the times when over waxed floors thy sons and daughters
gracefully performed the minuet. The stately bow, the graceful curtsey are
seen no more; there is hospitality yet lingering in thy halls, but fashion
is making its way there too. The day when there was a tie between master
and slave,--is that departing, and why?
Mr. Weston passed from the house under a covered way to the kitchen, and
with a firm but slow step, entered. And here, if you be an Old or a New
Englander, let me introduce you--as little at home would be Queen Victoria
holding court in the Sandwich Islands, as you here. You may look in vain
for that bane of good dinners, a cooking stove; search forever for a grain
of saleratus or soda, and it will be in vain. That large, round block, with
the wooden hammer, is the biscuit-beater; and the cork that is lifting
itself from the jug standing on it, belongs to the yeast department.
Mr. Weston did not, nor will we, delay to glance at the well-swept earthen
floor, and the bright tins in rows on the dresser, but immediately
addressed himself to Aunt Peggy, who, seated in a rush-bottomed chair in
the corner, and rocking herself backwards and forwards, was talking
rapidly.
And oh! what a figure had Aunt Peggy; or rather, what a face. Which was the
blacker, her eyes or her visage; or whiter, her eyeballs or her hair? The
latter, unconfined by her bandanna handkerchief as she generally wore it,
standing off from her head in masses, like snow. And who that had seen her,
could forget that one tooth projecting over her thick underlip, and in
constant motion as she talked.
"It's no use, Mister Bacchus," said she, addressing the old man, who
looked rather the worse for wear, "it's no use to be flinging yer imperence
in my face. I'se worked my time; I'se cooked many a grand dinner, and eat
'em too. You'se a lazy wagabond yerself."
"Peggy," interposed Mr. Weston.
"A good-for-nothing, lazy wagabond, yerself," continued Peggy, not noticing
Mr. Weston, "you'se not worth de hommony you eats."
"Does you hear that, master?" said Bacchus, appealing to Mr. Weston; "she's
such an old fool."
"Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Weston; while Mark, ready to strangle his
fellow-servant for his impertinence, was endeavoring to drag him out of the
room.
"Ha, ha," said Peggy, "so much for Mr. Bacchus going to barbecues. A nice
waiter he makes."
"Do you not see me before you, Peggy?" said Mr. Weston, "and do you
continue this disputing in my presence? If you were not so old, and had not
been so faithful for many years, I would not excuse such conduct. You are
very ungrateful, when you are so well cared for; and from this time
forward, if you cannot be quiet and set a good example in the kitchen, do
not come into it."
"Don't be afeard, master, I can stay in my own cabin. If I has been well
treated, it's no more den I desarves. I'se done nuff for you and yours, in
my day; slaved myself for you and your father before you. De Lord above
knows I dont want ter stay whar dat ole drunken nigger is, no how. Hand me
my cane, dar, Nancy, I ain't gwine to 'trude my 'siety on nobody." And
Peggy hobbled off, not without a most contemptuous look at Bacchus, who was
making unsuccessful efforts to rise in compliment to his master.
"As for you, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "never let this happen again. I
will not allow you to wait at barbecues, in future."
"Don't say so, master, if you please; dat ox, if you could a smelled him
roastin, and de whiskey-punch," and Bacchus snapped his finger, as the only
way of concluding the sentence to his own satisfaction.
"Take him off, Mark," said Mr. Weston, "the drunken old rascal."
"Master," said Bacchus, pushing Mark off, "I don't like de way you speak to
me; t'aint 'spectful."
"Carry him off," said Mr. Weston, again. "John, help Mark."
"Be off wid yourselves, both of ye," said Bacchus; "if ye don't, I'll give
you de devil, afore I quits."
"I'll shut your mouth for you," said Mark, "talking so before master; knock
him over, John, and push him out."
Bacchus was not so easily overcome. The god whose namesake he was, stood by
him for a time. Suddenly the old fellow's mood changed; with a patronizing
smile he turned to Mr. Weston, and said, "Master, you must 'scuse me: I
aint well dis evening. I has the dyspepsy; my suggestion aint as good as
common. I think dat ox was done too much."
Mr. Weston could not restrain a smile at his grotesque appearance, and
ridiculous language. Mark and John took advantage of the melting mood which
had come over him, and led him off without difficulty. On leaving the
kitchen, he went into a pious fit, and sung out
"When I can read my title clar."
Mr. Weston heard him say, "Don't, Mark; don't squeeze an ole nigger so; do
you 'spose you'll ever get to Heaven, if you got no more feelins than
that?"
"I hope," said Mr. Weston, addressing the other servants, "that you will
all take warning by this scene. An honest and respectable servant like
Bacchus, to degrade himself in this way--it gives me great pain to see it.
William," said he, addressing a son of Bacchus, who stood by the window,
"did you deliver my note to Mr. Walter?"
"Yes, sir; he says he'll come to dinner; I was on my way in to tell you,
but they was making such a fuss here."
"Very well," said Mr. Weston. "The rest of you go to bed, quietly; I am
sure there will be no more disturbance to-night."
But, what will the Abolitionist say to this scene? Where were the whip and
the cord, and other instruments of torture? Such consideration, he
contends, was never shown in the southern country. With Martin Tupper, I
say,
"Hear reason, oh! brother;
Hear reason and right."
It has been, that master and slave were friends; and if this cannot
continue, at whose door will the sin lie?
The Abolitionist says to the slave, Go! but what does he do that really
advances his interest? He says to the master, Give up thine own! but does
he offer to share in the loss? No; he would give to the Lord of that which
costs him nothing.
Should the southern country become free, should the eyes of the world see
no stain upon her escutcheon, it will not be through the efforts of these
fanatics. If white labor could be substituted for black, better were it
that she should not have this weight upon her. The emancipation of her
slaves will never be accomplished by interference or force. Good men assist
in colonizing them, and the Creator may thus intend to christianize
benighted Africa. Should this be the Divine will, oh! that from every port,
steamers were going forth, bearing our colored people to their natural
home!