As absurd would it be for one of the small unsettled stars, for whose place
and wanderings we care not, to usurp the track of the Queen of night or of
the God of day, as for an unpretending writer to go over ground that has
been trodden by the master minds of the age. It was in the olden time that
Cooper described a dinner party in all its formal, but hospitable
perfection. Washington was a guest there, too, though an unacknowledged
one; we cannot introduce him at Exeter, yet I could bring forward there,
more than one who knew him well, valuing him not only as a member of
society and a hero, but as the man chosen by God for a great purpose.
Besides, I would introduce to my readers, some of the residents of L----. I
would let them into the very heart of Virginia life; and, although I cannot
arrogate to it any claims for superiority over other conditions of society,
among people of the same class in life, yet, at least, I will not allow an
inferiority. As variety is the spice of society, I will show them, that
here are many men of many minds.
Mark, was a famous waiter, almost equal to Bacchus, who was head man, on
such occasions. They were in their elements at a dinner party, and the
sideboard, and tables, on such an occasion, were in their holiday attire. A
strong arm, a hard brush, and plenty of beeswax, banished all appearance of
use, and the old servants thought that every article in the room looked as
bright and handsome as on the occasion of their young mistress' first
presiding at her table. The blinds of the windows looking south, were
partly open; the branches of the lemon-tree, and the tendrils of the
white-jessamine, assisted in shading the apartment, making it fragrant
too. The bird-cages were hung among the branches of the flowers, and the
little prisoners sang as if they had, at last, found a way of escape to
their native woods; old-fashioned silver glittered on the sideboard, the
large china punch-bowl maintaining its position in the centre.
William had gone to the drawing-room to announce the important
intelligence, "Dinner is ready!" and Bacchus looked around the room for the
last time, to see that every thing was, as it should be, snuffing up the
rich fumes of the soup as it escaped from the sides of the silver-covered
tureen. He perceived that one of the salt-cellars was rather near the
corner of the table, and had only time to rearrange it, when William threw
open the doors. The company entered, and with some delay and formality took
their places. We need not wait until the Rev. Mr. Aldie says grace, though
that would not detain us long; for the Rev. Mr. Aldie, besides being very
hungry, has a great deal of tact, and believes in short prayers; nor will
we delay to witness the breaking down of the strongholds of precision and
ultra propriety, that almost always solemnizes the commencement of an
entertainment; but the old Madeira having been passed around, we will
listen to the conversation that is going on from different parts of the
table.
"We have outlived, sir," said Mr. Chapman, addressing a northern gentleman
present, "we have outlived the first and greatest era of our country. Its
infancy was its greatest era. The spirit of Washington still breathes among
us. One or two of us here have conversed with him, sat at his table, taken
him by the hand. It is too soon for the great principles that animated his
whole career to have passed from our memory. I am not a very old man,
gentlemen and ladies, yet it seems to me a great while since the day of
Washington's funeral. My father called me and my brothers to him, and while
our mother was fastening a band of black crape around our hats, 'My boys,'
said he, 'you have seen the best days of this republic.' It is so, for as
much as the United States has increased in size, and power, and wealth,
since then, different interests are dividing her."
"Was Washington a cheerful man?" asked an English gentleman who was
present, "I have heard that he never laughed. Is it so?"
Miss Janet, who was considered a kind of oracle when personal memories of
Washington were concerned, answered after a moment's pause, "I have seen
him smile often, I never saw him laugh but once. He rode over, one
afternoon, to see a relative with whom I was staying; it was a dark, cloudy
day, in November; a brisk wood fire was very agreeable. After some little
conversation on ordinary topics, the gentlemen discussed the politics of
the times, Washington saying little, but listening attentively to others.
"The door opened suddenly, and a son of my relative entered, in a noisy
bustling manner. Passing the gentlemen with a nod, he turned his back to
the fire, putting his hands behind him. 'Father,' said he, scarcely waiting
until the sentence that General Washington was uttering, was finished,
'what do you think? Uncle Jack and I shot a duck in the head!' He deserved
a reproof for his forwardness; but Washington joined the rest in a laugh,
no doubt amused at the estimation in which the youth held himself and Uncle
Jack. The two together, killed a duck, and the boy was boasting of it in
the presence of the greatest man the world ever produced. The poor fellow
left the room, and for a time his sporting talents were joked about more
than he liked."
After the ladies retired, Mr. Selden proposed the health of the amiable
George Washington.
"Good heavens! sir," said Mr. Chapman, the veins in his temples swelling,
and his whole frame glowing with vexation, "what is that you say? Did ever
any one hear of a soldier being amiable? No, sir, I will give you a toast
that was drank just before the death of the greatest and best of men. I
picked up an old newspaper, and laid it aside in my secretary. In it I read
a toast worth giving. Fill high, gentlemen--'The man who forgets the
services of George Washington, may he be forgotten by his country and his
God.'"
Mr. Selden, who possessed in a remarkable degree the amiableness that he
had ascribed to another, swallowed the wine and approved the toast. Mr.
Chapman was some time recovering his composure.
"You intend to leave Virginia very soon, Mr. Lee," said Mr. Kent,
addressing Walter.
"Very soon, sir," Walter replied.
"Where shall you go first?" asked Mr. Kent.
"I have not decided on any course of travel," said Walter. "I shall,
perhaps, wander toward Germany."
"We will drink your health, then," said Mr. Weston. "A pleasant tour,
Walter, and a safe return."
* * * * *
"You are from Connecticut, I believe, Mr. Perkins?" said Mr. Barbour, "but
as you are not an Abolitionist, I suppose it will not be uncourteous to
discuss the subject before you. I have in my memorandum book a copy of a
law of your State, which was in existence at one time, and which refers to
what we have been conversing about. It supports the Fugitive Slave Law, in
prospect. At that time you New Englanders held not only negro, but Indian
slaves. Let me read this, gentleman. 'Be it enacted by the Governor,
Council, and Representatives, in General Court assembled, and by the
authority of the same, that whatsoever negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or
servants, shall be wandering out of the bounds of the town or place to
which they belong, without a ticket or pass, in writing, under the hand of
some Assistant or Justice of the Peace, or under the hand of the master or
owner of such negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or servants, shall be
deemed and accounted as runaways, and may be treated as such. And every
person inhabiting in this colony, finding or meeting with any such negro,
mulatto, or Indian servant or servants not having a ticket as aforesaid, is
hereby empowered to seize and secure him or them, and bring him or them
before the next authority, to be examined and returned to his or their
master or owner, who shall satisfy the charge accruing thereby.
"'And all ferrymen within the colony are hereby requested not to suffer any
Indian, mulatto, or negro servant without certificate as aforesaid, to pass
over their respective ferries by assisting them, directly or indirectly, on
the penalty of paying a fine of twenty shillings for every such offence, to
the owner of such servants.' In the same act," continued Mr. Barbour, "a
free person who receives any property, large or small, from a slave,
without an order from his master, must either make full restitution or be
openly whipped with so many stripes, (not exceeding twenty.)"
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, who was an impetuous old gentleman,
"don't you see those Yankees were close enough in taking care of their own
slaves, and if they could have raised sugar and cotton, or had deemed it to
their advantage to be slaveholders to this day, they'd have had a Fugitive
Slave Law long before this. A Daniel would have come to judgment sooner
even than the immortal Daniel Webster."
"Wait a moment, my dear sir," said Mr. Barbour. "Another paragraph of the
same act provides, 'that if any negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or slave,
shall be found abroad from home, in the night season, after nine o'clock,
without a special order from his or their master or mistress, it shall be
lawful for any person or persons to apprehend and secure such negro,
mulatto, or Indian servant or slave, so offending, and him, her, or them,
bring before the next assistant or justice of the peace, which authority
shall have full power to pass sentence upon such servant or slave, and
order him, her, or them, to be publicly whipped on the _naked_ body, not
exceeding ten stripes, &c.'"
"Pretty tight laws you had, sir," said Mr. Chapman, addressing Mr. Perkins.
"A woman could be picked up and whipped, at the report of any body, on the
naked body. Why, sir, if we had such laws here, it would be whipping all
the time, (provided so infamous a law could be carried into execution.)
There is one thing certain, you made the most of slavery while you had it."
"But we have repented of all our misdeeds," said Mr. Perkins,
good-humouredly.
"Yes," said Mr. Chapman, "like the boy that stole a penny, and when he
found it wouldn't buy the jack-knife he wanted, he repented, and carried it
to the owner."
"But you must remember the times, my dear sir," said Mr. Perkins.
"I do, I do, sir," said Mr. Chapman. "The very time that you had come for
freedom yourself, you kidnapped the noble sons of the soil, and made
menials of them. I wonder the ground did not cry out against you. Now we
have been left with the curse of slavery upon us, (for it is in some
respects a curse on the negro and the white man,) and God may see fit to
remove it from us. But why don't the Abolitionists buy our slaves, and send
them to Liberia?"
"That would be against their principles," said Mr. Perkins.
"Excuse me, sir," said Mr. Chapman, "but d----n their principles; it is
against their pockets. Why don't those who write Abolition books, give the
profits to purchase some of these poor wretches who are whipped to death,
and starved to death, and given to the flies to eat up, and burned alive;
then I would believe in their principles, or at least in their sincerity.
But now the fear is for their pockets. I am a poor man. I own a few slaves,
and I will sell them to any Northern man or woman at half-price for what I
could get from a trader, and they may send them to Liberia. Lord! sir,
they'd as soon think of buying the d----l himself. You must excuse my
strong language, but this subject irritates me. Not long ago, I was in the
upper part of the State of New York, looking about me, for I do look about
me wherever I am. One morning I got up early, and walked toward the new
railroad that they were constructing in the neighborhood. I chanced to get
to the spot just in time to see a little fracas between a stout, burly
Irishman, and the superintendent of the party.
"'I thought, be Jasus,' said the Irishman, just as I approached near enough
to hear what was going on, 'that a man could see himself righted in a free
country.'
"'Go to your work,' said the superintendent, and if you say another word
about it, I'll knock you over.'
"'Is it you'll knock me over, you will,' began the Irishman.
"He was over in a moment. The superintendent, sir, gave him a blow between
the eyes, with a fist that was hard as iron. The man staggered, and fell. I
helped him up, sir; and I reckon he thought matters might be worse still,
for he slowly walked off.
"'D----d free country,' he muttered to me, in a kind of confidential tone.
'I thought they only knocked niggers over in Ameriky. Be me soul, but I'll
go back to Ireland.'
"I could not help expressing my astonishment to the superintendent,
repeating the Irishman's words, 'I thought only niggers could be knocked
over in this country.'
"'Niggers!' said the superintendent, 'I guess if you had to deal with
Irishmen, you'd find yourself obliged to knock 'em down.'
"'But don't the laws protect them?' I asked.
"'Laws! why railroads have to be made, and have to be made the right way.
I aint afraid of the laws. I think no more of knocking an Irishman over,
sir, than I do of eating my dinner. One is as necessary as the other.'
"Now," continued Mr. Chapman, "if an Abolitionist sees a slave knocked
over, he runs home to tell his mammy; it's enough to bring fire and
brimstone, and hail, and earthquakes on the whole country. A man must have
a black skin or his sorrows can never reach the hearts of these gentlemen.
They had better look about at home. There is wrong enough there to make a
fuss about."
"Well," said the Englishman, "you had both better come back to the mother
country. The beautiful words, so often quoted, of Curran, may invite you:
'No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of
slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and
the God sink together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and
disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation.'"
"Thank you, sir, for your invitation," said Mr. Chapman, "but I'll stay in
Virginia. The old State is good enough for me. I have been to England, and
I saw some of your redeemed, regenerated, disenthralled people--I saw
features on women's faces that haunted me afterward in my dreams. I saw
children with shrivelled, attenuated limbs, and countenances that were old
in misery and vice--such men, women, and children as Dickens and Charlotte
Elizabeth tell about. My little grand-daughter was recovering from a severe
illness, not long ago, and I found her weeping in her old nurse's arms. 'O!
grandpa,' said she, as I inquired the cause of her distress, 'I have been
reading "The Little Pin-headers."' I wept over it too, for it was true. No,
sir; if I must see slavery, let me see it in its best form, as it exists in
our Southern country."
"You are right, sir, I fear," said the Englishman.
"Well," said Mr. Perkins, "I am glad I am not a slaveholder, for one
reason; I am sure I should never get to heaven. I should be knocking brains
out from morning till night, that is if there are brains under all that
mass of wool. Why, they are so slow, and inactive--I should be stumbling
over them all the time; though from the specimens I have seen in your
house, sir, I should say they made most agreeable servants."
"My servants are very faithful," said Mr. Weston, "they have had great
pains taken with them. I rarely have any complaints from the overseer."
"Your overseers,--that is the worst feature in slavery," said Mr. Perkins.
"Why, sir," said Mr. Chapman, ready for another argument, "you have your
superintendents at the North--and they can knock their people down whenever
they see fit."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Perkins. "I had forgotten that."
"Stay a little while with us," said Mr. Chapman, as Mr. Weston rose to lead
the way to the drawing-room. "You will not find us so bad as you think. We
may roast a negro now and then, when we have a barbecue, but that will be
our way of showing you hospitality. You must remember we are only 'poor
heathenish Southerners' according to the best received opinions of some who
live with you in New England."
* * * * *
"Alice," said Mrs. Weston, at a late hour in the evening, when the last of
the guests were taking their departure, "Walter would like to see you in
the library; but, my love, I wish you would spare yourself and him the
useless pain of parting."
"I must see him, dear mother, do not refuse me; it is for the last
time--pray, let me go."
"If you choose," and Alice glided away as her mother was interrupted by the
leave-taking of some of their visitors. The forms, the courtesies of life
had no claims upon her now--she was enduring her first sorrow; the
foundation of youth's slight fabric of happiness was yielding beneath her
touch. The dread "nevermore," that Edgar Poe could not drive from his heart
and sight, was oppressing her. She sought him before whom her young heart
had bowed, not the less devotedly and humbly that it was silently and
secretly. It was to be a bitter parting, not as when she watched to the
last Arthur Weston, who was dear to her as ever was brother to a sister,
for they had the promise and hope of meeting again; but now there was no
tear in her eye, no trembling in her frame, and no hope in her heart. From
the utmost depth of her soul arose the prophetic voice, "Thou shalt see him
no more."
"Alice," said Walter, taking her hand between both of his, and gazing at
her face, as pale and sad as his own, "it is your mother's wish that from
this time we should be strangers to each other, even loving as we do; that
our paths on earth should separate, never to meet again. Is it your wish
too?"
"We must part; you know it, Walter," said Alice, musingly, looking out
upon, but not seeing the calm river, and the stars that gazed upon its
waves, and all the solemn beauty with which night had invested herself.
"But you love me, Alice; and will you see me go from you forever, without
hope? Will you yourself speak the word that sends me forth a wanderer upon
the earth?" said Walter.
"What can I do?" said Alice.
"Choose, Alice, your own destiny, and fix mine."
"Walter, I cannot leave my mother; I would die a thousand times rather than
bring such sorrow upon her who has known so much. My uncle, too--my more
than father--oh! Walter, I have sinned, and I suffer."
"You are wise, Alice; you have chosen well; you cling to mother, and home,
and friends; I have none of these ties; there is not upon earth a being so
utterly friendless as I am."
"Dear Walter, you have friends, and you can make them; you have wealth,
talent, and many gifts from God. Go forth into the world and use them. Let
your noble heart take courage; and in assisting others and making them
happy, you will soon be happy yourself."
Walter looked at her with surprise: such words were unlike her, whom he had
been accustomed to consider a loving and lovely child. But a bitter smile
passed over his countenance, and in a stern voice he said, "And you, Alice,
what are you to do?"
"God alone knows," said Alice, forced into a consideration of her own
sorrow, and resting against a lounge near which she had been standing. She
wept bitterly. Walter did not attempt to restrain her, but stood as if
contemplating a grief that he could not wish to control. Alice again spoke,
"It must come, dear Walter, first or last, and we may as well speak the
farewell which must be spoken--but I could endure my part, if I had the
hope that you will be happy. Will you promise me you will try to be?"
"No, Alice, I cannot promise you that; if happiness were in our own power,
I would not be looking on you, whom I have loved all my life, for the last
time.
"But I will hope," he continued, "you may be fortunate enough to forget and
be happy."
"Children," said Miss Janet--for she had gently approached them--"do you
know when and where happiness is to be found? When we have done all that
God has given us to do here; and in the heaven, above those stars that are
now looking down upon you. Look upon Alice, Walter, with the hope of
meeting again; and until then, let the remembrance of her beauty and her
love be ever about you. Let her hear of you as one who deserves the pure
affection of her young and trusting heart. You have lived as brother and
sister; part as such, and may the blessing of God be upon both of you
forever."
Walter took Alice in his arms, and kissed her cheek; all sternness and
pride had gone from his handsome face, but there was such a look of
hopeless sorrow there, as we would not willingly behold on the countenance
of one so young.
Cousin Janet led him away, and with words of solemn, deep affection, bade
him farewell--words that came again, for a time, unheeded and
unwelcomed--words that at the last brought hope and peace to a fainting
heart.
Cousin Janet returned to Alice, whose face lay hidden within her hands:
"Alice, darling," she said, "look up--God is here; forget your own grief,
and think of one who suffered, and who feels for all who, like Him, must
bear the burden of mortality. Think of your many blessings, and how
grateful you should feel for them; think of your mother, who for years wept
as you, I trust, may never weep; think of your kind uncle, who would die to
save you an hour's pain. Trust the future, with all its fears, to God, and
peace will come with the very effort to attain it."
"Oh, Cousin Janet," said Alice, "if Walter were not so lonely; he knows not
where he is going, nor what he is going to do."
"It is true," said Cousin Janet, weeping too; "but we can hope, and trust,
and pray. And now, my love, let us join your mother in her room; it is a
sad parting for her, too, for Walter is dear to us all."
* * * * *
Reader! have so many years passed away, that thou hast forgotten the
bitterness of thy first sorrow, or is it yet to come? Thinkest thou there
is a way of escape--none, unless thou art young, and Death interpose,
saving thee from all sadness, and writing on thy grave, "Do not weep for
me, thou knowest not how much of sorrow this early tomb has saved me."
When were thy first thoughts of death? I do not mean the sight of the
coffin, the pall, or any of its sad accompaniments, but the time when the
mind first arrested itself with the melancholy convictions of mortality.
There was a holiday for me in my young days, to which I looked forward as
the Mohammedan to his Paradise; this was a visit to a country-place, where
I revelled in the breath of the woodbines and sweetbriers, and where I sat
under tall and spreading trees, and wondered why towns and cities were ever
built. The great willows swept the windows of the chamber where I slept,
and faces with faded eyes looked upon me from their old frames, by the
moonlight, as I fell asleep, after the day's enjoyment. I never tired of
wandering through the gardens, where were roses and sweet-williams,
hyacinths and honeysuckles, and flowers of every shape and hue. This was
the fairy spot of my recollection, for even childhood has its cares, and
there were memories of little griefs, which time has never chased away.
There I used to meet two children, who often roamed through the near woods
with me. I do not remember their ages nor their names; they were younger
though than I. They might not have been beautiful, but I recollect the
bright eyes, and that downy velvet hue that is only found on the soft check
of infancy.
Summer came; and when I went again, I found the clematis sweeping the
garden walks, and the lilies-of-the-valley bending under the weight of
their own beauty. So we walked along, I and an old servant, stopping to
enter an arbor, or to raise the head of a drooping plant, or to pluck a
sweet-scented shrub, and place it in my bosom. "Where are the little
girls?" I asked. "Have they come again, too?"
"Yes, they are here," she said, as we approached two little mounds, covered
over with the dark-green myrtle and its purple flowers.
"What is here?"
"Child, here are the little ones you asked for."
Oh! those little myrtle-covered graves, how wonderingly I gazed upon them.
There was no thought of death mingled with my meditation; there was, of
quiet and repose, but not of death. I had seen no sickness, no suffering,
and I only wondered why those fair children had laid down under the myrtle.
I fancied them with the fringed eyelids drooping over the cheeks, and the
velvet hue still there. How much did I know of death? As little as of life!
Time passed with me, and I saw the sorrows of others. Sometimes I thought
of the myrtle-covered graves, and the children that slept beneath. Oh! how
quiet they must be, they utter no cry, they shed no tears.
Time passed, and an angel slept in my bosom, close to my heart. Need I say
that I was happy when she nestled there? that her voice was music to my
soul, and her smile the very presence of beauty? Need I say it was joy when
she called me, Mother? Then I lived for the present; all the sorrow that I
had seen around me, was forgotten.
God called that angel to her native heaven, and I wept. Now was the mystery
of the myrtle-covered graves open before my sight. I had seen the going
forth of a little life that was part of my own, I remembered the hard sighs
that convulsed that infant breast. I knew that the grave was meant to hide
from us, silence and pallor, desolation and decay. I was in the world, no
longer a garden of flowers, where I sought from under the myrtle for the
bright eyes and the velvet cheeks. I was in the world, and death was there
too; it was by my side. I gave my darling to the earth, and felt for myself
the bitterness of tears.
Thus must it ever be--by actual suffering must the young be persuaded of
the struggle that is before them--well is it when there is one to say, "God
is here."