GOOD-FRIDAY EVENING, April 5, 1844.
No entry in my journal since the twenty-eighth of March. Yet these
seven silent days have a richer history than any that have arrived,
with their exactions or their gifts, since those liberal ones of two
springs ago came to endow me with your friendship.
Easy to tread and pleasant to look back upon is the level plain of our
life, uniform, yet diversified, familiar, yet always new; but, from
time to time, we find ourselves on little sunny heights from which the
way we have traversed shows yet fairer than we knew it, and that which
we are to take invites with more cheerful promise.
I did not know last Friday morning that anything was wanting to me.
And had I not enough? My farm-duties, which restrict my study-time
just enough to leave it always the zest of privilege; my books,
possessed or on the way; my mother's dear affection; your faithful
letters, true to the hour; Selden's, that come at last;--these, and
then the casual claims, the little countless pleasures infinitely
varied, special portion of each human day! always something to do,
something to enjoy, something to expect. And yet I would not now go
back and be where I was last Friday morning. Beautiful miracle! Our
cup is always full, yet its capacity is never reached!
Since the day I stood at my gate, listening for the fading sounds of
your horse's feet, many guests have crossed my threshold and recrossed
it,--all received with good-will, dismissed with good wishes. Last
Friday brought one whom I took to my heart and hold there. The first
clasp of his firm hand, the first look of his sweet, frank eyes, bound
me to him forever. Keith, I have more to love than I had a week ago,
and the world is more beautiful for me, life better worth living.
We had had gray weather for a week before he came; the blue sky
appeared with him, and smiled on us every day while he was here. I
cannot now separate the thought of him from that of sunshine, nor can
I tell how much of the glow and freshness of those days was of the
atmosphere, how much from his happy nature.
I had just come in from work, and was sitting near the window,
watching the slowly clearing sky, when I heard a step coming down the
road. You know I am used to listen to approaching footsteps, and to
judge beforehand what manner of man is about to present himself at my
door. This was a step that struck very cheerfully on the ear. Firm,
regular, it had no haste in it, yet a certain eagerness. My mother
heard it, too. "The feet of him that bringeth good tidings," she said,
smiling. The sun broke out full and clear as she spoke. "Can it be Dr.
Borrow?--it must be," I asked and answered myself; and my heart warmed
to him as it had not when I was reading his praises in Selden's
letter. I heard the gate open and close again. I went to the door, and
saw, coming along the path I guided you on that first dark night, a
figure that agreed perfectly with the step, but not at all with what I
had imagined Dr. Borrow. It was that of a man hardly more than twenty,
who carried about with him, it seemed, a world of youthful happiness,
but assuredly no great weight of learning. Erect, vigorous, animated,
his whole person spoke harmonious strength and freedom of soul and
body. His head was uncovered,--or, rather, it was protected only by
its masses of fair brown hair, whose curls the light wind that had
sprung up to meet him lifted tenderly, as if to show them sparkling in
the sunshine. This was no chance visitor; he walked as if he knew
where he was going, and felt himself an expected and a welcome guest.
He had come from far; his well-fitting travelling-suit of dark gray
told of a very distant skill and fashion, and was a little the worse
for the long road. He had a knapsack on his shoulders. From a strap
which crossed his breast hung a green tin case, such as botanists
carry on their tours. This, again, connected him with Dr. Borrow; but
the wild-flowers in his hand had been gathered for their beauty, not
their rarity, and the happy grace of their arrangement denoted rather
the artist than the savant.
He saw me as soon as I came to the door; for he quickened his step,
and, from where I stood, I could see his face brighten. You do not
know the face, and it is not like any other; how can you understand
the impression it made on me?
Our hands were soon joined in a cordial clasp. He answered my warm
welcome with a look full of youthful delight, behind which lay an
earnest, manly satisfaction.
The name which was in my mind came, though hesitatingly, to my lips:
"Dr. Borrow----" I began. A flash of merriment passed over my guest's
features; but they were instantly composed, as if he felt the mirthful
thought a disrespect to the absent.
"I am Harry Dudley. Dr. Borrow is coming. I walked on before to let
you know."
He laid his bouquet of wild-flowers in the shadow of the doorsteps,
threw off his knapsack, flung down on it the felt hat he had carried
crumpled up under his arm, and, turning, showed himself ready to walk
off with me to meet the Doctor. We had reached the gate, when he
stopped suddenly and looked towards the house.
"But do you not wish----?"
"No,"--I understood him at once,--"my mother is prepared; we have been
for some time expecting Dr. Borrow--and you," I ought in politeness to
have added, but in truth I could not. I looked at him a little
anxiously, fearing he might have remarked the omission, but his eyes
met mine, glad and frank.
Dr. Borrow had engrossed us. His visit, from the time it was first
promised, had been the one theme here within doors and without.
Morning and evening I had consulted with my mother over his
entertainment; Tabitha had, more than once, in his behalf, displaced
and reinstated every object in the house; Hans and his boys had
stimulated each other to unusual efforts, that the farm might find
favor in such enlightened eyes. Harry Dudley! certainly I ought to
have been expecting him. Certainly Selden's letter had told me he was
coming. But the mention of him had been so slight, or, I will now
rather say, so simple, that I had almost overlooked it. A line held
it, after three full pages given to Dr. Borrow. "Harry Dudley goes
with him,"--that was all. How little importance the name had for me
which was to have so much!
But, if no pains had been taken to prepossess me in Harry's favor,
full justice, I am sure, had been done me with him. He seemed to
regard me not as an acquaintance newly found, but as an old friend
rejoined: we were going out to meet and welcome the stranger whose
comforts we were to care for together.
"I suppose you will give Dr. Borrow your room, and you will take the
little one down-stairs, that you had when Selden was here? I shall
sleep in the barn on the hay."
I was, to be sure, just considering whether I should have one of our
little impromptu bedsteads set up for Harry, in a corner of the
room--yours--which had been assigned to the Doctor, or whether I
should share my little nook down-stairs with him. In the end, he had
it all his own way.
It was not long before we came upon the Doctor. I could not draw his
full portrait at first sight, as I did Harry's, for I had only a
profile view of his stooping figure, until I was quite close to him.
He, too, carried a knapsack;--a large russet one; Harry's was
black;--and strapped to it was a long umbrella, which protruded on
either side. He was grubbing in a meadow, and was either really so
intent that he did not see us, or thought it better not to let us
know that he did until he had finished his work. We stood near him
some minutes before he straightened himself up, booty in hand. He
scrutinized his prize for a moment, and then, apparently satisfied,
came forward and saluted mo in a very friendly tone. His dark-blue
spectacles prevented me from seeing whether the eyes seconded the
voice, and his other features are too heavy to be very expressive.
When I had made known my satisfaction at his arrival, and he had
acquiesced,--when I had inquired after Selden, and he had answered
that he had not seen our common friend for six weeks, we stood
opposite each other, I looking for a subject which could not be
disposed of so promptly, and he, apparently, waiting for me to bring
it forward. But Harry now spoke eagerly:--
"Have you found it?"--holding out his hand at the same time for the
poor little specimen which the Doctor held between his thumb and
finger.
"Yes."
"The very one you have been looking for?"
"The very thing."
"Shall I put it into the box?"
Harry received the little object respectfully, and deposited it in the
tin case with care. He then relieved Dr. Borrow's shoulders of the
knapsack and took it on his own, having first withdrawn the umbrella
and placed it in the hands of the owner, who watched its extrication
with interest, and received it in a way which showed it to be an
object of attachment. The Doctor gathered up some inferior spoil which
lay in a circle round the place where he had been at work. Harry found
room for all in the box. He had entered so fully into his companion's
success, that I thought he might after all be a botanist himself; but
he told me, as we walked towards the house, that he knew nothing of
plants except what he had learned in journeying with Dr. Borrow.
"But I know what it is to want to complete your collection," he added,
laughing. "We have been all the morning looking for this particular
kind of grass. Dr. Borrow thought it must grow somewhere in this
neighborhood, and here it is at last. The Doctor has a great
collection of grasses."
"The largest, I think I may say, on this continent,--one of the
largest, perhaps, that exists," said the Doctor, with the candor of a
man who feels called upon to render himself justice, since there is no
one else qualified to do it. And then he entered upon grasses; setting
forth the great part filled by this powerful family, in the history of
our earth, and vindicating triumphantly his regard for its humblest
member.
When we came within sight of the house, Harry walked rapidly on. By
the time the Doctor and I rejoined him at the door, he had
disencumbered himself of the knapsack, had taken his flowers from
their hiding-place, and stood ready to follow us in.
I introduced Dr. Borrow to my mother in form, and was about to do the
same by Harry, who had stood back modestly until his friend had been
presented; but he was now already taking her extended hand, bowing
over it with that air of filial deference which we hear that high-bred
Frenchmen have in their manner to elder women. I wondered that I had
before thought him so young; his finished courtesy was that of a man
versed in society. But the next moment he was offering her his
wild-flowers with the smile with which an infant brings its little
fistful of dandelions to its mother, delighting in the pleasure it has
been preparing for her. His name had made more impression on my mother
than on me. She called him by it at once. This redeemed all my
omissions, if, indeed, he had remarked them, and I believe he had not.
The Doctor, in the mean while, had lifted his spectacles to the top of
his head. You have not seen a man until you have looked into his eyes.
Dr. Borrow's, of a clear blue, made another being of him. His only
speaking feature, they speak intelligence and good-will. I felt that I
should like him, and I do. He did not, however, find himself so
immediately at home with us as Harry did. He took the chair I offered
him, but sat silent and abstracted, answering absently, by an
inclination of the head, my modest attempts at conversation. Harry,
interpreting his mood, brought him the green tin case. He took it a
little hastily, and looked about him, as if inquiring for a place
where he could give himself to the inspection of its contents. I
offered to conduct him to his room. Harry went out promptly and
brought in the well-stuffed russet knapsack,--took the respectable
umbrella from the corner where it was leaning, and followed us
up-stairs,--placed his load inside the chamber-door, and ran down
again. I introduced the Doctor to the chair and table in my little
study, where he installed himself contentedly.
When I came down, I found Harry standing by my mother. He was putting
the flowers into water for her,--consulting her, as he arranged them,
now by a look, now by a question. She answered the bright smile with
which he took leave of her, when his work was done, by one tender,
almost tearful. I knew to whom that smile was given. I knew that
beside her then stood the vision of a little boy, fair-haired,
dark-eyed, like Harry, and full of such lovely promise as Harry's
happy mother could see fulfilled in him. But the sadness flitted
lightly, and a soft radiance overspread the dear pale face.
The name of our little Charles had been in my mind too, and my
thoughts followed hers backward to that sweet infancy, and forward to
that unblemished maturity, attained in purer spheres, of which Harry's
noble and tender beauty had brought us a suggestion.
It was the absence of a moment. I was recalled by a greeting given in
Harry's cordial voice. Tabitha stood in the doorway. She studied the
stranger with a long look, and then, advancing in her stateliest
manner, bestowed on him an emphatic and elaborate welcome. He listened
with grave and courteous attention, as a prince on a progress might
receive the harangue of a village mayor, and answered with simple
thanks, which she, satisfied with having performed her own part,
accepted as an ample return, and applied herself to more practical
hospitality.
Harry had been intent on some purpose when Tabitha intercepted him. He
now went quickly out, brought in the knapsack he had thrown down
beside the door on his first arrival, and began to undo the straps. I
felt myself interested, for there was a happy earnestness in his
manner which told of a pleasure on the way for somebody, and it seemed
to be my turn. I was not mistaken. He drew out a book, and then
another and another.
"These are from Selden."
He watched me as I read the title-pages, entering warmly into my
satisfaction, which was great enough, I am sure, to be more than a
reward for the weight Selden's gift had added to his pack.
"It does not take long to know Harry Dudley. Dear, affectionate boy,
in what Arcadia have you grown up, that you have thus carried the
innocence and simplicity of infancy through your twenty years!" This I
said within myself, as I looked upon his pure forehead, and met the
sweet, confiding expression of his beautiful eyes. Yet, even then,
something about the mouth arrested me, something of deep, strong,
resolute, which spoke the man who had already thought and renounced
and resisted. It does not take long to love Harry Dudley, but I have
learned that he is not to be known in an hour. Selden might well leave
him to make his own introduction. I can understand, that, to those who
are familiar with him, his very name should seem to comprehend a
eulogium.
Tabitha gave Dr. Borrow no such ceremonious reception as she had
bestowed on Harry. She was hospitable, however, and gracious, with a
touch of familiarity in her manner just enough to balance the
condescension in his. As he had not been witness of the greater state
with which Harry was received, he was not, I trust, sensible of any
want.
We sat up late that evening. The hours passed rapidly. Dr. Borrow had
laid aside his preoccupations, and gave himself up to the pleasures of
discourse. He passed over a wide range of topics, opening freely for
us his magazines of learning, scientific and scholastic, and
displaying a power of graphic narration I was not prepared for. He
aids himself with apt and not excessive gesture. In relating
conversations, without descending to mimicry, he characterizes his
personages for you, so that you are never in doubt.
Selden, telling me almost everything else about the Doctor, had said
nothing of his age; but he spoke of him as of a friend of his own, and
is himself only twenty-seven; so I had supposed it to lie on the
brighter side of thirty. It did, indeed, seem marvellous that the
stores of erudition attributed to him could have been gathered in so
early, but I made allowance for Selden's generous faculty of
admiration.
Dr. Borrow must be forty, or perhaps a little more. He is of middle
height, square-built, of a dull complexion, which makes his open blue
eyes look very blue and open. You are to imagine for him a strong,
clear voice, a rapid, yet distinct utterance, and a manner which
denotes long habit of easy and secure superiority.
I have never known the Doctor in finer vein than that first evening.
We were only three to listen to him, but it was long since he had had
even so large an audience capable of admiring, I will not say of
appreciating him. Whatever his topic, he enchained our attention; but
he made his power most felt, perhaps, when treating of his own
specialty, or scientific subjects connected with it. He is, as he told
us, emphatically a practical man, preferring facts to speculations. He
propounds no theories of his own, but he develops those of others very
happily, setting forth the most opposite with the same ingenuity and
clearness. When, in these expositions, he sometimes approached the
limits where earthly science merges in the heavenly, Harry's face
showed his mind tending powerfully forward. But the Doctor always
stopped short of the point to which he seemed leading, and was on the
ground again without sharing in the fall he had prepared for his
listeners.
Very entertaining to me were Dr. Borrow's accounts of his travelling
experiences and observations in our own State and neighborhood. His
judgments he had brought with him, and I soon found that his inquiry
had been conducted with the view rather of confirming than of testing
them. I felt myself compelled to demur at some of his conclusions; but
I cannot flatter myself that I did anything towards shaking his faith
in them: he only inculcated them upon me with greater zeal and
confidence. When a little debate of this kind occurred, Harry followed
it attentively, but took no part in it. I sometimes felt that his
sympathies were on my side, and my opponent certainly thought
so,--for, when I pressed him a little hard, he would turn upon his
travelling-companion a burst of refutation too lively to be addressed
to a new acquaintance. The pleasant laugh in Harry's eyes showed him
amused, yet still far within the limits of respect.
Sometimes, in the course of his narrations, or of his disquisitions
upon men and manners, American or foreign, the Doctor turned for
corroboration to Harry, who gave it promptly and gladly when he could.
If he felt himself obliged to dissent, he did so with deference, and
forbore to urge his objections, if they were overruled, as they
commonly were.
I found, however, before the first evening was over, that, with all
his modesty, Harry maintained his independence. When the Doctor, who
is no Utopist, found occasion to aim a sarcasm at the hopes and
prospects of the lovers of humanity, or pronounced in a slighting tone
some name dear to them, Harry never failed to put in a quiet, but
express protest, which should at least exempt him from complicity. And
Dr. Borrow would turn upon him a satirical smile, which gradually
softened into an indulgent one, and then take up again quietly the
thread of his discourse. At times, Harry was forced into more direct
and sustained opposition. I observed that his tone was then, if less
positive than his antagonist's, quite as decided. If the Doctor's
words came with all the weight of a justifiable self-esteem, Harry's
had that of deep and intimate conviction. I am persuaded that
conversation would lose all zest for the Doctor, if conducted long
with persons who agreed with him. He kindles at the first hint of
controversy, as the horse at the sound of the trumpet. To Harry
sympathy is dearer than triumph; he enters upon contest only when
compelled by loyalty to principle or to friendship.
The elder man needs companionship as much as the younger, and perhaps
enjoys it as much, though very differently. The admiration he excites
reacts upon him and stimulates to new efforts. Harry's tender and
grateful nature expands to affectionate interest, as a flower to the
sunshine.
The Doctor has a certain intellectual fervor, which quickens the flow
of his thought and language, and enables him to lead you, willingly
fascinated, along the road he chooses to walk in for the time. When
Harry is drawn out of his usual modest reserve to maintain a position,
his concentrated enthusiasm sometimes gives to a few words, spoken in
his calm, resolute voice, the effect of a masterly eloquence. These
words pass into your heart to become a part of its possessions.
I think I never fully understood the meaning of the expression
_personal influence_, until I knew Harry Dudley. What a divine gift it
is, when of the force and quality of his! What a bright line his
life-stream will lead through the happy region it is to bless! And he
holds this magical power so unconsciously! Here is another point of
contrast between him and his friend. Dr. Borrow is very sensible of
all his advantages, and would be surprised, if others were insensible
to them. No one can do him this displeasure; his merits and
acquirements must be manifest on first acquaintance. But Harry
Dudley,--you do not think of asking whether he has this or that talent
or accomplishment. You feel what he is, and love him for it, before
you know whether he has anything.
These two companions, so different, are yet not ill-assorted. Harry's
simplicity and strength together prevent him from being injured by his
friend's love of domination, which might give umbrage to a more
self-conscious, or overbear a weaker man; his frankness and courage
only make his esteem of more value to the Doctor, who, with all his
tendency to the despotic, is manly and loves manliness.
I shall not attempt to write down for you any of the Doctor's
brilliant dissertations. You will know him some time, I hope, and he
will do himself a justice I could not do him. Harry you _must_ know.
He will go to see you on his way home, and, if he does not find you,
will make a visit to you the object of a special journey. He will be a
new bond between us. We shall watch his course together. It will not,
it cannot, disappoint us; for "spirits are not finely touched, but to
fine issues."
They are gone. We have promised each other that this parting shall not
be the final one. And yet my heart was heavy to-day at noon. When the
gate fell to after they had passed out, it seemed to me the sound had
in it something of determined and conclusive. I rebuked the regret
almost before it had made itself felt. Dudley is going out into the
world, which has so much need of men like him, true, brave, steadfast.
I can have no fear or anxiety for him. He must be safe everywhere in
God's universe. Do not all things work together for good to those that
love Him?
SATURDAY EVENING, April 6, 1844.
My date ought to be March 30th, for I have been living over again
to-day the scenes of a week ago, and in my twilight talk with my
mother it was last Saturday that was reviewed, instead of this.
Last Saturday! The friends who now seem to belong to us, as if we had
never done without them, were then new acquisitions. The Doctor we had
not yet made out. How bright and pure that morning was! I was up
early, or thought I was, until I entered our little parlor, which I
had expected to find cheerless with the disorder that had made it
cheerful the evening before. But Tabitha, watchful against surprises,
had it in receiving-trim. She was giving it the last touches as I
entered. I had heard no sound from my mother's little chamber, which
my present one adjoins, and had been careful in my movements, thinking
her not yet awake. But here she was already in her place on the couch,
wearing a look of pleased solicitude, which I understood. I was not
myself wholly free from hospitable cares. Selden had been so exact in
forewarning me of Dr. Borrow's tastes and habits, that in the midst of
my anticipations intruded a little prosaic anxiety about the
breakfast. My mother, perhaps, shared it. Tabitha did not. She heard
some officious suggestions of mine with a lofty indifference. The
event justified her. How important she was, and how happy! How
considerately, yet how effectively, she rang the great bell! I did not
know it capable of such tones. When it summoned us, Harry was absent.
The Doctor and I took our places at the table without him. My mother
made his apology: he must have been very tired by his long walk the
day before, and had probably overslept himself. "Not he!" cried the
Doctor, with energy, as if repelling a serious accusation. "It's your
breakfast"--he pointed to the clock--"was ready four minutes too soon.
I've known two punctual men in my life, and Harry's one of them. He's
never two minutes after the time, _nor_ two minutes before it."
The Doctor had hardly done speaking when Harry's step was heard. It
was always the same, and always gave the same sensation of a joy in
prospect. Nor did it ever deceive. Dr. Borrow's good-morning was very
hearty. Harry had arrived just one minute before the time. If he had
come a minute earlier, or three minutes later, I do not know how it
might have been, for the Doctor does not like to be put in the wrong.
Harry brought in a bouquet for my mother. He did not fail in this
attention a single morning while he was here. I could not but
sometimes think of her who missed this little daily offering.
I had determined beforehand to give myself entirely to Dr. Borrow
during the time of his visit. I have often regretted the hours my farm
took from you. I had forewarned Hans of my intention of allowing
myself a vacation, and had arranged for the boys some work which did
not require oversight. They were to take hold of it, without further
notice, as soon as the distinguished stranger arrived. I could
therefore give myself up with an easy mind to the prolonged pleasures
of the breakfast-table. The Doctor was in excellent spirits,--full of
anecdote and of argument. I was very near being drawn into a
controversy more than once; but I was more willing to listen to him
than to myself, and avoided it successfully. Harry was in the same
peaceful disposition, but was not so fortunate.
A subject of difference between the friends, which seems to be a
standing one, is the character of the French. How did the Doctor bring
it on the table that morning? I think it was à-propos of the coffee.
He praised it and compared it with Paris coffee, which he did not
dispraise. But, once landed in France, that he should expatiate there
for a time was of course; and he found himself, as it appeared, in a
favorite field of animadversion. He began with some general
reflection,--I forget what; but, from the tone in which it was given,
I understood perfectly that it was a glove thrown down to Harry. It
was not taken up; and the Doctor, after a little defiant pause, went
forward. He drew highly colored sketches of the Gaul and the
Anglo-Saxon. Harry simply abstained from being amused. Dr. Borrow
passed to his individual experiences. It appeared, that,
notwithstanding the light regard in which he held the French, he had
done them the honor to pass several years in their country. This
intimate acquaintance had only given him the fairer opportunity of
making a comparison which was entirely to the advantage of the race he
himself represented. He declared, that, walking about among the
population of Paris, he felt himself on quite another scale and of
quite another clay. Harry here suggested that perhaps a Frenchman in
London, or in one of our cities, might have the same feeling.
"He can't,--he can't, if he would. No race dreams of asserting
superiority over the Anglo-Saxon,--least of all the French."
"If the French do not assert their superiority," Harry answered,
laughing, "it is because they are ignorant that it has been
questioned."
"That gives the measure of their ignorance; and they take care to
maintain it: a Frenchman never learns a foreign language."
"Because--as I once heard a Frenchman say--foreigners pay him the
compliment of learning his."
The Doctor burst out upon French vanity.
"At least you will admit that it is a quiet one," Harry replied. "The
French are content with their own good opinion. The tribute that
foreigners pay them is voluntary."
The Doctor arraigned those who foster the conceit of the French, first
by trying to copy them and then by failing in it. He was very
entertaining on this head. Neither Harry nor I thought it necessary to
remind him that the pictures he drew of the French and their imitators
did not precisely illustrate Anglo-Saxon superiority. He told the
origin of several little French customs, which, founded simply in
motives of economy or convenience, have been superstitiously adopted,
without any such good reason, and even made a test of breeding, by
weak-minded persons in England and this country. No one took up the
defence of those unfortunates, but the Doctor was not satisfied with
this acquiescence. He had an uneasy sense that his advantage in the
encounter with Harry had not been decisive. He soon returned to the
old field. Harry continued to parry his attacks playfully for a time,
but at last said seriously,--
"Doctor, I know you are not half in earnest; but if I hear ill spoken
of France, without replying, I feel as if I were not as true to my
friends there as I know they are to me. One of the best and noblest
men I ever knew is a Frenchman. This is not to argue with you. You
know better than anybody what the world owes to France. If you were to
take up my side, you would find a great deal more to say for it than I
could. I wish you would!"
A pause followed, long enough for the bright, earnest look with which
Harry made this appeal to fade from his face. As I did not think there
was much hope of the Doctor's taking the part proposed to him, at
least until he should find himself in company with persons who
professed the opinions he was now maintaining, I tried to divert him
to another topic, and succeeded; but it was only to bring about a yet
warmer passage between him and his friend. I was not sorry, however;
for this time the subject was one that interested me strongly. He had
referred, the evening before, to some dangerous adventures Harry and
he had had among the mountains of Mantaw County, which they crossed,
going from Eden to Cyclops. I now asked him for the details. He turned
to me at once, and entered upon the story with great spirit. I am
familiar with the region in which the scene was laid, but, listening
to him, it took a new aspect. I believe those hills will always be
higher for me henceforth,--the glens deeper and darker; I shall hear
new voices in the rush of the torrents and the roar of the pines.
Harry listened admiringly too, until the Doctor, brought by the course
of his narrative to the services of a certain slave-guide, named
Jonas, took a jocular tone, seemingly as much amused by the black
man's acuteness and presence of mind as he might have been by the
tricks of an accomplished dog.
"A capital fellow!" interposed Harry, with emphasis.
"He showed himself intelligent and faithful, certainly. I sent his
master a good account of him. He did his duty by us." This in the
Doctor's mildest tone.
The answer was in Harry's firmest:--"His duty as a man. It was real,
hearty kindness that he showed us. We owe him a great deal. I am not
sure that we did not owe him our lives that dark night. I regard him
as a friend."
"Your other friends are flattered.--It is curious how these
negrophiles betray themselves";--the Doctor had turned to me;--"they
show that they think of the blacks just as we do, by their admiration
when they meet one who shows signs of intelligence and good feeling."
Ho looked at Harry, but in vain. "Here Harry, now, has been falling
into transports all along the road." Harry kept his eyes on the table,
but the Doctor was not to be balked. "Confess now, confess you have
been surprised--and a good deal more surprised than I was--to find
common sense and humanity in black men!"
"No, not in black men. I have been surprised to find not only talent
and judgment, but dignity and magnanimity, in _slaves_."
"You must find the system not altogether a bad one which has developed
such specimens of the human being,--out of such material, above all."
"You must admit that the race is a strong and a high one which has not
been utterly debased by such a system,--if it is to be called a
system. I only wish our own race"----
"Showed an equal power of resistance?"
"That was what I was going to say."
"You might have said it. Yes,--the whites are the real sufferers."
"I stopped because I remembered instances of men who have resisted
nobly."
"I am glad you can do justice to them. I thought you did not believe
in humane slaveholders."
"I was not thinking of them."
"Ah! to be sure not! My friend Harvey, who entertained us so
hospitably, is a bad man, I suppose?"
"A mistaken man."
"That is to be proved; he is trying to work out a difficult problem."
"He is attempting an impossible compromise."
"Compromise! Word of fear to the true New-Englander! Compromise? He is
trying to reconcile his own comfort with that of his laborers, I
suppose you mean."
"He is trying to reconcile injustice with humanity."
"See the stern old Puritan vein! I doubt whether his ancestor, the
model of Massachusetts governors, ever carried a stiffer upper lip."
And the Doctor surveyed Harry with a look from which he could not
exclude a certain softening of affectionate admiration. "And he, a
living exemplification of the persistence of race, is a stickler for
the equality of all mankind! It is hard for one of that strict line to
bend his views to circumstances," the Doctor went on, in a more
indulgent tone. "Harry, my boy, you are in a new latitude. You must
accept another standard. You cannot try things here by the weights and
measures of the Puritans of the North. But who are your examples of
resistance, though?"
"The Puritans of the South. The men here who have but one
standard,--that of right. The men here who are true to the principle
which our country represents, and by which it is to live."
"What principle?"
"That the laws of man must be founded on the law of God."
"You mean, to be explicit, such men as Judge Henley of Virginia, Dr.
Kirwin of South Carolina, and, above all, Shaler of this State?"
"Yes."
"Who, instead of living with the people among whom their lot had been
cast, and protecting and improving them, scattered them to the four
winds of heaven, and all for the comfort of their own sickly
consciences!"
"Charles Shaler does not look like a man of a sickly conscience."
The Doctor could not forbear smiling at the image Harry brought before
him. He was beginning to answer, but stopped short and turned to me
with a look of apology.
"The subject is ill-chosen," he said; "I do not know how we came upon
it; though, indeed, we are always coming upon it. We have sworn a
truce a dozen times, but the war breaks out again when we are least
expecting it."
"The subject cannot be more interesting to you than it is to me," I
answered.
"But your interest in it may be of a different sort from ours."
"It is quite as impartial. I am not a slaveholder."
"Is it possible?"
The Doctor's voice betrayed that there was pleasure in his surprise,
but, except in this involuntary way, he did not express it. He went on
in his former tone.
"Well, that is more than Harry here can say. Since he has been in your
State, he has become master, by right of purchase, of a human soul."