IN WHICH THERE IS AN INTERESTING MEETING.
Our very chivalric dealers in human merchandise, like philosophers and
philanthropists, are composed merely of flesh and blood, while their
theories are alike influenced by circumstances. Those of the first, we
(the South) are, at times, too apt to regard as sublimated and refined,
while we hold the practices of the latter such as divest human nature
of everything congenial. Nevertheless we can assure our readers that
there does not exist a class of men who so much pride themselves on
their chivalry as some of our opulent slave-dealers. Did we want proof
to sustain what we have said we could not do better than refer to Mr.
Forsheu, that very excellent gentleman. Mrs. Swiggs held him in high
esteem, and so far regarded his character for piety and chivalry
unblemished, that she consigned to him her old slave of seventy
years-old Molly. Molly must be sold, the New York Tract Society must
have a mite, and Sister Abijah Slocum’s very laudable enterprise of
getting Brother Singleton Spyke off to Antioch must be encouraged. And
Mr. Forsheu is very kind to the old people he sells. It would, indeed,
be difficult for the distant reader to conceive a more striking
instance of a man, grown rich in a commerce that blunts all the finer
qualities of our nature, preserving a gentleness, excelled only by his
real goodness of heart.
When the old slave, leaning on her crutch, stood before Mr. Forsheu,
her face the very picture of age and starvation, his heart recoiled at
the thought of selling her in her present condition. He read the letter
she bore, contemplated her with an air of pity, and turning to Mr.
Benbow, his methodical book-keeper of twenty years, who had added and
subtracted through a wilderness of bodies and souls, ordered him to
send the shrunken old woman into the pen, on feed. Mr. Forsheu prided
himself on the quality of people sold at his shambles, and would not
for the world hazard his reputation on old Molly, till she was got in
better condition. Molly rather liked this, inasmuch as she had been fed
on corn and prayers exclusively, and more prayers than corn, which is
become the fashion with our much-reduced first families. For nearly
four months she enjoyed, much to the discomfiture of her august owner,
the comforts of Mr. Forsheu’s pen. Daily did the anxious old lady study
her Milton, and dispatch a slave to inquire if her piece of aged
property had found a purchaser. The polite vender preserved, with
uncommon philosophy, his temper. He enjoined patience. The condition
and age of the property were, he said, much in the way of sale. Then
Mrs. Swiggs began questioning his ability as a merchant. Aspersions of
this kind, the polite vender of people could not bear with. He was a
man of enormous wealth, the result of his skill in the sale of people.
He was the president of an insurance company, a bank director, a
commissioner of the orphan asylum, and a steward of the jockey club. To
his great relief, for he began to have serious misgivings about his
outlay on old Molly, there came along one day an excellent customer.
This was no less a person than Madame Flamingo. What was singular of
this very distinguished lady was, that she always had a use for old
slaves no one else ever thought of. Her yard was full of aged and
tottering humanity. One cleaned knives, another fetched ice from the
ice-house, a third blacked boots, a fourth split wood, a fifth carried
groceries, and a sixth did the marketing. She had a decayed negro for
the smallest service; and, to her credit be it said, they were as
contented and well fed a body of tottering age as could be found in old
Carolina.
Her knife-cleaning machine having taken it into his head to die one
day, she would purchase another. Mr. Forsheu, with that urbanity we so
well understand how to appreciate, informed the distinguished lady that
he had an article exactly suited to her wants. Forthwith, Molly was
summoned into her presence. Madame Flamingo, moved almost to tears at
the old slave’s appearance, purchased her out of pure sympathy, as we
call it, and to the great relief of Mr. Forsheu, lost no time in paying
one hundred and forty dollars down in gold for her. In deference to Mr.
Hadger, the House of The Foreign Missions, and the very excellent Tract
Society, of New York, we will not here extend on how the money was got.
The transaction was purely commercial: why should humanity interpose?
We hold it strictly legal that institutions created for the purpose of
enlightening the heathen have no right to ask by what means the money
constituting their donations is got.
The comforts of Mr. Forsheu’s pen,—the hominy, grits, and rest, made
the old slave quite as reluctant about leaving him as she had before
been in parting with Lady Swiggs. Albeit, she shook his hand with equal
earnestness, and lisped “God bless Massa,” with a tenderness and
simplicity so touching, that had not Madame Flamingo been an excellent
diplomat, reconciling the matter by assuring her that she would get
enough to eat, and clothes to wear, no few tears would have been shed.
Madame, in addition to this incentive, intimated that she might attend
a prayer meeting now and then-perhaps see Cicero. However, Molly could
easily have forgotten Cicero, inasmuch as she had enjoyed the rare
felicity of thirteen husbands, all of whom Lady Swiggs had sold when it
suited her own convenience.
Having made her purchase, Madame very elegantly bid the gallant
merchant good morning, hoping he would not forget her address, and call
round when it suited his convenience. Mr. Forsheu, his hat doffed,
escorted her to her carriage, into the amber-colored lining of which
she gracefully settled her majestic self, as a slightly-browned
gentleman in livery closed the bright door, took her order with servile
bows, and having motioned to the coachman, the carriage rolled away,
and was soon out of sight. Monsieur Grouski, it may be well to add
here, was discovered curled up in one corner; he smiled, and extended
his hand very graciously to Madame as she entered the carriage.
Like a pilgrim in search of some promised land, Molly adjusted her
crutch, and over the sandy road trudged, with truculent face, to her
new home, humming to herself “dah-is-a-time-a-comin, den da Lor’ he be
good!!”
On the following morning, Lady Swiggs received her account current, Mr.
Forsheu being exceedingly prompt in business. There was one hundred and
twenty-nine days’ feed, commissions, advertising, and sundry smaller
charges, which reduced the net balance to one hundred and three
dollars. Mrs. Swiggs, with an infatuation kindred to that which finds
the State blind to its own poverty, stubbornly refused to believe her
slaves had declined in value. Hence she received the vender’s account
with surprise and dissatisfaction. However, the sale being binding, she
gradually accommodated her mind to the result, and began evolving the
question of how to make the amount meet the emergency. She must visit
the great city of New York; she must see Sister Slocum face to face;
Brother Spyke’s mission must have fifty dollars; how much could she
give the Tract Society? Here was a dilemma-one which might have excited
the sympathy of the House of the “Foreign Missions.” The dignity of the
family, too, was at stake. Many sleepless nights did this difficult
matter cause the august old lady. She thought of selling another
cripple! Oh! that would not do. Mr. Keepum had a lien on them; Mr.
Keepum was a man of iron-heart. Suddenly it flashed upon her mind that
she had already been guilty of a legal wrong in selling old Molly. Mr.
Soloman had doubtless described her with legal minuteness in the bond
of security for the two hundred dollars. Her decrepid form; her
corrugated face; her heavy lip; her crutch, and her piety-everything,
in a word, but her starvation, had been set down. Well! Mr. Soloman
might, she thought, overlook in the multiplicity of business so small a
discrepancy. She, too, had a large circle of distinguished friends. If
the worst came to the worst she would appeal to them. There, too, was
Sir Sunderland Swiggs’ portrait, very valuable for its age; she might
sell the family arms, such things being in great demand with the
chivalry; her antique furniture, too, was highly prized by our first
families. Thus Lady Swiggs contemplated these mighty relics of past
greatness. Our celtic Butlers and Brookses never recurred to the blood
of their querulous ancestors with more awe than did this memorable lady
to her decayed relics. Mr. Israel Moses, she cherished a hope, would
give a large sum for the portrait; the family arms he would value at a
high figure; the old furniture he would esteem a prize. But to Mr.
Moses and common sense, neither the blood of the Butlers, nor Lady
Swiggs’ rubbish, were safe to loan money upon. The Hebrew gentleman was
not so easily beguiled.
The time came when it was necessary to appeal to Mr. Hadger. That
gentleman held the dignity of the Swiggs family in high esteem, but
shook his head when he found the respectability of the house the only
security offered in exchange for a loan. Ah! a thought flashed to her
relief, the family watch and chain would beguile the Hebrew gentleman.
With these cherished mementoes of the high old family, (she would under
no other circumstance have parted with for uncounted gold,) she in time
seduced Mr. Israel Moses to make a small advance. Duty, stern and
demanding, called her to New York. Forced to reduce her generosity,
she, not without a sigh, made up her mind to give only thirty dollars
to each of the institutions she had made so many sacrifices to serve.
And thus, with a reduced platform, as our politicians have it, she set
about preparing for the grand journey. Regards the most distinguished
were sent to all the first families; the St. Cecilia had notice of her
intended absence; no end of tea parties were given in honor of the
event. Apparently happy with herself, with every one but poor Tom, our
august lady left in the Steamer one day. With a little of that vanity
the State deals so largely in, Mrs. Swiggs thought every passenger on
board wondering and staring at her.
While then she voyages and dreams of the grand reception waiting her in
New York,—of Sister Slocum’s smiles, of the good of the heathen world,
and of those nice evening gatherings she will enjoy with the pious, let
us, gentle reader, look in at the house of Absalom McArthur.
To-day Tom Swiggs feels himself free, and it is high noon. Downcast of
countenance he wends his way along the fashionable side of King-street.
The young theologian is at his side. George Mullholland has gone to the
house of Madame Flamingo. He will announce the glad news to Anna. The
old antiquarian dusts his little counter with a stubby broom, places
various curiosities in the windows, and about the doors, stands
contemplating them with an air of satisfaction, then proceeds to drive
a swarm of flies that hover upon the ceiling, into a curiously-arranged
trap that he has set.
“What!—my young friend, Tom Swiggs!” exclaims the old man, toddling
toward Tom, and grasping firmly his hand, as he enters the door. “You
are welcome to my little place, which shall be a home.” Tom hangs down
his head, receives the old man’s greeting with shyness. “Your poor
father and me, Tom, used to sit here many a time. (The old man points
to an old sofa.) We were friends. He thought much of me, and I had a
high opinion of him; and so we used to sit for hours, and talk over the
deeds of the old continentals. Your mother and him didn’t get along
over-well together; she had more dignity than he could well digest: but
that is neither here nor there.”
“I hope, in time,” interrupts Tom, “to repay your kindness. I am
willing to ply myself to work, though it degrades one in the eyes of
our society.”
“As to that,” returns the old man, “why, don’t mention it. Maria, you
know, will be a friend to you. Come away now and see her.” And taking
Tom by the hand, (the theologian has withdrawn,) he becomes
enthusiastic, leads him through the dark, narrow passage into the back
parlor, where he is met by Maria, and cordially welcomed. “Why, Tom,
what a change has come over you,” she ejaculates, holding his hand, and
viewing him with the solicitude of a sister, who hastens to embrace a
brother returned after a long absence. Letting fall his begrimed hand,
she draws up the old-fashioned rocking chair, and bids him be seated.
He shakes his head moodily, says he is not so bad as he seems, and
hopes yet to make himself worthy of her kindness. He has been the
associate of criminals; he has suffered punishment; he feels himself
loathed by society; he cannot divest himself of the odium clinging to
his garments. Fain would he go to some distant clime, and there seek a
refuge from the odium of felons.
“Let no such thoughts enter your mind, Tom,” says the affectionate
girl; “divest yourself at once of feelings that can only do you injury.
You have engaged my thoughts during your troubles. Twice I begged your
mother to honor me with an interview. We were humble people; she
condescended at last. But she turned a deaf ear to me when I appealed
to her for your release, merely inquiring if-like that other jade-I had
become enamored of—” Maria pauses, blushing.
“I would like to see my mother,” interposes Tom.
“Had I belonged to our grand society, the case had been different,”
resumes Maria.
“Truly, Maria,” stammers Tom, “had I supposed there was one in the
world who cared for me, I had been a better man.”
“As to that, why we were brought up together, Tom. We knew each other
as children, and what else but respect could I have for you? One never
knows how much others think of them, for the—” Maria blushes, checks
herself, and watches the changes playing over Tom’s countenance. She
was about to say the tongue of love was too often silent.
It must be acknowledged that Maria had, for years, cherished a passion
for Tom. He, however, like many others of his class, was too stupid to
discover it. The girl, too, had been overawed by the dignity of his
mother. Thus, with feelings of pain did she watch the downward course
of one in whose welfare she took a deep interest.
“Very often those for whom we cherish the fondest affections, are
coldest in their demeanor towards us,” pursues Maria.
“Can she have thought of me so much as to love me?” Tom questions
within himself; and Maria put an end to the conversation by ringing the
bell, commanding the old servant to hasten dinner. A plate must be
placed at the table for Tom.
The antiquarian, having, as he says, left the young people to
themselves, stands at his counter furbishing up sundry old engravings,
horse-pistols, pieces of coat-of-mail, and two large scimitars, all of
which he has piled together in a heap, and beside which lay several
chapeaus said to have belonged to distinguished Britishers. Mr. Soloman
suddenly makes his appearance in the little shop, much to Mr.
McArthur’s surprise. “Say-old man! centurion!” he exclaims, in a
maudlin laugh, “Keepum’s in the straps-is, I do declare; Gadsden and he
bought a lot of niggers-a monster drove of ’em, on shares. He wants
that trifle of borrowed money-must have it. Can have it back in a few
days.”
“Bless me,” interrupts the old man, confusedly, “but off my little
things it will be hard to raise it. Times is hard, our people go, like
geese, to the North. They get rid of all their money there, and their
fancy-you know that, Mr. Snivel-is abroad, while they have, for home,
only a love to keep up slavery.”
“I thought it would come to that,” says Mr. Snivel, facetiously. The
antiquarian seems bewildered, commences offering excuses that rather
involve himself deeper, and finally concludes by pleading for a delay.
Scarce any one would have thought a person of Mr. McArthur’s position,
indebted to Mr. Keepum; but so it was. It is very difficult to tell
whose negroes are not mortgaged to Mr. Keepum, how many mortgages of
plantation he has foreclosed, how many high old families he has reduced
to abject poverty, or how many poor but respectable families he has
disgraced. He has a reputation for loaning money to parents, that he
may rob their daughters of that jewel the world refuses to give them
back. And yet our best society honor him, fawn over him, and bow to
him. We so worship the god of slavery, that our minds are become
debased, and yet we seem unconscious of it. Mr. Keepum did not lend
money to the old antiquarian without a purpose. That purpose, that
justice which accommodates itself to the popular voice, will aid him in
gaining.
Mr. Snivel affects a tone of moderation, whispers in the old man’s ear,
and says: “Mind you tell the fortune of this girl, Bonard, as I have
directed. Study what I have told you. If she be not the child of Madame
Montford, then no faith can be put in likenesses. I have got in my
possession what goes far to strengthen the suspicions now rife
concerning the fashionable New Yorker.”
“There surely is a mystery about this woman, Mr. Snivel, as you say.
She has so many times looked in here to inquire about Mag Munday, a
woman in a curious line of life who came here, got down in the world,
as they all do, and used now and then to get the loan of a trifle from
me to keep her from starvation.” (Mr. Snivel says, in parentheses, he
knows all about her.)
“Ha! ha! my old boy,” says Mr. Snivel, frisking his fingers through his
light Saxon beard, “I have had this case in hand for some time. It is
strictly a private matter, nevertheless. They are a bad lot-them New
Yorkers, who come here to avoid their little delicate affairs. I may
yet make a good thing out of this, though. As for that fellow,
Mullholland, I intend getting him the whipping post. He is come to be
the associate of gentlemen; men high in office shower upon him their
favors. It is all to propitiate the friendship of Bonard-I know it.”
Mr. Snivel concludes hurriedly, and departs into the street, as our
scene changes.