Our World by F. Colburn AdamsOr, The Slaveholders Daughter, or, The Democrat’s Rule (page 7)

tempted the appetites of his property, by driving them, famished, to the utmost verge of necessity. Thus driven to predatory acts in order to sustain life, the advantages offered by Romescos’ swamp-generally well sprinkled with swine-were readily appropriated to a very good use.

Under covert of Romescos’ absence, Mr. M’Fadden had no very scrupulous objection to his negroes foraging the amply provided swamp,–provided, however, they did the thing on the sly, were careful whose porker they dispatched, and said nothing to him about the eating. In fact, it was simply a matter of economy with Mr. M’Fadden; and as Romescos had a great number of the obstinate brutes, it saved the trouble of raising such undignified stock. Finding, however, that neighbour M’Fadden, or his predatory negroes-such they were called-were laying claim to more than a generous share of their porkships, Romescos thought it high time to put the thing down by a summary process. But what particularly “riled” Romescos in this affair of the hogs was, that M’Fadden’s negroes were not content with catching them in an honourable way, but would do it through the agency of nasty cur-dogs, which he always had despised, and held as unfit even to hunt niggers with. Several times had he expressed his willingness to permit a small number of his grunters to be captured for the benefit of his neighbour’s half-starved negroes, provided, always, they were hunted with honourable hound-dogs. He held such animals in high esteem, while curs he looked upon with utter contempt; he likened the one to the chivalrous old rice-planter, the other to a pettifogging schoolmaster fit for nothing but to be despised and shot. With these feelings he (Romescos) declared his intention to kill the very first negro he caught in his swamp with cur-dogs; and he kept his word. Lying in ambush, he would await their approach, and, when most engaged in appropriating the porkers, rush from his hiding-place, shoot the dogs, and then take a turn at the more exhilarating business of shooting the negroes. He would, with all possible calmness, command the frightened property to approach and partake of his peculiar mixture, administered from his double-barrel gun.

That the reader may better understand Romescos’ process of curing this malady of his neighbour’s negroes, we will give it as related by himself. It is a curious mode of dispatching negro property; the reader, however, cannot fail to comprehend it. “Plantin’ didn’t suit my notions o’ gittin’ rich, ye see, so I spec’lates in nigger property, and makes a better thing on’t. But there’s philosophy about the thing, and a body’s got t’ know the hang on’t afore he can twist it out profitably; so I keeps a sort of a plantation just to make a swell; cos ye got to make a splash to be anybody down south. Can’t be a gentleman, ye see, ‘cept ye plants cotton and rice; and then a feller what’s got a plantation in this kind of a way can be a gentleman, and do so many other bits of trade to advantage. The thing works like the handle of a pump; and then it makes a right good place for raising young niggers, and gettin’ old uns trimmed up. With me, the worst thing is that old screwdriver, M’Fadden, what don’t care no more for the wear and tear of a nigger than nothin’, and drives ’em like as many steam-engines he thinks he can keep going by feeding on saw-dust. He han’t no conception o’ nigger constitution, and is just the worst sort of a chap that ever cum south to get a fortune. Why, look right at his niggers: they look like crows after corn-shuckin. Don’t give ’em no meat, and the critters must steal somethin’ t’ keep out o’ the bone-yard. Well, I argers the case with Mack, tells him how t’ll be atween he and me on this thing, and warns him that if he don’t chunk more corn and grease into his niggers, there ‘ll be a ruptous fuss. But he don’t stand on honour, as I does, especially when his property makes a haul on my swamp of shoats. I an’t home often; so the hogs suffer; and Mack’s niggers get the pork. This ‘ere kind o’ business”–Romescos maintains the serious dignity of himself the while–“don’t go down nohow with me; so Mack and me just has a bit of a good-natured quarrel; and from that we gets at daggers’ points, and I swears how I’ll kill the first nigger o’ his’n what steals hogs o’ mine. Wouldn’t a cared a sous, mark ye, but it cum crossways on a feller’s feelins to think how the ‘tarnal niggers had no more sense than t’ hunt hogs o’ mine with cur-dogs: bin hounds, honourable dogs, or respectable dogs what ‘ll do to hunt niggers with, wouldn’t a cared a toss about it; but-when-I-hears-a cur-dog yelp, oh! hang me if it don’t set my sensations all on pins, just as somethin’ was crucifyin’ a feller. I warns and talks, and then pleads like a lawyer what’s got a bad case; but all to no end o’ reformin’ Mack’s morals,–feller han’t got no sense o’ reform in him. So I sets my niggers on the scent-it gives ’em some fun-and swears I’ll kill a nigger for every hog he steals. This I concludes on; and I never backs out when once I fixes a conclusion.

“Hears the infernal cur-dog’s yelp, yelp, yelp, down in the swamp; then I creeps through the jungle so sly, lays low till the fellers cum up, all jumpin’-pig ahead, then dogs, niggers follerin’, puffin’ and blowin’, eyes poppin’ out, ‘most out o’ breath, just as if they tasted the sparerib afore they’d got the critter.

“Well, ye see, I know’d all the ins and outs of the law,–keeps mighty shy about all the judicial quibbles on’t,–never takes nobody with me whose swearin’ would stand muster in a court of law. All right on that score (Romescos exults in his law proficiency). I makes sure o’ the dogs fust, ollers keepin’ the double-barrel on the right eye for the best nigger in the lot. It would make the longest-faced deacon in the district laugh to see the fire flash out o’ the nigger’s big black eyes, when he sees the cur drop, knowin’ how he’ll get the next plugs souced into him. It’s only natural, cos it would frighten a feller what warn’t used to it just to see what a thunder-cloud of agitation the nigger screws his black face into. And then he starts to run, and puts it like streaks o’ cannon-balls chased by express lightnin’.

“‘Stand still, ye thievin’ varmint! hold up,–bring to a mooring: take the mixture according to Gunter!’ I shouts. The way the nigger pulls up, begs, pleads, and says things what’ll touch a feller’s tender feelins, aint no small kind of an institution. ‘Twould just make a man what had stretchy conscience think there was somethin’ crooked somewhere. ‘Well, boys,’ says I, feeling a little soft about the stomach, ‘seeing how it’s yer Boss what don’t feed ye, I’ll be kind o’ good, and give ye a dose of the mixture in an honourable way.’ Then I loads t’other barrel, the feller’s eyes flashin’ streaks of blue lightnin’ all the time, lookin’ at how I rams it down, chunk! ‘Now, boys,’ says I, when the plugs shot is all ready, ‘there’s system ’bout this ere thing a’ mine–t’aint killin’ ye I wants,–don’t care a copper about that (there an’t no music in that), but must make it bring the finances out a’ yer master’s pocket. That’s the place where he keeps all his morals. Now, run twenty paces and I’ll gin ye a fair chance! The nigger understands me, ye see, and moves off, as if he expected a thunderbolt at his heel, lookin’ back and whining like a puppy what’s lost his mother. Just when he gets to an honourable distance,–say twenty paces, according to fighting rule,–I draws up, takes aim, and plumps the plugs into him. The way the critter jumps reminds me of a circus rider vaultin’ and turnin’ sumersets. You’d think he was inginrubber ‘lectrified. A’ter all, I finds these playin’ doses don’t do; they don’t settle things on the square. So I tries a little stronger mixture, which ends in killin’ three o’ Mack’s niggers right up smooth. But the best on’t is that Mack finds he han’t no proof, goes right into it and kills three o’ my prime fat niggers: that makes us bad friends on every score. But he got a nigger ahead o’ me a’ter awhile, and I ware detarmined to straighten accounts, if it was by stealin’ the odds. Them ar’s my principles, and that’s just the way I settles accounts with folks what don’t do the square thing in the way o’ nigger property.”

Thus the two gentlemen lived in the terror of internal war; and Romescos, seeing such a fine piece of property pass into the hands of his antagonist, resolved on squaring accounts by stealing the preacher,–an act Mr. M’Fadden least expected.

The candidates’ festival offered every facility for carrying this singular coup-d’‚tat into effect. Hence, with the skilful assistance of Nath. Nimrod, and Dan Bengal, Harry was very precipitately and dexterously passed over to the chances of a new phase of slave life.

Ellen waited patiently for Harry’s return until it became evident some ill-luck had befallen him. Lantern in hand, she proceeds to the pen in search. No Harry is to be found there; Mr. M’Fadden’s common negroes only are there, and they sleep sweetly and soundly. What can have befallen him? She conjectures many things, none of which are the right. The lock is upon the door; all is still outside; no traces of kidnapping can be found. She knows his faithfulness,– knows he would not desert his master unless some foul means had been used to decoy him into trouble. She returns to the house and acquaints her master.

Straggling members, who had met to enjoy the generous political banquet, and who still remain to see the night “through” with appropriate honour, are apprised of the sudden disappearance of this very valuable piece of property. They are ready for any turn of excitement,–anything for “topping off” with a little amusement; and to this end they immediately gather round mine host in a party of pursuit. Romescos-he must make his innocence more imposing-has been conspicuous during the night, at times expressing sympathy for Mr. M’Fadden, and again assuring the company that he has known fifty worse cases cured. In order to make this better understood, he will pay the doctor’s bill if M’Fadden dies. Mine host has no sooner given the alarm than Romescos expresses superlative surprise. He was standing in the centre of a conclave of men, whom he harangues on the particular political points necessary for the candidates to support in order to maintain the honour of the State; now he listens to mine host as he recounts the strange absence of the preacher, pauses and combs his long red beard with his fingers, looks distrustfully, and then says, with a quaintness that disarmed suspicion, “Nigger-like!-preacher or angel, nigger will be nigger! The idea o’ makin’ the black rascals preachers, thinkin’ they won’t run away! Now, fellers, that ar’ chap’s skulkin’ about, not far off, out among the pines; and here’s my two dogs”-he points to his dogs, stretched on the floor-“what’ll scent him and bring him out afore ten minutes! Don’t say a word to Mack about it; don’t let it ‘scape yer fly-trap, cos they say he’s got a notion o’ dying, and suddenly changed his feelins ’bout nigger tradin’. There’s no tellin’ how it would affect the old democrat if he felt he warnt goin’ to slip his breeze. This child”-Romescos refers to himself-“felt just as Mack does more nor a dozen times, when Davy Jones looked as if he was making slight advances: a feller soon gets straight again, nevertheless. It’s only the difference atween one’s feelings about makin’ money when he’s well, and thinkin’ how he made it when he’s about to bid his friends good morning and leave town for awhile. Anyhow, there aint no dodging now, fellers! We got to hunt up the nigger afore daylight, so let us take a drop more and be moving.” He orders the landlord to set on the decanters,–they join in a social glass, touch glasses to the recovery of the nigger, and then rush out to the pursuit. Romescos heads the party. With dogs, horses, guns, and all sorts of negro-hunting apparatus, they scour the pinegrove, the swamp, and the heather. They make the pursuit of man full of interest to those who are fond of the chase; they allow their enthusiasm to bound in unison with the sharp baying of the dogs.

For more than two hours is this exhilarating sport kept up. It is sweet music to their ears; they have been trained (educated) to the fascination of a man-hunt, and dogs and men become wearied with the useless search.

Romescos declares the nigger is near at hand: he sees the dogs curl down their noses; he must be somewhere in a hole or jungle of the swamp, and, with more daylight and another dog or two, his apprehension is certain. He makes a halt on the brow of a hill, and addresses his fellow-hunters from the saddle. In his wisdom on nigger nature he will advise a return to the tavern-for it is now daylight-where they will spend another hour merrily, and then return brightened to the pursuit. Acting on this advice, friends and foes-both join as good fellows in the chase for a nigger-followed his retreat as they had his advance.

“No nigger preacher just about this circle, Major!” exclaims Romescos, addressing mine host, as he puts his head into the bar-room, on his return. “Feller’s burrowed somewhere, like a coon: catch him on the broad end of morning, or I’ll hang up my old double-barrel,” he concludes, shaking his head, and ordering drink for the party at his expense.

The morning advanced, however, and nothing was to be seen of Romescos: he vanished as suddenly from among them as Harry had from the pen. Some little surprise is expressed by the knowing ones; they whisper among themselves, while mine host reaches over the counter, cants his head solicitously, and says:–“What’s that, gentlemen?”

In this dilemma they cannot inform mine host; they must continue the useless chase without Romescos’ valuable services. And here we must leave mine host preparing further necessaries for capturing the lost property, that he may restore it to its owner so soon as he shall become convalescent, and turn to Harry.

Like a well-stowed bale of merchandise, to be delivered at a stated place within a specified time, he was rolled in bagging, and not permitted to see the direction in which he was being driven. When the pursuing party started from the crossing, Romescos took the lead in order to draw it in an opposite direction, and keep the dogs from the trail. This would allow the stolen clergyman to get beyond their reach. When daylight broke upon the capturers they were nearly twenty miles beyond the reach of the pursuers, approaching an inn by the road side. The waggon suddenly stopped, and Harry found himself being unrolled from his winding sheet by the hands of two strangers. Lifting him to his feet, they took him from the waggon, loosed the chains from his legs, led him into the house, and placed him in a dark back room. Here, his head being uncovered, he looks upon his captors with an air of confusion and distrust. “Ye know me too, I reckon, old feller, don’t ye?” enquires one of the men, with a sardonic grin, as he lifts his hat with his left hand, and scratches his head with his right.

“Yes, mas’r; there’s no mistakin on ye!” returns Harry, shaking his head, as they release the chains from his hands. He at length recognises the familiar faces of Dan Bengal and Nath. Nimrod. Both have figured about Marston’s plantation, in the purchase and sale of negroes.

“Ye had a jolly good ride, old feller, had’nt ye?” says Bengal, exultingly, looking Harry in the face, shrugging his shoulders, and putting out his hand to make his friendship.

Harry has no reply to make; but rubs his face as if he is not quite satisfied with his new apartment, and wants to know a little more of the motive of the expedition. “Mas’r! I don’t seem to know myself, nor nothin’. Please tell me where I am going to, and who is to be my master? It will relieve my double troubles,” he says, casting an enquiring look at Nimrod.

“Shook up yer parson-thinkin’ some, I reckon, did’nt it, old chap?” returns Nimrod, laughing heartily, but making no further reply. He thinks it was very much like riding in a railroad backwards.

“Did my sick mas’r sell me to you?” again he enquires.

“No business o’ yourn, that ain’t; yer nigger-knowin ought to tell you how ye’d got into safe hands. We’ll push along down south as soon as ye gets some feed. Put on a straight face, and face the music like a clever deacon, and we’ll do the square in selling ye to a Boss what ‘ll let ye preach now and then. (Nimrod becomes very affectionate). Do the thing up righteous, and when yer sold there ‘ll be a five-dollar shiner for yerself. (He pats him on the head, and puts his arm over his shoulder.) Best t’ have a little shot in a body’s own pocket; now, shut up yer black bread-trap, and don’t go makin a fuss about where yer goin’ to: that’s my business!”

Harry pauses as if in contemplation; he is struggling against his indignation excited by such remarks. He knew his old master’s weaknesses, enjoyed his indulgences; but he had never been made to feel so acutely how degraded he could be as a mere article of trade. It would have been some consolation to know which way he was proceeding, and why he had been so suddenly snatched from his new owner. Fate had not ordained this for him; oh no! He must resign himself without making any further enquiries; he must be nothing more than a nigger–happy nigger happily subdued! Seating himself upon the floor, in a recumbent position, he drops his face on his knees,–is humbled among the humblest. He is left alone for some time, while his captors, retiring into an adjoining room, hold a consultation.

Breakfast is being prepared, and much conversation is kept up in an inaudible tone of voice. Harry has an instinctive knowledge that it is about him, for he hears the words, “Peter! Peter!” his name must be transmogrified into “Peter!” In another minute he hears dishes rattling on the table, and Bengal distinctly complimenting the adjuncts, as he orders some for the nigger preacher. This excites his anxiety; he feels like placing his ear at the keyhole,–doing a little evesdropping. He is happily disappointed, however, for the door opens, and a black boy bearing a dish of homony enters, and, placing it before him, begs that he will help himself. Harry takes the plate and sets it beside him, as the strange boy watches him with an air of commiseration that enlists his confidence. “Ain’t da’h somefin mo’ dat I can bring ye?” enquires the boy, pausing for an answer.

“Nothing,–nothing more!”

Harry will venture to make some enquiries about the locality. “Do you belong to master what live here?” He puts out his hand, takes the other by the arm.

“Hard tellin who I belongs to. Buckra man own ’em to-day; ain’t sartin if he own ’em to-morrow, dough. What country-born nigger is you?”

“Down country! My poor old master’s gone, and now I’m goin’; but God only knows where to. White man sell all old Boss’s folks in a string,–my old woman and children among the rest. My heart is with them, God bless them!”

“Reckon how ya’ had a right good old Boss what larn ye somethin.” The boy listens to Harry with surprise. “Don’t talk like dat down dis a way; no country-born nigger put in larn’d wods so, nohow,” returns the boy, with a look of curious admiration.

“But you harn’t told me what place this is?”

“Dis ‘ouse! e’ ant nowhare when Buckra bring nigger what he want to sell, and don’ want nobody to know whar e’ bring him from. Dat man what bring ye here be great Buckra. De ‘h way he lash nigger whin e’ don do jist so!” The boy shakes his head with a warning air.

“How did you get here? There must be roads leading in some directions?”

“Roads runnin’ every which way, yand’r; and trou de woods anyway, but mighty hard tellin whar he going to, he is. Mas’r Boss don lef ‘e nigger know how ‘e bring’um, nor how he takes ‘um way. Guess da ‘h gwine to run ye down country, so God bless you,” says the boy, shaking him by the hand, and taking leave.

“Well! if I only knew which way I was going I should feel happy; because I could then write to my old master, somewhere or somehow. And I know my good friend Missus Rosebrook will buy me for her plantation,–I know she will. She knows my feelings, and in her heart wouldn’t see me abused, she wouldn’t! I wish I knew who my master is, where I am, and to whom I’m going to be sold next. I think new master has stolen me, thinking old master was going to die,” Harry mutters to himself, commencing his breakfast, but still applying his listening faculties to the conversation in the next room. At length, after a long pause, they seem to have finished breakfast and taken up the further consideration of his sale.

“I don’t fear anything of the kind! Romescos is just the keenest fellow that can be scared up this side of Baltimore. He never takes a thing o’ this stamp in hand but what he puts it through,” says Bengal, in a whispering tone.

“True! the trouble’s in his infernal preaching; that’s the devil of niggers having intelligence. Can do anything in our way with common niggers what don’t know nothin’; but when the critters can do clergy, and preach, they’ll be sending notes to somebody they know as acquaintances. An intelligent nigger’s a bad article when ye want to play off in this way,” replies the other, curtly.

“Never mind,” returns Bengal, “can’t ollers transpose a nigger, as easy as turnin’ over a sixpence, specially when he don’t have his ideas brightened. Can’t steer clar on’t. Larnin’s mighty dangerous to our business, Nath.-better knock him on the head at once; better end him and save a sight of trouble. It’ll put a stopper on his preaching, this pesks exercisin’ his ideas.”

A third interrupts. “Thinks such a set of chicken-hearted fellows won’t do when it comes to cases of ‘mergency like this. He will just make clergyman Peter Somebody the deacon; and with this honorary title he’ll put him through to Major Wiley’s plantation, when he’ll be all right down in old Mississippi. The Colonel and he, understanding the thing, can settle it just as smooth as sunrise. The curate is what we call a right clever fellow, would make the tallest kind of a preacher, and pay first-rate per centage on himself.” Bengal refers to Harry. His remarks are, indeed, quite applicable. “I’ve got the dockerment, ye see, all prepared; and we’ll put him through without a wink,” he concludes, in a measured tone of voice.

The door of Harry’s room opens, and the three enter together. “Had a good breakfast, old feller, hain’t ye?” says Nimrod, approaching with hand extended, and patting him on the head with a child’s playfulness. “I kind o’ likes the looks on ye” (a congratulatory smile curls over his countenance), “old feller; and means to do the square thing in the way o’ gettin’ on ye a good Boss. Put on the Lazarus, and no nigger tricks on the road. I’m sorry to leave ye on the excursion, but here’s the gentleman what’ll see ye through,–will put ye through to old Mississip just as safe as if ye were a nugget of gold.” Nimrod introduces Harry to a short gentleman with a bald head, and very smooth, red face. His dress is of brown homespun, a garb which would seem peculiar to those who do the villainy of the peculiar institution. The gentleman has a pair of handcuffs in his left hand, with which he will make his pious merchandise safe. Stepping forward, he places the forefinger of his right hand on the preacher’s forehead, and reads him a lesson which he must get firm into his thinking shell. It is this. “Now, at this very time, yer any kind of a nigger; but a’ter this ar’ ye got to be a Tennessee nigger, raised in a pious Tennessee family. And yer name is Peter-Peter-Peter!-don’t forget the Peter: yer a parson, and ought t’ keep the old apostle what preached in the marketplace in yer noddle. Peter, ye see, is a pious name, and Harry isn’t; so ye must think Peter and sink Harry.”

“What do I want to change my name for? Old master give me that name long time ago!”

“None o’ yer business; niggers ain’t t’ know the philosophy of such things. No nigger tricks, now!” interrupts Bengal, quickly, drawing his face into savage contortions. At this the gentleman in whose charge he will proceed steps forward and places the manacles on Harry’s hands with the coolness and indifference of one executing the commonest branch of his profession. Thus packed and baled for export, he is hurried from the house into a two-horse waggon, and driven off at full speed. Bengal watches the waggon as it rolls down the highway and is lost in the distance. He laughs heartily, thinks how safe he has got the preacher, and how much hard cash he will bring. God speed the slave on his journey downward, we might add.

It will be needless for us to trace them through the many incidents of their journey; our purpose will be served when we state that his new guardian landed him safely at the plantation of Major Wiley, on the Tallahatchee River, Mississippi, on the evening of the fourth day after their departure, having made a portion of their passage on the steamer Ohio. By some process unknown to Harry he finds himself duly ingratiated among the major’s field hands, as nothing more than plain Peter. He is far from the high-road, far from his friends, without any prospect of communicating with his old master. The major, in his way, seems a well-disposed sort of man, inclined to “do right” by his negroes, and willing to afford them an opportunity of employing their time after task, for their own benefit. And yet it is evident that he must in some way be connected with Graspum and his party, for there is a continual interchange of negroes to and from his plantation. This, however, we must not analyse too closely, but leave to the reader’s own conjectures, inasmuch as Major Wiley is a very distinguished gentleman, and confidently expects a very prominent diplomatic appointment under the next administration.

Harry, in a very quiet way, sets himself about gaining a knowledge of his master’s opinions on religion, as well as obtaining his confidence by strict fidelity to his interests. So far does he succeed, that in a short time he finds himself holding the respectable and confidential office of master of stores. Then he succeeds in inducing his master to hear him preach a sermon to his negroes. The major is perfectly willing to allow him the full exercise of his talents, and is moved to admiration at his fervency, his aptitude, his knowledge of the Bible, and the worth there must be in such a piece of clergy property. Master Wiley makes his man the offer of purchasing his time, which Harry, under the alias of Peter, accepts, and commences his mission of preaching on the neighbouring plantations.

Ardently and devoutedly does he pursue his mission of Christianity among his fellow-bondmen; but he has reaped little of the harvest to himself, his master having so increased the demand for his time that he can scarcely save money enough to purchase clothes. At first he was only required to pay six dollars a week; now, nothing less than ten is received. It is a happy premium on profitable human nature; and through it swings the strongest hinge of that cursed institution which blasts alike master and slave. Major Wiley is very chivalrous, very hospitable, and very eminent for his many distinguished qualifications; but his very pious piece of property must pay forty-seven per cent. annual tribute for the very hospitable privilege of administering the Word of God to his brother bondmen. Speak not of robed bishops robbing Christianity in a foreign land, ye men who deal in men, and would rob nature of its tombstone! Ye would rob the angels did their garments give forth gold.

The poor fellow’s income, depending, in some measure, upon small presents bestowed by the negroes to whom he preached, was scarcely enough to bring him out at the end of the week, and to be thus deprived of it seemed more than his spirits could bear. Again and again had he appealed to his master for justice; but there was no justice for him,–his appeals proved as fruitless as the wind, on his master’s callous sensibilities. Instead of exciting compassion, he only drew upon him his master’s prejudices; he was threatened with being sold, if he resisted for a day the payment of wages for his own body. Hence he saw but one alternative left-one hope, one smile from a good woman, who might, and he felt would, deliver him; that was in writing to his good friend, Mrs. Rosebrook, whose generous heart he might touch through his appeals for mercy. And yet there was another obstacle; the post-office might be ten miles off, and his master having compelled him to take the name of Peter Wiley, how was he to get a letter to her without the knowledge of his master? Should his letter be intercepted, his master, a strict disciplinarian, would not only sell him farther south, but inflict the severest punishment. Nevertheless, there was one consolation left; his exertions on behalf of the slaves, and his earnestness in promoting the interests of their masters, had not passed unnoticed with the daughter of a neighbouring planter (this lady has since distinguished herself for sympathy with the slave), who became much interested in his welfare. She had listened to his exhortations with admiration; she had listened to his advice on religion, and become his friend and confidant. She would invite him to her father’s house, sit for hours at his side, and listen with breathless attention to his pathos, his display of natural genius. To her he unfolded his deep and painful troubles; to her he looked for consolation; she was the angel of light guiding him on his weary way, cheering his drooping soul on its journey to heaven. To her he disclosed how he had been called to the bedside of his dying master; how, previously, he had been sold from his good old master, Marston, his wife, his children; how he was mysteriously carried off and left in the charge of his present master, who exacts all he can earn.

The simple recital of his story excites the genial feelings of the young lady; she knows some foul transaction is associated with his transition, and at once tenders her services to release him. But she must move cautiously, for even Harry’s preaching is in direct violation of the statutes; and were she found aiding in that which would unfavourably affect the interests of his master she would be subjected to serious consequences-perhaps be invited to spend a short season at the sheriff’s hotel, commonly called the county gaol. However, there was virtue in the object to be served, and feeling that whatever else she could do to relieve him would be conferring a lasting benefit on a suffering mortal, she will brave the attempt.

“Tell me he is not a man, but a slave! tell me a being with such faculties should be thus sunken beneath the amenities of freedom! that man may barter almighty gifts for gold! trample his religion into dust, and turn it into dollars and cents! What a mockery is this against the justice of heaven! When this is done in this our happy land of happy freedom, scoffers may make it their foot-ball, and kings in their tyranny may point the finger of scorn at us, and ask us for our honest men, our cherished freedom!

“Woman can do something, if she will; let me see what I can do to relieve this poor oppressed,” she exclaims one day, after he has consulted her on the best means of relief. “I will try.”

Woman knows the beatings of the heart; she can respond more quickly to its pains and sorrows. Our youthful missionary will sit down and write a letter to Mrs. Rosebrook-she will do something, the atmosphere of slavery will hear of her yet-it will!

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE PRETTY CHILDREN ARE TO BE SOLD.

HOW varied are the sources of human nature-how changing its tints and glows-how immeasurable its uncertainties, and how obdurate the will that can turn its tenderest threads into profitable degradation! But what democrat can know himself a freeman when the whitest blood makes good merchandise in the market? When the only lineal stain on a mother’s name for ever binds the chains, let no man boast of liberty. The very voice re-echoes, oh, man, why be a hypocrite! cans’t thou not see the scorner looking from above? But the oligarchy asks in tones so modest, so full of chivalrous fascination, what hast thou to do with that? be no longer a fanatic. So we will bear the warning-pass from it for the present.

More than two years have passed; writs of error have been filed and argued; the children have dragged out time in a prison-house. Is it in freedom’s land a prison was made for the innocent to waste in? So it is, and may Heaven one day change the tenour! Excuse, reader, this digression, and let us proceed with our narrative.

The morning is clear and bright; Mrs. Rosebrook sits at the window of her cheerful villa, watching the approach of the post-rider seen in the distance, near a cluster of oaks that surround the entrance of the arbour, at the north side of the garden. The scene spread out before her is full of rural beauty, softened by the dew-decked foliage, clothing the landscape with its clumps. As if some fairy hand had spread a crystal mist about the calm of morning, and angels were bedecking it with the richest tints of a rising sun at morn, the picture sparkles with silvery life. There she sits, her soft glowing eyes scanning the reposing scene, as her graceful form seems infusing spirit into its silent loveliness. And then she speaks, as if whispering a secret to the wafting air: “our happy union!” It falls upon the ear like some angel voice speaking of things too pure, too holy for the caprices of earth. She would be a type of that calmness pervading the scene-that sweetness and repose which seem mingling to work out some holy purpose; and yet there is a touching sadness depicted in her face.

“Two years have passed; how changed!” she exclaims, as if rousing from a reverie: “I would not be surprised if he brought bad tidings.”

The postman has reached the gate and delivered a letter, which the servant quickly bears to her hand. She grasps it anxiously, as if recognising the superscription; opens it nervously; reads the contents. It is from Franconia, interceding with her in behalf of her uncle and the two children, in the following manner:–“My dearest Friend,

“Can I appeal to one whose feelings are more ready to be enlisted in a good cause? I think not. I wish now to enlist your feelings in something that concerns myself. It is to save two interesting children-who, though our eyes may at times be blinded to facts, I cannot forget are nearly allied to me by birth and association-from the grasp of slavery. Misfortune never comes alone; nor, in this instance, need I recount ours to you. Of my own I will say but little; the least is best. Into wedlock I have been sold to one it were impossible for me to love; he cannot cherish the respect due to my feelings. His associations are of the coarsest, and his heartless treatment beyond my endurance. He subjects me to the meanest grievances; makes my position more degraded than that of the slave upon whom he gratifies his lusts. Had my parents saved me from such a monster-I cannot call him less-they would have saved me many a painful reflection. As for his riches-I know not whether they really exist-they are destined only to serve his lowest passions. With him misfortune is a crime; and I am made to suffer under his taunts about the disappearance of my brother, the poverty of my parents.

“You are well aware of the verdict of the jury, and the affirmation of the Court of Appeal, upon those dear children. The decree orders them to be sold in the market, for the benefit of my uncle’s creditors: this is the day, the fatal day, the sale takes place. Let me beseech of you, as you have it in your power, to induce the deacon to purchase them. O, save them from the fate that awaits them! You know my uncle’s errors; you know also his goodness of heart; you can sympathise with him in his sudden downfall. Then the affection he has for Annette is unbounded. No father could be more dotingly fond of his legitimate child. But you know what our laws are-what they force us to do against our better inclinations. Annette’s mother, poor wretch, has fled, and M’Carstrow charges me with being accessory to her escape: I cannot, nor will I, deny it, while my most ardent prayer invokes her future happiness. That she has saved herself from a life of shame I cannot doubt; and if I have failed to carry out a promise I made her before her departure-that of rescuing her child-the satisfaction of knowing that she at least is enjoying the reward of freedom partially repays my feelings. Let me entreat you to repair to the city, and, at least, rescue Annette from that life of shame and disgrace now pending over her-a shame and disgrace no less black in the sight of heaven because society tolerates it as among the common things of social life.

“I am now almost heart-broken, and fear it will soon be my lot to be driven from under the roof of Colonel M’Carstrow, which is no longer a home, but a mere place of durance to me. It would be needless for me here to recount his conduct. Were I differently constituted I might tolerate his abuse, and accept a ruffian’s recompense in consideration of his wealth.

“Go, my dear friend, save that child,

“Is the prayer of your affectionate

“FRANCONIA.”

Mrs. Rosebrook reads and re-reads the letter; then heaves a sigh as she lays it upon the table at her side. As if discussing the matter in her mind, her face resumes a contemplative seriousness.

“And those children are to be sold in the market! Who won’t they sell, and sanctify the act? How can I relieve them? how can I be their friend, for Franconia’s sake? My husband is away on the plantation, and I cannot brave the coarse slang of a slave mart; I cannot mingle with those who there congregate.

“And, too, there are so many such cases-bearing on their front the fallacy of this our democracy-that however much one may have claims over another, it were impossible to take one into consideration without inciting a hundred to press their demands. In this sense, then, the whole accursed system would have to be uprooted before the remedy could be applied effectually. Notwithstanding, I will go; I will go: I’ll see what can be done in the city,” says Mrs. Rosebrook, bristling with animation. “Our ladies must have something to arouse their energies; they all have a deep interest to serve, and can do much:” she will summon resolution and brave all. Rising from her seat, she paces the room several times, and then orders a servant to command Uncle Bradshaw to get the carriage ready, and be prepared for a drive into the city.

Soon Bradshaw has got the carriage ready, and our good lady is on the road, rolling away toward the city. As they approach a curvature that winds round a wooded hill, Bradshaw intimates to “missus” that he sees signs of a camp a short distance ahead. He sees smoke curling upwards among the trees, and very soon the notes of a long-metre tune fall softly on the ear, like the tinkling of distant bells in the desert. Louder and louder, as they approach, the sounds become more and more distinct. Then our good lady recognises the familiar voice of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy. This worthy christian of the Southern Church is straining his musical organ to its utmost capacity, in the hope there will be no doubt left on the minds of those congregated around him as to his very sound piety. The carriage rounds the curvature, and there, encamped in a grove of pines by the road side, is our pious Elder, administering consolation to his infirm property. Such people! they present one of the most grotesque and indiscriminate spectacles ever eyes beheld. The cholera has subsided; the Elder’s greatest harvest time is gone; few victims are to be found for the Elder’s present purposes. Now he is constrained to resort to the refuse of human property (those afflicted with what are called ordinary diseases), to keep alive the Christian motive of his unctuous business. To speak plainly, he must content himself with the purchase of such infirmity as can be picked up here and there about the country.

A fire of pine knots blazes in the centre of a mound, and over it hangs an iron kettle, on a straddle, filled with corn-grits. Around this, and anxiously watching its boiling, are the lean figures of negroes, with haggard and sickly faces, telling but too forcibly the tale of their troubles. They watch and watch, mutter in grumbling accents, stir the homony, and sit down again. Two large mule carts stand in the shade of a pine tree, a few yards from the fire. A few paces further on are the mules tethered, quietly grazing; while, seated on a whiskey-keg, is the Elder, book in hand, giving out the hymn to some ten or a dozen infirm negroes seated round him on the ground. They have enjoyed much consolation by listening with wondrous astonishment to the Elder’s exhortations, and are now ready to join their musical jargon to the words of a Watts’s hymn.

On arriving opposite the spot, our good lady requests Bradshaw to stop; which done, the Elder recognises her, and suddenly adjourning his spiritual exercises, advances to meet her, his emotions expanding with enthusiastic joy. In his eagerness, with outstretched hand, he comes sailing along, trips his toe in a vine, and plunges head foremost into a broad ditch that separates the road from the rising ground.

The accident is very unfortunate at this moment; the Elder’s enthusiasm is somewhat cooled, nevertheless; but, as there is seldom a large loss without a small gain, he finds himself strangely bespattered from head to foot with the ingredients of a quagmire.

“U’h! u’h! u’h! my dear madam, pardon me, I pray;–strange moment to meet with a misfortune of this kind. But I was so glad to see you!” he ejaculates, sensitively, making the best of his way out, brushing his sleeves, and wiping his face with his never-failing India handkerchief. He approaches the carriage, apologising for his appearance.

He hopes our lady will excuse him, having so far lost himself in his enthusiasm, which, together with the fervency and devotion of the spiritual exercises he was enjoying with his poor, helpless property, made him quite careless of himself. Begging a thousand pardons for presenting himself in such a predicament (his gallantry is proverbially southern), he forgets that his hat and spectacles have been dislodged by his precipitation into the ditch.

The good lady reaches out her hand, as a smile curls over her face; but Bradshaw must grin; and grin he does, in right good earnest.

“Bless me, my dear Elder! what trade are you now engaged in?” she enquires.

“A little devotional exercises, my dear madam! We were enjoying them with so much christian feeling that I was quite carried away, indeed I was!” He rubs his fingers through his bristly hair, and then downwards to his nasal organ, feeling for his devoted glasses. He is surprised at their absence-makes another apology. He affirms, adding his sacred honour, as all real southerners do, that he had begun to feel justified in the belief that there never was a religion like that preached by the good apostles, when such rural spots as this (he points to his encampment) were chosen for its administration. Everything round him made him feel so good, so much like the purest christian of the olden time. He tells her, with great seriousness, that we must serve God, and not forget poor human nature, never! To the world he would seem labouring under the influence of those inert convictions by which we strive to conceal our natural inclinations, while drawing the flimsy curtain of “to do good” over the real object.

He winks and blinks, rubs his eyes, works his face into all the angles and contortions it is capable of, and commences searching for his hat and spectacles. Both are necessary adjuncts to his pious appearance; without them there is that in the expression of his countenance from which none can fail to draw an unfavourable opinion of his real character. The haggard, care-worn face, browned to the darkest tropical tints; the ceaseless leer of that small, piercing eye, anxiety and agitation pervading the tout ensemble of the man, will not be dissembled. Nay; those acute promontories of the face, narrow and sharp, and that low, reclining forehead, and head covered with bristly iron-grey hair, standing erect in rugged tufts, are too strong an index of character for all the disguises Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy can invent.

“One minute, my dear madam,” he exclaims, in his eagerness for the lost ornaments of his face.

“Never mind them, Elder; never mind them! In my eyes you are just as well without them,” she rejoins, an ironical smile invading her countenance, and a curl of contempt on her lip. “But,–tell me what are you doing here?”

“Here! my dear madam? Doing good for mankind and the truth of religion. I claim merit of the parish, for my pursuit is laudable, and saves the parish much trouble,” says the Elder, beginning to wax warm in the goodness of his pursuit, before anyone has undertaken to dispute him, or question the purity of his purpose.

“Still speculating in infirmity; making a resurrection man of yourself! You are death’s strongest opponent; you fight the great slayer for small dollars and cents.”

“Well, now,” interrupts the Elder, with a serious smile, “I’d rather face a Mexican army than a woman’s insinuating questions,–in matters of this kind! But it’s business, ye see! according to law; and ye can’t get over that. There’s no getting over the law; and he that serveth the Lord, no matter how, deserveth recompense; my recompense is in the amount of life I saves for the nigger.”

“That is not what I asked; you evade my questions, Elder! better acknowledge honestly, for the sake of the country, where did you pick up these poor wretches?”

“I goes round the district, madam, and picks up a cripple here, and a cancer case there, and a dropsy doubtful yonder; and then, some on em’s got diseases what don’t get out until one comes to apply medical skill. Shan’t make much on these sort o’ cases,–“

The lady interrupts him, by bidding him good morning, and advising him, whenever he affects to serve the Lord, to serve him honestly, without a selfish motive. She leaves the Elder to his own reflections, to carry his victim property to his charnel-house, where, if he save life for the enjoyment of liberty, he may serve the Lord to a good purpose. She leaves him to the care of the christian church of the South,–the church of christian slavery, the rules of which he so strictly follows.

As our good lady moves quickly away toward the city, the Elder looks up, imploringly, as if invoking the praise of heaven on his good deeds. He is, indeed, astonished, that his dear friend, the lady, should have made such a declaration so closely applied, so insinuating. That such should have escaped her lips when she must know that his very soul and intention are purity! “I never felt like making a wish before now; and now I wishes I was, or that my father had made me, a lawyer. I would defend my position in a legal sense then! I don’t like lawyers generally, I confess; the profession’s not as honourable as ours, and its members are a set of sharpers, who would upset gospel and everything else for a small fee, they would!” He concludes, as his eyes regrettingly wander after the carriage. The words have moved him; there is something he wishes to say, but can’t just get the point he would arrive at. He turns away, sad at heart, to his sadder scenes. “I know that my Redeemer liveth,” he sings.

In the city a different piece is in progress of performance. Papers, and all necessary preparations for procuring the smooth transfer of the youthful property, are completed; customers have begun to gather round the mart. Some are searching among the negroes sent to the warehouse; others are inquiring where this property, advertised in the morning journals, and so strongly commented upon, may be found. They have been incited to examine, in consequence of the many attractions set forth in the conditions of sale.

There the two children sit, on a little seat near the vender’s tribune. Old Aunt Dina, at the prison, has dressed Annette so neatly! Her white pinafore shines so brightly, is so neatly arranged, and her silky auburn locks curl so prettily, in tiny ringlets, over her shoulders; and then her round fair face looks so sweetly, glows with such innocent curiosity, as her soft blue eyes, deep with sparkling vivacity, wander over the strange scene. She instinctively feels that she is the special object of some important event. Laying her little hand gently upon the arm of an old slave that sits by her side, she casts shy glances at those admirers who stand round her and view her as a marketable article only.

“Auntie, where are they going to take me?” the child inquires, with a solicitous look, as she straightens the folds of her dress with her little hands.

“Gwine t’ sell ‘um,” mumbles the old slave. “Lor’, child, a’h wishes ye wa’h mine; reckon da’h wouldn’t sell ye. T’ant much to sell nigger like I, nohow; but e’ hurt my feelins just so ‘twarnt right t’ sell de likes o’ ye.” The old slave, in return, lays her hand upon Annette’s head, and smooths her hair, as if solicitous of her fate. “Sell ye, child-sell ye?” she concludes, shaking her head.

“And what will they do with me and Nicholas when they get us sold?” continues the child, turning to Nicholas and taking him by the arm.

“Don’ kno’: perhaps save ye fo’h sinnin’ agin de Lor’,” is the old slave’s quick reply. She shakes her head doubtingly, and bursts into tears, as she takes Annette in her arms, presses her to her bosom, kisses and kisses her pure cheek. How heavenly is the affection of that old slave–how it rebukes our Christian mockery!

“Will they sell us where we can’t see mother, auntie? I do want to see mother so,” says the child, looking up in the old slave’s face. There seemed something too pure, too holy, in the child’s simplicity, as it prattled about its mother, for such purposes as it is about to be consigned to. “They do not sell white folks, auntie, do they? My face is as white as anybody’s; and Nicholas’s aint black. I do want to see mother so! when will she come back and take care of me, auntie?”

“Lor’, child,” interrupts the old negro, suppressing her emotions, “no use to ax dem questions ven ye gwine t’ market. Buckra right smart at makin’ nigger what bring cash.”

The child expresses a wish that auntie would take her back to the old plantation, where master, as mother used to call him, wouldn’t let them sell her away off. And she shakes her head with an air of unconscious pertness; tells the old negro not to cry for her.

The cryer’s bell sounds forth its muddling peals to summon the customers; a grotesque mixture of men close round the stand. The old slave, as if from instinct, again takes Annette in her arms, presses and presses her to her bosom, looks compassionately in her face, and smiles while a tear glistens in her eyes. She is inspired by the beauty of the child; her heart bounds with affection for her tender years; she loves her because she is lovely; and she smiles upon her as a beautiful image of God’s creation. But the old slave grieves over her fate; her grief flows from the purity of the heart; she knows not the rules of the slave church.

Annette is born a child of sorrow in this our land of love and liberty; she is a democrat’s daughter, cursed by the inconsistencies of that ever-praised democratic goodness. A child! nothing more than an item of common trade. It is even so; but let not happy democracy blush, for the child, being merchandise, has no claims to that law of the soul which looks above the frigidity of slave statutes. What generosity is there in this generous land? what impulses of nature not quenched by force of public opinion, when the associations of a child like this (we are picturing a true story), her birth and blood, her clear complexion, the bright carnatic of her cheek, will not save her from the mercenary grasp of dollars and cents? It was the law; the law had made men demons, craving the bodies and souls of their fellow men. It was the white man’s charge to protect the law and the constitution; and any manifestation of sympathy for this child would be in violation of a system which cannot be ameliorated without endangering the whole structure: hence the comments escaping from purchasers are only such as might have been expressed by the sporting man in his admiration of a finely proportioned animal.

“What a sweet child!” says one, as they close round.

“Make a woman when she grows up!” rejoins another, twirling his cane, and giving his hat an extra set on the side of his head.

“Take too long to keep it afore its valuable is developed; but it’s a picture of beauty. Face would do to take drawings from, it’s so full of delicate outlines,” interposes a third.

An old gentleman, with something of the ministerial in his countenance, and who has been very earnestly watching them for some time, thinks a great deal about the subject of slavery, and the strange laws by which it is governed just at this moment. He says, “One is inspired with a sort of admiration that unlocks the heart, while gazing at such delicacy and child-like sweetness as is expressed in the face of that child.” He points his cane coldly at Annette. “It causes a sort of reaction in one’s sense of right, socially and politically, when we see it mixed up with niggers and black ruffians to be sold.”

“Must abide the laws, though,” says a gentleman in black, on his left.

“Yes,” returns our friend, quickly, “if such property could be saved the hands of speculators”–

“Speculators! speculators!” rejoins the gentleman in black, knitting his brows.

“Yes; it’s always the case in our society. The beauty of such property makes it dangerous about a well-ordained man’s house. Our ladies, generally, have no sympathy with, and rather dislike its ill-gotten tendencies. The piety of the south amounts to but little in its influence on the slave population. The slave population generates its own piety. There is black piety and white piety; but the white piety effects little when it can dispose of poor black piety just as it pleases; and there’s no use in clipping the branches off the tree while the root is diseased,” concludes our ministerial-looking gentleman, who might have been persuaded himself to advance a bid, were he not so well versed in the tenour of society that surrounded him.

During the above ad interim at the shambles, our good lady, Mrs. Rosebrook, is straining every nerve to induce a gentleman of her acquaintance to repair to the mart, and purchase the children on her account.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

NATURE SHAMES ITSELF.

MRS. ROSEBROOK sits in Mrs. Pringle’s parlour. Mrs. Pringle is thought well of in the city of Charleston, where she resides, and has done something towards establishing a church union for the protection of orphan females. They must, however, be purely white, and without slave or base blood in their veins, to entitle them to admittance into its charitable precincts. This is upon the principle that slave blood is not acceptable in the sight of Heaven; and that allowing its admittance into this charitable earthly union would only be a sad waste of time and Christian love. Mrs. Pringle, however, feels a little softened to the good cause, and does hope Mrs. Rosebrook may succeed at least in rescuing the little girl. She has counselled Mr. Seabrook, commonly called Colonel Seabrook, a very distinguished gentleman, who has a very distinguished opinion of himself, having studied law to distinguish himself, and now and then merely practises it for his own amusement. Mr. Seabrook never gives an opinion, nor acts for his friends, unless every thing he does be considered distinguished, and gratuitously rendered.

“What will you do with such property, madam?” inquires the gentleman, having listened profoundly to her request.

“To save them from being sold into the hands of such men as Graspum and Romescos; it’s the only motive I have” she speaks, gently: “I love the child; and her mother still loves her: I am a mother.”

“Remember, my dear lady, they are adjudged property by law; and all that you can do for them won’t save them, nor change the odour of negro with which it has stamped them.”

“Of that I am already too well aware, Mr. Seabrook; and I know, too, when once enslaved, how hard it is to unslave. Public sentiment is the worst slave we have; unslave that, and the righteousness of heaven will give us hearts to save ourselves from the unrighteousness of our laws.

“Go, Mr. Seabrook, purchase the children for me, and you will soon see what ornaments of society I will make them!”

“Ornaments to our society!” interrupts Mr. Seabrook, pausing for a moment, as he places the fore-finger of his right hand upon his upper lip. “That would be a pretty consummation-at the south! Make ornaments of our society!” Mr. Seabrook turns the matter over and over and over in his mind. “Of such things as have been pronounced property by law! A pretty fix it would get our society into!” he rejoins, with emphasis. Mr. Seabrook shakes his head doubtingly, and then, taking three or four strides across the room, his hands well down in his nether pockets, relieves himself of his positive opinion. “Ah! ah! hem! my dear madam,” he says, “if you undertake the purchase of all that delicate kind of property-I mean the amount total, as it is mixed up-your head’ll grow grey afore you get all the bills of sale paid up,–my word for it! That’s my undisguised opinion, backed up by all the pale-faced property about the city.”

“We will omit the opinion, Mr. Seabrook; such have kept our society where it now is. I am resolved to have those children. If you hesitate to act for me, I’ll brave-“

“Don’t say that, my dear lady. Let me remind you that it ill becomes a lady of the south to be seen at a slave-mart; more especially when such delicate property is for sale. Persons might be present who did not understand your motive, and would not only make rude advances, but question the propriety of your proceedings. You would lose caste, most surely.”

Mrs. Rosebrook cares little for Mr. Seabrook’s very learned opinion, knowing that learned opinions are not always the most sensible ones, and is seen arranging her bonnet hastily in a manner betokening her intention to make a bold front of it at the slave-mart. This is rather too much for Mr. Seabrook, who sets great value on his chivalrous virtues, and fearing they may suffer in the esteem of the softer sex, suddenly proffers his kind interposition, becomes extremely courteous, begs she will remain quiet, assuring her that no stone that can further her wishes shall be left unturned. Mr. Seabrook (frequently called the gallant colonel) makes one of his very best bows, adjusts his hat with exquisite grace, and leaves to exercise the wisest judgment and strictest faith at the man-market.

“Such matters are exceedingly annoying to gentlemen of my standing,” says Mr. Seabrook, as deliberately he proceeds to the fulfilment of his promise. He is a methodical gentleman, and having weighed the matter well over in his legal mind, is deeply indebted to it for the conclusion that Mrs. Rosebrook has got a very unsystematised crotchet into her brain. “The exhibition of sympathy for ‘niggers’-they’re nothing else” says Mr. Seabrook-“much adds to that popular prejudice which is already placing her in an extremely delicate position.” He will call to his aid some very nice legal tact, and by that never-failing unction satisfy the good lady.

When Mr. Seabrook enters the mart (our readers will remember that we have already described it) he finds the children undergoing a very minute examination at the hands of several slave-dealers. As Mr. Forshou, the very polite man-seller, is despatching the rougher quality of human merchandise, our hero advances to the children, about whose father he asks them unanswerable questions. How interesting the children look!-how like a picture of beauty Annette’s cherub face glows forth! Being seriously concerned about the child, his countenance wears an air of deep thought. “Colonel, what’s your legal opinion of such pretty property?” enquires Romescos, who advances to Mr. Seabrook, and, after a minute’s hesitation, takes the little girl in his arms, rudely kissing her as she presses his face from her with her left hand, and poutingly wipes her mouth with her right.

“Pretty as a picture”-Romescos has set the child down-“but I wouldn’t give seven coppers for both; for, by my faith, such property never does well.” The gentleman shakes his head in return. “It’s a pity they’re made it out nigger, though,–it’s so handsome. Sweet little creature, that child, I declare: her beauty would be worth a fortune on the stage, when she grows up.”

Romescos touches Mr. Seabrook on the arm; remarks that such things are only good for certain purposes; although one can make them pay if they know how to trade in them. But it wants a man with a capable conscience to do the business up profitably. “No chance o’ your biddin’ on ‘um, is there, colonel?” he enquires, with a significant leer, folding his arms with the indifference of a field-marshal. After a few minutes’ pause, during which Mr. Seabrook seems manufacturing an answer, he shrugs his shoulders, and takes a few pleasing steps, as if moved to a waltzing humour. “Don’t scare up the like o’ that gal-nigger every day,” he adds. Again, as if moved by some sudden idea, he approaches Annette, and placing his hand on her head, continues: “If this ain’t tumbling down a man’s affairs by the run! Why, colonel, ‘taint more nor three years since old Hugh Marston war looked on as the tallest planter on the Ashley; and he thought just as much o’ these young ‘uns as if their mother had belonged to one of the first families. Now-I pity the poor fellow!-because he tried to save ’em from being sold as slaves, they-his creditors-think he has got more property stowed away somewhere. They’re going to cell him, just to try his talent at putting away things.”

The “prime fellows” and wenches of the darker and coarser quality have all been disposed of; and the vender (the same gentlemanly man we have described selling Marston’s undisputed property) now orders the children to be brought forward. Romescos, eagerly seizing them by the arms, brings them forward through the crowd, places them upon the stand, before the eager gaze of those assembled. Strangely placed upon the strange block, the spectators close in again, anxious to gain the best position for inspection: but little children cannot stand the gaze of such an assemblage: no; Annette turns toward Nicholas, and with a childish embrace throws her tiny arms about his neck, buries her face on his bosom. The child of misfortune seeks shelter from that shame of her condition, the evidence of which is strengthened by the eager glances of those who stand round the shambles, ready to purchase her fate. Even the vender,–distinguished gentleman that he is, and very respectably allied by marriage to one of the “first families,”-is moved with a strange sense of wrong at finding himself in a position somewhat repugnant to his feelings. He cannot suppress a blush that indicates an innate sense of shame.

“Here they are, gentlemen! let no man say I have not done my duty. You have, surely, all seen the pedigree of these children set forth in the morning papers; and, now that you have them before you, the living specimen of their beauty will fully authenticate anything therein set forth,” the vender exclaims, affecting an appearance in keeping with his trade. Notwithstanding this, there is a faltering nervousness in his manner, betraying all his efforts at dissimulation. He reads the invoice of human property to the listening crowd, dilates on its specific qualities with powers of elucidation that would do credit to any member of the learned profession. This opinion is confirmed by Romescos, the associations of whose trade have gained for him a very intimate acquaintance with numerous gentlemen of that very honourable profession.

“Now, gentlemen,” continues the vender, “the honourable high sheriff is anxious, and so am I-and it’s no more than a feelin’ of deserving humanity, which every southern gentleman is proud to exercise-that these children be sold to good, kind, and respectable owners; and that they do not fall into the hands, as is generally the case, of men who raise them up for infamous purposes. Gentlemen, I am decidedly opposed to making licentiousness a means of profit.”

“That neither means you nor me,” mutters Romescos, touching Mr. Seabrook on the arm, shaking his head knowingly, and stepping aside to Graspum, in whose ear he whispers a word. The very distinguished Mr. Graspum has been intently listening to the outpouring of the vender’s simplicity. What sublime nonsense it seems to him! He suggests that it would be much more effectual if it came from the pulpit,–the southern pulpit!

“Better sell ‘um to some deacon’s family,” mutters a voice in the crowd.

“That’s precisely what we should like, gentlemen; any bidder of that description would get them on more favourable terms than a trader, he would,” he returns, quickly. The man of feeling, now wealthy from the sale of human beings, hopes gentlemen will pardon his nervousness on this occasion. He never felt the delicacy of his profession so forcibly-never, until now! His countenance changes with the emotions of his heart; he blushes as he looks upon the human invoice, glances slily over the corner at the children, and again at his customers. The culminating point of his profession has arrived; its unholy character is making war upon his better feelings. “I am not speaking ironically, gentlemen: any bidder of the description I have named will get these children at a satisfactory figure. Remember that, and that I am only acting in my office for the honourable sheriff and the creditors,” he concludes.

“If that be the case,” Mr. Seabrook thinks to himself, “it’s quite as well. Our good lady friend will be fully satisfied. She only wants to see them in good hands: deacons are just the fellows.” He very politely steps aside, lights his choice habanero, and sends forth its curling fumes as the bidding goes on.

A person having the appearance of a country gentleman, who has been some time watching the proceedings, is seen to approach Graspum: this dignitary whispers something in his ear, and he leaves the mart.

“I say, squire!” exclaims Romescos, addressing himself to the auctioneer, “do you assume the responsibility of making special purchasers? perhaps you had better keep an eye to the law and the creditors, you had!” (Romescos’s little red face fires with excitement.) “No objection t’ yer sellin’ the gal to deacons and elders,–even to old Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, who’s always singing, ‘I know that my Redeemer cometh!’ But the statutes give me just as good a right to buy her, as any first-class deacon. I knows law, and got lots o’ lawyer friends.”

“The issue is painful enough, without any interposition from you, my friend,” rejoins the vender, interrupting Romescos in his conversation. After a few minutes pause, during which time he has been watching the faces of his customers, he adds: “Perhaps, seeing how well mated they are, gentlemen will not let them be separated. They have been raised together.”

“Certainly!” again interrupts Romescos, “it would be a pity to separate them, ‘cos it might touch somebody’s heart.”

“Ah, that comes from Romescos; we may judge of its motive as we please,” rejoins the man of feeling, taking Annette by the arm and leading her to the extreme edge of the stand. “Make us a bid, gentlemen, for the pair. I can see in the looks of my customers that nobody will be so hard-hearted as to separate them. What do you offer? say it! Start them; don’t be bashful, gentlemen!”

“Rather cool for a hard-faced nigger-seller! Well, squire, say four hundred dollars and the treats,–that is, sposin’ ye don’t double my bid cos I isn’t a deacon. Wants the boy t’ make a general on when he grows up; don’t want the gal at all. Let the deacon here (he points to the man who was seen whispering to Graspum) have her, if he wants.” The deacon, as Romescos calls him, edges his way through the crowd up to the stand, and looks first at the vender and then at the children. Turning his head aside, as if it may catch the ears of several bystanders, Romescos whispers, “That’s deacon Staggers, from Pineville.”

“Like your bid; but I’m frank enough to say I don’t want you to have them, Romescos,” interposes the auctioneer, with a smile.

“Four hundred and fifty dollars!” is sounded by a second bidder. The vender enquires, “For the two?”

“Yes! the pair on ’em,” is the quick reply.

“Four hundred and fifty dollars!” re-echoes the man of feeling. “What good democrats you are! Why, gentlemen, it’s not half the value of them. You must look upon this property in a social light; then you will see its immense value. It’s intelligent, civil, and promisingly handsome; sold for no fault, and here you are hesitating on a small bid.

“Only four hundred and fifty dollars for such property, in this enlightened nineteenth century!”

“Trade will out, like murder. Squire wouldn’t sell ’em to nobody but a deacon a few minutes ago!” is heard coming from a voice in the crowd. The vender again pauses, blushes, and contorts his face: he cannot suppress the zest of his profession; it is uppermost in his feelings.

Romescos says it is one of the squire’s unconscious mistakes. There is no use of humbugging; why not let them run off to the highest bidder?

“The deacon has bid upon them; why not continue his advance?” says Mr. Seabrook, who has been smoking his cigar the while.

“Oh, well! seein’ how it’s the deacon, I won’t stand agin his bid. It’s Deacon Staggers of Pineville; nobody doubts his generosity,” ejaculates Romescos, in a growling tone. The bids quicken,–soon reach six hundred dollars.

“Getting up pretty well, gentlemen! You must not estimate this property upon their age: it’s the likeliness and the promise.”

“Six hundred and twenty-five!” mutters the strange gentleman they call Deacon Staggers from Pineville.

“All right,” rejoins Romescos; “just the man what ought to have ’em. I motion every other bidder withdraw in deference to the deacon’s claim,” rejoins Romescos, laughing.

The clever vender gets down from the stand, views the young property from every advantageous angle, dwells upon the bid, makes further comments on its choiceness, and after considerable bantering, knocks them down to-“What name, sir?” he enquires, staring at the stranger vacantly.

“Deacon Staggers,” replies the man, with a broad grin. Romescos motions him aside,–slips a piece of gold into his hand; it is the price of his pretensions.

The clerk enters his name in the sales book: “Deacon Staggers, of Pineville, bought May 18th, 18-.

“Two children, very likely: boy, prime child, darkish hair, round figure, intelligent face, not downcast, and well outlined in limb. Girl, very pretty, bluish eyes, flaxen hair, very fair and very delicate. Price 625 dollars. Property of Hugh Marston, and sold per order of the sheriff of the county, to satisfy two fi fas issued from the Court of Common Pleas, &c. &c. &c.”

An attendant now steps forward, takes the children into his charge, and leads them away. To where? The reader may surmise to the gaol. No, reader, not to the gaol; to Marco Graspum’s slave-pen,–to that pent-up hell where the living are tortured unto death, and where yearning souls are sold to sink!

Thus are the beauties of this our democratic system illustrated in two innocent children being consigned to the miseries of slave life because a mother is supposed a slave: a father has acknowledged them, and yet they are sold before his eyes. It is the majesty of slave law, before which good men prostrate their love of independence. Democracy says the majesty of that law must be carried out; creditors must be satisfied, even though all that is generous and noble in man should be crushed out, and the rights of free men consigned to oblivion. A stout arm may yet rise up in a good cause; democrats may stand ashamed of the inhuman traffic, and seek to cover its poisoning head with artifices and pretences; but they write only an obituary for the curse.

“A quaint-faced, good-looking country deacon has bought them. Very good; I can now go home, and relieve Mrs. Rosebrook’s very generous feelings,” says the very distinguished Mr. Seabrook, shrugging his shoulders, lighting a fresh cigar, and turning toward home with a deliberate step, full of good tidings.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE VISION OF DEATH HAS PAST.

MR. SEABROOK returns to the mansion, and consoles the anxious lady by assuring her the children have been saved from the hands of obnoxious traders-sold to a good, country deacon. He was so delighted with their appearance that he could not keep from admiring them, and does not wonder the good lady took so great an interest in their welfare. He knows the ministerial-looking gentleman who bought them is a kind master; he has an acute knowledge of human nature, and judges from his looks. And he will further assure the good lady that the auctioneer proved himself a gentleman-every inch of him! He wouldn’t take a single bid from a trader, not even from old Graspum (he dreads to come in contact with such a brute as he is, when he gets his eye on a good piece o’ nigger property), with all his money. As soon as he heard the name of a deacon among the bidders, something in his heart forbade his bidding against him.

“You were not as good as your word, Mr. Seabrook,” says the good lady, still holding Mr. Seabrook by the hand. “But, are you sure there was no disguise about the sale?”

“Not the least, madam!” interrupts Mr. Seabrook, emphatically. “Bless me, madam, our people are too sensitive not to detect anything of that kind; and too generous to allow it if they did discover it. The children-my heart feels for them-are in the very best hands; will be brought up just as pious and morally. Can’t go astray in the hands of a deacon-that’s certain!” Mr. Seabrook rubs his hands, twists his fingers in various ways, and gives utterance to words of consolation, most blandly. The anxious lady seems disappointed, but is forced to accept the assurance.

We need scarcely tell the reader how intentionally Mr. Seabrook contented himself with the deception practised at the mart, nor with what freedom he made use of that blandest essence of southern assurance,–extreme politeness, to deceive the lady. She, however, had long been laudably engaged in behalf of a down-trodden race; and her knowledge of the secret workings of an institution which could only cover its monstrosity with sophistry and fraud impressed her with the idea of some deception having been practised. She well knew that Mr. Seabrook was one of those very contented gentlemen who have strong faith in the present, and are willing to sacrifice the future, if peace and plenty be secured to their hands. He had many times been known to listen to the advice of his confidential slaves, and even to yield to their caprices. And, too, he had been known to decry the ill-treatment of slaves by brutal and inconsiderate masters; but he never thinks it worth while to go beyond expressing a sort of rain-water sympathy for the maltreated. With those traits most prominent in his character, Annette and Nicholas were to him mere merchandise; and whatever claims to freedom they might have, through the acknowledgments of a father, he could give them no consideration, inasmuch as the law was paramount, and the great conservator of the south.

Our worthy benefactress felt the force of the above, in his reluctance to execute her commands, and the manner in which he faltered when questioned about the purchase. Returning to her home, weighing the circumstances, she resolves to devise some method of ascertaining the true position of the children. “Women are not to be outdone,” she says to herself.

We must again beg the reader’s indulgence while accompanying us in a retrograde necessary to the connection of our narrative. When we left Mr. M’Fadden at the crossing, more than two years ago, he was labouring under the excitement of a wound he greatly feared would close the account of his mortal speculations.

On the morning following that great political gathering, and during the night Harry had so singularly disappeared, the tavern was rife with conjectures. On the piazza and about the “bar-room” were a few stupefied and half-insensible figures stretched upon benches, or reclining in chairs, their coarse garments rent into tatters, and their besotted faces resembling as many florid masks grouped together to represent some demoniacal scene among the infernals; others were sleeping soundly beside the tables, or on the lawn. With filthy limbs bared, they snored with painful discord, in superlative contempt of everything around. Another party, reeking with the fumes of that poisonous drug upon which candidates for a people’s favours had built their high expectations, were leaning carelessly against the rude counter of the “bar-room,” casting wistful glances at the fascinating bottles so securely locked within the lattice-work in the corner. Oaths of touching horror are mingling with loud calls for slave attendants, whose presence they wait to quench their burning thirst. Reader! digest the moral. In this human menagerie-in this sink of besotted degradation-lay the nucleus of a power by which the greatest interests of state are controlled.

A bedusted party of mounted men have returned from a second ineffectual attempt to recover the lost preacher: the appearance of responsibility haunts mine host. He assured Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden that his property would be perfectly secure under the lock of the corn-shed. And now his anxiety exhibits itself in the readiness with which he supplies dogs, horses, guns, and such implements as are necessary to hunt down an unfortunate minister of the gospel. What makes the whole thing worse, was the report of M’Fadden having had a good sleep and awaking much more comfortable; that there was little chance of the fortunate issue of his death. In this, mine host saw the liability increasing two-fold.

He stands his important person, (hat off, face red with expectancy, and hands thrust well down into his breeches pocket), on the top step of the stairs leading to the veranda, and hears the unfavourable report with sad discomfiture. “That’s what comes of making a preacher of a slave! Well! I’ve done all I can. It puts all kinds of deviltry about runnin’ away into their heads,” he ventures to assert, as he turns away, re-enters the “bar-room,” and invites all his friends to drink at his expense.

“Mark what I say, now, Squire Jones. The quickest way to catch that ar’ nigger ‘s just to lay low and keep whist. He’s a pious nigger; and a nigger can’t keep his pious a’tween his teeth, no more nor a blackbird can his chattering. The feller ‘ll feel as if he wants to redeem somebody; and seeing how ’tis so, if ye just watch close some Sunday ye’ll nab the fellow with his own pious bait. Can catch a pious runaway nigger ‘most any time; the brute never knows enough to keep it to himself,” says a flashily dressed gentleman, as he leaned against the counter, squinted his eye with an air of ponderous satisfaction, and twirled his tumbler round and round on the counter. “‘Pears to me,” he continues, quizzically, “Squire, you’ve got a lot o’ mixed cracker material here, what it’ll be hard to manufactor to make dependable voters on, ‘lection day:” he casts a look at the medley of sleepers.

“I wish the whole pack on ’em was sold into slavery, I do! They form six-tenths of the voters in our state, and are more ignorant, and a great deal worse citizens, than our slaves. Bl-’em, there is’nt one in fifty can read or write, and they’re impudenter than the Governor.”

“Hush! hush! squire. ‘Twon’t do to talk so. There ain’t men nowhere stand on dignity like them fellers; they are the very bone-and-siners of the unwashed, hard-fisted democracy. The way they’d pull this old tavern down, if they heard reflections on their honour, would be a caution to storms. But how’s old iron-sided M’Fadden this morning? Begins to think of his niggers, I reckon,” interrupts the gentleman; to which mine host shakes his head, despondingly. Mine host wishes M’Fadden, nigger, candidates and all, a very long distance from his place.

“I s’pose he thinks old Death, with his grim visage, ain’t going to call for him just now. That’s ollers the way with northerners, who lives atween the hope of something above, and the love of makin’ money below: they never feel bad about the conscience, until old Davy Jones, Esq., the gentleman with the horns and tail, takes them by the nose, and says-‘come!'”

“I have struck an idea,” says our worthy host, suddenly striking his hand on the counter. “I will put up a poster. I will offer a big reward. T’other property’s all safe; there’s only the preacher missing.”

“Just the strike! Give us yer hand, squire!” The gentleman reaches his hand across the counter, and smiles, while cordially embracing mine host. “Make the reward about two hundred, so I can make a good week’s work for the dogs and me. Got the best pack in the parish; one on ’em knows as much as most clergymen, he does!” he very deliberately concludes, displaying a wonderful opinion of his own nigger-catching philosophy.

And Mr. Jones, such is mine host’s name, immediately commenced exercising his skill in composition on a large, poster, which with a good hour’s labour he completes, and posts upon the ceiling of the “bar-room,” just below an enormously illustrated Circus bill.

“There! now’s a chance of some enterprise and some sense. There’s a deuced nice sum to be made at that!” says Mr. Jones, emphatically, as he stands a few steps back, and reads aloud the following sublime outline of his genius:–

“GREAT INDUCEMENT FOR SPORTSMEN. Two Hundred Dollars Reward.

“The above reward will be given anybody for the apprehension of the nigger-boy, Harry, the property of Mr. M’Fadden. Said Harry suddenly disappeared from these premises last night, while his master was supposed to be dying. The boy’s a well-developed nigger, ‘ant sassy, got fine bold head and round face, and intelligent eye, and ‘s about five feet eleven inches high, and equally proportionate elsewhere. He’s much giv’n to preachin’, and most likely is secreted in some of the surrounding swamps, where he will remain until tempted to make his appearance on some plantation for the purpose of exortin his feller niggers. He is well disposed, and is said to have a good disposition, so that no person need fear to approach him for capture. The above reward will be paid upon his delivery at any gaol in the State, and a hundred and fifty dollars if delivered at any gaol out of the State.

“JETHRO JONES.”

“Just the instrument to bring him, Jethro!” intimates our fashionable gent, quizzically, as he stands a few feet behind Mr. Jones, making grimaces. Then, gazing intently at the bill for some minutes, he runs his hands deep into his pockets, affects an air of greatest satisfaction, and commences whistling a tune to aid in suppressing a smile that is invading his countenance. “Wouldn’t be in that nigger’s skin for a thousand or more dollars, I wouldn’t!” he continues, screeching in the loudest manner, and then shaking, kicking, and rousing the half-animate occupants of the floor and benches. “Come! get up here! Prize money ahead! Fine fun for a week. Prize money ahead! wake up, ye jolly sleepers, loyal citizens, independent voters-wake up, I say. Here’s fun and frolic, plenty of whiskey, and two hundred dollars reward for every mother’s son of ye what wants to hunt a nigger; and he’s a preachin nigger at that! Come; whose in for the frolic, ye hard-faced democracy that love to vote for your country’s good and a good cause?” After exerting himself for some time, they begin to scramble up like so many bewildered spectres of blackness, troubled to get light through the means of their blurred faculties.

“Who’s dragging the life out o’ me?” exclaims one, straining his mottled eyes, extending his wearied limbs, gasping as if for breath; then staggering to the counter. Finally, after much struggling, staggering, expressing consternation, obscene jeering, blasphemous oaths and filthy slang, they stand upright, and huddle around the notice. The picture presented by their ragged garments, their woebegone faces, and their drenched faculties, would, indeed, be difficult to transfer to canvas.

“Now, stare! stare! with all yer fire-stained eyes, ye clan of motley vagrants-ye sovereign citizens of a sovereign state. Two hundred dollars! aye, two hundred dollars for ye. Make plenty o’ work for yer dogs; knowin brutes they are. And ye’ll get whiskey enough to last the whole district more nor a year,” says our worthy Jones, standing before them, and pointing his finger at the notice. They, as if doubting their own perceptibilities, draw nearer and nearer, straining their eyes, while their bodies oscillate against each other.

Mine host tells them to consider the matter, and be prepared for action, while he will proceed to M’Fadden’s chamber and learn the state of his health.

He opens the sick man’s chamber, and there, to his surprise, is the invalid gentleman, deliberately taking his tea and toast. Mine host congratulates him upon his appearance, extends his hand, takes a seat by his bed-side. “I had fearful apprehensions about you, my friend,” he says.

“So had I about myself. I thought I was going to slip it in right earnest. My thoughts and feelins-how they wandered!” M’Fadden raises his hand to his forehead, and slowly shakes his head. “I would’nt a’ given much for the chances, at one time; but the wound isn’t so bad, after all. My nigger property gets along all straight, I suppose?” he enquires, coolly, rolling his eyes upwards with a look of serious reflection. “Boy preacher never returned last night. It’s all right, though, I suppose?” again he enquired, looking mine host right in the eye, as if he discovered some misgiving. His seriousness soon begins to give place to anxiety.

“That boy was a bad nigger,” says mine host, in a half-whisper; “but you must not let your property worry you, my friend.”

“Bad nigger!” interrupts the invalid. Mine host pauses for a moment, while M’Fadden sets his eyes upon him with a piercing stare.

“Not been cutting up nigger tricks?” he ejaculates, enquiringly, about to spring from his couch with his usual nimbleness. Mine host places his left hand upon his shoulder, and assures him there is no cause of alarm.

“Tell me if any thing’s wrong about my property. Now do,–be candid:” his eyes roll, anxiously.

“All right-except the preacher; he’s run away,” mine host answers, suggesting how much better it will be to take the matter cool, as he is sure to be captured.

“What! who-how? you don’t say! My very choicest piece of property. Well-well! who will believe in religion, after that? He came to my sick chamber, the black vagabond did, and prayed as piously as a white man. And it went right to my heart; and I felt that if I died it would a’ been the means o’ savin my soul from all sorts of things infernal,” says the recovering M’Fadden. He, the black preacher, is only a nigger after all; and his owner will have him back, or he’ll have his black hide-that he will! The sick man makes another effort to rise, but is calmed into resignation through mine host’s further assurance that the property will be “all right” by the time he gets well.

“How cunning it was in the black vagrant! I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he cleared straight for Massachusetts-Massachusetts hates our State. Her abolitionists will ruin us yet, sure as the world. We men of the South must do something on a grand scale to protect our rights and our property. The merchants of the North will help us; they are all interested in slave labour. Cotton is king; and cotton can rule, if it will. Cotton can make friendship strong, and political power great.

“There’s my cousin John, ye see; he lives north, but is married to a woman south. He got her with seventeen mules and twenty-three niggers. And there’s brother Jake’s daughter was married to a planter out south what owns lots o’ niggers. And there’s good old uncle Richard; he traded a long time with down south folks, made heaps a money tradin niggers in a sly way, and never heard a word said about slavery not being right, that he did’nt get into a deuce of a fuss, and feel like fightin? Two of Simon Wattler’s gals were married down south, and all the family connections became down-south in principle. And here’s Judge Brooks out here, the very best down-south Judge on the bench; he come from cousin Ephraim’s neighbourhood, down east. It’s just this way things is snarled up a’tween us and them ar’ fellers down New England way. It keeps up the strength of our peculiar institution, though. And southern Editors! just look at them; why, Lord love yer soul! two thirds on’ em are imported from down-north way; and they make the very best southern-principled men. I thought of that last night, when Mr. Jones with the horns looked as if he would go with him. But, I’ll have that preachin vagrant, I’ll have him!” says Mr. M’Fadden, emphatically, seeming much more at rest about his departing affairs. As the shadows of death fade from his sight into their proper distance, worldly figures and property justice resume their wonted possession of his thoughts.

Again, as if suddenly seized with pain, he contorts his face, and enquires in a half-whisper–“What if this wound should mortify? would death follow quickly? I’m dubious yet!”

Mine host approaches nearer his bed-side, takes his hand. M’Fadden, with much apparent meekness, would know what he thought of his case?

He is assured by the kind gentleman that he is entirely out of danger-worth a whole parish of dead men. At the same time, mine host insinuates that he will never do to fight duels until he learns to die fashionably.

M’Fadden smiles,–remembers how many men have been nearly killed and yet escaped the undertaker,–seems to have regained strength, and calls for a glass of whiskey and water. Not too strong! but, reminding mine host of the excellent quality of his bitters, he suggests that a little may better his case.

“I didn’t mean the wound,” resuming his anxiety for the lost preacher: “I meant the case of the runaway?”

“Oh! oh! bless me! he will forget he is a runaway piece of property in his anxiousness to put forth his spiritual inclinations. That’s what’ll betray the scamp;–nigger will be nigger, you know! They can’t play the lawyer, nohow,” mine host replies, with an assurance of his ability to judge negro character. This is a new idea, coming like the dew-drops of heaven to relieve his anxiety. The consoling intelligence makes him feel more comfortable.

The whiskey-and-bitters-most unpoetic drink-is brought to his bed-side. He tremblingly carries it to his lips, sips and sips; then, with one gulp, empties the glass. At this moment the pedantic physician makes his appearance, scents the whiskey, gives a favourable opinion of its application as a remedy in certain cases. The prescription is not a bad one. Climate, and such a rusty constitution as Mr. M’Fadden is blest with, renders a little stimulant very necessary to keep up the one thing needful-courage! The patient complains bitterly to the man of pills and powders; tells a great many things about pains and fears. What a dreadful thing if the consequence had proved fatal! He further thinks that it was by the merest act of Providence, in such a desperate affray, he had not been killed outright. A great many bad visions have haunted him in his dreams, and he is very desirous of knowing what the man of salts and senna thinks about the true interpretation of such. About the time he was dreaming such dreams he was extremely anxious to know how the spiritual character of slave-holders stood on the records of heaven, and whether the fact of slave-owning would cause the insertion of an item in the mortal warrant forming the exception to a peaceful conclusion with the Father’s forgiveness. He felt as if he would surely die during the night past, and his mind became so abstracted about what he had done in his life,–what was to come, how negro property had been treated, how it should be treated,–that, although he had opinions now and then widely-different, it had left a problem which would take him all his life-time to solve,–if he should live ever so long. And, too, there were these poor wretches accidentally shot down at his side; his feelings couldn’t withstand the ghostly appearance of their corpses as he was carried past them, perhaps to be buried n the same forlorn grave, the very next day. All these things reflected their results through the morbidity of Mr. M’Fadden’s mind; but his last observation, showing how slender is the cord between life and death, proved what was uppermost in his mind. “You’ll allow I’m an honest man? I have great faith in your opinion, Doctor! And if I have been rather go-ahead with my niggers, my virtue in business matters can’t be sprung,” he mutters. The physician endeavours to calm his anxiety, by telling him he is a perfect model of goodness,–a just, honest, fearless, and enterprising planter; and that these attributes of our better nature constitute such a balance in the scale as will give any gentleman slaveholder very large claims to that spiritual proficiency necessary for the world to come.

Mr. M’Fadden acquiesces in the correctness of this remark, but desires to inform the practitioner what a sad loss he has met with. He is sure the gentleman will scarcely believe his word when he tells him what it is. “I saw how ye felt downright affected when that nigger o’ mine prayed with so much that seemed like honesty and christianity, last night,” he says.

“Yes,” interrupts the man of medicine, “he was a wonderful nigger that. I never heard such natural eloquence nor such pathos; he is a wonder among niggers, he is! Extraordinary fellow for one raised up on a plantation. Pity, almost, that such a clergyman should be a slave.”

“You don’t say so, Doctor, do you? Well! I’ve lost him just when I wanted him most.”

“He is not dead?” enquires the physician, suddenly interrupting. He had seen Mr. M’Fadden’s courage fail at the approach of death, and again recover quickly when the distance widened between that monitor and himself, and could not suppress the smile stealing over his countenance.

“Dead! no indeed. Worse-he has run away!” Mr. M’Fadden quickly retorted, clenching his right hand, and scowling. In another minute he turns back the sheets, and, with returned strength, makes a successful attempt to sit up in bed. “I don’t know whether I’m better or worse; but I think it would be all right if I warn’t worried so much about the loss of that preacher. I paid a tremendous sum for him. And the worst of it is, my cousin deacon Stoner, of a down-east church, holds a mortgage on my nigger stock, and he may feel streaked when he hears of the loss;” Mr. M’Fadden concludes, holding his side to the physician, who commences examining the wound, which the enfeebled man says is very sore and must be dressed cautiously, so that he may be enabled to get out and see to his property.

To the great surprise of all, the wound turns out to be merely a slight cut, with no appearance of inflammation, and every prospect of being cured through a further application of a very small bit of dressing plaster.

The physician smiled, mine host smiled; it was impossible to suppress the risible faculties. The poor invalid is overpowered with disappointment. His imagination had betrayed him into one of those desperate, fearful, and indubitable brinks of death, upon which it seems the first law of nature reminds us what is necessary to die by. They laughed, and laughed, and laughed, till Mr. M’Fadden suddenly changed countenance, and said it was no laughing affair,–such things were not to be trifled with; men should be thinking of more important matters. And he looked at the wound, run his fingers over it gently, and rubbed it as if doubting the depth.

“A little more whiskey would’nt hurt me, Doctor?” he enquires, complacently, looking round the room distrustfully at those who were enjoying the joke, more at his expense than he held to be in accordance with strict rules of etiquette.

“I’ll admit, my worthy citizen, your case seemed to baffle my skill, last night,” the physician replies, jocosely. “Had I taken your political enthusiasm into consideration,–and your readiness to instruct an assemblage in the holy democracy of our south,–and your hopes of making strong draughts do strong political work, I might have saved my opiate, and administered to your case more in accordance with the skilfully administered prescriptions of our politicians. Notwithstanding, I am glad you are all right, and trust that whenever you get your enthusiasm fired with bad brandy, or the candidates’ bad whiskey, you will not tax other people’s feelings with your own dying affairs; nor send for a ‘nigger’ preacher to redeem your soul, who will run away when he thinks the job completed.”

Mr. M’Fadden seemed not to comprehend the nature of his physician’s language, and after a few minutes pause he must needs enquire about the weather? if a coroner’s inquest has been held over the dead men? what was its decision? was there any decision at all? and have they been buried? Satisfied on all these points, he gets up, himself again, complaining only of a little muddled giddiness about the head, and a hip so sore that he scarcely could reconcile his mind to place confidence in it.

“Good by! good by!” says the physician, shaking him by the hand. “Measure the stimulant carefully; and take good care of dumplin dep“t No. 1, and you’ll be all right very soon. You’re a good democrat, and you’ll make as good a stump orator as ever took the field.”

The man of medicine, laughing heartily within himself, descends the stairs and reaches the bar-room, where are concentrated sundry of the party we have before described. They make anxious enquiries about Mr. M’Fadden,–how he seemed to “take it;” did he evince want of pluck? had he courage enough to fight a duel? and could his vote be taken afore he died? These, and many other questions of a like nature, were put to the physician so fast, and with so many invitations to drink “somethin’,” that he gave a sweeping answer by saying Mac had been more frightened than hurt; that the fear of death having passed from before his eyes his mind had now centered on the loss of his nigger preacher-a valuable piece of property that had cost him no less than fifteen hundred dollars. And the worst of it was, that the nigger had aggravatingly prayed for him when he thought he was going to sink out into the arms of father death.

So pressing were the invitations to drink, that our man of medicine advanced to the counter, like a true gentleman of the south, and with his glass filled with an aristocratic mixture, made one of his politest bows, toasted the health of all free citizens, adding his hope for the success of the favourite candidate.

“Drink it with three cheers, standin’!” shouted a formidably mustached figure, leaning against the counter with his left hand, while his right was grasping the jug from which he was attempting in vain to water his whiskey. To this the physic gentleman bows assent; and they are given to the very echo. Taking his departure for the city, as the sounds of cheering die away, he emerged from the front door, as Mr. M’Fadden, unexpectedly as a ghost rising from the tomb, made his entrance from the old staircase in the back. The citizens-for of such is our assembly composed-are astonished and perplexed. “Such a set of scapegoats as you are!” grumbles out the debutant, as he stands before them like a disentombed spectre. With open arms they approach him, congratulate him on his recovery, and shower upon him many good wishes, and long and strong drinks.

A few drinks more, and our hero is quite satisfied with his welcome. His desire being intimated, mine host conducts himself to the corn-shed, where he satisfies himself that his faithful property (the preacher excepted) is all snugly safe. Happy property in the hands of a prodigious democrat! happy republicanism that makes freedom but a privilege! that makes a mockery of itself, and enslaves the noblest blood of noble freemen! They were happy, the victims of ignorance, contented with the freedom their country had given them, bowing beneath the enslaving yoke of justice-boasting democracy, and ready to be sold and shipped, with an invoice of freight, at the beckon of an owner.

Mr. M’Fadden questions the people concerning Harry’s departure; but they are as ignorant of his whereabouts as himself. They only remember that he came to the shed at midnight, whispered some words of consolation, and of his plain fare gave them to eat;–nothing more.

“Poor recompense for my goodness!” says Mr. M’Fadden, muttering some indistinct words as he returns to the tavern, followed by a humorous negro, making grimaces in satisfaction of “mas’r’s” disappointment. Now friends are gathered together, chuckling in great glee over the large reward offered for the lost parson, for the capture of which absconding article they have numerous horses, dogs, confidential negroes, and a large supply of whiskey, with which very necessary liquid they will themselves become dogs of one kine. The game to be played is purely a democratic one; hence the clansmen are ready to loosen their souls’ love for the service. M’Fadden never before witnessed such satisfactory proofs of his popularity; his tenderest emotions are excited; he cannot express the fullness of his heart; he bows, puts his hand to his heart, orders the balance of his invoice sent to his plantation, mounts his horse, and rides off at full gallop, followed by his friends.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A FRIEND IS WOMAN.

THE reader will again accompany us to the time when we find Annette and Nicholas in the hands of Graspum, who will nurture them for their increasing value.

Merciless creditors have driven Marston from that home of so many happy and hospitable associations, to seek shelter in the obscure and humble chamber of a wretched building in the outskirts of the city. Fortune can afford him but a small cot, two or three broken chairs, an ordinary deal table, a large chest, which stands near the fire-place, and a dressing-stand, for furniture. Here, obscured from the society he had so long mingled with, he spends most of his time, seldom venturing in public lest he may encounter those indomitable gentlemen who would seem to love the following misfortune into its last stage of distress. His worst enemy, however, is that source of his misfortunes he cannot disclose; over it hangs the mystery he must not solve! It enshrines him with guilt before public opinion; by it his integrity lies dead; it is that which gives to mother rumour the weapons with which to wield her keenest slanders.

Having seized Marston’s real estate, Graspum had no scruples about swearing to the equity of his claim; nor were any of the creditors willing to challenge an investigation; and thus, through fear of such a formidable abettor, Marston laboured under the strongest, and perhaps the most unjust imputations. But there was no limit to Graspum’s mercenary proceedings; for beyond involving Marston through Lorenzo, he had secretly purchased many claims of the creditors, and secured his money by a dexterous movement, with which he reduced the innocent children to slavery.

Reports have spread among the professedly knowing that Marston can never have made away with all his property in so few years. And the manner being so invisible, the charge becomes stronger. Thus, labouring between the pain of misfortune and the want of means to resent suspicion, his cheerless chamber is all he can now call his home. But he has two good friends left-Franconia, and the old negro Bob. Franconia has procured a municipal badge for Daddy; and, through it (disguised) he seeks and obtains work at stowing cotton on the wharfs. His earnings are small, but his soul is large, and embued with attachment for his old master, with whom he will share them. Day by day the old slave seems to share the feelings of his master,–to exhibit a solicitous concern for his comfort. Earning his dollars and twenty-five cents a day, he will return when the week has ended, full of exultation, spread out his earnings with childlike simplicity, take thirty cents a day for himself, and slip the remainder into Marston’s pocket. How happy he seems, as he watches the changes of Marston’s countenance, and restrains the gushing forth of his feelings!

It was on one of those nights upon which Daddy had received his earnings, that Marston sat in his cheerless chamber, crouched over the faint blaze of a few pieces of wood burning on the bricks of his narrow fire-place, contemplating the eventful scenes of the few years just passed. The more he contemplated the more it seemed like a dream; his very head wearied with the interminable maze of his difficulties. Further and further, as he contemplated, did it open to his thoughts the strange social and political mystery of that more strange institution for reducing mankind to the level of brutes. And yet, democracy, apparently honest, held such inviolable and just to its creed; which creed it would defend with a cordon of steel. The dejected gentleman sighs, rests his head on his left hand, and his elbow on the little table at his side. Without, the weather is cold and damp; an incessant rain had pattered upon the roof throughout the day, wild and murky clouds hang their dreary festoons along the heavens, and swift scudding fleeces, driven by fierce, murmuring winds, bespread the prospect with gloom that finds its way into the recesses of the heart.

“Who is worse than a slave!” sighs the rejected man, getting up and looking out of his window into the dreary recesses of the narrow lane. “If it be not a ruined planter I mistake the policy by which we govern our institution! As the slave is born a subject being, so is the planter a dependent being. We planters live in disappointment, in fear, in unhappy uncertainty; and yet we make no preparations for the result. Nay, we even content ourselves with pleasantly contemplating what may come through the eventful issue of political discord; and when it comes in earnest, we find ourselves the most hapless of unfortunates. For myself, bereft of all I had once,–even friends, I am but a forlorn object in the scale of weak mankind! No man will trust me with his confidence,–scarce one knows me but to harass me; I can give them no more, and yet I am suspected of having more. It is so, and ever will be so. Such are the phases of man’s downfall, that few follow them to the facts, while rumour rules supreme over misfortune. There may be a fountain of human pain concealed beneath it; but few extend the hand to stay its quickening. Nay, when all is gone, mammon cries, more! until body and soul are crushed beneath the “more” of relentless self.

“Few know the intricacies of our system; perhaps ’twere well, lest our souls should not be safe within us. But, ah! my conscience chides me here. And betwixt those feelings which once saw all things right, but now through necessity beholds their grossest wrongs, comes the pain of self-condemnation. It is a condemnation haunting me unto death. Had I been ignorant of Clotilda’s history, the fiendish deed of those who wronged her in her childhood had not now hung like a loathsome pestilence around my very garments. That which the heart rebukes cannot be concealed; but we must be obedient to the will that directs all things;–and if it be that we remain blind in despotism until misfortune opens our eyes, let the cause of the