Our World by F. Colburn AdamsOr, The Slaveholders Daughter, or, The Democrat’s Rule (page 3)

Nimrod, twisting the hair with which his face is covered into fantastic points.

“Oh, my good fellows, public opinion’s the dockerment; with the bright side of public opinion! Public opinion whispers about Clotilda: it says she looks so much like that niece of Marston’s, that you couldn’t tell them apart. And they are like two pins, gentlemen; but then one’s property and t’other’s anything but property. One will bring something substantial in the market: I wouldn’t say much about the other. But there’s pride in the whole family, and where it’s got into the niggers it’s worth a few extra dollars. The Marstons and Roveros don’t think much of we dealers when they don’t want our money; but when they do we are cousins of the right stripe. However, these ere little aristocratic notions don’t mount to much; they are bin generous blood-mixers, and now they may wince over it-“

Graspum is interrupted again. Bengal has been analysing his logic, and rises to dispute the logic of his arguments. He is ready to stake his political faith, and all his common sense-of which he never fails to boast-that mixing the blood of the two races destroys the purity of the nigger, spiles the gauge of the market, detracts from real plantation property, and will just upset the growin’ of young niggers. He is sure he knows just as much about the thing as anybody else, has never missed his guess, although folks say he aint no way clever at selection; and, rubbing his eyes after adjusting the long black hair that hangs down over his shoulders, he folds his arms with an independent air, and waits the rejoinder.

The dingy room breathes thick of deleterious fumes; a gloom hangs over their meditations, deep and treacherous: it excites fear, not of the men, but of the horrors of their trade. A dim light hangs suspended from the ceiling: even the sickly shade contrasts strangely with their black purpose.

“Variety of shade, my dear Bengal, is none of our business. If you make a division you destroy the property and the principle. We don’t represent the South: if we did, my stars! how the abolitionists would start up,–eh! Now, there’s a right smart chance of big aristocrat folks in the district, and they think something of their niggers, and some are fools enough to think niggers have souls just as white as we. That’s where the thing don’t strike our morals alike. It’s all right to let such folks represent us-that it is! It tells down north.”

“I goes in for that! It puts a polished face on the brown side of things. That’s the way I puts it on when I gets among the big ‘uns on ‘Change. I talks to one, shakes hands with another, touches my hat to the president of the bank; and then them what don’t know thinks how I do a little in the taking a corner of notes line!” “In the same sly way that directors of banks do,” interrupts a voice, sullenly and slow. It was long Joe Morphet, the constable’s sponge, who did a little in the line of nigger trailing, and now and then acted as a contingent of Graspum. Joe had, silently and with great attention, listened to their consultations, expecting to get a hook on at some point where his services would play at a profit; but it all seemed beyond his comprehension-amounted to nothing.

“There’s something in Joe, gentlemen! But our genteelest folks don’t alway do the genteelest things, arter all. Right-right! Joe’s right!” Graspum has suddenly comprehended Joe’s logic, and brightens up with the possession of a new idea, that at first was inclined to get crosswise in his mind, which he has drilled in the minor details of human nature rather than the political dignity of the state. Joe’s ideas are ranging over the necessity of keeping up a good outside for the state; Graspum thinks only of keeping up the dignity of himself. “Well, give in, fellers; Joe’s right clever. He’s got head enough to get into Congress, and if polished up wouldn’t make the worst feller that ever was sent: he wouldn’t, to my certain knowledge. Joe’s clever! What great men do with impunity little men have no scruples in following; what the state tolerates, knaves may play upon to their own advantage. To keep up the dignity of a slave state, slave dealers must keep up dignity among themselves: the one cannot live without the other. They must affect, and the state must put on, the dignity; and northerners what aint gentlemen must be taught to know that they aint gentlemen.” This is the conclusion to which Graspum has arrived on the maturest reflection of a few minutes: it conforms with the opinion and dignity of slaveocracy-must be right, else the glorious Union, with the free-thinking north unfortunately attached, could never be preserved. It’s the nut of a glorious compact which the south only must crack, and will crack. Graspum apologised for the thing having escaped his memory so long. He remembered that southerners left no stone unturned that could serve the policy of concentrating slave power; and he remembered that it was equally necessary to keep an eye to the feeling abroad. There were in America none but southern nobles,–no affable gentlemen who could do the grace of polite circles except themselves,–none who, through their bland manners, could do more to repel the awful descriptions given of southern society, nor who could not make strangers believe slaves were happy mortals, happily created to live in all the happiness of slave life. “There’s nothing like putting our learned folks ahead-they’re polished down for the purpose, you see-and letting them represent us when abroad; they puts a different sort of shine on things what our institution makes profitable. They don’t always set good examples at home, but we can’t control their tastes on small matters of that kind: and then, what a valuable offset it is, just to have the power of doing the free and easy gentleman, to be the brilliant companion, to put on the smooth when you go among nobility what don’t understand the thing!” Graspum adds, with a cunning wink.

“Pooh! pooh! such talk don’t jingle. You can’t separate our aristocracy from mistress-keeping. It’s a matter of romance with them,–a matter of romance, gentlemen, that’s all. The south couldn’t live without romance, she couldn’t!” adds Nimrod, stretching back in his chair.

“And where did you get that broad idea from, Jakey? I kind o’ likes that sort of philosophy,” adds another.

“Philosophy! I reckon how there is deep and strong philosophy in that ar; but ye can’t calc’late much on’t when ye haint talents to bring it out. That point where the soul comes in is a puzzler on Yankees; but it takes our editors and parsons to put the arguments where the Yankees can’t demolish them. Read the Richmond–, my grandmother of the day, if ye want to see the philosophy of niggers, and their souls. That editor is a philosopher; the world’s got to learn his philosophy. Just take that preacher from New Jersey, what preaches in All Saints; if he don’t prove niggers aint no souls I’m a Dutchman, and dead at that! He gives ’em broadside logic, gentlemen; and if he hadn’t been raised north he wouldn’t bin so up on niggers when he cum south,” was the quick rejoinder of our knowing expounder, who, looking Graspum in the face, demanded to know if he was not correct. Graspum thinks it better to waste no more time in words, but to get at the particular piece of business for which they have been called together. He is a man of money,–a man of trade, ever willing to admit the philosophy of the man-market, but don’t see the difference of honour between the aristocrat who sells his bits in the market, and the honourable dealer who gets but a commission for selling them. And there’s something about the parson who, forgetting the sanctity of his calling, sanctifies everything pertaining to slavery. Conscience, he admits, is a wonderful thing fixed somewhere about the heart, and, in spite of all he can do, will trouble it once in a while. Marston-poor Marston!-he declares to be foolishly troubled with it, and it makes him commit grievous errors. And then, there’s no understandin’ it, because Marston has a funny way of keeping it under such a knotty-looking exterior. Graspum declares he had nothing to do with the breaking out of the cholera, is very sorry for it,–only wants his own, just like any other honest man. He kind o’ likes Marston, admits he is a sort of good fellow in his way; mighty careless though, wouldn’t cheat anybody if he knew it, and never gave half a minute’s thinking about how uncertain the world was. But the cholera-a dire disease among niggers-has broke out in all the fury of its ravages; and it makes him think of his sick niggers and paying his debts. “You see, gentlemen-we are all gentlemen here,” Graspum continues,–“a man must pay the penalty of his folly once in a while. It’s the fate of great men as well as smaller ones; all are liable to it. That isn’t the thing, though; it don’t do to be chicken-hearted afore niggers, nor when yer dealing in niggers, nor in any kind o’ business what ye want to make coin at. Marston ‘ll stick on that point, he will; see if he don’t. His feelins’ are troubling him: he knows I’ve got the assignment; and if he don’t put them ar’ white ‘uns of his in the schedule, I’ll snap him up for fraud,–I will-“

The conversation is here interrupted by a loud rap at the door, which is opened by the negro, who stands with his finger on the latch. Romescos, in his slovenly garb, presents himself with an air of self-assurance that marks the result of his enterprise. He is a prominent feature in all Graspum’s great operations; he is desperate in serving his interests. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket-it is printed with the stars and stripes of freedom-he calls it a New England rag, disdainfully denounces that area of unbelievers in slaveocracy, wipes his blistered face with it, advances to the table-every eye intently watching him-and pauses for breath.

“What success, Anthony? Tell us quickly,” Graspum demands, extending his hand nervously. “Anthony never fails! It’s a fool who fails in our business,” was the reply, delivered with great unconcern, and responded to with unanimous applause. A warrior returned from victory was Anthony,–a victory of villainy recorded in heaven, where the rewards will, at some day, be measured out with a just but awful retribution.

The bosom of his shirt lays broadly open: one by one they shake his hand, as he hastily unties the chequered cloth about his neck, pours out his drink of whiskey, seats himself in a chair, and deliberately places his feet upon the table. “Ther’s nothin’ like making a triangle of oneself when ye wants to feel so ye can blow comfortable,” he says. “I done nothin’ shorter than put all straight at Marston’s last night. It was science, ye see, gents; and I done it up strictly according to science. A feller what aint cunnin’, and don’t know the nice work o’ the law, can’t do nothin’ in the way o’ science. It’s just as you said”-addressing his remarks to Graspum,– “Marston’s slackin’ out his conscience because he sees how things are goin’ down hill with him. If that old hoss cholera don’t clar off the nigger property, I’m no prophet. It’ll carry ’em into glory; and glory, I reckon, isn’t what you calls good pay, eh, Graspum? I overheard his intentions: he sees the black page before him; it troubles the chicken part of his heart. Feels mighty meek and gentle all at once; and, it’s no lie, he begins to see sin in what he has done; and to make repentance good he’s goin’ to shove off that nabob stock of his, so the creditors can’t lay paws upon it. Ye got to spring; Marston ‘ll get ahead of ye if he don’t, old feller. This child ‘ll show him how he can’t cum some o’ them things while Squire Hobble and I’m on hand.” Thus quaintly he speaks, pulling the bill of sale from a side-pocket, throwing it upon the table with an air of satisfaction amounting to exultation. “Take that ar; put it where ye can put yer finger on’t when the ‘mergency comes.” And he smiles to see how gratefully and anxiously Graspum receives it, reviews it, re-reviews it,–how it excites the joy of his nature. He has no soul beyond the love of gold, and the system of his bloody trade. It was that fatal instrument, great in the atmosphere of ungrateful law, bending some of nature’s noblest beneath its seal of crimes. “It’s from Silenus to Marston; rather old, but just the thing! Ah, you’re a valuable fellow, Anthony.” Mr. Graspum manifests his approbation by certain smiles, grimaces, and shakes of the hand, while word by word he reads it, as if eagerly relishing its worth. “It’s a little thing for a great purpose; it’ll tell a tale in its time;” and he puts the precious scrip safely in his pocket, and rubbing his hands together, declares “that deserves a bumper!” They fill up at Graspum’s request, drink with social cheers, followed by a song from Nimrod, who pitches his tune to the words, “Come, landlord, fill the flowing bowl.”

Nimrod finishes his song: Romescos takes the floor to tell a story about the old judge what hung the nigger a’cos he didn’t want to spend his patience listening to the testimony, and adjourned the court to go and take a drink at Sal Stiles’s grocery. His description of the court, its high jurisdiction, the dignity of the squire what sits as judge, how he drinks the three jurymen-freeholders-what are going to try a nigger, how they goes out and takes three drinks when the case gets about half way through, how the nigger winks and blinks when he sees the jury drunk, and hears the judge say there’s only two things he likes to hang,–niggers and schoolmasters. But as it’s no harm to kill schoolmasters-speaking in a southern sense-so Romescos thinks the squire who got the jury inebriated afore he sent the “nigger” to be hung doesn’t mean the least harm when he evinces an abhorrence to the whole clan of schoolmaster trash. He turns to the old story of doing everything by system; ends by describing his method of drinking a whole jury. He has surprised Marston, got him on the hip, where he can feather him or sciver him, and where things must be done sly. Public opinion, he whispers, may set folks moving, and then they’ll all be down upon him like hawks after chickens. In his mind, the feller what pulls first comes off first best-if the law hounds are not too soon let loose! If they are, there will be a long drag, a small cage for the flock, and very few birds with feathers on. Romescos cares for nobody but the judge: he tells us how the judge and he are right good cronies, and how it’s telling a good many dollars at the end of the year to keep on the best of terms with him, always taking him to drink when they meet. The judge is a wonderfully clever fellow, in Romescos’ opinion; ranks among first-class drinkers; can do most anything, from hanging a nigger to clearing the fellow that killed the schoolmaster, and said he’d clear a dozen in two two’s, if they’d kill off ever so many of the rubbish. It is well to make his favour a point of interest. The company are become tired of this sort of cantation; they have heard enough of high functionaries, know quite enough of judges:–such things are in their line of business. Romescos must needs turn the conversation. “Well, taking it how I can entertain ye to most anything, I’ll give ye a story on the secrets of how I used to run off Ingin remnants of the old tribes. ‘Taint but a few years ago, ye know, when ther was a lot of Ingin and white, mixed stuff-some called it beautiful-down in Beaufort district. It was temptin’ though, I reckon, and made a feller feel just as if he was runnin’ it off to sell, every time it come in his way. Ye see, most on’t was gal property, and that kind, ollers keeps the whole district in a hubbub; everybody’s offended, and there’s so much delicacy about the ladies what come in contact with it. Yes, gentlemen! the ladies-I means the aristocracy’s ladies-hate these copper-coloured Ingins as they would female devils. It didn’t do to offend the delicacy of our ladies, ye see; so something must be done, but it was all for charity’s sake. Squire Hornblower and me fixes a plan a’tween us: it was just the plan to do good for the town-we must always be kind, ye know, and try to do good-and save the dear good ladies a great deal of unnecessary pain.

“Now, the squire had law larnin’, and I had cunnin’; and both put together made the thing work to a point. The scheme worked so nicely that we put twelve out of fifteen of ’em right into pocket-money in less than three years-“

“Hold a second, Romescos; how did you play the game so adroitly, when they were all members of families living in the town? You’re a remarkable fellow,” Graspum interposes, stretching his arms, and twisting his sturdy figure over the side of his chair.

“That’s what I was coming at. Ye see, whenever ye makes white trash what ain’t slaved a nuisance, you makes it mightily unpopular; and when folks is unpopular the nuisance is easily removed, especially when ye can get pay for removing it. The law will be as tame as a mouse-nobody ‘ll say nothin’? Ingin and white rubbish is just alike-one’s worth as little as t’other. Both’s only fit to sell, sir!-worthless for any other purpose. Ye see, gentlemen, I’m something of a philosopher, and has strong faith in the doctrine of our popular governor, who believes it better to sell all poor whites into slavery. ‘Tain’t a free country where ye don’t have the right to sell folks what don’t provide for number one. I likes to hear our big folks talk so”-Anthony’s face brightens-“’cause it gives a feller a chance for a free speculation in them lank, lean rascals; and, too, it would stop their rifle-shooting and corn-stealing-“

“You never try your hand at such hits-do you, Nathe?” Bengal interrupts, his fore-finger poised on his nose.

“Now, Dan,” Anthony quaintly replies, “none o’ yer pointed insinuations. ‘Twouldn’t be much harm if the varmin would only keep its mouth shut along the road. But when the critturs ar’ got schoolmaster gumption it’s mighty apt to get a feller into a tarnation snarl. Schoolmaster gumption makes d-d bad niggers; and there’s why I say it’s best to hang schoolmasters. It’s dangerous, ‘cos it larns the critturs to writin’ a scrawl now and then; and, unless ye knows just how much talent he’s got, and can whitewash him yaller, it’s plaguy ticklish. When the brutes have larnin’, and can write a little, they won’t stay sold when ye sell ’em-that is, I mean, white riff-raff stuff; they ain’t a bit like niggers and Ingins. And there’s just as much difference a’tween the human natur of a white nigger and a poverty-bloated white as there is a’twixt philosophy and water-melons.”

“You’re drawing a long bow, Anthony,” interrupts Graspum, with a suggestion that it were better to come to the point; and concludes by saying: “We don’t care sevenpence about the worthless whites all over the State. They can’t read nor write-except a few on ’em-and everybody knows it wouldn’t do to give them learning-that wouldn’t do! We want the way you cleared that nuisance out of Beaufort district so quick-that’s what we want to hear.”

“Well, ye’h sees, it took some keen play, some sly play, some dignity, and some talent; but the best thing of the whole was the squire’s honour. He and me, ye see, joined partners–that is, he gets places for ’em away out o’ town–you understand–places where I keeps a couple of the very best nags that ever stepped turf. And then he puts on the soft sauder, an’ is so friendly to the critturs–gets ’em to come out with him to where he will make ‘um nice house servants, and such things. He is good at planin’, as all justices is, and would time it to arrive at midnight. I, havin’ got a start, has all ready to meet him; so when he gives me the papers, I makes a bolt at full speed, and has ‘um nowhere afore they knows it. And then, when they sees who it is, it don’t do to make a fuss about it–don’t! And then, they’re so handsome, it ain’t no trouble finding a market for ’em down Memphis way. It only takes forty-eight hours–the way things is done up by steam–from the time I clears the line until Timothy Portman signs the bond-that’s five per cent. for him-and Ned Sturm does the swearin’, and they’re sold for a slap-up price–sent to where there’s no muttering about it. That’s one way we does it; and then, there’s another. But, all in all, there’s a right smart lot of other ways that will work their way into a talented mind. And when a feller gets the hang on it, and knows lawyer gumption, he can do it up smooth. You must strap ’em down, chain ’em, look vengeance at ’em; and now and then, when the varmin will squeal, spite of all the thrashin’ ye can give ’em, box ’em up like rats, and put yer horses like Jehu until ye cl’ar the State. The more ye scars ’em the better-make ’em as whist as mice, and ye can run ’em through the rail-road, and sell ‘um just as easy.

“There was another way I used to do the thing-it was a sort of an honourable way; but it used to take the talents of a senator to do it up square, so the dignity didn’t suffer. Then the gals got shy of squire, ‘cos them he got places for never cum back; and I know’d how ’twas best to leave two or three for a nest-egg. It was the way to do, in case some green should raise a fuss. But connected with these Ingin gals was one of the likleest yaller fellers that ever shined on a stand. Thar’ was about twelve hundred dollars in him, I saw it just as straight, and felt it just as safe in my pocket; and then it made a feller’s eyes glisten afore it was got out of him. I tell you what, boys, it’s rather hard when ye comes to think on’t.” Anthony pauses for a moment, sharpens his eloquence with another drop of whiskey, and resumes his discourse. “The feller shined all outside, but he hadn’t head talents-though he was as cunnin’ as a fox-and every time the squire tried an experiment to get him out o’town, the nigger would dodge like a wounded raccoon. ‘Twarn’t a bit of use for the squire-so he just gin it up. Then I trys a hand, ye see, comes the soft soap over him, in a Sam Slick kind of a way. I’se a private gentleman, and gets the fellers round to call me a sort of an aristocrat. Doing this ‘ere makes me a nabob in the town-another time I’m from New York, and has monstrous letters of introduction to the squire. Then I goes among the niggers and comes it over their stupid; tells ’em how I’m an abolitionist in a kind of secret way-gets their confidence. And then I larns a right smart deal of sayings from the Bible-a nigger’s curious on Christianity, ye see-and it makes him think ye belong to that school, sartin! All the deviltry in his black natur’ ‘ll cum out then; and he’ll do just what ye tells him. So, ye see, I just draws the pious over him, and then-like all niggers-I gets him to jine in what he calculates to be a nice little bit of roguery-running off.”

Graspum becomes interested in the fine qualities of the prospective property, and must needs ask if he is bright and trim.

“Bright! I reckon he warn’t nothin’ else in a money sense-brighter nor most niggers, but mighty Inginy. Had the fierce of one and the cunnin’ of t’other. Tom Pridgeon and me has an understandin’ about the thing; and Tom’s such a ripper for tradin’ in nigger property-he is about the only devil niggers can imagine; and they delight to play tricks on Tom. Well, the nigger and me’s good friends, right to the point; a good trick is to be played off on Tom, who buys the nigger in confidence; the nigger is to run off when he gets to Savannah, and Tom is to be indicted for running off ‘free niggers.’ I’se a great Christian, and joins heart and hand with the darkey; we takes our walks together, reads together, prays together. And then ’tain’t long afore I becomes just the best white man in his estimation. Knowing when Tom makes up his gang, I proposes a walk in the grove to the nigger. ‘Thank ye, sir,’ says he, in an Ingin kind of way, and out we goes, sits down, talks pious, sings hymns, and waits to see the rascally nigger-trader come along. Presently Tom makes his appearance, with a right smart lot of extra prime property. The nigger and me marches down the road just like master and servant, and stops just when we meets Tom. You’d laughed to see Tom and me do the stranger, ‘Well, mister,’ says I, ‘how’s trade in your line?-there’s mighty good prices for cotton just now; an’ I ‘spose ‘t keeps the market stiff up in your line!'”

‘Well, no,’ says Tom: ‘a feller can turn a good penny in the way o’ fancy articles, just now; but ’tain’t the time for prime plantation-stock. Planters are all buying, and breeders down Virginia way won’t give a feller a chance to make a shaving. It drives a feller hard up, ye see, and forces more business in running the free ‘uns.’

‘Why, stranger! what on ‘arth do you mean by that ‘ar;-wouldn’t ye get straightened if you’d git catched at that business?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing! I forgot what I was saying,’ says Tom, just as if he was scared at what he had let slip.

‘I say, trader, ye got the brightest assortment of property thar’ I seen for many a day: you don’t call them gals slaves, do you? Down where I cum from, our folks wouldn’t know ’em from white folks.’ I tell you, boys, he had some bits that would o’ made yer heart cum straight up.

‘But I say, mister, I kind ‘a like yer horse property-somehow he’s full blood,’ says I.

‘Yes,’ says Tom; ‘he’s one o’ the best critturs to drive niggers with that ye ever did see; and he’s beat the best horse on the Columbia course, twice.’

‘Well, now; seein’ how I likes the animal, about how much do ye’h set him at?’ says I.

‘Well! can’t part with the nag nohow; seems as if he knowed a nigger, and understands the business right up.’

‘But, you see, I’se got a bit of nigger property here what ye’h don’t pick up every day for the Memphis trade,’ says I, looking at the feller, who played his part right up to the hilt.

‘Well, I don’t mind strikin’ a trade,’ says Tom: ‘but you see my nag’s worth a little risin’ a thousand dollars.’

‘I don’t doubt that, stranger,’ says I: ‘but ye’h sees this ‘ar piece of property o’ mine is worth more ‘an twelve hundred. You don’t come across such a looking chap every day. There’s a spec. in him, in any market down south,’ says I; and I puts my hands on the nigger and makes him show out, just as if Tom and me was striking for a trade. So Tom examines him, as if he was green in nigger business, and he and me strangers just come from t’other side of moon shadows.

‘Well, now,’ says Tom, ‘it’s mighty likely property, and seeing it’s you, jist name a trade.’

‘Put down the nag and two hundred dollars, and I’ll sign the bill of sale, for a swap.’ And Tom plants down the dimes, and takes the nigger. When Tom gets him to Savannah, he plunks him into jail, and keeps him locked up in a cell until he is ready to start south. I promises the nigger half of the spiles; but I slips an X

Ten dollars. into his hand, and promises him the rest when he gets back-when he does! And ye see how Tom just tryced him up to the cross and put thirty-nine to his bare skin when he talked about being free, in Savannah; and gagged him when he got his Ingin up. Warn’t that doing the thing up slick, fellers?” exclaimed Romescos, chuckling over the sport.

“It warn’t nothing else. That’s what I calls catching a nigger in his own trap,” said one. “That’s sarvin’ him right; I go for sellin’ all niggers and Ingins,” said another. “Free niggers have no souls, and are impediments to personal rights in a free country,” said a third.

“Ye’h see, there’s such an infernal lot of loose corners about our business, that it takes a feller what has got a big head to do all the things smooth, in a legal way; and it’s so profitable all round that it kind o’ tempts a feller, once in a while, to do things he don’t feel just right in; but then a glass of old monongahela brings ye’h all straight in yer feelins again, a’ter a few minutes,” said Romescos.

“It’s an amusing business; a man’s got to have nerve and maxim, if he wants to make a fortune at it. But-now, gentlemen, we’ll take another round,” said Graspum, stopping short. “Anthony, tell us how you work it when you want to run a free nigger down Maryland way.”

“There ain’t no trouble about that,” replied Romescos, quickly. “You see,” he continued, squinting his eye, and holding his glass between his face and the light. “Shut out all hope first, and then prime legal gentlemen along the road, and yer sartin to make safe business. I has chaps what keeps their eye on all the free bits, and makes good fellers with ’em; niggers think they’r the right stripe friends; and then they gives ’em jobs once in a while, and tobacco, and whiskey. So when I gets all fixed for a run, some on ‘m gets the nigger into a sly spot, and then we pounces upon him like a hawk on a chicken-gags him, and screws him up in the chains, head and feet,–boxes him up, too, and drives him like lightning until I meets Tilman at the cross-roads; and then I just has a document

“A forged bill of sale, all ready, which I gives to Till, and he puts his nags in-a pair what can take the road from anything about-and the way he drives, just to make the nigger forget where he’s going, and think he’s riding in a balloon on his way to glory. Just afore Til. gets to the boat, ye see, he takes the headchains off-so the delicate-hearted passengers won’t let their feelins get kind-a out o’ sorts. Once in a while the nigger makes a blubber about being free, to the captain,–and if he’s fool enough t’ take any notice on’t then there’s a fuss; but that’s just the easiest thing to get over, if ye only know the squire, and how to manage him. You must know the pintes of the law, and ye must do the clean thing in the ‘tin’ way with the squire; and then ye can cut ’em right off by makin’ t’other pintes make ’em mean nothing. Once in a while t’ll do to make the nigger a criminal, and then there’s no trouble in’t, ‘cos ye can ollers git the swearin’ done cheap. Old Captain Smith used to get himself into a scrape a heap o’ times by listenin’ to free nigger stories, till he gets sick and would kick every nigger what came to him about being free. He takes the law in his hands with a nigger o’ mine once, and hands him over to a city policeman as soon as we lands. He didn’t understand the thing, ye see, and I jist puts an Ten dollars into the pole’s hand, what he takes the hint at. ‘Now, ye’ll take good care on the feller,” says I, giving him a wink. “And he just keeps broad off from the old hard-faced mayor, and runs up to the squire’s, who commits him on his own committimus. Then I gets Bob Blanker to stand ‘all right’ with the squire, who’s got all the say in the matter, when it’s done so. I cuts like lightenin’ on to far down Mississippi, and there gets Sam Slang, just one o’ the keenest fellers in that line, about. Sam’s a hotel-keeper all at once, and I gets him up afore the Mississippi squire; and as Sam don’t think much about the swearin’ and the squire ain’t particular, so he makes a five: we proves straight off how the crittur’s Sam’s runaway, gets the dockerment and sends to Bob Blanker, who puts a blinder on the squire’s eye, and gets an order to the old jailor, who must give him up, when he sees the squire’s order. You see, it’s larnin’ the secret, that’s the thing, and the difference between common law and nigger law; and the way to work the matter so the squire will have it all in his own fingers, and don’t let the old judge get a pick. Squire makes it square, hands the nigger over to Bob, Bob puts fifty cuts on his hide, makes him as clever as a kitten, and ships him off down south afore he has time to wink. Then, ye sees, I goes back as independent as a senator from Arkansas, and sues Captain Smith for damages in detainin’ the property, and I makes him pay a right round sum, what larns him never to try that agin.”

Thus Romescos concludes the details of his nefarious trade, amid cheers and bravos. The party are in ecstasies, evincing a singular merriment at the issue. There is nothing like liberty–liberty to do what you please, to turn freedom into barbarity! They gloat over the privileges of a free country; and, as Romescos recounts each proceeding,–tracing it into the lowest depths of human villainy, they sing songs to right, justice, freedom-they praise the bounties of a great country. How different is the picture below! Beneath this plotting conclave, devising schemes to defraud human nature of its rights, to bring poverty and disgrace upon happy families-all in accordance with the law-are chained in narrow cells poor mortals, hoping for an end to their dreary existence, pining under the weight of pinions dashing their very souls into endless despair. A tale of freedom is being told above, but their chains of death clank in solemn music as the midnight revelry sports with the very agony of their sorrows. Oh! who has made their lives a wanton jest?-can it be the will of heaven, or is it the birthright of a downtrodden race? They look for to-morrow, hope reverberates one happy thought, it may bring some tidings of joy; but again they sink, as that endless gloom rises before them. Hope fades from their feelings, from the bleeding heart for which compassion is dead. The tyrant’s heart is of stone; what cares he for their supplications, their cries, their pleadings to heaven; such things have no dollars for him!

Arranging the preliminaries necessary for proceeding with Marston’s affairs, they agreed to the plans, received orders from Graspum in reference to their proceedings on the following day, and retired to their homes, singing praises to great good laws, and the freedom of a free country.

CHAPTER X.

ANOTHER SHADE OF THE PICTURE.

WHILE the proceedings we have detailed in the foregoing chapter were progressing at Graspum’s slave-pen, a different phase of the system was being discussed by several persons who had assembled at the house of Deacon Rosebrook. Rumour had been busy spreading its many-sided tales about Marston-his difficulties, his connection with Graspum, his sudden downfall. All agreed that Marston was a noble-minded fellow, generous to a fault-generous in his worst errors; and, like many other southerners, who meant well, though personally kind to his slaves, never set a good example in his own person. Religion was indispensably necessary to preserve submission; and, with a view to that end, he had made the Church a means of producing it.

Now, if the southerner resorted to the Church in the purity of Christian motives, he would merit that praise which many are so willing to bestow. Or, if Christianity were embraced by the southerner with heartfelt purity and faith, it would undoubtedly have a beneficial influence, elevate the character of the slave, promote kindly feelings between him and his master, and ultimately prove profitable to both. But where Christianity, used by irreligious persons, whose very acts destroy the vitality of the means, is made the medium of enforcing superstition, and of debasing the mind of the person it degrades into submission, its application becomes nothing less than criminal. It is criminal because it brings true religion into contempt, perverts Christianity-makes it a mockery, and gives to the degraded whites of the South a plea for discarding its precepts. Religion-were it not used as a mechanical agency-would elevate the degraded white population of the South; they would, through its influence, become valuable citizens.

These remarks have been forced upon us by observation. Frequently have we lamented its application, and grieved that its holy mission were made to serve the vilest purposes in a land of liberty, of Christian love. Religion a means of degrading the masses-a subservient agent! It is so, nevertheless; and men use it whose only desire it is to make it serve a property interest-the interest of making men, women, and children, more valuable in the market. God ordained it for a higher purpose,–man applies it for his benefit in the man-market. Hence, where the means for exercising the mind upon the right is forbidden-where ignorance becomes the necessary part of the maintenance of a system, and religion is applied to that end, it becomes farcical; and while it must combine all the imperfections of the performer, necessarily tends to confine the ignorance of those it seeks to degrade, within the narrowest boundary. There are different ways of destroying the rights of different classes; and as many different ways, after they are destroyed, of wiping out the knowledge of their ever having had rights. But, we regret to say, that most resorted to by the South, in the face of civilisation, is the Holy Scriptures, which are made the medium of blotting out all knowledge of the rights a people once possessed. The wrong-doer thus fears the result of natural laws; if they be allowed to produce results through the cultivation of a slave’s mind, such may prove fatal to his immediate interests. And to maintain a system which is based on force, the southern minister of the gospel is doubly culpable in the sight of heaven; for while he stimulates ignorance by degrading the man, he mystifies the Word of God, that he may remain for ever and ever degraded.

What a deplorable process of stealing-nay, gently taking away the knowledge which an all-wise Providence has given to man as his inheritance; how it reduces his natural immunities to sensual misery! And, too, it forbids all legitimate influences that could possibly give the menial a link to elevation, to the formation of a society of his own. We would fain shrink from such a system of debasing mankind-even more, from the hideous crimes of those who would make Scripture the means to such an end. And yet, the Church defender of slavery-the Christian little one-his neck-cloth as white as the crimes he defends are black-must distinguish his arguments; and that the world may not suspect his devotion, his honesty, his serious intention, he points us to the many blessings of the plantation-service.

Heavenly divinity! Let us have faith in the little ones sent to teach it; they tell us slavery enforces Christianity! The management of ignorance under the direction of ministers of the gospel is certainly becoming well-defined; while statesmen more energetically legalise it. The one devises, the other carries out a law to make man ignorant of everything but labour. But while the statesman moulds the theory, the preacher manufactures Scripture texts, that the menial may believe God has ordained him the pliable victim.

Under the apparent necessity of the slave world, Marston had regularly paid Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy for preaching to his property on Sundays; and to the requisite end the good Elder felt himself in duty bound to inculcate humility in all things that would promote obedience to a master’s will. Of course, one sermon was quite sufficient; and this the credulous property had listened to for more than three years. The effect was entirely satisfactory, the result being that the honest property were really impressed with a belief, that to evince Christian fortitude under suffering and punishment was the best means of cleansing themselves of the sins they were born to. This formality was misnamed Christianity–it was! And through the force of this one sermon the Elder became indolent; and indolence led him to its natural yoke-fellow-intemperance. His indulgent mood, such as we have described him enjoying in a previous chapter, became too frequent, leading to serious annoyances. They had been especially serious for Marston, whom they placed in an awkward situation before his property, and he resolved to tolerate them no longer. Probably this resolution was hastened by the sudden discovery of Harry’s singular knowledge of Scripture; be that as it may, the only difficulty in the way was to know if Harry could be so trained, that he would preach the “right stripe” doctrine. This, however, was soon settled, and Marston not only suspended his engagement with the Elder, but entered into a contract with the neighbouring planters, by the terms of which Harry will fill their pulpit, and preach extempore–the Elder has brought written sermons into contempt with Harry–at a stipulated price per Sunday. In this new avocation-this leap from the plantation to the pulpit, Harry, as a piece of property, became extremely valuable; while, through the charm of his new black coat, he rose a great man in the estimation of the common property. Here was a valuable incentive of submission, a lesson for all bad niggers, a chance for them to improve under the peculiar institution. It proved to niggerdom what a good nigger could be if he only fear God and obey his master in all things.

Here was proof that a nigger could be something more than a nigger, in spite of southern philosophy. The Elder-good, pious man that he was-found himself out of pocket and out of preaching. Thrown upon the resources of his ingenuity, he had, in order to save the dictates of his conscience, while taking advantage of the many opportunities of making money afforded by the peculiar institution, entered upon another branch of business, having for its object the advancement of humanity. He resolved to go forth purchasing the sick and the dying; to reclaim sinking humanity and make it marketable.

But, before describing the vicissitudes through which Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy passes in his new mission of humanity, we must introduce the reader to the precincts of a neat little villa, situated at the outskirts of the city of C–. It is a small cottage surrounded with verandas and trellis-work, over which are creeping numerous woodbines and multafloras, spreading their fragrant blossoms, giving it an air of sequestered beauty. An arbour of grapevines extends from a little portico at the front to a wicker fence that separates the embankment of a well-arranged garden, in which are pots of rare plants, beds and walks decorated with flowers, presenting great care and taste. A few paces in the rear of the cottage are several “negro cabins” nicely white-washed without, and an air of cheerfulness and comfort reigning within. The house- servants are trimly dressed; they look and act as if their thoughts and affections were with “mas’r and missus.” Their white aprons and clean bright frocks-some bombazine, and some gingham-give them an appearance of exactness, which, whether it be voluntary or force of discipline, bears evidence of attention in the slave, and encouragement on the part of the master. This is the Villa of Deacon Rosebrook; they call him deacon, by courtesy; in the same sense that Georgia majors and South Carolina generals are honoured with those far-famed titles which so distinguish them when abroad. Perhaps we should be doing the deacon no more than justice if we were to admit that he had preached in very respectable spheres; but, feeling that he was wanting in the purity of divine love-that he could not do justice to his conscience while setting forth teachings he did not follow, he laid the profession aside for the more genial associations of plantation life. Indeed, he was what many called a very easy backslider; and at times was recognised by the somewhat singular soubriquet of Deacon Pious-proof. But he was kind to his slaves, and had projected a system singularly at variance with that of his neighbours-a system of mildness, amelioration, freedom.

His plantation, a small one, some few miles from the Villa, presented the same neatness and comfort, the same cheerfulness among the negroes, and the same kindly feeling between master and slave, which characterised the Villa.

We enter a neatly-furnished parlour, where the deacon and a friend are seated on a sofa; various pictures are suspended from the wall,–everything betokens New England neatness. The old-fashioned dog-irons and fender are polished to exquisite brightness, a Brussels carpet spreads the floor, a bright surbase encircles the room; upon the flossy hearth-rug lies crouched the little canine pet, which Aunt Dolly has washed to snowy whiteness. Aunt Dolly enters the room with a low curtsy, gently raises the poodle, then lays him down as carefully as if he were an heir to the estate. Master is happy, “missus” is happy, and Aunt Dolly is happy; and the large bookcase, filled with well-selected volumes, adds to the air of contentment everywhere apparent. In a niche stands a large pier-table, upon which are sundry volumes with gilt edges, nets of cross-work, porcelain ornaments, and card-cases inlaid with mosaic. Antique tables with massive carved feet, in imitation of lions’ paws, chairs of curious patterns, reclines and ottomans of softest material, and covered with satin damask, are arranged round the room in harmony and good taste.

“Now, Mr. Scranton,” the deacon says to his friend, who is a tall, prim, sedate-looking man, apparently about forty, “I pity Marston; I pity him because he is a noble-hearted fellow. But, after all, this whispering about the city may be only mother Rumour distributing her false tales. Let us hope it is all rumour and scandal. Come, tell me-what do you think of our negroes?”

“Nigger character has not changed a bit in my mind, since I came south. Inferior race of mortals, sir!-without principles, and fit only for service and submission. A southern man knows their composition, but it takes a northern to study the philosophy-it does,” replies Mr. Scranton, running his left hand over his forehead, and then his right over the crown of his head, as if to cover a bald spot with the scanty remnant of hair that projected from the sides.

The deacon smiles at the quaint reply. He knows Mr. Scranton’s northern tenacity, and begs to differ with him. “You are ultra, a little ultra, in all things, Mr. Scranton. I fear it is that, carried out in morals as well as politics, that is fast reducing our system to degradation and tyranny. You northern gentlemen have a sort of pedantic solicitude for our rights, but you underrate our feelings upon the slavery question. I’m one among the few southerners who hold what are considered strange views: we are subjected to ridicule for our views; but it is only by those who see nothing but servitude in the negro,–nothing but dollars and cents in the institution of slavery.”

Mr. Scranton is struck with astonishment, interrupts the argument by insisting upon the great superiority of the gentlemen whites, and the Bible philosophy which he can bring to sustain his argument.

“Stop one moment, my philosophic friend,” the deacon interposes, earnestly. “Upon that you northerners who come out here to sustain the cause of slavery for the south, all make fools of yourselves. This continual reasoning upon Bible philosophy has lost its life, funeral dirges have been played over it, the instruments are worn out. And yet, the subject of the philosophy lives,–he belies it with his physical vigour and moral action. We doubt the sincerity of northerners; we have reasons for so doing; they know little of the negro, and care less. Instead of assisting southerners who are inclined to do justice to the wretch-to be his friend-to improve his condition-to protect him against a tyrant’s wrong, you bring us into contempt by your proclaiming virtue over the vice we acknowledge belongs to the institution. We know its defects-we fear them; but, in the name of heaven, do not defend them at the cost of virtue, truth, honesty. Do not debase us by proclaiming its glories over our heads;-do not take advantage of us by attempting to make wrong right.” The deacon’s feelings have become earnest; his face glows with animation.

Mr. Scranton seems discomfited. “That’s just like all you southerners: you never appreciate anything we do for you. What is the good of our love, if you always doubt it?”

“Such love!” says the deacon, with a sarcastic curl on his lip. “It’s cotton-bag love, as full of self as a pressed bale-“

“But, deacon; you’re getting up on the question.”

“Up as high as northern sincerity is low. Nothing personal,” is the cool rejoinder.

Mr. Scranton inquires very seriously-wishing it particularly to be understood that he is not a fighting-man-if Deacon Rosebrook considers all northerners white-washed, ready to deceive through the dim shadows of self. The deacon’s frank and manly opinion of northern editors and preachers disturbs Scranton’s serious philosophy. “Cotton-bag love!” there’s something in it, and contempt at the bottom, he declares within himself. And he gives a serious look, as much as to say-“go on.”

“I do! He who maketh right, what those most interested in know to be wrong, cherishes a bad motive. When a philosopher teaches doctrines that become doubtful in their ultraness, the weakness carries the insincerity,–the effort becomes stagnant. Never sell yourself to any class of evils for popularity’s sake. If you attempt it you mistake the end, and sell yourself to the obscurity of a political trickster, flatttered by a few, believed by none.”

“Deacon! a little more moderate. Give us credit for the good we do. Don’t get excited, don’t. These are ticklish times, and we northerners are quick to observe-“

“Yes, when it will turn a penny on a nigger or a bale of cotton.”

“Allow me; one minute if you please!” returned Scranton, with a nasal twang peculiar to his class, as he began to work himself up into a declamatory attitude. “You southerners don’t understand what a force them northern abolitionists are bringing against you; and you know how slow you are to do things, and to let your property all go to waste while you might make a good speculation on it. There’s just the difference of things: we study political economy so as to apply it to trade and such like; you let things go to waste, just thinking over it. And, you see, it’s our nature to be restless and searching out the best avenues for developing trade. Why, deacon, your political philosophy would die out if the New Englander didn’t edit your papers and keep your nigger principles straight.”

“Nigger principles straight! Ah, indeed! Only another evidence of that cotton bag love that has caused the banns of matrimony to be published between tyrants who disgrace us and northern speculators. The book-publisher-poor servile tool-fears to publish Mrs. Johnson’s book, lest it should contain something to offend Mrs. Colonel Sportington, at the south. Mr. Stevens, the grocer, dare not put his vote into the ballot-box for somebody, because he fears one of his customers at the south will hear of it. Parson Munson dare not speak what he thinks in a New England village, because Mrs. Bruce and Deacon Donaldson have yearly interests in slaves at the south; and old Mattock, the boot-maker, thinks it aint right for niggers to be in church with white folks, and declares, if they do go, they should sit away back in one corner, up stairs. He thinks about the combination that brings wealth, old age, and the grave, into one vortex,–feels little misgiving upon humanity, but loves the union, and wants nothing said about niggers. We understand what it all means, Mr. Scranton; and we can credit it for what it’s worth, without making any account for its sincerity and independence. I am one among the few who go for educating the negroes, and in that education to cultivate affections between slave and master, to make encouragement perform the part of discipline, and inspire energy through proper rewards.”

“What!-educate a nigger! These are pretty principles for a southerner to maintain! Why, sir, if such doctrines were advocated in the body politic they would be incendiary to southern institutions. Just educate the niggers, and I wouldn’t be an editor in the south two days. You’d see me tramping, bag and baggage, for the north, much as I dislike it! It would never do to educate such a miserable set of wretches as they are. You may depend what I say is true, sir. Their condition is perfectly hopeless at the north, and the more you try to teach them, the greater nuisance they become.”

“Now, my good northern friend, not so fast, if you please; I can see the evil of all this, and so can you, if you will but study the negro’s character a little deeper. The menial man who has passed through generations of oppression, and whose life and soul are blotted from the right of manhood, is sensitive of the power that crushes him. He has been robbed of the means of elevating himself by those who now accuse him of the crime of degradation: and, wherever the chance is afforded him of elevation, as that increases so does a tenacious knowledge of his rights; yet, he feels the prejudice that cuts and slights him in his progress, that charges him with the impudence of a negro, that calls his attempts to be a man mere pompous foolery.”

“And it is so! To see a nigger setting himself up among white folks-it’s perfectly ridiculous!”

“Mark me, Mr. Scranton: there’s where you northerners mistake yourselves. The negro seldom desires to mix with whites, and I hold it better they should keep together; but that two races cannot live together without the one enslaving the other is a fallacy popular only with those who will not see the future, and obstinately refuse to review the past. You must lessen your delicate sensibilities; and when you make them less painful to the man of colour at the north, believe me, the south will respond to the feeling. Experience has changed my feelings,–experience has been my teacher. I have based my new system upon experience; and its working justifies me in all I have said. Let us set about extracting the poison from our institutions, instead of losing ourselves in contemplating an abstract theory for its government.”

“Remember, deacon, men are not all born to see alike. There are rights and privileges belonging to the southerner: he holds the trade in men right, and he would see the Union sundered to atoms before he would permit the intervention of the federal government on that subject,” Mr. Scranton seriously remarks, placing his two thumbs in the armpits of his vest, and assuming an air of confidence, as if to say, “I shall outsouthern the southerner yet, I shall.”

“That’s just the point upon which all the villainy of our institution rests: the simple word man!-man a progressive being; man a chattel,–a thing upon which the sordid appetite of every wretch may feed. Why cannot Africa give up men? She has been the victim of Christendom-her flesh and blood have served its traffic, have enriched its coffers, and even built its churches; but like a ferocious wolf that preys upon the fold in spite of watchers, she yet steals Afric’s bleeding victims, and frowns upon them because they are not white, nor live as white men live.”

“Mercy on me!” says Mr. Scranton, with a sigh, “you can’t ameliorate the system as it stands: that’s out of the question. Begin to loosen the props, and the whole fabric will tumble down. And then, niggers won’t be encouraged to work at a price for their labour; and how are you going to get along in this climate, and with such an enormous population of vagabonds?”

“Remember, Mr. Scranton,” ejaculated the deacon, “there’s where you mistake the man in the negro; and through these arguments, set forth in your journal, we suffer. You must have contracted them by association with bad slave-owners. Mark ye! the negro has been sunk to the depths where we yet curse him; and is it right that we should keep him cursed?-to say nothing of the semi-barbarous position in which it finds our poor whites. He feels that his curse is for life-time; his hopes vibrate with its knowledge, and through it he falls from that holy inspiration that could make him a man, enjoying manhood’s rights. Would not our energy yield itself a sacrifice to the same sacrificer? Had we been loaded with chains of tyranny, what would have been our condition? Would not that passion which has led the Saxon on to conquest, and spread his energy through the western world, have yielded when he saw the last shadow of hope die out, and realised that his degradation was for life-time? Would not the yearnings of such a consummation have recoiled to blast every action of the being who found himself a chattel? And yet this very chattel, thus yoked in death, toils on in doubts and fears, in humbleness and submission, with unrequited fortitude and affection. And still all is doubted that he does, even crushed in the prejudice against his colour!”

“Well, deacon, you perfectly startle me, to hear a southerner talk that way at the south. If you keep on, you’ll soon have an abolition society without sending north for it.”

“That’s just what I want. I want our southerners to look upon the matter properly, and to take such steps as will set us right in the eyes of the world. Humanity is progressing with rapid strides-slavery cannot exist before it! It must fall; and we should prepare to meet it, and not be so ungrateful, at least, that we cannot reflect upon its worth, and give merit to whom merit is due.” Thus were presented the north and south; the former loses her interests in humanity by seeking to serve the political ends of the latter.

CHAPTER XI.

MRS. ROSEBROOK’S PROJECT.

AT this juncture of the conversation, a sprightly, well-dressed servant opens the parlour-door, announces missus! The deacon’s good lady enters. She is a perfect pattern of neatness,–a finely-developed woman of more than ordinary height, with blonde features, and a countenance as full of cheerfulness as a bright May morning. She bows gracefully; her soft eyes kindle with intelligence as she approaches Mr. Scranton, who rises with the coldness of an iceberg.

“Be seated, Mr. Scranton,” she says, with a voice so full of gentleness,–“be seated.” Her form is well-rounded, her features exquisite. Mr. Scranton views her seriously, as if he found something of great interest in that marble forehead, those fine features moulding a countenance full of soul, love, and sweetness. Her dress is of plain black brocade, made high at the neck, where it is secured with a small diamond pin, the front opening and disclosing a lace stomacher set with undressed pearls. Rufflets and diamond bracelets, of chaste workmanship, clasp her wrists; while her light auburn hair, neatly laid in plain folds, and gathered into a plait on the back of her head, where it is delicately secured with gold and silver cord, forms a soft contrast. There is chasteness and simplicity combined to represent character, sense, and refinement. She is the mother of the plantation: old negroes call her mother, young ones clamour with joy when she visits their abodes: her very soul is in their wants; they look to her for guidance. Their happiness is her pleasure, and by sharing the good fortune that has followed them she has fostered the energy of their negroes, formed them into families, encouraged their morality, impressed them with the necessity of preserving family relations. Against the stern mandates of the law, she has taught them to read the Bible, reading and explaining it to them herself. Indeed, she has risen above the law: she has taught the more tractable ones to write; she has supplied the younger with little story-books, attractive and containing good moral lessons. She rejoices over her system: it is honest, kind, generous,–it will serve the future, and is not unprofitable at present. It is different from that pursued by those who would, through the instrumentality of bad laws, enforce ignorance. Nay, to her there is something abhorrent in using the Word of God as an excuse for the existence of slavery. Her system is practicable, enlightening first, and then enforcing that which gives encouragement to the inert faculties of our nature. Punishments were scarcely known upon her plantation; the lash never used. Old and young were made to feel themselves part and parcel of a family compact, to know they had an interest in the crop, to gather hopes for the future, to make home on the old plantation pleasant. There was something refreshing in the pride and protection evinced in the solicitation of this gentle creature for her negroes. In early life she had listened to their fables, had mixed with them as children, had enjoyed their hours of play, had studied their sympathies, and entered with delight into the very soul of their jargon merriment. She felt their wants, and knew their grievances; she had come forward to be their protector, their mother! “Why, Mr. Scranton,” she exclaims, laughingly, in reply to that gentleman’s remarks, as she interrupted the conversation between him and the deacon, “we would sooner suffer than sell one of our boys or girls-even if the worst came to the worst. I know the value of family ties; I know how to manage negroes. I would just as soon think of selling our Matilda, I would! If some of you good northern folks could only see how comfortable my negroes are!-“

“Oh, yes!” interrupts the deacon, “she takes it all out of my hands; I’m going to give her the reins altogether one of these days. She has got a nice way of touching a negro’s feelings so that anything can be done with him: it tells largely at times.” Mr. Scranton’s face becomes more serious; he doesn’t seem to understand this new “nigger philosophy.” “Poor creatures!” the deacon continues, “how wonderful is the power of encouragement;-how much may be done if proper means are applied-“

“The trouble is in the means,” Mr. Scranton interposes, scratching his head, as if ideas were scarce, and valuable for the distance they had to be transported.

Our good lady smiles. “I cannot help smiling, Mr. Scranton.” She speaks softly. “There are two things I want done-done quickly: I want southern philosophers to consider, and I want southern ladies to act-to put on energy-to take less care of themselves and more of the poor negro!” She lays her hand gently upon Mr. Scranton’s arm, her soft blue eyes staring him in the face. “When they do this,” she continues, “all will be well. We can soon show the north how much can be done without their assistance. I don’t believe in women’s rights meetings,–not I; but I hold there should be some combination of southern ladies, to take the moral elevation of the slave into consideration,–to set about the work in good earnest, to see what can be done. It’s a monster work; but monster evils can be removed if females will give their hands and hearts to the task. This separating families to serve the interests of traders in human beings must be stopped: females know the pains it inflicts on suffering wretches; they are best suited to stop that heinous offence in the sight of God and man. They must rise to the work; they must devise means to stay the waste of fortune now progressing through dissipation; and, above all other things, they must rise up and drive these frightful slave-dealers from their doors.”

Mr. Scranton admits there is something in all this, but suggests that it were better to let the future take care of itself; there’s no knowing what the future may do; and to let those who come in it enjoy our labours “aint just the policy.” He contends-willing to admit how much the ladies could do if they would-it would not be consistent with the times to put forth such experiments, especially when there is so much opposition. “It wouldn’t do!” he whispers.

The deacon here interrupts Mr. Scranton, by stepping to the door and ordering one of the servants to prepare refreshments.

“‘It must do! It won’t do!’ keeps us where we are, and where we are always complaining that we never have done. You know I speak frankly, Mr. Scranton-women may say what they please;-and let me tell you, that when you do your duty it will do. Hard times never were harder than when everybody thought them hard. We must infuse principle into our poor people; we must make them earnest in agricultural pursuits; we must elevate the character of labour; we must encourage the mechanic, and give tone to his pursuits; and, more than all, we must arrest the spread of conventional nonsense, and develope our natural resources by establishing a system of paid labour, and removing the odium which attaches itself to those who pursue such avocations as the slave may be engaged in. My word for it, Mr. Scranton, there’s where the trouble lies. Nature has been lavish in her good gifts to the south; but we must lend Nature a helping hand,–we must be the women of the south for the south’s good; and we must break down those social barriers clogging our progress. Nature wants good government to go along with her, to be her handfellow in regeneration; but good government must give Nature her rights. This done, slavery will cease to spread its loathsome diseases through the body politic, virtue will be protected and receive its rewards, and the buds of prosperity will be nourished with energy and ripen into greatness.”

Mr. Scranton suggests that the nigger question was forced upon him, and thinks it better to change the conversation. Mr. Scranton was once in Congress, thinks a deal of his Congressional experience, and declares, with great seriousness, that the nigger question will come to something one of these days. “Ah! bless me, madam,” he says, adjusting his arms, “you talk-very-like-a-statesman. Southerners better leave all this regenerating of slaves to you. But let me say, whatever you may see in perspective, it’s mighty dangerous when you move such principles to practice. Mark me! you’ll have to pull down the iron walls of the south, make planters of different minds, drive self out of mankind, and overthrow the northern speculator’s cotton-bag love. You’ve got a great work before you, my dear madam,–a work that’ll want an extended lease of your life-time. Remember how hard it is to convince man of the wrong of anything that’s profitable. A paid system, even emancipation, would have been a small affair in 1824 or 1827. Old niggers and prime fellows were then of little value; now it is different. You may see the obstacle to your project in the Nashville Convention or Georgia platform-“

“Nashville Convention, indeed!” exclaims Mrs. Rosebrook, her face infused with animation, and a curl of disdain on her lip. “Such things! Mere happy illustrations of the folly of our political affairs. The one was an exotic do-nothing got up by Mister Wanting-to-say-something, who soon gets ashamed of his mission; the other was a mixture of political log-rolling, got up by those who wanted to tell the Union not to mind the Nashville Convention. What a pity they did not tell the Union to be patient with us! We must have no more Nashville Conventions; we must change Georgia platforms for individual enterprise,–southern conventions for moral regeneration. Give us these changes, and we shall show you what can be done without the aid of the north.” Several servants in tidy dresses, their white aprons looking so clean, come bustling into the room and invite missus and her guest into an airy ante-room, where a table is bountifully spread with cake, fruit, fine old Madeira, and lemonade. Mr. Scranton bows and asks “the pleasure;” Mrs. Rosebrook acknowledgingly takes his arm, while the negroes bow and scrape as they enter the room. Mr. Scranton stands a few moments gazing at the set-out. “I hope Mr. Scranton will make himself quite at home,” the good lady interposes. Everything was so exquisitely arranged, so set off with fresh-plucked flowers, as if some magic hand had just touched the whole.

“Now!” continued Mrs. Rosebrook, motioning her head as she points to the table: “you’ll admit my negroes can do something? Poor helpless wretches, we say continually: perhaps they are worse when bad owners can make the world look upon them through northern prejudice. They are just like children; nobody gives them credit for being anything else; and yet they can do much for our good. It would trouble some persons to arrange a table so neatly; my boys did it all, you see!” And she exults over the efficiency of her negroes, who stand at her side acknowledging the compliment with broad grins. The deacon helps Mr. Scranton, who commences stowing away the sweetmeats with great gusto. “It is truly surprising what charming nigger property you have got. They don’t seem a bit like niggers” he concludes deliberately taking a mouthful. Mrs. Rosebrook, pleased at the honest remark, reminds him that the deacon carries out her views most charmingly, that she studies negro character, and knows that by stimulating it with little things she promotes good. She studies character while the deacon studies politics. At the same time, she rather ironically reminds Mr. Scranton that the deacon is not guilty of reading any long-winded articles on “state rights and secession.” “Not he!” she says, laughingly; “you don’t catch him with such cast-iron material in his head. They call him pious-proof now and then, but he’s progress all over.”

Mr. Scranton, attentive to his appetite, draws a serious face, gives a side glance, begs a negro to supply his plate anew, and reckons he may soon make a new discovery in southern political economy. But he fears Mrs. Rosebrook’s plan will make a mongrel, the specific nature of which it would be difficult to define in philosophy. Perhaps it will not be acceptable to the north as a thinking people, nor will it please the generosity of southern ladies.

“There is where the trouble lies!” exclaimed the deacon, who had until then yielded up the discussion to his good lady. “They look upon our system with distrust, as if it were something they could not understand.”

“I move we don’t say another word about it, but take our part quietly,” says Mrs. Rosebrook, insinuating that Mr. Scranton had better be left to take his refreshment comfortably; that he is a little misanthropic; that he must be cheered up. “Come, my boys”-directing her conversation to the negroes-“see that Mr. Scranton is cared for. And you must summon Daddy; tell him to get the carriage ready, to put on his best blue coat,–that we are going to take Mr. Scranton over the plantation, to show him how things can prosper when we ladies take a hand in the management.” The negro leaves to execute the order: Mr. Scranton remains mute, now and then sipping his wine. He imagines himself in a small paradise, but “hadn’t the least idea how it was made such a place by niggers.” Why, they are just the smartest things in the shape of property that could be started up. Regular dandy niggers, dressed up to “shine so,” they set him thinking there was something in his politics not just straight. And then, there was so much intelligence, so much politeness about the critters! Why, if it had not been for the doctrines he had so long held, he would have felt bashful at his want of ease and suavity,–things seldom taught in the New England village where our pro-slavery advocate was born and educated.

Presently servants are seen outside, running here and there, their eyes glistening with anxiety, as if preparing for a May-day festival. Old Dolly, the cook, shining with the importance of her profession, stands her greasy portions in the kitchen door, scolds away at old Dad, whose face smiles with good-nature as he fusses over the carriage, wipes it, rubs it, and brushes it, every now and then stopping to see if it will reflect his full black face. Little woolly-headed urchins are toddling round old Maum Dolly, pulling the folds of her frock, teasing for cakes and fritters. One, more expert in mischief, has perched himself in an aperture over the door, substituting himself for the old black hat with which it is usually filled. Here, his face like a full moon in a cloud, he twists his moving fingers into the ingeniously-tied knot of Dolly’s bandana, which he cunningly draws from her head. Ben and Loblolly, two minor sprats of the race, are seated in the centre of the yard, contending for the leaves of a picture-book, which, to appease their characteristic inquisitiveness, they have dissected. Daddy has the horses ready and the carriage waiting; and Uncle Bradshaw, the coachman, and C‘sar, the likely fellow, wait at the door with as much satisfaction expressed in their faces as if it were all for them. Missus is not to be outdone in expertness: a few minutes ago she was “snaring” Mr. Scranton with his own philosophy; now she is ready to take her seat.

“Missus! I wants t’ go down yander wid ye, I doe,” says Daddy, approaching her with hand extended, and working his black face up into a broad grin as he detects Mr. Scranton’s awkwardness in getting into the carriage.

“Certainly, Daddy, certainly: you shall go. Daddy knows how to get alongside of Aunt Rachel when he gets down on the plantation. He knows where to get a good cup of coffee and a waff.” And she pats the old negro on the head as he clambers up on the box. “No, him aint dat. Daddy want t’ go wid missus-ya’h, ya! dat him, tis. Missus want somebody down da’h what spry, so’e take care on ’em round de old plantation. Takes my missus to know what nigger is,” says Daddy, taking off his cap, and bowing missus into the carriage.

“Not one word for mas’r, eh, Daddy?” rejoins the deacon, looking playfully at Daddy. “Why, Boss, you aint nofin whin missus about,” returns Daddy, tauntingly, as he buttons his grey coat, and tells Bradshaw to “go ahead!” Away they go, galloping over the plain, through the swamp, for the plantation,–that model experiment doubted by so many. Major Sprag, the politician, and Judge Snow, the statesman, had declared publicly it never would do any good. With them it was not practical,–it gave negroes too much liberty; and they declared the system must be kept within the narrowest sphere of law, or it would be destroyed for ever.

Onward the carriage bounded, and long before it reached the plantation gate was espied by the negroes, who came sallying forth from their white cabins, crying out at the top of their voices-“Missus comin’! Missus comin! Da’h missus-dat she! I know’d missus wa’ comin’ t’ day!” and the music of their voices re-echoed through the arbour of oaks that lined the road. Their tongues seemed to have taken new impulse for the occasion. The dogs, at full run, came barking to the gate; old daddies and mammas, with faces “all over smiles,” followed in the train. And they were dressed so tidily, looked so cheerful, and gave such expressions of their exuberant feelings, that Mr. Scranton seemed quite at a loss how to account for it. He had never before witnessed such a mingling of fondness for owners,–the welcome sounds of “God bless good missus!” They were at variance with the misanthropic ideas he had imbibed at the north. And then there was a regular retinue of the “small-fry property” bringing up the rear, with curious faces, and making the jargon more confounding with the music of their voices. They toddled, screamed, and shouted, clustered around the gate, and before Daddy had time to dismount, had it wide open, and were contending for the palm of shaking missus by the hand “fust.”

The carriage drives to the plantation house, followed by the train of moving darkness, flocking around it like as many devotees before an object of superstitious worship. Mas’r is only a secondary consideration, Missus is the angel of their thoughts; her kindness and perseverance in their behalf has softened their feelings–stimulated their energy. How touching is the fondness and tenderness of these degraded mortals! They love their benefactor. And, too, there is a lesson in it worthy the statesman’s consideration,–it shows a knowledge of right, and a deep sense of gratitude for kindness bestowed. Mrs. Rosebrook alights from the carriage, receives their warm congratulations, and, turning to Mr. Scranton, touches him on the arm, and remarks:–“Now, here they are. Poor old bodies,”–taking them by the hand in rotation-just like as many children. “What do you think of them, Mr. Scranton? do you not find a softening sympathy creeping upon you? I forgot, though, your political responsibility! Ah! that is the point with statesmen. You feel a touch of conscience once in a while, but cannot speak for fear of the consequences.” And she laughs heartily at Mr. Scranton, who draws his face into a very serious length. “Pest the niggers!” he says, as they gather at his feet, asking all sorts of importune questions.

“My good lady is a regular reformer, you see, Mr. Scranton,” rejoins the deacon, as he follows that gentleman into the hall.

Mr. Scranton remarks, in reply, that such does not become caste, and two pompous-looking servants set upon him brushing the dirt from his clothes with great earnestness. The negroes understand Mr. Scranton at a glance; he is an amiable stoic!

Mrs. Rosebrook disappears for a few minutes, and returns minus her bonnet and mantle. She delights to have the old and the young around her,–to study their characters, to hear their stories, their grievances, and to relieve their wants. “These little black imps,” she says, patting them on the head as they toddle around her, “They’re just as full of interest as their shiny black skins are full of mischief;” and one after another, with hand extended, they seek a recognition; and she takes them in her arms, fondling them with the affection of a nurse.

“Here’s Toby, too; the little cunning rascal! He is as sleek as a mole, a young coon,” she ejaculates, stooping down and playfully working her fingers over Toby’s crispy hair, as he sits upon the grass in front of the house, feasting on a huge sweet potato, with which he has so bedaubed his face that it looks like a mask with the terrific portrayed in the rolling of two immense white eyes. “And here is Nichol Garvio!” and she turns to another, pats him on the head, and shakes his hand. “We mean to make a great man of him, you see,–he has head enough to make a Congress man; who knows but that he’ll get there when he grows up?”

“Congress, happily, is beyond niggers,” replies Mr. Scranton, approving the lady: “Congress is pure yet!” Turning round, she recommends Mr. Scranton to put his northern prejudices in his pocket, where they will be safe when required for the purposes of the south. “A nigger ‘s a nigger all over the world,” rejoins Mr. Scranton, significantly shrugging his shoulders and casting a doubtful glance at the young type.

“True! true!” she returns, giving Mr. Scranton a look of pity. “God give us sight to see! We praise our forefathers-honest praise!-but we forget what they did. They brought them here, poor wretches; decoyed them, deceived them,–and now we wish them back at the very time it would be impossible to live without them. How happy is the mind that believes a ‘nigger’ must be a nigger for ever and ever; and that we must do all in our power to keep him from being anything else!” And her soft blue eyes glowed with sympathy; it was the soul of a noble woman intent on doing good. She had stepped from the darkness of a political error into the airy height of light and love.

Daddy and Bradshaw had taken care of the horses; the deacon greeted his negroes as one by one they came to welcome him; and for each he had a kind word, a joke, a shake of the hand, or an enquiry about some missing member of a family. The scene presented an interesting picture-the interest, policy, and good faith between master and slave. No sooner were the horses cared for, than Daddy and Bradshaw started for the “cabins,” to say welcome to the old folks, “a heap a’ how de” to the gals, and tell de boys, down yander, in de tater patch, dat Missus come. They must have their touching congratulations, interchange the news of the city for the gossip of the plantation, and drink the cup of tea Mamma makes for the occasion. Soon the plantation is all agog; and the homely, but neat cabins, swarm with negroes of all ages, bustling here and there, and making preparations for the evening supper, which Aunt Peggy, the cook, has been instructed to prepare in her very best style.

The deacon joins his good lady, and, with Mr. Scranton, they prepare to walk over and view the plantation. They are followed by a retinue of old and young property, giving vent to their thoughts in expressions of gratitude to Missus and Mas’r. A broad expanse of rural beauty stretches towards the west, soft and enchanting. The sun is sinking into the curtains of a refulgent cloud; its crimson light casts a mellow shade over the broad landscape; the evening breeze is wafting coolly over the foliage, a welcome relief to the scorching heat of mid-day; the balmy atmosphere breathes sweetness over the whole. To the north stands a clump of fine old oaks, high above the distant “bottom,” reflecting in all their richness the warm tints of the setting sun. The leaves rustle as they pass along; long lines of cotton plants, with their healthy blossoms, brighten in the evening shade; the corn bends under its fruit; the potato field looks fresh and luxuriant, and negroes are gathering from the slip-beds supplies of market gardening. There is but one appearance among the workers-cheerfulness! They welcome Mas’r as he passes along; and again busily employ themselves, hoeing, weeding, and working at the roots of vines in search of destructive insects.

“My overseers are all black, every one! I would’nt have a white one; they are mostly tyrants,” says the deacon, looking at his fields, exultingly. “And my overseers plan out the very best mode of planting. They get through a heap of work, with a little kindness and a little management. Those two things do a deal, Sir! Five years ago, I projected this new system of managing negroes-or, rather my lady planned it,–she is a great manager, you see,–and I adopted it. You see how it has worked, Mr. Scranton.” The deacon takes Mr. Scranton by the arm, pointing over the broad expanse of cultivated land, bending under the harvest. I make all my negroes marry when they have arrived at a specific age; I assure them I never will sell one unless he or she commits a heinous crime; and I never have. There is a great deal in keeping faith with a negro; he is of mankind, and moved by natural laws mentally and physically, and feels deeply the want of what we rarely regard of much consequence-confidence in his master’s word. Wife encourages their moral energy; I encourage their physical by filling their bellies with as much corn and bacon as they can eat; and then I give them five cents per day (the heads of families) to get those little necessaries which are so essential to their comfort and encouragement. I call it our paid-labour system; and I give them tasks, too, and when they have finished them I allow a small stipend for extra work. It’s a small mite for a great end; and it’s such an encouragement with them that I get about thirty per cent. more work done. And then I allow them to read just as much as they please-what do I care about law? I don’t want to live where learning to read is dangerous to the State, I don’t. Their learning to read never can destroy their affections for me and wife; and kindness to them will make them less dangerous in case of insurrection. It’s not the education we’ve got to fear; our fears increase with the knowledge of our oppression. They know these things-they feel them; and if by educating them one can cultivate their confidence, had we not better do it with a view to contingencies? Now, as the result of our system, we have promised to give all our negroes their freedom at the expiration of ten years, and send such as wish to go, to Liberia; but, I hold that they can do as much for us at home, work for us if properly encouraged, and be good free citizens, obedient to the laws of the State, serving the general good of a great country.”

“Yes!” the good lady interposes; “I want to see those things carried out; they will yet work for the regeneration of their own race. Heaven will some day reward the hand that drags the cursed mantle from off poor Africa; and Africa herself will breathe a prayer to Heaven in grateful acknowledgment of the act that frees her from the stain of being the world’s bonded warehouse for human flesh and blood.”

The deacon interrupts,–suggests “that it were better to move practically; and that small streams may yet direct how a mountain may be removed. Our Union is a great monument of what a Republic may be,–a happy combination of life, freshness, and greatness, upon which the Old World looks with distrust. The people have founded its happiness-its greatness! God alone knows its destiny; crowned heads would not weep over its downfall! It were better each citizen felt his heart beating to the words-It is my country; cursed be the hand raised to sever its members!” The lady tells Mr. Scranton that their produce has increased every year; that last year they planted one hundred and twenty acres with cotton, ninety with corn, forty with sweet potatoes, as many more with slips and roots; and three acres of water-melons for the boys, which they may eat or sell. She assures him that by encouraging the pay system they get a double profit, besides preparing the way for something that must come.

“Come!” Mr. Scranton interrupts: “let the south be true to herself, and there’s no fear of that. But I confess, deacon, there is something good as well as curious about your way of treating niggers.” And Mr. Scranton shakes his head, as if the practicability yet remained the great obstacle in his mind. “Your niggers ain’t every body’s,” he concludes.

“Try it, try it!” Mrs. Rosebrook rejoins: “Go home and propound something that will relieve us from fear-something that will prepare us for any crisis that may occur!”

It was six o’clock, the plantation bell struck, and the cry sounded “All hands quit work, and repair to supper!” Scarcely had the echoes resounded over the woods when the labourers were seen scampering for their cabins, in great glee. They jumped, danced, jostled one another, and sang the cheering melodies, “Sally put da’ hoe cake down!” and “Down in Old Tennessee.”

Reaching their cabins they gathered into a conclave around Daddy and Bradshaw, making the very air resound with their merry jargon. Such a happy meeting-such social congratulations, pouring forth of the heart’s affections, warm and true,–it had never been before Mr. Scranton’s fortune to witness. Indeed, when he listened to the ready flashes of dialogue accompanying their animation, and saw the strange contortions of their fresh, shining faces, he began to “reckon” there was something about niggers that might, by a process not yet discovered, be turned into something.

Old “Mammies” strive for the honour of having Daddy and Bradshaw sup at their cabins, taunting each other on the spareness of their meal. Fires are soon lit, the stew-pans brought into requisition, and the smoke, curling upward among a myriad of mosquitoes, is dispersing them like a band of unwelcome intruders; while the corn-mills rattle and rumble, making the din and clatter more confounding. Daddy and Bradshaw being “aristocratic darkies from the city”-caste being tenaciously kept up among negroes-were, of course, recipients of the choicest delicacies the plantation afforded, not excepting fresh eggs poached, and possum. Bradshaw is particularly fond of ghost stories; and as old Maum Nancy deals largely in this article, as well as being the best believer in spectres on the plantation, he concludes to sup with her, in her hospitable cabin, when she will relate all that she has seen since she last saw him. Maum Nancy is as black as a crow, has a rich store of tales on hand; she will please the old man, more particularly when she tells him about the very bad ghost seen about the mansion for more than “three weeks of nights.” He has got two sarpents’ heads; Maum Nancy declares the statement true, for uncle Enoch “seen him,”-he is a grey ghost-and might a’ knocked him over with his wattle, only he darn’t lest he should reek his vengeance at some unexpected moment. And then he was the very worst kind of a ghost, for he stole all the chickens, not even leaving the feathers. They said he had a tail like the thing Mas’r Sluck whipped his “niggers” with. Bradshaw sups of Maum Nancy’s best, listening to her stories with great concern. The story of the ghost with two heads startles him; his black picture, frame fills with excitement; he has never before heard that ghosts were guilty of predatory crimes. So enchained and excited is he with her story, that the party at the house having finished supper, have made preparations to leave for the city. A finger touches him on the shoulder; he startles, recognises Daddy, who is in search of him, and suddenly becomes conscious that his absence has caused great anxiety. Daddy has found him quietly eating Maum Nancy’s cakes, while intently listening to the story about the ghost “what” steals all her chickens. He is quite unconcerned about Mas’r, Missus-anything but the ghost! He catches his cap, gives Nancy’s hand a warm shake, says God bless ’em, hastens for the mansion, finds the carriage waiting at the door, for Mas’r and Missus, who take their seats as he arrives. Bradshaw mounts the box again, and away it rolls down the oak avenue. The happy party leave for home; the plantation people are turned out en masse to say good bye to Missus, and “hope Mas’r get safe home.” Their greetings sound forth as the carriage disappears in the distance; fainter and fainter the good wish falls upon their ears. They are well on the road; Mr. Scranton, who sits at the side of the good lady, on the back seat, has not deigned to say a word: the evening grows dark, and his mind seems correspondingly gloomy. “I tell you, I feel so pleased, so overjoyed, and so happy when I visit the plantation, to see those poor creatures so happy and so full of fondness! It’s worth all the riches to know that one is loved by the poor. Did you ever see such happiness, Mr. Scranton?” Mrs. Rosebrook enquires, coolly.

“It requires a great deal of thinking, a great deal of caution, a great deal of political foresight, before answering such questions. You’ll pardon me, my dear madam, I know you will; I always speak square on questions, you know. It’s hard to reconcile oneself to niggers being free.”

“Ah! yes-it’s very amiable to think; but how much more praiseworthy to act! If we southern ladies set ourselves about it we can do a great deal; we can save the poor creatures being sold, like cows and calves, in this free country. We must save ourselves from the moral degradation that is upon us. What a pity Marston’s friends did not make an effort to change his course! If they had he would not now be in the hands of that Graspum. We are surrounded by a world of temptation; and yet our planters yield to them; they think everything a certainty, forgetting that the moment they fall into Graspum’s hands they are gone.”

Mr. Scranton acknowledges he likes the look of things on the plantation, but suggests that it will be considered an innovation,–an innovation too dangerous to be considered. Innovations are dangerous with him,–unpopular, cannot amount to much practical good. He gives these insinuations merely as happy expressions of his own profound opinion. The carriage approaches the villa, which, seen from the distance, seems sleeping in the calm of night. Mr. Scranton is like those among us who are always fearing, but never make an effort to remove the cause; they, too, are doggedly attached to political inconsistency, and, though at times led to see the evil, never can be made to acknowledge the wrong. They reach the garden gate; Mr. Scranton begs to be excused from entering the Villa,–takes a formal leave of his friend, and wends his way home, thinking. “There’s something in it!” he says to himself, as he passes the old bridge that separates the city from the suburb. “It’s not so much for the present as it is for the hereafter. Nobody thinks of repairing this old bridge, and yet it has been decaying under our eyes for years. Some day it will suddenly fall,–a dozen people will be precipitated into the water below, some killed; the city will then resound with lamentations; every body knows it must take place one of these days, everybody is to blame, but no special criminal can be found. There’s something in the comparison!” he says, looking over the old railing into the water. And then his thoughts wandered to the plantation. There the germs of an enlightened policy were growing up; the purity of a noble woman’s heart was spreading blessings among a downcast race, cultivating their minds, raising them up to do good for themselves, to reward the efforts of the benefactor. Her motto was:–Let us through simple means seek the elevation of a class of beings whose degradation has distracted the political wisdom of our happy country, from its conquest to the present day. “There’s something in it,” again mutters Mr. Scranton, as he enters his room, lights his taper, and with his elbow resting on the table, his head supported in his hand, sits musing over the subject.

CHAPTER XII.

ELDER PEMBERTON PRAISEWORTHY CHANGES HIS BUSINESS.

LET us beg the reader’s indulgence for a few moments, while we say that Mr. Scranton belonged to that large class of servile flatterers who too often come from the New England States-men, who, having no direct interest in slaves, make no scruple of sacrificing their independence that they may appear true to the south and slavery. Such men not unfrequently do the political vampirism of the south without receiving its thanks, but look for the respect of political factions for being loudest supporters of inconsistency. They never receive the thanks of the southerner; frequently and deservedly do they sink into contempt!

A few days after the visit to the plantation we have described in the foregoing chapter, Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, divested of his pastoral occupation, and seriously anxious to keep up his friendly associations with those who had taken a part in furthering the cause of humanity, calls on his old acquaintance, Mrs. Rosebrook. He has always found a welcome under her hospitable roof,–a good meal, over which he could discourse the benefits he bestowed, through his spiritual mission, upon a fallen race; never leaving without kindly asking permission to offer up a prayer, in which he invoked the mercy of the Supreme Ruler over all things. In this instance he seems somewhat downcast, forlorn; he has changed his business; his brown, lean face, small peering eyes, and low forehead, with bristly black hair standing erect, give his features a careworn air. He apologises for the unceremonious call, and says he always forgets etiquette in his fervour to do good; to serve his fellow-creatures, to be a Christian among the living, and serve the dying and the dead-if such have wants–is his motto. And that his motives may not be misconstrued he has come to report the peculiar phases of the business he found it actually necessary to turn his hand to. That he will gain a complete mastery over the devil he has not the fraction of a doubt; and as he has always–deeming him less harmless than many citizens of the south–had strong prejudices against that gentleman, he now has strong expectations of carrying his point against him. Elder Praiseworthy once heard a great statesman–who said singular things as well in as out of Congress–say that he did’nt believe the devil was a bad fellow after all; and that with a little more schooling he might make a very useful gentleman to prevent duelling–in a word, that there was no knowing how we’d get along at the south without such an all-important personage. He has had several spells of deep thinking on this point, which, though he cannot exactly agree with it, he holds firmly to the belief that, so far as it affects duelling, the devil should be one of the principals, and he, being specially ordained, the great antagonist to demolish him with his chosen weapon–humanity.

“They tell me you have gone back into the world,” says Mrs. Rosebrook, as the waiter hands Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy a chair. “It’s only the duty of love, of Christian goodness, he humbly replies, and takes his seat as Mrs. Rosebrook says-“pray be seated!”

“I’m somewhat fatigued; but it’s the fatigue of loving to do good,” he says, rubbing his hands very piously, and giving a look of great ministerial seriousness at the good lady. We will omit several minor portions of the Elder’s cautious introduction of his humane occupation, commencing where he sets forth the kind reasons for such a virtuous policy. “You honestly think you are serving the Lord, do you?” enquires the lady, as she takes her seat.

The Elder evinces surprise at such a question. Hath he moved among Christians so many years, ministering to spiritual wants, and yet the purity of his motives be questioned? “Good madam! we must have faith to believe. All that is meant well should be accepted in the greatness of the intention. You will observe, I am neither a lawyer nor a politician; I would’nt be for the world! We must always be doing something for the good of others; and we must not forget, whilst we are doing it, to serve the Allwise one; and while we are effecting the good of one we are serving the designs of the other.” Thus emphatically spoke the Elder, fingering a book that lay on the table. “I buy sick people, I save the dying, and I instruct them in the ways of the Lord as soon as they are cured, and-” And here the Elder suddenly stops.

“Add, Mr. Praiseworthy, that when you have cured them, and instructed them in the way of the Lord, you sell them!” interrupts the lady, watching the sudden changes that pass over his craven features.

“I always get them good masters; I never fail in that. Nor do I stand upon the profit-it’s the humanity I takes into the balance.” He conceives good under the motley garb of his new mission.

“Humanity-strange humanity, with self coiled beneath. Why, Mr. Praiseworthy!” the lady starts from her seat, and speaks with emphasis, “do you tell me that you have become a resurrection man, standing at the platform of death, interposing with it for a speculation?”

“It’s no uncommon business, Madam; hundreds follow it; some have got rich at it.”

“Got rich at it!” Mrs. Rosebrook interrupts, as a sagacious looking cat bounds on the table, much to the discomfiture of the Elder, who jumps up in a great fright,–“What irresistible natures we have; may heaven save us from the cravings of avarice!”

The Elder very methodically puts the interrupting cat upon the floor, and resumes his seat. “Why, bless us, good madam, we must have something to keep our consciences clear; there’s nothing like living a straightforward life.”

“What a horrible inconsistency! Buying the sick and the dying. May the dead not come in for a portion of your singular generosity? If you can speculate in the dying why exclude the dead? the principle would serve the same faith in Christianity. The heart that can purchase the dying must be full of sad coldness, dragging the woes and pains of mortality down to a tortuous death. Save us from the feelings of speculation,–call them Christian, if you will,–that makes man look upon a dying mortal, valuing but the dollars and cents that are passing away with his life,” she interrupts, giving vent to her pent-up feelings.

Mr. Praiseworthy suggests that the good lady does not comprehend the virtue lying beneath his motives; that it takes a philosophical mind to analyse the good that can be done to human nature, especially poor black human nature. And he asserts, with great sincerity, that saving the lives of those about to die miserable deaths is a wonderful thing for the cause of humanity. Buying them saves their hopeless lives; and if that isn’t praiseworthy nothing can be, and when the act is good the motive should not be questioned.

“Do you save their lives for a Christian purpose, or is it lucre you seek, Mr. Praiseworthy?” she enquires, giving the Elder a significant look, and waiting for a reply.

The Elder rises sedately, and walks across the room, considering his reply. “The question’s so kind of round about,” he mutters, as she continues:–

“Sick when you purchase, your Christianity consists in the art of healing; but you sell them, and consequently save their lives for a profit. There is no cholera in our plantation, thank God! you cannot speculate on our sick. You outshine the London street Jews; they deal in old clothes, you deal in human oddities, tottering infirmity, sick negroes.” Mrs. Rosebrook suggests that such a business in a great and happy country should be consigned to its grave-digger and executioner, or made to pay a killing income tax.

The humane Elder views his clothes; they have become somewhat threadbare since he entered upon his new profession. He, as may be supposed, feels the force of the lady’s remarks, and yet cannot bring his mind to believe himself actuated by anything but a love to do good. Kindness, he contends, was always the most inherent thing in his nature: it is an insult to insinuate anything degrading connected with his calling. And, too, there is another consolation which soars above all,–it is legal, and there is a respectability connected with all legal callings.

“To be upright is my motto, madam,” the Elder says, drawing his hand modestly over his mouth, and again adjusting the tie of his white neck-cloth. “I’m trying to save them, and a penny with them. You see-the Lord forgive him!-my dear madam, Marston didn’t do the clean thing with me; and, the worst of all was, he made a preacher of that nigger of his. The principle is a very bad one for nigger property to contend for; and when their masters permit it, our profession is upset; for, whenever a nigger becomes a preacher, he’s sure to be a profitable investment for his owner. There is where it injures us; and we have no redress, because the nigger preacher is his master’s property, and his master can make him preach, or do what he pleases with him,” says Mr. Praiseworthy, becoming extremely serious.

“Ah! yes,–self pinches the principles; I see where it is, Elder,” says the lady. “But you were indiscreet, given to taking at times; and the boy Harry, proving himself quite as good at preaching, destroyed your practice. I wish every negro knew as much of the Bible as that boy Harry. There would be no fear of insurrections; it would be the greatest blessing that ever befell the South. It would make some of your Christians blush,–perhaps ashamed.”

“Ashamed! ashamed! a thing little used the way times are,” he mutters, fretting his fingers through his bristly hair, until it stands erect like quills on a porcupine’s back. This done, he measuredly adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose, giving his tawny visage an appearance at once strange and indicative of all the peculiarities of his peculiar character. “It wasn’t that,” he says, “Marston did’nt get dissatisfied with my spiritual conditions; it was the saving made by the negro’s preaching. But, to my new business, which so touches your sensitive feelings. If you will honour me, my dear madam, with a visit at my hospital, I am certain your impressions will change, and you will do justice to my motives.”

“Indeed!” interrupts the lady, quickly, “nothing would give me more gratification,–I esteem any person engaged in a laudable pursuit; but if philanthropy be expressed through the frailties of speculation,–especially where it is carried out in the buying and selling of afflicted men and women,–I am willing to admit the age of progress to have got ahead of me. However, Elder, I suppose you go upon the principle of what is not lost to sin being gained to the Lord: and if your sick property die pious, the knowledge of it is a sufficient recompense for the loss.” Thus saying, she readily accepted the Elder’s kind invitation, and, ordering a basket of prepared nourishment, which, together with the carriage, was soon ready, she accompanied him to his infirmary. They drove through narrow lanes and streets lined with small dilapidated cottages, and reached a wooden tenement near the suburb of the city of C–. It was surrounded by a lattice fence, the approach being through a gate, on which was inscribed, “Mr. Praiseworthy’s Infirmary;” and immediately below this, in small letters, was the significant notice, “Planters having the cholera and other prevailing diseases upon their plantations will please take notice that I am prepared to pay the highest price for the infirm and other negroes attacked with the disease. Offers will be made for the most doubtful cases!”

“Elder Praiseworthy!” ejaculates the lady, starting back, and stopping to read the strange sign. “‘Offers will be made for the most doubtful cases!'” she mutters, turning towards him with a look of melancholy. “What thoughts, feelings, sentiments! That means, that unto death you have a pecuniary interest in their bodies; and, for a price, you will interpose between their owners and death. The mind so grotesque as to conceive such a purpose should be restrained, lest it trifle with life unconsciously.”

“You see,” interrupts Mr. Praiseworthy, looking more serious than ever, “It’s the life saved to the nigger; he’s grateful for it; and if they ain’t pious just then, it gives them time to consider, to prepare themselves. My little per centage is small-it’s a mean commission; and if it were not for the satisfaction of knowing how much good I do, it wouldn’t begin to pay a professional gentleman.” As the Elder concludes his remarks, melancholy sounds are breaking forth in frightful discord. From strange murmurings it rises into loud wailings and implorings. “Take me, good Lord, to a world of peace!” sounds in her ears, as they approach through a garden and enter a door that opens into a long room, a store-house of human infirmity, where moans, cries, and groans are made a medium of traffic. The room, about thirty feet long and twenty wide, is rough-boarded, contains three tiers of narrow berths, one above the other, encircling its walls. Here and there on the floor are cots, which Mr. Praiseworthy informs us are for those whose cases he would not give much for. Black nurses are busily attending the sick property; some are carrying bowls of gruel, others rubbing limbs and quieting the cries of the frantic, and again supplying water to quench thirst. On a round table that stands in the centre of the room is a large medicine-chest, disclosing papers, pills, powders, phials, and plasters, strewn about in great disorder. A bedlam of ghastly faces presents itself,–dark, haggard, and frantic with the pains of the malady preying upon the victims. One poor wretch springs from his couch, crying, “Oh, death! death! come soon!” and his features glare with terror. Again he utters a wild shriek, and bounds round the room, looking madly at one and another, as if chased by some furious animal. The figure of a female, whose elongated body seems ready to sink under its disease, sits on a little box in the corner, humming a dolorous air, and looking with glassy eyes pensively around the room at those stretched in their berths. For a few seconds she is quiet; then, contorting her face into a deep scowl, she gives vent to the most violent bursts of passion,–holds her long black hair above her head, assumes a tragic attitude, threatens to distort it from the scalp. “That one’s lost her mind-she’s fitty; but I think the devil has something to do with her fits. And, though you wouldn’t think it, she’s just as harmless as can be,” Mr. Praiseworthy coolly remarks, looking at Mrs. Rosebrook, hoping she will say something encouraging in reply. The lady only replies by asking him if he purchased her from her owner?

Mr. Praiseworthy responds in the affirmative, adding that she doesn’t seem to like it much. He, however, has strong hopes of curing her mind, getting it “in fix” again, and making a good penny on her. “She’s a’most white, and, unfortunately, took a liking to a young man down town. Marston owned her then, and, being a friend of hers, wouldn’t allow it, and it took away her senses; he thought her malady incurable, and sold her to me for a little or nothing,” he continues, with great complacency.

This poor broken flower of misfortune holds down her head as the lady approaches, gives a look of melancholy expressive of shame and remorse. “She’s sensitive for a nigger, and the only one that has said anything about being put among men,” Mr. Praiseworthy remarks, advancing a few steps, and then going from berth to berth, descanting on the prospects of his sick, explaining their various diseases, their improvements, and his doubts of the dying. The lady watches all his movements, as if more intently interested in Mr. Praiseworthy’s strange character. “And here’s one,” he says, “I fear I shall lose; and if I do, there’s fifty dollars gone, slap!” and he points to an emaciated yellow man, whose body is literally a crust of sores, and whose painful implorings for water and nourishment are deep and touching.

“Poor wretch!” Mr. Praiseworthy exclaims, “I wish I’d never bought him-it’s pained my feelings so; but I did it to save his life when he was most dead with the rheumatics, and was drawn up as crooked as branch cord-wood. And then, after I had got the cinques out of him- after nearly getting him straight for a ‘prime fellow’ (good care did the thing), he took the water on the chest, and is grown out like that.” He points coolly to the sufferer’s breast, which is fearfully distended with disease; saying that, “as if that wasn’t enough, he took the lepors, and it’s a squeak if they don’t end him.” He pities the “crittur,” but has done all he can for him, which he would have done if he hadn’t expected a copper for selling him when cured. “So you see, madam,” he reiterates, “it isn’t all profit. I paid a good price for the poor skeleton, have had all ny trouble, and shall have no gain-except the recompense of feeling. There was a time when I might have shared one hundred and fifty dollars by him, but I felt humane towards him; didn’t want him to slide until he was a No. 1.” Thus the Elder sets forth his own goodness of heart.

“Pray, what do you pay a head for them, Mr. Praiseworthy?” enquires the lady, smoothing her hand over the feverish head of the poor victim, as the carnatic of her cheek changed to pallid languor. Pursuing her object with calmness, she determined not to display her emotions until fully satisfied how far the Elder would go.

“That, madam, depends on cases; cripples are not worth much. But, now and then, we get a legless fellow what’s sound in body, can get round sprightly, and such like; and, seeing how we can make him answer a sight of purposes, he’ll bring something,” he sedately replies, with muscles unmoved. “Cases what doctors give up as ‘done gone,’ we gets for ten and twenty dollars; cases not hanging under other diseases, we give from thirty to fifty-and so on! Remember, however, you must deduct thirty per cent. for death. At times, where you would make two or three hundred dollars by curing one, and saving his life, you lose three, sometimes half-a-dozen head.” The Elder consoles his feelings with the fact that it is not all profit, looks highly gratified, puts a large cut of tobacco in his mouth, thanks God that the common school-bill didn’t pass in the legislature, and that his business is more humane than people generally admit.

“How many have you in all?”

“The number of head, I suppose? Well, there’s about thirty sick, and ten well ones what I sent to market last week. Did-n-‘t-make-a-good market, though,” he drawls out.

“You are alone in the business?”

“Well, no; I’ve a partner-Jones; there’s a good many phases in the business, you see, and one can’t get along. Jones was a nigger-broker, and Jones and me went into partnership to do the thing smooth up, on joint account. I does the curing, and he does the selling, and we both turns a dollar or two-“

“Oh, horrors!” interrupts the lady, looking at Mr. Praiseworthy sarcastically. “Murder will out, men’s sentiments will betray them, selfishness will get above them all; ornament them as you will, their ornaments will drop,–naked self will uncover herself and be the deceiver.”

“Not at all!” the Elder exclaims, in his confidence. “The Lord’s will is in everything; without it we could not battle with the devil; we relieve suffering humanity, and the end justifies the means.”

“You should have left out the means: it is only the end you aim at.”

“That’s like accusing Deacon Seabury of impious motives, because he shaves notes at an illegal interest. It’s worse-because what the law makes legal the church should not make sinful.” This is Praiseworthy’s philosophy, which he proclaims while forgetting the existence of a law of conscience having higher claims than the technicalities of statutes. We must look to that to modify our selfishness, to strengthen our love for human laws when founded in justice.

“And who is this poor girl?” enquires Mrs. Rosebrook, stepping softly forward, and taking her by the hand.

“Marston’s once; some Indian in her, they say. She’s right fair looks when she’s herself. Marston’s in trouble now, and the cholera has made sad havoc of his niggers,” Mr. Praiseworthy replies, placing a chair, and motioning his hand for the lady to be seated. The lady seats herself beside the girl,–takes her hand.

“Yes, missus; God bless good missus. Ye don’t know me now,” mutters the poor girl, raising her wild glassy eyes, as she parts the long black hair from her forehead: “you don’t know me; I’m changed so!”

“My child, who has made you this wretch?” says the good lady, pressing her tawny hand.

My child!” she exclaims, with emphasis: “My child Nicholas,–my child! Missus, save Nicholas; he is my child. Oh! do save him!” and, as if terrified, she grasps tighter the lady’s hand, while her emotions swell into a frantic outburst of grief. “Nicholas, my child!” she shrieks.

“She will come to, soon: it’s only one of her strange fits of aberration. Sometimes I fling cold water over her; and, if it’s very cold, she soon comes to,” Mr. Praiseworthy remarks, as he stands