GAINING STRENGTH FROM PERSECUTION.
You know it is Bulwer who says, and says truly: "There is in calumny a
rank poison that, even when the character throws off the slander, the
heart remains diseased beneath the effect." The force of this on Maria's
thoughts and feelings, surrounded as she was by the vile influences of a
Charleston cell, came with strange effect as she contemplated her
friendless condition. There is one witness who can bear testimony to her
innocence, and in Him she still puts her trust. But the charitable have
closed their ears to her; and the outside world is too busy to listen to
her story. Those words of the poor woman who said, "You are still richer
than me," again ring their sweet music in her ear, and give strength to
her weary soul. They come to her like the voice of a merciful
Providence, speaking through the hushed air of midnight, and breathing
the sweet spirit of love into the dusky figures who tenant that dreary
cell. To Maria it is the last spark of hope, that rarely goes out in
woman's heart, and has come to tell her that to-morrow her star may
brighten. And now, reader, turn with us to another scene of hope and
anxiety.
The steamer which bears Tom to Charleston is off Cape Romaine. He has
already heard of the fate of the old man McArthur. But, he asks himself,
may not truth and justice yet triumph? He paces and repaces the deck,
now gazing vacantly in the direction the ship is steering, then walking
to the stern and watching the long train of phosphoric light playing on
the toppling waves.
There was something evasive in the manner of the man who communicated to
him the intelligence concerning McArthur. "May I ask another question of
you, sir?" he inquires, approaching the man who, like himself, sauntered
restlessly along the deck.
The man hesitates, lights a fresh cigar. "You desire me to be frank with
you, of course," rejoins the man. "But I observe you are agitated. I
will answer your question, if it carry no personal wound. Speak, my
friend."
"You know Maria?"
"Well."
"You know what has become of her, or where she resides?"
Again the man hesitates--then says, "These are delicate matters to
discover."
"You are not responsible for my feelings," interrupts the impatient man.
"If, then, I must be plain,--she is leading the life of an outcast. Yes,
sir, the story is that she has fallen, and from necessity. I will say
this, though," he adds, by way of relief, "that I know nothing of it
myself." The words fall like a death-knell on his thoughts and feelings.
He stammers out a few words, but his tongue refuses to give utterance to
his thoughts. His whole nature seems changed; his emotions have filled
the cup of his sorrow; an abyss, deep, dark, and terrible, has opened to
his excited imagination. All the dark scenes of his life, all the
struggles he has had to gain his manliness, rise up before him like a
gloomy panorama, and pointing him back to that goal of dissipation in
which his mind had once found relief. He seeks his stateroom in
silence, and there invokes the aid of Him who never refuses to protect
the right. And here again we must return to another scene.
Morning has come, the guard-roll has been called, and Judge Sleepyhorn
is about to hold high court. Maria and the companions of her cell are
arraigned, some black, others white, all before so august a judge. His
eye rests on a pale and dejected woman inwardly resolved to meet her
fate, calm and resolute. It is to her the last struggle of an eventful
life, and she is resolved to meet it with womanly fortitude.
The Judge takes his seat, looks very grave, and condescends to say there
is a big docket to be disposed of this morning. "Crime seems to increase
in the city," he says, bowing to Mr. Seargent Stubbs.
"If your Honor will look at that," Mr. Stubbs says, smiling,--"most on
em's bin up afore. All hard cases, they is."
"If yeer Onher plases, might a woman o' my standin' say a woord in her
own difince? Sure its only a woord, Judge, an beein a dacent gintleman
ye'd not refuse me the likes."
"Silence, there!" ejaculates Mr. Seargent Stubbs; "you must keep quiet
in court."
"Faith its not the likes o' you'd keep me aisy, Mr. Stubbs. Do yee see
that now?" returns the woman, menacingly. She is a turbulent daughter of
the Emerald Isle, full five feet nine inches, of broad bare feet, with a
very black eye, and much in want of raiment.
"The most corrigible case what comes to this court," says Mr. Stubbs,
bowing knowingly to the judge. "Rather likes a prison, yer Honor. Bin up
nine times a month. A dear customer to the state."
The Judge, looking grave, and casting his eye learnedly over the pages
of a ponderous statute book, inquires of Mr. Seargent Stubbs what the
charge is.
"Disturbed the hole neighborhood. A fight atween the Donahues, yer
Honor."
"Dorn't believe a woord of it, yeer Onher. Sure, din't Donahue black the
eye o' me, and sphil the whisky too? Bad luck to Donahue, says I. You
don't say that to me, says he. I'd say it to the divil, says I. Take
that! says Donahue." Here Mrs. Donahue points to her eye, and brings
down even the dignity of the court.
"In order to preserve peace between you and Donahue," says his Honor,
good naturedly, "I shall fine you ten dollars, or twenty days."
"Let it go at twenty days," replies Mrs. Donahue, complimenting his
Honor's high character, "fir a divil o' ten dollars have I." And Mrs.
Donahue resigns herself to the tender mercies of Mr. Seargent Stubbs,
who removes her out of court.
A dozen or more delinquent negroes, for being out after hours without
passes, are sentenced thirty stripes apiece, and removed, to the evident
delight of the Court, who is resolved that the majesty of the law shall
be maintained.
It is Maria's turn now. Pale and trembling she approaches the circular
railing, assisted by Mr. Seargent Stubbs. She first looks imploringly at
the judge, then hangs down her head, and covers her face with her hands.
"What is the charge?" inquires the Judge, turning to the loquacious
Stubbs. Mr. Stubbs says: "Disorderly conduct--and in a house of bad
repute."
"I am innocent--I have committed no crime," interrupts the injured
woman. "You have dragged me here to shame me." Suddenly her face
becomes pale as marble, her limbs tremble, and the court is thrown into
a state of confusion by her falling to the floor in a swoon.
"Its all over with her now," says Mr. Stubbs, standing back in fear.
Crime has not dried up all the kinder impulses of Judge Sleepyhorn's
heart. Leaving the bench he comes quickly to the relief of the
unfortunate girl, holds her cold trembling hand in his own, and tenderly
bathes her temples. "Sorry the poor girl," he says, sympathizingly,
"should have got down so. Knew her poor old father when he was
comfortably off, and all Charleston liked him." His Honor adjourns
court, and ten minutes pass before the sufferer is restored to
consciousness. Then with a wild despairing look she scans those around
her, rests her head on her hand despondingly, and gives vent to her
tears. The cup of her sorrow has indeed overrun.
"It was wrong to arrest you, young woman, and I sympathize with you. No
charge has been preferred, and so you are free. A carriage waits at the
door, and I have ordered you to be driven home," says the judge,
relaxing into sympathy.
"I have no home now," she returns, the tears coursing down her wet
cheeks. "Slaves have homes, but I have none now."
"When you want a friend, you'll find a friend in me. Keep up your
spirits, and remember that virtue is its own reward." Having said this,
the Judge raises her gently to her feet, supports her to the carriage,
and sees her comfortably seated. "Remember, you know, where to find a
friend if you want one," he says, and bids her good-morning. In another
minute the carriage is rolling her back to the home from whence she was
taken. She has no better home now.