Our World by F. Colburn AdamsOr, The Slaveholders Daughter, or, The Democrat’s Rule (page 9)

of old mas’r. Know dat Buckra he sharp feller. Get e’ eye on ye, and make up ‘e mind what ‘e gwine to give fo’h ‘um, quicker!” says the negro.

Graspum has invited his customer, Mr. Grabguy, into his more comfortable counting-room, where, as Nicholas is led in, they may be found discussing the rights of the south, as guaranteed by the federal constitution. The south claim rights independent of the north; and those rights are to secede from the wrongs of the north whenever she takes into her head the very simple notion of carrying them out. Graspum, a man of great experience, whose keen sense of justice is made keener by his sense of practical injustice,–thinks the democracy of the south was never fully understood, and that the most sure way of developing its great principles is by hanging every northerner, whose abolition mania is fast absorbing the liberties of the country at large.

“That’s the feller!” says Mr. Grabguy, as the negro leads Nicholas into his presence, and orders him to keep his hands down while the gentleman looks at him. “Stubborn sticks out some, though, I reckon,” Mr. Grabguy adds, rather enthusiastically. “Absalom! Isaac! Joe! eh? what’s your name?”

“He’s a trump!” interposes Graspum, rubbing his hands together, and giving his head a significant shake.

“Nicholas, they call me, master,” answers the boy, pettishly.

Mr. Grabguy takes him by the arms, feels his muscle with great care and caution, tries the elasticity of his body by lifting him from the floor by his two ears. This is too much, which the child announces with loud screams. “Stuff! out and out,” says Mr. Grabguy, patting him on the back, in a kind sort of way. At the same time he gives a look of satisfaction at Graspum.

“Everything a man wants, in that yaller skin,” returns that methodical tradesman, with a gracious nod.

“Black lightnin’ eyes-long wiry black hair, a skin full of Ingin devil, and a face full of stubborn,” Mr. Grabguy discourses, as he contemplates the article before him.

“Well, now, about the lowest figure for him?” he continues, again looking at Graspum, and waiting his reply. That gentleman, drawing his right hand across his mouth, relieves it of the virtueless deposit, and supplies it with a fresh quid.

“Sit down, neighbour Grabguy,” he says, placing a chair beside him. They both sit down; the negro attendant stands a few feet behind them: the boy may walk a line backward and forward. “Say the word! You know I’ll have a deal o’ trouble afore breaking the feller in,” Grabguy exclaims, impatiently.

Graspum is invoking his philosophy. He will gauge the point of value according to the coming prospect and Mr. Grabguy’s wants. “Well, now, seeing it’s you, and taking the large amount of negro property I have sold to your distinguished father into consideration-I hope to sell forty thousand niggers yet, before I die-he should bring six hundred.” Graspum lays his left hand modestly on Mr. Grabguy’s right arm, as that gentleman rather starts with surprise. “Take the extraordinary qualities into consideration, my friend; he’s got a head what’s worth two hundred dollars more nor a common nigger,–that is, if you be going to turn it into knowledge profit. But that wasn’t just what I was going to say” (Graspum becomes profound, as he spreads himself back in his chair). “I was going to say, I’d let you-you mustn’t whisper it, though-have him for five hundred and twenty; and he’s as cheap at that as bull-dogs at five dollars.”

Grabguy shakes his head: he thinks the price rather beyond his mark. He, however, has no objection to chalking on the figure; and as both are good democrats, they will split the difference.

Graspum, smiling, touches his customer significantly with his elbow. “I never do business after that model,” he says. “Speaking of bull-dogs, why, Lord bless your soul, Sam Beals and me traded t’other day: I gin him a young five-year old nigger for his hound, and two hundred dollars to boot. Can’t go five hundred and twenty for that imp, nohow! Could o’ got a prime nigger for that, two years ago.”

“Wouldn’t lower a fraction! He’s extraordinary prime, and’ll increase fifty dollars a year every year for ten years or more.”

Mr. Grabguy can’t help that: he is merely in search of an article capable of being turned into a mechanic, or professional man,–anything to suit the exigencies of a free country, in which such things are sold. And as it will require much time to get the article to a point where it’ll be sure to turn the pennies back, perhaps he’d as well let it alone: so he turns the matter over in his head. And yet, there is a certain something about the “young imp” that really fascinates him; his keen eye, and deep sense of nigger natur’ value, detect the wonderful promise the article holds forth.

“Not one cent lower would I take for that chap. In fact, I almost feel like recanting now,” says Graspum, by way of breaking the monotony.

“Well, I’ll bid you good day,” says the other, in return, affecting preparation to leave. He puts out his hand to Graspum, and with a serious look desires to know if that be the lowest figure.

“Fact! Don’t care ’bout selling at that. Couldn’t have a better investment than to keep him!”

Mr. Grabguy considers and reconsiders the matter over in his mind; paces up and down the floor several times, commences humming a tune, steps to the door, looks up and down the street, and says, “Well, I’ll be moving homeward, I will.”

“Like yer custom, that I do; but then, knowing what I can do with the fellow, I feels stiff about letting him go,” interposes Graspum, with great indifference, following to the door, with hands extended.

This is rather too insinuating for Mr. Grabguy. Never did piece of property loom up so brightly, so physically and intellectually valuable. He will return to the table. Taking his seat again, he draws forth a piece of paper, and with his pencil commences figuring upon it. He wants to get at the cost of free and slave labour, and the relative advantages of the one over the other. After a deal of multiplying and subtracting, he gives it up in despair. The fine proportions of the youth before him distract his very brain with contemplation. He won’t bother another minute; figures are only confusions: so far as using them to compute the relative value of free and slave labour, they are enough to make one’s head ache. “Would ye like to go with me, boy? Give ye enough to eat, but make ye toe the mark!” He looks at Nicholas, and waits a reply.

“Don’t matter!” is the boy’s answer. “Seems as if nobody cared for me; and so I don’t care for nobody.”

“That’s enough,” he interrupts, turning to Graspum: “there’s a showing of grit in that, eh?”

“Soon take it out,” rejoins that methodical gentleman. “Anyhow, I’ve a mind to try the fellow, Graspum. I feel the risk I run; but I don’t mind-it’s neck or nothin here in the south! Ye’ll take a long note, s’pose? Good, ye know!”

Graspum motions his head and works his lips, half affirmatively.

“Good as old gold, ye knows that,” insinuates Mr. Grabguy.

“Yes, but notes aint cash; and our banks are shut down as tight as steel traps. At all events make it bankable, and add the interest for six months. It’s against my rules of business, though,” returns Graspum, with great financial emphasis.

After considerably more very nice exhibitions of business tact, it is agreed that Mr. Grabguy takes the “imp” at five hundred and twenty dollars, for which Graspum accepts his note at six months, with interest. Mr. Grabguy’s paper is good, and Graspum considers it equal to cash, less the interest. The “imp” is now left in charge of the negro, while the two gentlemen retire to the private counting-room, where they will settle the preliminaries.

A grave-looking gentleman at a large desk is ordered to make the entry of sale; as the initiate of which he takes a ponderous ledger from the case, and, with great coolness, opens its large leaves. “Nicholas, I think his name is?” he ejaculates, turning to Graspum, who, unconcernedly, has resumed his seat in the great arm-chair.

“Yes; but I suppose it must be Nicholas Grabguy, now,” returns Graspum, bowing to his book-keeper, and then turning to Mr. Grabguy.

“One minute, if you please!” rejoins that gentlemen, as the sedate book-keeper turns to his page of N’s in the index. Mr. Grabguy will consider that very important point for a few seconds.

“Better drop the Marston, as things are. A good many high feeling connections of that family remain; and to continue the name might be to give pain.” This, Graspum says, he only puts out as a suggestion.

“Enter him as you say, gentlemen,” interposes the clerk, who will mend his pen while waiting their pleasure.

Mr. Grabguy runs his right hand several times across his forehead, and after a breathless pause, thinks it as well not to connect his distinguished name with that of the nigger,–not just at this moment! Being his property, and associating with his business and people, that will naturally follow. “Just enter him, and make out the bill of sale describing him as the boy Nicholas,” he adds.

“Boy Nicholas!” reiterates the book-keeper, and straight-way enters his name, amount fetched, to whom sold, and general description, on his files. In a few minutes more-Graspum, in his chair of state, is regretting having sold so quick,–Mr. Grabguy is handed his bill of sale, duly made out. At the same time, that sedate official places the note for the amount into Graspum’s hands. Graspum examines it minutely, while Mr. Grabguy surveys the bill of sale. “Mr. Benson, my clerk here, does these things up according to legal tenour; he, let me inform you, was brought up at the law business, and was rather celebrated once; but the profession won’t pay a man of his ability,” remarks Graspum, with an “all right!” as he lays the note of hand down for Mr. Grabguy’s signature.

Mr. Benson smiles in reply, and adjusts the very stiffly starched corners of his ponderous shirt collar, which he desires to keep well closed around his chin. “An honourable man, that’s true, sir, can’t live honestly by the law, now-a-days,” he concludes, with measured sedateness. He will now get his bill-book, in which to make a record of the piece of paper taken in exchange for the human ‘imp.’

“Clap your name across the face!” demands Graspum; and Grabguy seizes a pen, and quickly consummates the bargain by inscribing his name, passing it to Mr. Benson, and, in return, receiving the bill of sale, which he places in his breast pocket. He will not trouble Mr. Benson any further; but, if he will supply a small piece of paper, Mr. Grabguy will very kindly give the imp an order, and send him to his workshop.

“Will the gentleman be kind enough to help himself,” says Mr. Benson, passing a quire upon the table at which Mr. Grabguy sits.

“I’ll trim that chap into a first-rate mechanic,” says Mr. Grabguy, as he writes,–“I have bought the bearer, Nicholas, a promising chap, as you will see. Take him into the shop and set him at something, if it is only turning the grindstone; as I hav’nt made up my mind exactly about what branch to set him at. He’s got temper-you’ll see that in a minute, and will want some breakin in, if I don’t calklate ‘rong.” This Mr. Grabguy envelopes, and directs to his master mechanic. When all things are arranged to his satisfaction, Nicholas is again brought into his presence, receives an admonition, is told what he may expect if he displays his bad temper, is presented with the note, and despatched, with sundry directions, to seek his way alone, to his late purchaser’s workshop.

“Come, boy! ain’t you going to say ‘good-by’ to me ‘afore you go? I hav’nt been a bad master to you,” says Graspum, putting out his hand.

“Yes, master,” mutters the child, turning about ere he reaches the door. He advances towards Graspum, puts out his little hand; and in saying “good by, master,” there is so much childish simplicity in his manner that it touches the tender chord embalmed within that iron frame. “Be a good little fellow!” he says, his emotions rising. How strong are the workings of nature when brought in contact with unnatural laws! The monster who has made the child wretched–who has for ever blasted its hopes, shakes it by the hand, and says–“good by, little ‘un!” as it leaves the door to seek the home of a new purchaser. How strange the thoughts invading that child’s mind, as, a slave for life, it plods its way through the busy thoroughfares! Forcibly the happy incidents of the past are recalled; they are touching reclections-sweets in the dark void of a slave’s life; but to him no way-marks, to measure the happy home embalmed therein, are left.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WORKINGS OF THE SLAVE SYSTEM.

DEMOCRACY! thy trumpet voice for liberty is ever ringing in our ears; but thy strange workings defame thee. Thou art rampant in love of the “popular cause,” crushing of that which secures liberty to all; and, whilst thou art great at demolishing structures, building firm foundations seems beyond thee, for thereto thou forgetteth to lay the cornerstone well on the solid rock of principle. And, too, we love thee when thou art moved and governed by justice; we hate thee when thou showest thyself a sycophant to make a mad mob serve a pestilential ambition. Like a young giant thou graspest power; but, when in thy hands, it becomes a means of serving the baser ends of factious demagogues. Hypocrite! With breath of poison thou hast sung thy songs to liberty while making it a stepping-stone to injustice; nor hast thou ever ceased to wage a tyrant’s war against the rights of man. Thou wearest false robes; thou blasphemest against heaven, that thy strength in wrong may be secure-yea, we fear thy end is fast coming badly, for thou art the bastard offspring of Republicanism so purely planted in our land. Clamour and the lash are thy sceptres, and, like a viper seeking its prey, thou charmest with one and goadeth men’s souls with the other. Having worked thy way through our simple narrative, show us what thou hast done. A father hast thou driven within the humid wall of a prison, because he would repent and acknowledge his child. Bolts and bars, in such cases, are democracy’s safeguards; but thou hast bound with heavy chains the being who would rise in the world, and go forth healing the sick and preaching God’s word. Even hast thou turned the hearts of men into stone, and made them weep at the wrong thou gavest them power to inflict. That bond which God gave to man, and charged him to keep sacred, thou hast sundered for the sake of gold,–thereby levelling man with the brutes of the field. Thou hast sent two beautiful children to linger in the wickedness of slavery,–to die stained with its infamy! Thou hast robbed many a fair one of her virtue, stolen many a charm; but thy foulest crime is, that thou drivest mothers and fathers from the land of their birth to seek shelter on foreign soil. Would to God thou could’st see thyself as thou art,–make thy teachings known in truth and justice,–cease to mock thyself in the eyes of foreign tyrants, nor longer serve despots who would make thee the shield of their ill-gotten power!

Within those malarious prison walls, where fast decays a father who sought to save from slavery’s death the offspring he loved, will be found a poor, dejected negro, sitting at the bedside of the oppressed man, administering to his wants. His friendship is true unto death,–the oppressed man is his angel, he will serve him at the sacrifice of life and liberty. He is your true republican, the friend of the oppressed! Your lessons of democracy, so swelling, so boastfully arrayed for a world’s good, have no place in his soul,–goodness alone directs his examples of republicanism. But we must not be over venturous in calling democracy to account, lest we offend the gods of power and progress. We will, to save ourselves, return to our narrative.

Marston, yet in gaol, stubbornly refuses to take the benefit of the act,–commonly called the poor debtor’s act. He has a faithful friend in Daddy Bob, who has kept his ownership concealed, and, with the assistance of Franconia, still relieves his necessities. Rumour, however, strongly whispers that Colonel M’Carstrow is fast gambling away his property, keeping the worst of company, and leading the life of a debauchee,–which sorely grieves his noble-hearted wife. In fact, Mrs. Templeton, who is chief gossip-monger of the city, declares that he is more than ruined, and that his once beautiful wife must seek support at something.

An honest jury of twelve free and enlightened citizens, before the honourable court of Sessions, have declared Romescos honourably acquitted of the charge of murder, the fatal blow being given in commendable self-defence.

The reader will remember that in a former chapter we left the stolen clergyman (no thanks to his white face and whiter necked brethren of the profession), on the banks of the Mississippi, where, having purchased his time of his owner, he is not only a very profitable investment to that gentleman, but of great service on the neighbouring plantations. Earnest in doing good for his fellow bondmen, his efforts have enlisted for him the sympathy of a generous-hearted young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring planter. Many times had he recounted Mrs. Rosebrook’s friendship for him to her, and by its influence succeeded in opening the desired communication. Mrs. Rosebrook had received and promptly answered all his fair friend’s letters: the answers contained good news for Harry; she knew him well, and would at once set about inducing her husband to purchase him. But here again his profession interposed a difficulty, inasmuch as its enhancing the value of the property to so great an extent would make his master reluctant to part with him. However, as nothing could be more expressive of domestic attachment than the manner in which the Rosebrooks studied each other’s feelings for the purpose of giving a more complete happiness, our good lady had but to make known her wish, and the deacon stood ready to execute it. In the present case he was but too glad of the opportunity of gratifying her feelings, having had the purchase of a clergyman in contemplation for some months back. He sought Harry out, and, after bartering (the planter setting forth what a deal of money he had made by his clergyman) succeeded in purchasing him for fourteen hundred dollars, the gentleman producing legalised papers of his purchase, and giving the same. As for his running away, there is no evidence to prove that; nor will Harry’s pious word be taken in law to disclose the kidnapping. M’Fadden is dead,–his estate has long since been administered upon; Romescos murdered the proof, and swept away the dangerous contingency.

Here, then, we find Harry-we must pass over the incidents of his return back in the old district-about to administer the Gospel to the negroes on the Rosebrook estates. He is the same good, generous-hearted black man he was years ago. But he has worked hard, paid his master a deal of money for his time, and laid up but little for himself. His clothes, too, are somewhat shabby, which, in the estimation of the Rosebrook negroes-who are notoriously aristocratic in their notions-is some detriment to his ministerial character. At the same time, they are not quite sure that Harry Marston, as he must now be called, will preach to please their peculiar mode of thinking. Master and missus have given them an interest in their labour; and, having laid by a little money in missus’s savings bank, they are all looking forward to the time when they will have gained their freedom, according to the promises held out. With these incitements of renewed energy they work cheerfully, take a deep interest in the amount of crop produced, and have a worthy regard for their own moral condition. And as they will now pay tribute for the support of a minister of the Gospel, his respectability is a particular object of their watchfulness. Thus, Harry’s first appearance on the plantation, shabbily dressed, is viewed with distrust. Uncle Bradshaw, and old Bill, the coachman, and Aunt Sophy, and Sophy’s two gals, and their husbands, are heard in serious conclave to say that “It won’t do!” A clergy gentleman, with no better clothes than that newcomer wears, can’t preach good and strong, nohow! Dad Daniel is heard to say. Bradshaw shakes his white head, and says he’s goin’ to have a short talk with master about it. Something must be done to reconcile the matter.

Franconia and good Mrs. Rosebrook are not so exacting: the latter has received him with a warm welcome, while the former, her heart bounding with joy on hearing of his return, hastened into his presence, and with the affection of a child shook, and shook, and shook his hand, as he fell on his knees and kissed hers. “Poor Harry!” she says, “how I have longed to see you, and your poor wife and children!”

“Ah, Franconia, my young missus, it is for them my soul fears.”

“But we have found out where they are,” she interrupts.

“Where they are!” he reiterates.

“Indeed we have!” Franconia makes a significant motion with her head.

“It’s true, Harry; and we’ll see what can be done to get them back, one of these days,” adds Mrs. Rosebrook, her soul-glowing eyes affirming the truth of her assertion. They have come out to spend the day at the plantation, and a happy day it is for those whose hearts they gladden with their kind words. How happy would be our south-how desolate the mania for abolition–if such a comity of good feeling between master and slaves existed on every plantation! And there is nothing to hinder such happy results of kindness.

“When that day comes, missus,–that day my good old woman and me will be together again,–how happy I shall be! Seems as if the regaining that one object would complete my earthly desires. And my children,–how much I have felt for them, and how little I have said!” returns Harry, as, seated in the veranda of the plantation mansion, the two ladies near him are watching his rising emotions.

“Never mind, Harry,” rejoins Franconia; “it will all be well, one of these days. You, as well as uncle, must bear with trouble. It is a world of trouble and trial.” She draws her chair nearer him, and listens to his narrative of being carried off,–his endeavours to please his strange master down in Mississippi,–the curious manner in which his name was changed,–the sum he was compelled to pay for his time, and the good he effected while pursuing the object of his mission on the neighbouring plantations. Hope carried him through every trial,–hope prepared his heart for the time of his delivery,–hope filled his soul with gratitude to his Maker, and hope, which ever held its light of freedom before him, inspired him with that prayer he so thankfully bestowed on the head of his benefactor, whose presence was as the light of love borne to him on angels’ wings.

Moved to tears by his recital of past struggles, and the expression of natural goodness exhibited in the resignation with which he bore them, ever praying and trusting to Him who guides our course in life, Franconia in turn commenced relating the misfortunes that had befallen her uncle. She tells him how her uncle has been reduced to poverty through Lorenzo’s folly, and Graspum, the negro dealer’s undiscoverable mode of ensnaring the unwary. He has been importuned, harassed, subjected to every degradation and shame, scouted by society for attempting to save those beautiful children, Annette and Nicholas, from the snares of slavery. And he now welters in a debtor’s prison, with few save his old faithful Daddy Bob for friends.

“Master, and my old companion, Daddy Bob!” exclaims Harry, interrupting her at the moment.

“Yes: Daddy takes care of him in his prison cell.”

“How often old Bob’s expressive face has looked upon me in my dreams! how often he has occupied my thoughts by day!”

“Goodness belongs to him by nature.”

“And master is in prison; but Daddy is still his friend and faithful! Well, my heart sorrows for master: I know his proud heart bleeds under the burden,” he says, shaking his head sorrowfully. There is more sympathy concealed beneath that black exterior than words can express. He will go and see master; he will comfort him within his prison walls; he will rejoin Daddy Bob, and be master’s friend once more. Mrs. Rosebrook, he is sure, will grant him any privilege in her power. That good lady is forthwith solicited, and grants Harry permission to go into the city any day it suits his convenience-except Sunday, when his services are required for the good of the people on the plantation. Harry is delighted with this token of her goodness, and appoints a day when he will meet Miss Franconia,–as he yet calls her,–and go see old master and Daddy. How glowing is that honest heart, as it warms with ecstasy at the thought of seeing “old master,” even though he be degraded within prison walls!

While this conversation is going on in the veranda, sundry aged members of negro families–aunties and mammies–are passing backwards and forwards in front of the house, casting curious glances at the affection exhibited for the new preacher by “Miss Franconia.” The effect is a sort of reconciliation of the highly aristocratic objections they at first interposed against his reception. “Mus’ be somebody bigger dan common nigger preacher; wudn’t cotch Miss Frankone spoken wid ‘um if ‘um warn’t,” says Dad Timothy’s Jane, who is Uncle Absalom’s wife, and, in addition to having six coal-black children, as fat and sleek as beavers, is the wise woman of the cabins, around whom all the old veteran mammies gather for explanations upon most important subjects. In this instance she is surrounded by six or seven grave worthies, whose comical faces add great piquancy to the conclave. Grandmumma Dorothy, who declares that she is grandmother to she don’t know how much little growing-up property, will venture every grey hair in her head-which is as white as the snows of Nova Scotia-that he knows a deal o’ things about the gospel, or he wouldn’t have missus for such a close acquaintance. “But his shirt ain’t just da’h fashon fo’h a ‘spectable minister ob de gospel,” she concludes, with profound wisdom evinced in her measured nod.

Aunt Betsy, than whose face none is blacker, or more comically moulded, will say her word; but she is very profound withal. “Reckon how tain’t de clo’ what make e’ de preacher tink good” (Aunty’s lip hangs seriously low the while). “Lef missus send some calico fum town, and dis old woman son fix ‘um into shirt fo’h him,” she says, with great assurance of her sincerity.

Harry-Mister Harry, as he is to be called by the people-finds himself comfortably at home; the only drawback, if such it may be called, existing in the unwillingness exhibited on the part of one of the overseers to his being provided with apartments in the basement of the house instead of one of the cabins. This, however, is, by a few conciliatory words from Mrs. Rosebrook, settled to the satisfaction of all. Harry has supper provided for him in one of the little rooms downstairs, which he is to make his Study, and into which he retires for the night.

When daylight has departed, and the very air seems hanging in stillness over the plantation, a great whispering is heard in Dad Daniel’s cabin-the head quarters, where grave matters of state, or questions affecting the moral or physical interests of the plantation, are discussed, and Dad Daniel’s opinion held as most learned-the importance of which over the other cabins is denoted by three windows, one just above the door being usually filled with moss or an old black hat. Singular enough, on approaching the cabin it is discovered that Daniel has convoked a senate of his sable brethren, to whom he is proposing a measure of great importance. “Da’h new precher, gemen! is one ob yer own colur-no more Buckra what on’e gib dat one sarmon,–tank God fo’h dat!-and dat colour geman, my children, ye must look up to fo’h de word from de good book. Now, my bredren, ’tis posin’ on ye dat ye make dat geman ‘spectable. I poses den, dat we, bredren, puts in a mite apiece, and gib dat ar’ geman new suit ob fus’ bes’clof’, so ‘e preach fresh and clean,” Dad Daniel is heard to say. And this proposition is carried out on the following morning, when Daddy Daniel-his white wool so cleanly washed, and his face glowing with great good-nature-accompanied by a conclave of his sable companions, presents himself in the front veranda, and demands to see “missus.” That all-conciliating personage is ever ready to receive deputations, and on making her appearance, and receiving the usual salutations from her people, receives from the hand of that venerable prime minister, Daddy Daniel, a purse containing twelve dollars and fifty cents. It is the amount of a voluntary contribution-a gift for the new preacher. “Missus” is requested, after adding her portion, to expend it in a suit of best black for the newcomer, whom they would like to see, and say “how de, to.”

Missus receives this noble expression of their gratitude with thanks and kind words. Harry is summoned to the veranda, where, on making his appearance, he is introduced to Dad Daniel, who, in return, escorts him down on the plazza where numbers of the people have assembled to receive him. Here, with wondrous ceremony, Dad Daniel doing the polite rather strong, he is introduced to all the important people of the plantation. And such a shaking of hands, earnest congratulations, happy “how des,” bows, and joyous laughs, as follow, place the scene so expressive of happiness beyond the power of pen to describe. Then he is led away, followed by a train of curious faces, to see Dad Daniel’s neatly-arranged cabin; after which he will see plantation church, and successively the people’s cabins. To-morrow evening, at early dusk, it is said, according to invitation and arrangement, he will sup on the green with his sable brethren, old and young, and spice up the evening’s entertainment with an exhortation; Dad Daniel, as is his custom, performing the duties of deacon.

Let us pass over this scene, and-Harry having ingratiated himself with the plantation people, who are ready to give him their distinguished consideration-ask the reader to follow us through the description of another, which took place a few days after.

Our clergyman has delivered to his sable flock his first sermon, which Dad Daniel and his compatriots pronounce great and good,–just what a sermon should be. Such pathos they never heard before; the enthusiasm and fervency with which it was delivered inspires delight; they want no more earnestness of soul than the fervency with which his gesticulations accompanied the words; and now he has obtained a furlough that he may go into the city and console his old master. A thrill of commiseration seizes him as he contemplates his once joyous master now in prison; but, misgivings being useless, onward he goes. And he will see old Bob, recall the happy incidents of the past, when time went smoothly on.

He reaches the city, having tarried a while at missus’s villa, and seeks M’Carstrow’s residence, at the door of which he is met by Franconia, who receives him gratefully, and orders a servant to show him into the recess of the hall, where he will wait until such time as she is ready to accompany him to the county prison. M’Carstrow has recently removed into plainer tenements: some whisper that necessity compelled it, and that the “large shot” gamblers have shorn him down to the lowest imaginable scale of living. Be this as it may, certain it is that he has not looked within the doors of his own house for more than a week: report says he is enjoying himself in a fashionable house, to the inmates of which he is familiarly known. He certainly leads his beautiful wife anything but a pleasant or happy life. Soon Franconia is ready, and onward wending her way for the gaol, closely followed by Harry. She would have no objection to his walking by her side, but custom (intolerant interposer) will not permit it. They pass through busy thoroughfares and narrow streets into the suburbs, and have reached the prison outer gate, on the right hand of which, and just above a brass knob, are the significant words, “Ring the bell.”

“What a place to put master in!” says Harry, in a half whisper, turning to Franconia, as he pulls the brass handle and listens for the dull tinkling of the bell within. He starts at the muffled summons, and sighs as he hears the heavy tread of the officer, advancing through the corridor to challenge his presence. The man advances, and has reached the inner iron gate, situated in a narrow, vaulted arch in the main building. A clanking and clicking sound is heard, and the iron door swings back: a thick-set man, with features of iron, advances to the stoop, down the steps, and to the gate. “What’s here now?” he growls, rather than speaks, looking sternly at the coloured man, as he thrusts his left hand deep into his side pocket, while holding the key of the inner door in his right.

“Visitor,” returns Franconia, modestly.

“Who does the nigger want to see?” he enquires, with pertinacity in keeping with his profession.

“His old master!” is the quick reply.

“You both? I guess I know what it is,–you want to see Marston: he used to be a rice-planter, but’s now in the debtor’s ward for a swimming lot of debts. Well, s’pose I must let you in: got a lot o’ things, I s’pose?” he says, looking wickedly through the bars as he springs the bolts, and swings back the gate. “I beg yer pardon a dozen times! but I didn’t recognise ye on the outer side,” continues the official, becoming suddenly servile. He makes a low bow as he recognises Franconia-motions his hand for them to walk ahead. They reach the steps leading to the inner gate, and ascending, soon are in the vaulted passage.

If they will allow him, the polite official will unlock the grated door. Stepping before Franconia, who, as the clanking of the locks grate on her ear, is seized with sensations she cannot describe, he inserts the heavy key. She turns to Harry, her face pallid as marble, and lays her tremulous hand on his arm, as if to relieve the nervousness with which she is seized. Click! click! sounds forth: again the door creaks on its hinges, and they are in the confines of the prison. A narrow vaulted arch, its stone walls moistened with pestilential malaria, leads into a small vestibule, on the right hand of which stretched a narrow aisle lined on both sides with cells. Damp and pestiferous, a hollow gloominess seems to pervade the place, as if it were a pest-house for torturing the living. Even the air breathes of disease,–a stench, as of dead men buried in its vaults, darts its poison deep into the system. It is this, coupled with the mind’s discontent, that commits its ravages upon the poor prisoner,–that sends him pale and haggard to a soon- forgotten grave.

“Last door on the right,–you know, mum,” says the official: “boy will follow, lightly: whist! whist!”

“I know, to my sorrow,” is her reply, delivered in a whisper. Ah! her emotions are too tender for prison walls; they are yielding tears from the fountain of her very soul.

“He’s sick: walk softly, and don’t think of the prisoners. Knock at the door afore enterin’,” says a staid-looking warden, emerging from a small door on the left hand of the vestibule.

“Zist! zist!” returns the other, pointing with the forefinger of his right hand down the aisle, and, placing his left, gently, on Franconia’s shoulder, motioning her to move on.

Slowly, her handkerchief to her face, she obeys the sign, and is moving down the corridor, now encountering anxious eyes peering through the narrow grating of huge black doors. And then a faint, dolorous sound strikes on their listening ears. They pause for a moment,–listen again! It becomes clearer and clearer; and they advance with anxious curiosity. “It’s Daddy Bob’s voice,” whispers Harry; “but how distant it sounds!

“Even that murmurs in his confinement,” returns Franconia.

“How, like a thing of life, it recalls the past-the past of happiness!” says Harry, as they reach the cell door, and, tremulously, hesitate for a few moments.

“Listen again!” continues Harry. The sound having ceased a moment or two, again commences, and the word “There’s a place for old mas’r yet, And de Lord will see him dar,” are distinctly audible. “How the old man battles for his good master!” returns Harry, as Franconia taps gently on the door. The wooden trap over the grating is closed; bolts hang carelessly from their staples; and yet, though the door is secured with a hook on the inside, disease and death breathe their morbid fumes through the scarce perceptible crevices. A whispering-“Come in!” is heard in reply to the tap upon the door, which slowly opens, and the face of old Bob, bathed in grief, protrudes round the frame. “Oh, missus-missus-missus-God give good missus spirit!” he exclaims, seizing Franconia fervently by the hand, and looking in her face imploringly. A fotid stench pervaded the atmosphere of the gloomy cell; it is death spreading its humid malaria. “Good old master is g-g-g-gone!” mutters the negro, in half-choked accents.

With a wild shriek, the noble woman rushes to the side of his prison cot, seizes his blanched hand that hangs carelessly over the iron frame, grasps his head frantically, and draws it to her bosom, as the last gurgle of life bids adieu to the prostrate body. He is dead!

The old slave has watched over him, shared his sorrows and his crust, has sung a last song to his departing spirit. How truthful was that picture of the dying master and his slave! The old man, struggling against the infirmities of age, had escaped the hands of the man-seller, served his master with but one object-his soul’s love-and relieved his necessities, until death, ending his troubles, left no more to relieve. Now, distracted between joy at meeting Harry, and sorrow for the death of master, the poor old man is lost in the confusion of his feelings. After saluting Franconia, he turned to Harry, threw his arms around his neck, buried his head in his bosom, and wept like a child. “Home-home again,–my Harry! but too late to see mas’r,” he says, as the fountains of his soul give out their streams.

“We must all go where master has gone,” returns Harry, as he, more calm, fondles the old man, and endeavours to reconcile his feelings. “Sit there, my old friend-sit there; and remember that God called master away. I must go to his bed-side,” whispers Harry, seating the old man on a block of wood near the foot of the cot, where he pours forth the earnest of his grief.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

AN ITEM IN THE COMMON CALENDAR.

THUS painfully has Marston paid his debtors. Around his lifeless body may spring to life those sympathies which were dead while he lived; but deplorings fall useless on dead men. There is one consideration, however, which must always be taken into account; it is, that while sympathy for the living may cost something, sympathy for the dead is cheap indeed, and always to be had. How simply plain is the dead man’s cell! In this humid space, ten by sixteen feet, and arched over-head, is a bucket of water, with a tin cup at the side, a prison tub in one corner, two wooden chairs, a little deal stand, (off which the prisoner ate his meals), and his trunk of clothing. The sheriff, insisting that it was his rule to make no distinction of persons, allowed prison cot and prison matress to which, by the kind permission of the warden, Franconia added sheets and a coverlit. Upon this, in a corner at the right, and opposite a spacious fire-place, in which are two bricks supporting a small iron kettle, lies the once opulent planter,–now with eyes glassy and discoloured, a ghastly corpse. His house once was famous for its princely hospitality,–the prison cot is not now his bequest: but it is all the world has left him on which to yield up his life. “Oh, uncle! uncle! uncle!” exclaims Franconia, who has been bathing his contorted face with her tears, “would that God had taken me too-buried our troubles in one grave! There is no trouble in that world to which he has gone: joy, virtue, and peace, reign triumphant there,” she speaks, sighing, as she raises her bosom from off the dead man. Harry has touched her on the shoulder with his left hand, and is holding the dead man’s with his right: he seems in deep contemplation. His mind is absorbed in the melancholy scene; but, though his affection is deep, he has no tears to shed at this moment. No; he will draw a chair for Franconia, and seat her near the head of the cot, for the fountains of her grief have overflown. Discoloured and contorted, what a ghastly picture the dead man’s face presents! Glassy, and with vacant glare, those eyes, strange in death, seem wildly staring upward from earth. How unnatural those sunken cheeks–those lips wet with the excrement of black vomit–that throat reddened with the pestilential poison! “Call a warden, Daddy!” says Harry; “he has died of black vomit, I think.” And he lays the dead body square upon the cot, turns the sheets from off the shoulders, unbuttons the collar of its shirt. “How changed! I never would have known master; but I can see something of him left yet.” Harry remains some minutes looking upon the face of the departed, as if tracing some long lost feature. And then he takes his hands-it’s master’s hand, he says-and places them gently to his sides, closes his glassy eyes, wipes his mouth and nostrils, puts his ear to the dead man’s mouth, as if doubting the all-slayer’s possession of the body, and with his right hand parts the matted hair from off the cold brow. What a step between the cares of the world and the peace of death! Harry smooths, and smooths, and smooths his forehead with his hand; until at length his feelings get the better of his resolution; he will wipe the dewy tears from his eyes. “Don’t weep, Miss Franconia,–don’t weep! master is happy with Jesus,–happier than all the plantations and slaves of the world could make him” he says, turning to her as she sits weeping, her elbow resting on the cot, and her face buried in her handkerchief.

“Bad job this here!” exclaims the warden, as he comes lumbering into the cell, his face flushed with anxiety. “This yaller-fever beats everything: but he hasn’t been well for some time,” he continues, advancing to the bed-side, looking on the deceased for a few minutes, and then, as if it were a part of his profession to look on dead men, says: “How strange to die out so soon!”

“He was a good master,” rejoins Harry.

“He wasn’t your master-Was he?” enquires the gaoler, in gruff accents.

“Once he was.”

“But, did you see him die, boy?”

“Thank God, I did not.”

“And this stupid old nigger hadn’t sense to call me!” (he turns threateningly to Bob): “Well,–must ‘a drop’d off like the snuff of a tallow candle!”

Daddy knew master was a poor man now;–calling would have availed nothing; gaolers are bad friends of poverty.

“Could you not have sent for me, good man?” enquires Franconia, her weeping eyes turning upon the warden, who says, by way of answering her question, “We must have him out o’ here.”

“I said mas’r was sicker den ye s’posed, yesterday; nor ye didn’t notice ‘um!” interposes Bob, giving a significant look at the warden, and again at Franconia.

“What a shame, in this our land of boasted hospitality! He died neglected in a prison cell!”

“Truth is, ma’am,” interrupts the warden, who, suddenly becoming conscious that it is polite to be courteous to ladies wherever they may be met, uncovers, and holds his hat in his hand,–“we are sorely tried with black-vomit cases; no provision is made for them, and they die on our hands afore we know it, just like sheep with the rot. It gives us a great deal of trouble;–you may depend it does, ma’am; and not a cent extra pay do we get for it. For my own part, I’ve become quite at home to dead men and prisoners. My name is-you have no doubt heard of me before-John Lafayette Flewellen: my situation was once, madam, that of a distinguished road contractor; and then they run me for the democratic senator from our district, and I lost all my money without getting the office-and here I am now, pestered with sick men and dead prisoners. And the very worst is that ye can’t please nobody; but if anything is wanted, ma’am, just call for me: John Lafayette Flewellen’s my name, ma’am.” The man of nerve, with curious indifference, is about to turn away,–to leave the mourning party to themselves, merely remarking, as he takes his hand from that of the corpse, that his limbs are becoming fridgid, fast.

“Stay-a-moment,–warden,” says Franconia, sobbing: “When was he seized with the fever?”

“Day afore yesterday, ma’am; but he didn’t complain until yesterday. That he was in a dangerous way I’m sure I’d no idea.” The warden shrugs his shoulders, and spreads his hands. “My eyes, ma’am, but he drank strongly of late! Perhaps that, combined with the fever, helped slide him off?”

“Ah! yes,–it was something else-it was grief! His troubles were his destroyer.” She wipes her eyes, and, with a look of commiseration, turns from the man whose business it is to look coldly upon unfortunate dead men.

“There was the things you sent him, ma’am; and he got his gaol allowance, and some gruel. The law wouldn’t allow us to do more for him,–no, it wouldn’t!” He shakes his head in confirmation.

“I wanted old mas’r to let ‘um bring doctor; but he said no! he would meet de doctor what cured all diseases in another world,” interrupts old Bob, as he draws his seat close to the foot of the cot, and, with his shining face of grief, gazes on the pale features of his beloved master.

“Let him lie as he is, till the coroner comes,” says the warden, retiring slowly, and drawing the heavy door after him.

The humble picture was no less an expression of goodness, than proof of the cruel severity of the law. The news of death soon brought curious debtors into the long aisle, while sorrow and sympathy might be read on every face. But he was gone, and with him his wants and grievances. A physician was called in, but he could not recall life, and, after making a few very learned and unintelligible remarks on the appearance of the body, took his departure, saying that they must not grieve-that it was the way all flesh would go. “He, no doubt, died of the black vomit, hastened by the want of care,” he concluded, as he left the cell.

“Want of care!” rejoins Franconia, again giving vent to her feelings. How deeply did the arrow dart into the recesses of her already wounded heart!

Mr. Moon, the methodical coroner, was not long repairing to the spot. He felt, and felt, and felt the dead man’s limbs, asked a few questions, bared the cold breast, ordered the body to be straightened a little, viewed it from several angles, and said an inquest was unnecessary. It would reveal no new facts, and, as so many were dying of the same disease, could give no more relief to his friends. Concerning his death, no one could doubt the cause being black vomit. With a frigid attempt at consolation for Franconia, he will withdraw. He has not been long gone, when the warden, a sheet over his left arm, again makes his appearance; he passes the sheet to Harry, with a request that he will wind the dead debtor up in it.

Franconia, sobbing, rises from her seat, opens a window at the head of the cot (the dead will not escape through the iron grating), and paces the floor, while Harry and Daddy sponge the body, lay it carefully down, and fold it in the winding-sheet. “Poor master,–God has taken him; but how I shall miss him! I’ve spent happy days wid ‘im in dis place, I have!” says Bob, as they lay his head on the hard pillow. He gazes upon him with affection,–and says “Mas’r ‘ll want no more clothes.”

And now night is fast drawing its dark mantle over the scene,–the refulgent shadows of the setting sun play through the grated window into the gloomy cell: how like a spirit of goodness sent from on high to lighten the sorrows of the downcast, seems the light. A faint ray plays its soft tints on that face now pallid in death; how it inspires our thoughts of heaven! Franconia watches, and watches, as fainter and fainter it fades away, like an angel sent for the spirit taking its departure. “Farewell!” she whispers, as darkness shuts out the last mellow glimmer: “Come sombre night, and spread thy stillness!”

The warden, moved by the spark of generosity his soul possesses, has brought some cologne, and silently places it in Franconia’s hands. She advances to the cot, seats herself near the head of her dear departed, encircles his head with her left arm, and with her white ‘kerchief bathes his face with the liquid, Harry holding the vessel in his hand, at her request. A candle sheds its sickly light upon the humid walls; faintly it discloses the face of Daddy Bob, immersed in tears, watching intently over the foot of the cot. “Missus Frankone is alw’s kind to mas’r!”

“I loved uncle because his heart was good,” returns Franconia.

“‘Tis dat, missus. How kindly old mas’r, long time ago, used to say, ‘Good mornin’, Bob! Daddy, mas’r lubs you!”

How firmly the happy recollection of these kind words is sealed in the old man’s memory.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

IN WHICH REGRETS ARE SHOWN OF LITTLE WORTH.

THE reader may remember, that we, in the early part of our narrative, made some slight mention of the Rovero family, of which Franconia and Lorenzo were the only surviving children. They, too, had been distinguished as belonging to a class of opulent planters; but, having been reduced to poverty by the same nefarious process through which we have traced Marston’s decline, and which we shall more fully disclose in the sequel, had gathered together the remnants of a once extensive property, and with the proceeds migrated to a western province of Mexico, where, for many years, though not with much success, Rovero pursued a mining speculation. They lived in a humble manner; Mrs. Rovero, Marston’s sister-and of whom we have a type in the character of her daughter, Franconia-discarded all unnecessary appurtenances of living, and looked forward to the time when they would be enabled to retrieve their fortunes and return to their native district to spend the future of their days on the old homestead. More than four years, however, had passed since any tidings had been received of them by Franconia; and it was strongly surmised that they had fallen victims to the savage incursions of marauding parties, who were at that time devastating the country, and scattering its defenceless inhabitants homeless over the western shores of central America. So strong had this impression found place in Franconia’s mind that she had given up all hopes of again meeting them. As for M’Carstrow’s friends, they had never taken any interest in her welfare, viewing her marriage with the distinguished colonel as a mere catch on the part of her parents, whose only motive was to secure themselves the protection of a name, and, perhaps, the means of sustaining themselves above the rank disclosure of their real poverty. To keep “above board” is everything in the south; and the family not distinguished soon finds itself well nigh extinguished. Hence that ever tenacious clinging to pretensions, sounding of important names, and maintenance of absurd fallacies,–all having for their end the drawing a curtain over that real state of poverty there existing. Indeed, it was no secret that even the M’Carstrow family (counting itself among the very few really distinguished families of the state, and notorious for the contempt in which they affected to hold all common people), had mortgaged their plantation and all its negroes for much more than their worth in ordinary times. As for tradesmen’s bills, there were any quantity outstanding, without the shadow of a prospect of their being paid, notwithstanding importuners had frequently intimated that a place called the gaol was not far distant, and that the squire’s office was within a stone’s throw of “the corner.” Colonel M’Carstrow, reports say, had some years ago got a deal of money by an unexplainable hocus pocus, but it was well nigh gone in gambling, and now he was keeping brothel society and rioting away his life faster than the race-horses he had formerly kept on the course could run.

Hospitality hides itself when friends are needy; and it will be seen here that Franconia had few friends-we mean friends in need. The Rosebrook family formed an exception. The good deacon, and his ever generous lady, had remained Franconia’s firmest friends; but so large and complicated were the demands against Marston, and so gross the charges of dishonour–suspicion said he fraudulently made over his property to Graspum-that they dared not interpose for his relief; nor would Marston himself have permitted it. The question now was, what was to be done with the dead body?

We left Franconia bathing its face, and smoothing the hair across its temples with her hand. She cannot bury the body from her own home:–no! M’Carstow will not permit that. She cannot consign it to the commissioners for the better regulation of the “poor house,”-her feelings repulse the thought. One thought lightens her cares; she will straightway proceed to Mrs. Rosebrook’s villa,–she will herself be the bearer of the mournful intelligence; while Harry will watch over the remains of the departed, until Daddy, who must be her guide through the city, shall return. “I will go to prepare the next resting-place for uncle,” says Franconia, as if nerving herself to carry out the resolution.

“With your permission, missus,” returns Harry, touching her on the arm, and pointing through the grated window into the gloomy yard. “Years since-before I passed through a tribulation worse than death-when we were going to be sold in the market, I called my brothers and sisters of the plantation together, and in that yard invoked heaven to be merciful to its fallen. I was sold on that day; but heaven has been merciful to me; heaven has guided me through many weary pilgrimages, and brought me here to-night; and its protecting hand will yet restore me my wife and little ones. Let us pray to-night; let us be grateful to Him who seeth the fallen in his tribulation, but prepareth a place for him in a better world. Let us pray and hope,” he continued: and they knelt at the side of the humble cot on which lay the departed, while he devoutly and fervently invoked the Giver of all Good to forgive the oppressor, to guide the oppressed, to make man feel there is a world beyond this, to strengthen the resolution of that fair one who is thus sorely afflicted, to give the old man who weeps at the feet of the departed new hope for the world to come,–and to receive that warm spirit which has just left the cold body into his realms of bliss.

What of roughness there was in his manner is softened by simplicity and truthfulness. The roughest lips may breathe the purest prayer. At the conclusion, Franconia and Daddy leave for Mrs. Rosebrook’s villa, while Harry, remaining to watch over the remains, draws his chair to the stand, and reads by the murky light.

“I won’t be long; take care of old mas’r,” says Daddy, as he leaves the cell, solicitously looking back into the cavern-like place.

It is past ten when they reach the house of Mrs. Rosebrook, the inmates of which have retired, and are sleeping. Everything is quiet in and about the enclosure; the luxuriant foliage bespreading a lawn extending far away to the westward, seems refreshing itself with dew that sparkles beneath the starlight heavens, now arched like a crystal mist hung with diamond lights. The distant watchdog’s bark re-echoes faintly over the broad lagoon, to the east; a cricket’s chirrup sounds beneath the woodbine arbour; a moody guardsman, mounted on his lean steed, and armed for danger, paces his slow way along: he it is that breaks the stillness while guarding the fears of a watchful community, who know liberty, but crush with steel the love thereof.

A rap soon brings to the door the trim figure of a mulatto servant. He conveys the name of the visitor to his “missus,” who, surprised at the untimely hour Franconia seeks her, loses no time in reaching the ante-room, into which she has been conducted.

Daddy has taken his seat in the hall, and recognises “missus” as she approaches; but as she puts out her hand to salute him, she recognises trouble seated on his countenance. “Young missus in da’h,” he says, pointing to the ante-room while rubbing his eyes.

“But you must tell me what trouble has befallen you,” she returns, as quickly, in her dishabille, she drops his hand and starts back.

“Missus know ‘um all,–missus da’h.” Again he points, and she hastens into the ante-room, when, grasping Franconia by the hand, she stares at her with breathless anxiety expressed in her face. A pause ensues in which both seem bewildered. At length Franconia breaks the silence. “Uncle is gone!” she exclaims, following the words with a flow of tears.

“Gone!” reiterates the generous-hearted woman, encircling Franconia’s neck with her left arm, and drawing her fondly to her bosom.

“Yes,–dead!” she continues, sobbing audibly. There is something touching in the words,–something which recalls the dearest associations of the past, and touches the fountains of the heart. It is the soft tone in which they are uttered,–it gives new life to old images. So forcibly are they called up, that the good woman has no power to resist her violent emotions: gently she guides Franconia to the sofa, seats her upon its soft cushion, and attempts to console her wrecked spirit.

The men-servants are called up,–told to be prepared for orders. One of them recognises Daddy, and, inviting him into the pantry, would give him food, Trouble has wasted the old man’s appetite; he thinks of master, but has no will to eat. No; he will see missus, and proceed back to the prison, there join Harry, and watch over all that is mortal of master. He thanks Abraham for what he gave him, declines the coat he would kindly lend him to keep out the chill, seeks the presence of his mistress (she has become more reconciled), says, “God bless ‘um!” bids her good night, and sallies forth.

Mrs. Rosebrook listens to the recital of the melancholy scene with astonishment and awe. “How death grapples for us!” she exclaims, her soft, soul-beaming eyes glaring with surprise. “How it cuts its way with edge unseen. Be calm, be calm, Franconia; you have nobly done your part,–nobly! Whatever the pecuniary misfortunes,–whatever the secret cause of his downfall, you have played the woman to the very end. You have illustrated the purest of true affection; would it had repaid you better. Before daylight-negroes are, in consequence of their superstition, unwilling to remove the dead at midnight-I will have the body removed here,–buried from my house.” The good woman did not disclose to Franconia that her husband was from home, making an effort to purchase Harry’s wife and children from their present owner. But she will do all she can,–the best can do no more.

At the gaol a different scene is presented. Harry, alone with the dead man, waits Daddy’s return. Each tap of the bell awakes a new hope, soon to be disappointed. The clock strikes eleven: no Daddy returns. The gates are shut: Harry must wile away the night, in this tomb-like abode, with the dead. What stillness pervades the cell; how mournfully calm in death sleeps the departed! The watcher has read himself to sleep; his taper, like life on its way, has nearly shed out its pale light; the hot breath of summer breathes balmy through the lattice bars; mosquitoes sing their torturous tunes while seeking for the dead man’s blood; lizards, with diamond eyes, crawl upon the wall, waiting their ration: but death, less inexorable than creditors, sits pale king over all. The palace and the cell are alike to him; the sharp edge of his unseen sword spares neither the king in his purple robe, nor the starving beggar who seeks a crust at his palace gate,–of all places the worst.

As morning dawns, and soft fleeting clouds tinge the heavens with light, four negroes may be seen sitting at the prison gate, a litter by their side, now and then casting silent glances upward, as if contemplating the sombre wall that frowns above their heads, enclosing the prison. The guard, armed to the teeth, have passed and repassed them, challenged and received their answer, and as often examined their passes. They-the negroes-have come for a dead man. Guardmen get no fees of dead men,–the law has no more demands to serve: they wish the boys much joy with their booty, and pass on.

Six o’clock arrives; the first bell rings; locks, bolts, and bars clank in ungrateful medley; rumbling voices are heard within the hollow-sounding aisles; whispers from above chime ominously with the dull shuffle rumbling from below. “Seven more cases,–how it rages!” grumbles a monotonous voice, and the gate opens at the warden’s touch. “Who’s here?” he demands, with stern countenance unchanged, as he shrugs his formidable shoulders. “I see, (he continues, quickly), you have come for the dead debtor. Glad of it, my good fellow; this is the place to make dead men of debtors. Brought an order, I s’pose?” Saying “follow me,” he turns about, hastens to the vestibule, receives the order from the hand of Duncan, the chief negro, reads it with grave attention, supposes it is all straight, and is about to show him the cell where the body lays, and which he is only too glad to release. “Hold a moment!” Mr. Winterflint–such is his name–says. Heaven knows he wants to get rid of the dead debtor; but the laws are so curious, creditors are so obdurate, and sheriffs have such a crooked way of doing straight things, that he is in the very bad position of not knowing what to do. Some document from the sheriff may be necessary; perhaps the creditors must agree to the compromise. He forgets that inexorable Death, as he is vulgarly styled, has forced a compromise: creditors must now credit “by decease.” Upon this point, however, he must be satisfied by his superior. He now wishes Mr. Brien Moon would evince more exactness in holding inquests, and less anxiety for the fees. Mr. Winterflint depends not on his own decisions, where the laws relating to debtors are so absurdly mystical. “Rest here, boy,” he says; “I won’t be a minute or two,–must do the thing straight.” He seeks the presence of that extremely high functionary, the gaoler (high indeed wherever slavery rules), who, having weighed the points with great legal impartiality, gives it as his most distinguished opinion that no order of release from the high sheriff is requisite to satisfy the creditors of his death: take care of the order sent, and make a note of the niggers who take him away, concludes that highly important gentleman, as comfortably his head reclines on soft pillow. To this end was Mr. Moon’s certificate essential.

Mr. Winterflint returns; enquires who owns the boys.

“Mas’r Rosebrook’s niggers,” Duncan replies, firmly; “but Missus send da order.”

“Sure of that, now? Good niggers them of Rosebrook’s: wouldn’t a’ gin it to nobody else’s niggers. Follow me-zist, zist!” he says, crooking his finger at the other three, and scowling, as Duncan relieves their timidity by advancing. They move slowly and noiselessly up the aisle, the humid atmosphere of which, pregnant with death, sickens as it steals into the very blood. “In there-zist! make no noise; the dead debtor lies there,” whispers the warden, laying his left hand upon Duncan’s shoulder, and, the forefinger of his right extended, pointing toward the last cell on the left. “Door’s open; not locked, I meant. Left it unsecured last night. Rap afore ye go in, though.” At the methodical warden’s bidding Duncan proceeds, his foot falling lightly on the floor. Reaching the door, he places his right hand on the swinging bolt, and for a few seconds seems listening. He hears the muffled sound of a footfall pacing the floor, and then a muttering as of voices in secret communion, or dying echoes from the tomb. He has not mistaken the cell; its crevices give forth odours pergnant of proof. Two successive raps bring Harry to the door: they are admitted to the presence of the dead. One by one Harry receives them by the hand, but he must needs be told why Daddy is not with them. They know not. He ate a morsel, and left late last night, says one of the negroes. Harry is astonished at this singular intelligence: Daddy Bob never before was known to commit an act of unfaithfulness; he was true to Marston in life,–strange that he should desert him in death. “Mas’r’s death-bed wasn’t much at last,” says Duncan, as they gather round the cot, and, with curious faces, mingle their more curious remarks. Harry draws back the white handkerchief which Franconia had spread over the face of the corpse, as the negroes start back affrighted. As of nervous contortion, the ghastly face presents an awful picture. Swollen, discoloured, and contracted, no one outline of that once cheerful countenance can be traced. “Don’t look much like Mas’r Marston used to look; times must a’ changed mightily since he used to look so happy at home,” mutters Duncan, shaking his head, and telling the others not to be “fear’d; dead men can’t hurt nobody.”

“Died penniless;–but e’ war good on e’ own plantation,” rejoins another. “One ting be sartin ’bout nigger-he know how he die wen ‘e time cum; Mas’r don know how ‘e gwine to die!”

Having seen enough of the melancholy finale, they spread the litter in the aisle, as the warden enters the cell to facilitate the dead debtor’s exit. Harry again covers the face, and prepares to roll the body in a coverlit brought by Duncan. “I kind of liked him-he was so gentlemanly-has been with us so long, and did’nt seem like a prisoner. He was very quiet, and always civil when spoken to,” interposes the warden, as, assisting the second shrouding, he presses the hand of the corpse in his own.

Now he is ready; they place his cold body on the litter; a few listless prisoners stand their sickly figures along the passage, watch him slowly borne to the iron gate in the arched vault. Death-less inexorable than creditors-has signed his release, thrown back prison bolts and bars, wrested him from the grasp of human laws, and now mocks at creditors, annuls fi fas, bids the dead debtor make his exit. Death pays no gaol fees; it makes that bequest to creditors; but it reserves the keys of heaven for another purpose. “One ration less,” says the warden, who, closing the grated door, casts a lingering look after the humble procession, bearing away the remains of our departed.

With Harry as the only follower, they proceed along, through suburban streets, and soon reach the house of that generous woman. A minister of the gospel awaits his coming; the good man’s words are consoling, but he cannot remodel the past for the advantage of the dead. Soon the body is placed in a “ready-made coffin,” and the good man offers up the last funeral rites; he can do no more than invoke the great protector to receive the departed into his bosom.

“How the troubles of this world rise up before me! Oh! uncle! uncle! how I could part with the world and bury my troubles in the same grave!” exclaims Franconia, as, the ceremony having ended, they bear the body away to its last resting-place; and, in a paroxysm of grief, she shrieks and falls swooning to the floor.

In a neatly inclosed plat, a short distance from the Rosebrook Villa, and near the bank of a meandering rivulet, overhung with mourning willows and clustering vines, they lay him to rest. The world gave the fallen man nothing but a prison-cell wherein to stretch his dying body; a woman gives him a sequestered grave, and nature spreads it with her loveliest offering. It is the last resting-place of the Rosebrook family, which their negroes, partaking of that contentment so characteristic of the family, have planted with flowers they nurture with tenderest care. There is something touching in the calm beauty of the spot; something breathing of rural contentment. It is something to be buried in a pretty grave-to be mourned by a slave-to be loved by the untutored. How abject the slave, and yet how true his affection! how dear his requiem over a departed friend! “God bless master-receive his spirit!” is heard mingling with the music of the gentle breeze, as Harry, sitting at the head of the grave, looks upward to heaven, while earth covers from sight the mortal relics of a once kind master.

It has been a day of sadness at the villa-a day of mourning and tribulation. How different the scene in the city! There, men whisper strange regrets. Sympathy is let loose, and is expanding itself to an unusual degree. Who was there that did not know Marston’s generous, gushing soul! Who was there that would not have stretched forth the helping hand, had they known his truly abject condition! Who that was not, and had not been twenty times, on the very brink of wresting him from the useless tyranny of his obdurate creditors! Who that had not waited from day to day, with purse-strings open, ready to pour forth the unmistakeable tokens of friendship! How many were only restrained from doing good-from giving vent to the fountains of their hospitality-through fear of being contaminated with that scandal rumour had thrown around his decline! Over his death hath sprung to life that curious fabric of living generosity, so ready to bespread a grave with unneeded bounties,–so emblematic of how many false mourners hath the dead. But Graspum would have all such expressions shrink beneath his glowing goodness. With honied words he tells the tale of his own honesty: his business intercourse with the deceased was in character most generous. Many a good turn did Marston receive at his hands; long had he been his faithful and unwearied friend. Fierce are the words with which he would execrate the tyrant creditors; yea, he would heap condign punishment on their obdurate heads. Time after time did he tell them the fallen man was penniless; how strange, then, that they tortured him to death within prison walls. He would sweep away such vengeance, bury it with his curses, and make obsolete such laws as give one man power to gratify his passion on another. His burning, surging anger can find no relief; nor can he tolerate such antiquated debtor laws: to him they are the very essence of barbarism, tainting that enlightened civilisation so long implanted by the State, so well maintained by the people. It is on those ennobling virtues of state, he says, the cherished doctrines of our democracy are founded. Graspum is, indeed, a well-developed type of our modern democracy, the flimsy fabric of which is well represented in the gasconade of the above outpouring philanthropy.

And now, as again the crimson clouds of evening soften into golden hues-as the sun, like a fiery chariot, sinks beneath the western landscape, and still night spreads her shadowy mantle down the distant hills, and over the broad lagoon to the north-two sable figures may be seen patting, sodding, and bespreading with fresh-plucked flowers the new grave. As the rippling brook gives out its silvery music, and earth seems drinking of the misty dew, that, like a bridal veil, spreads over its verdant hillocks, they whisper their requiem of regret, and mould the grave so carefully. “It’s mas’r’s last,” says one, smoothing the cone with his hands.

“We will plant the tree now,” returns the other, bringing forward a young clustering pine, which he places at the head of the grave, and on which he cuts the significant epitaph-“Good master lies here!”

Duncan and Harry have paid their last tribute. “He is at peace with this world,” says the latter, as, at the gate, he turns to take a last look over the paling.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

HOW WE SHOULD ALL BE FORGIVING.

LET us forget the scenes of the foregoing chapters, and turn to something of pleasanter hue. In the meantime, let us freely acknowledge that we live in a land-our democratic south, we mean-where sumptuous living and abject misery present their boldest outlines,–where the ignorance of the many is excused by the polished education of a very few,–where autocracy sways its lash with bitterest absolutism,–where menial life lies prostrate at the feet of injustice, and despairingly appeals to heaven for succour,–where feasts and funerals rival each other,–and when pestilence, like a glutton, sends its victims to the graveyard most, the ball-room glitters brightest with its galaxy. Even here, where clamour cries aloud for popular government, men’s souls are most crushed-not with legal right, but by popular will! And yet, from out all this incongruous substance, there seems a genial spirit working itself upon the surface, and making good its influence; and it is to that influence we should award the credit due. That genial spirit is the good master’s protection; we would it were wider exercised for the good of all. But we must return to our narrative.

The Rosebrook Villa has assumed its usual cheerfulness; but while pestilence makes sad havoc among the inhabitants of the city, gaiety is equally rampant. In a word, even the many funeral trains which pass along every day begin to wear a sort of cheerfulness, in consequence of which, it is rumoured, the aristocracy-we mean those who have money to spend-have made up their minds not to depart for the springs yet awhile. As for Franconia, finding she could no longer endure M’Carstrow’s dissolute habits, and having been told by that very distinguished gentleman, but unamiable husband, that he despised the whole tribe of her poor relations, she has retired to private boarding, where, with the five dollars a week, he, in the outpouring of his southern generosity, allows her, she subsists plainly but comfortably. It is, indeed, a paltry pittance, which the M’Carstrow family will excuse to the public with the greatness of their name.

Harry has returned to the plantation, where the people have smothered him in a new suit of black. Already has he preached three sermons in it, which said sermons are declared wonderful proofs of his biblical knowledge. Even Daddy Daniel, who expended fourteen picayunes in a new pair of spectacles, with which to hear the new parson more distinctly, pronounces the preaching prodigious. He is vehement in his exultation, lavishes his praise without stint; and as his black face glows with happiness, thanks missus for her great goodness in thus providing for their spiritual welfare. The Rosebrook “niggers” were always extremely respectable and well ordered in their moral condition; but now they seem invested with a new impulse for working out their own good; and by the advice of missus, whom every sable son and daughter loves most dearly, Daddy Daniel has arranged a system of evening prayer meetings, which will be held in the little church, twice a week. And, too, there prevails a strong desire for an evening gathering now and then, at which the young shiners may be instructed how to grow. A curiously democratic law, however, offers a fierce impediment to this; and Daddy Daniel shakes his head, and aunt Peggy makes a belligerent muttering when told such gatherings cannot take place without endangering the state’s rights. It is, nevertheless, decided that Kate, and Nan, and Dorothy, and Webster, and Clay, and such like young folks, may go to “settings up” and funerals, but strictly abstain from all fandangoes. Dad Daniel and his brother deacons cannot countenance such fiddling and dancing, such break-downs, and shoutings, and whirlings, and flouncing and frilling, and gay ribboning, as generally make up the evening’s merriment at these fandangoes, so prevalent on neighbouring plantations about Christmas time. “Da don’ mount to no good!” Daniel says, with a broad guffaw. “Nigger what spect t’ git hi’ way up in da world bes lef dem tings.” And so one or two more screws are to be worked up for the better regulation of the machinery of the plantation. As for Master Rosebrook-why, he wouldn’t sell a nigger for a world of money; and he doesn’t care how much they learn; the more the better, provided they learn on the sly. They are all to be freed at a certain time, and although freedom is sweet, without learning they might make bad use of it. But master has had a noble object in view for some days past, and which, after encountering many difficulties, he has succeeded in carrying out to the great joy of all parties concerned.

One day, as the people were all busily engaged on the plantation, Bradshaw’s familiar figure presents itself at the house, and demands to see Harry. He has great good news, but don’t want to tell him “nofin” till he arrives at the Villa. “Ah, good man” (Bradshaw’s face beams good tidings, as he approaches Harry, and delivers a note) “mas’r specs ye down da’ wid no time loss.” Bradshaw rubs his hands, and grins, and bows, his face seeming two shades blacker than ever, but no less cheerful.

“Master wants me to preach somewhere, next Sunday,–I know he does,” says Harry, reading the note, which requests him to come immediately into the city. He will prepare to obey the summons, Dan and Sprat meanwhile taking good care of the horse and carriage, while Bradshaw makes a friendly visit to a few of the more distinguished cabins, and says “how de” to venerable aunties, who spread their best fare before him, and, with grave ceremony, invite him in to refresh before taking his return journey into the city; and Maum Betsy packs up six of her real smart made sweet cakes for the parson and Bradshaw to eat along the road. Betsy is in a strange state of bewilderment to know why master wants to take the new parson away just now, when he’s so happy, and is only satisfied when assured that he will be safely returned to-morrow. A signal is made for Dad Daniel, who hastens to the cabin in time to see everything properly arranged for the parson’s departure, and say: “God bless ‘um,–good by!”

“Now, what can master want with me?” enquires Harry, as, on the road, they roll away towards the city.

Bradshaw cracks his whip, and with a significant smile looks Harry in the face, and returns: “Don’ ax dis child no mo’ sich question. Old mas’r and me neber break secret. Tell ye dis, do’h! Old mas’r do good ting, sartin.”

“You know, but won’t tell me, eh?” rejoins Harry, his manly face wearing a solicitous look. Bradshaw shakes his head, and adds a cunning wink in reply.

It is three o’clock when they arrive at the Villa, where, without reserve, missus extends her hand, and gives him a cordial welcome,–tells him Franconia has been waiting to see him with great patience, and has got a present for him. Franconia comes rushing into the hall, and is so glad to see him; but her countenance wears an air of sadness, which does not escape his notice-she is not the beautiful creature she was years ago, care has sadly worn upon those rounded features. But master is there, and he looks happy and cheerful; and there is something about the house servants, as they gather round him to have their say, which looks of suspiciously good omen. He cannot divine what it is; his first suspicions being aroused by missus saying Franconia had been waiting to see him.

“We must not call him Harry any longer-it doesn’t become his profession: now that he is Elder of my plantation flock, he must, from this time, be called Elder!” says Rosebrook, touching him on the arm with the right hand. And the two ladies joined in, that it must be so. “Go into the parlour, ladies; I must say a word or two to the Elder,” continued Rosebrook, taking Harry by the arm, and pacing through the hall into the conservatory at the back of the house. Here, after ordering Harry to be seated, he recounts his plan of emancipation, which, so far, has worked admirably, and, at the time proposed, will, without doubt or danger, produce the hoped-for result. “You, my good man,” he says, “can be a useful instrument in furthering my ends; I want you to be that instrument!” His negroes have all an interest in their labour, which interest is preserved for them in missus’s savings-bank; and at a given time they are to have their freedom, but to remain on the plantation if they choose, at a stipulated rate of wages. Indeed, so strongly impressed with the good results of his proposed system is Rosebrook, that he long since scouted that contemptible fallacy, which must have had its origin in the very dregs of selfishness, that the two races can only live in proximity by one enslaving the other. Justice to each other, he holds, will solve the problem of their living together; but, between the oppressor and the oppressed, a volcano that may at any day send forth its devouring flame, smoulders. Rosebrook knows goodness always deserves its reward; and Harry assures him he never will violate the trust. Having said thus much, he rises from his chair, takes Harry by the arm, and leading him to the door of the conservatory, points him to a passage leading to the right, and says: “In there!-proceed into that passage, enter a door, first door on the left, and then you will find something you may consider your own.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, watched master’s countenance doubtingly, as if questioning the singular command.

“Fear not! nobody will hurt you,” continues Rosebrook.

“Master never had a bad intention,” thinks Harry; “I know he would not harm me; and then missus is so good.” Slowly and nervously he proceeds, and on reaching the door hears a familiar “come in” answering his nervous rap. The door opened into a neat little room, with carpet and chairs, a mahogany bureau and prints, all so neatly arranged, and wearing such an air of cleanliness. No sooner has he advanced beyond the threshold than the emaciated figure of a black sister vaults into his arms, crying, “Oh Harry! Harry! Harry!-my dear husband!” She throws her arms about his neck, and kisses, and kisses him, and buries her tears of joy in his bosom. How she pours out her soul’s love!-how, in rapturous embraces, her black impulses give out the purest affection!

“And you!-you!-you!-my own dear Jane! Is it you? Has God commanded us to meet once more, to be happy once more, to live as heaven hath ordained us to live?” he returns, as fervently and affectionately he holds her in his arms, and returns her token of love. “Never! never! I forget you, never! By night and by day I have prayed the protecting hand of Providence to guide you through life’s trials. How my heart has yearned to meet you in heaven! happy am I we have met once more on earth; yea, my soul leaps with joy. Forgive them, Father, forgive them who separate us on earth, for heaven makes the anointed!” And while they embrace thus fondly, their tears mingling with joy, children, recognising a returned father as he entered the door, are clinging at his feet beseechingly. He is their father;–how like children they love! “Sam, Sue, and Beckie, too!” he says, as one by one he takes them in his arms and kisses them. But there are two more, sombre and strange. He had caught the fourth in his arms, unconsciously. “Ah, Jane!” he exclaims, turning toward her, his face filled with grief and chagrin, “they are not of me, Jane!” He still holds the little innocent by the hand, as nervously he waits her reply. It is not guilt, but shame, with which she returns an answer.

“It was not my sin, Harry! It was him that forced me to live with another,–that lashed me when I refused, and, bleeding, made me obey the will,” she returns, looking at him imploringly. Virtue is weaker than the lash; none feel it more than the slave. She loved Harry, she followed him with her thoughts; but it was the Christian that reduced her to the level of the brute. Laying her coloured hand upon his shoulder, she besought his forgiveness, as God was forgiving.

“Why should I not forgive thee, Jane? I would not chide thee, for no sin is on thy garments. Injustice gave master the right to sell thee, to make of thee what he pleased. Heaven made thy soul purest,–man thy body an outcast for the unrighteous to feast upon. How could I withhold forgiveness, Jane? I will be a father to them, a husband to thee; for what thou hast been compelled to do is right, in the land we live in.” So saying, he again embraces her, wipes the tears from her eyes, and comforts her. How sweet is forgiveness! It freshens like the dew of morning on the drooping plant; it strengthens the weary spirit, it steals into the desponding soul, and wakes to life new hopes of bliss,–to the slave it is sweet indeed!

“I will kiss them, too,” he ejaculates, taking them in his arms with the embrace of a fond father,–which simple expression of love they return with prattling. They know not the trials of their parents; how blessed to know them not!

And now they gather the children around them, and seat themselves on a little settee near the window, where Harry, overjoyed at meeting his dear ones once more, fondles them and listens to Jane, as with her left arm round his neck she discloses the sad tale of her tribulation. Let us beg the reader to excuse the recital; there is nothing fascinating in it, nor would we call forth the modest blushes of our generous south. A few words of the woman’s story, however, we cannot omit; and we trust the forgiving will pardon their insertion. She tells Harry she was not separated from her children; but that Romescos, having well considered her worth, sold her with her “young uns” to the Rev. Peter–, who had a small plantation down in Christ’s Parish. The reverend gentleman, being born and educated to the degrading socialities of democratic states, always says he is not to blame for “using” the rights the law gives him; nor does he forget to express sundry regrets that he cannot see as preachers at the north see. As for money, he thinks preachers have just as good a right to get it as gentlemen of any other honourable profession. Now and then he preaches to niggers; and for telling them how they must live in the fear of the Lord, be obedient to their master, and pay for redemption by the sweat of their brows, he adds to his pile of coin. But he is strongly of the opinion that niggers are inferior “brutes” of the human species, and in furtherance of this opinion (so popular in the whole south) he expects them to live a week on a peck of corn. As for Jane-we must excuse the reverend gentleman, because of his faith in southern principles-he compelled her to live with the man Absalom ere she had been two days on his plantation, and by the same Absalom she had two children, which materially increased the cash value of the Reverend Peter–‘s slave property. Indeed, so well is the reverend gentleman known for his foul play, that it has been thrown up to him in open court-by wicked planters who never had the fear of God before their eyes-that he more than half starved his niggers, and charged them toll for grinding their corn in his mill. Though the Reverend Peter –never failed to assure his friends and acquaintances of his generosity (a noble quality which had long been worthily maintained by the ancient family to which he belonged), the light of one generous act had never found its way to the public. In truth, so elastically did his reverend conscientiousness expand when he learned the strange motive which prompted Rosebrook to purchase Jane and her little ones, that he sorely regretted he had not put two hundred dollars more on the price of the lot. Fortunately Jane was much worn down by grief and toil, and was viewed by the reverend gentleman as a piece of property he would rather like to dispose of to the best advantage, lest she should suddenly make a void in his dollars and cents by sliding into some out of the way grave-yard. But Rosebrook, duly appreciating the unchristian qualities of our worthy one’s generosity, kept his motive a profound secret until the negociation was completed. Now that it had become known that the Reverend Peter–(who dresses in blackest black, most sanctimoniously cut, whitest neckcloth wedded to his holy neck, and face so simply serious) assures Rosebrook he has got good people,–they are valuably promising-he will pray for them, that the future may prosper their wayfaring. He cannot, however, part with the good man without admonishing him how dangerous it is to give unto “niggers” the advantage of a superior position.

Reader, let us hope the clergy of the south will take heed lest by permitting their brethren to be sold and stolen in this manner they bring the profession into contempt. Let us hope the southern church will not much longer continue to bring pure Christianity into disgrace by serving ends so vile that heaven and earth frowns upon them; for false is the voice raised in sanctimony to heaven for power to make a footstool of a fallen race!

CHAPTER XL.

CONTAINING VARIOUS MATTERS.

GREAT regularity prevails on the Rosebrook plantation, and cheering are the prospects held out to those who toil thereon. Mrs. Rosebrook has dressed Jane (Harry’s wife) in a nice new calico, which, with her feet encased in shining calf-skin shoes, and her head done up in a bandana, with spots of great brightness, shows her lean figure to good advantage. Like a good wife, happy with her own dear husband, she pours forth the emotions of a grateful heart, and feels that the world-not so bad after all-has something good in store for her. And then Harry looks even better than he did on Master Marston’s plantation; and, with their little ones-sable types of their parents-dressed so neatly, they must be happy. And now that they are duly installed at the plantation, where Harry pursues his duties as father of the flock, and Jane lends her cheering voice and helping hand to make comfort in the various cabins complete-and with Dad Daniel’s assurance that the people won’t go astray-we must leave them for a time, and beg the reader’s indulgence while following us through another phase of the children’s history.

A slave is but a slave–an article subject to all the fluctuations of trade–a mere item in the scale of traffic, and reduced to serving the ends of avarice or licentiousness. This is a consequence inseparable from his sale. It matters not whether the blood of the noblest patriot course in his veins, his hair be of flaxen brightness, his eyes of azure blue, his skin of Norman whiteness, and his features classic,–he can be no more than a slave, and as such must yield to the debasing influences of an institution that crushes and curses wherever it exists. In proof of this, we find the bright eyes of our little Annette, glowing with kindliest love, failing to thaw the frozen souls of man-dealers. Nay, bright eyes only lend their aid to the law that debases her life. She has become valuable only as a finely and delicately developed woman, whose appearance in the market will produce sharp bidding, and a deal of dollars and cents. Graspum never lost an opportunity of trimming up these nice pieces of female property, making the money invested in them turn the largest premium, and satisfying his customers that, so far as dealing in the brightest kind of fancy stock was concerned, he is not a jot behind the most careful selecter in the Charleston market. Major John Bowling–who is very distinguished, having descended from the very ancient family of that name, and is highly thought of by the aristocracy–has made the selection of such merchandise his particular branch of study for more than fourteen years. In consequence of the major’s supposed taste, his pen was hitherto most frequented by gentlemen and connoisseur; but now Graspum assures all respectable people, gentlemen of acknowledged taste, and young men who are cultivating their way up in the world, that his selections are second to none; of this he will produce sufficient proof, provided customers will make him a call and look into the area of his fold. The fold itself is most uninviting (it is, he assures us, owing to his determination to carry out the faith of his plain democracy); nevertheless, it contains the white, beautiful, and voluptuous,–all for sale. In fact–the truth must be told–Mr. Graspum assures the world that he firmly believes there is a sort of human nature extant–he is troubled sometimes to know just where the line breaks off–which never by any possibility could have been intended for any thing but the other to traffic in-to turn into the most dollars and cents. In proof of this principle he kept Annette until she had well nigh merged into womanhood, or until such time as she became a choice marketable article, with eyes worth so much; nose, mouth, so much; pretty auburn hair, worth so much; and fine rounded figure–with all its fascinating appurtenances–worth so much;–the whole amounting to so much; to be sold for so much, the nice little profit being chalked down on the credit side of his formidable ledger, in which stands recorded against his little soul (he knows will get to heaven) the sale of ten thousand black souls, which will shine in brightness when his is refused admittance to the portal above.

Having arrived at the point most marketable, he sells her to Mr. Gurdoin Choicewest, who pays no less a sum than sixteen hundred dollars in hard cash for the unyielding beauty-money advanced to him by his dear papa, who had no objection to his having a pretty coloured girl, provided Madam Choicewest-most indulgent mother she was, too-gave her consent; and she said she was willing, provided-; and now, notwithstanding she was his own, insisted on the preservation of her virtue, or death. Awful dilemma, this! To lash her will be useless; and the few kicks she has already received have not yet begun to thaw her frozen determination. Such an unyielding thing is quite useless for the purpose for which young Choicewest purchased her. What must be done with her? The older Choicewest is consulted, and gives it as his decided opinion that there is one of two things the younger Choicewest must do with this dear piece of property he has so unfortunately got on his hands,–he must sell her, or tie her up every day and pump her with cold water, say fifteen minutes at a time. Pumping niggers, the elder Mr. Choicewest remarks, with the coolness of an Austrian diplomatist, has a wondrous effect upon them; “it makes ’em give in when nothing else will.” He once had four prime fellows, who, in stubbornness, seemed a match for Mr. Beelzebub himself. He lashed them, and he burned them, and he clipped their ears; and then he stretched them on planks, thinking they would cry “give in” afore the sockets of their joints were drawn out; but it was all to no purpose, they were as unyielding as granite.

About that time there was a celebrated manager of negroes keeping the prison. This clever functionary had a peculiar way of bringing the stubbornness out of them; so he consigned the four unbending rascals to his skill. And this very valuable and very skilful gaol-keeper had a large window in his establishment, with iron bars running perpendicular; to the inside of which he would strap the four stubborn rascals, with their faces scientifically arranged between the bars, to prevent the moving of a muscle. Thus caged, their black heads bound to the grating, the scientific gaoler, who was something of a humourist withal, would enjoy a nice bit of fun at seeing the more favoured prisoners (with his kind permission) exercise their dexterity in throwing peas at the faces of the bounden. How he would laugh-how the pea-punishing prisoners would enjoy it-how the fast bound niggers, foaming with rage and maddened to desperation, would bellow, as their very eyeballs darted fire and blood! What grand fun it was! bull-baiting sank into a mere shadow beside it. The former was measuredly passive, because the bull only roared, and pitched, and tossed; whereas here the sport was made more exhilarating by expressions of vengeance or implorings. And then, as a change of pastime, the skilful gaoler would demand a cessation of the pea hostilities, and enjoin the commencement of the water war; which said war was carried out by supplying about a dozen prisoners with as many buckets, which they would fill with great alacrity, and, in succession, throw the contents with great force over the unyielding, from the outside. The effect of this on naked men, bound with chains to iron bars, may be imagined; but the older Choicewest declares it was a cure. It brought steel out of the “rascals,” and made them as submissive as shoe-strings. Sometimes the jolly prisoners would make the bath so strong, that the niggers would seem completely drowned when released; but then they’d soon come to with a jolly good rolling, a little hartshorn applied to their nostrils, and the like of that. About a dozen times putting through the pea and water process cured them.

So says the very respectable Mr. Choicewest, with great dignity of manners, as he seriously advises the younger Choicewest to try a little quantity of the same sort on his now useless female purchase. Lady Choicewest must, however, be consulted on this point, as she is very particular about the mode in which all females about her establishment are chastised. Indeed, Lady Choicewest is much concerned about the only male, heir of the family, to whom she looks forward for very distinguished results to the family name. The family (Lady Choicewest always assures those whom she graciously condescends to admit into the fashionable precincts of her small but very select circle), descended from the very ancient and chivalric house of that name, whose celebrated estate was in Warwickshire, England; and, in proof of this, my Lady Choicewest invariably points to a sad daub, illustrative of some incomprehensible object, suspended over the antique mantelpiece. With methodical grace, and dignity which frowns with superlative contempt upon every thing very vulgar–for she says “she sublimely detests them very low creatures what are never brought up to manners at the north, and are worse than haystacks to larn civility”–my lady solicits a near inspection of this wonderful hieroglyphic, which she tells us is the family arms,–an ancient and choice bit of art she would not part with for the world. If her friends evince any want of perception in tracing the many deeds of valour it heralds, on behalf of the noble family of which she is an undisputed descendant, my lady will at once enter upon the task of instruction; and with the beautiful fore-finger of her right hand, always jewelled with great brilliancy, will she satisfactorily enlighten the stupid on the fame of the ancient Choicewest family, thereon inscribed. With no ordinary design on the credulity of her friends, Lady Choicewest has several times strongly intimated that she was not quite sure that one or two of her ancestors in the male line of the family were not reigning dukes as far down as the noble reign of the ignoble Oliver Cromwell! The question, nevertheless, is whether the honour of the ancient Choicewest family descended from Mr. or Mrs. Choicewest. The vulgar mass have been known to say (smilingly) that Lady Choicewest’s name was Brown, the father of which very ancient family sold herrings and small pigs at a little stand in the market: this, however, was a very long time ago, and, as my lady is known to be troubled with an exceedingly crooked memory, persons better acquainted with her are more ready to accept the oblivious excuse.

Taking all these things into consideration, my Lady Choicewest is exceedingly cautious lest young Gourdoin Choicewest should do aught to dishonour the family name; and on this strange perplexity in which her much indulged son is placed being referred to her, she gives it as her most decided opinion that the wench, if as obstinate as described, had better be sold to the highest bidder-the sooner the better. My lady lays great emphasis on “the sooner the better.” That something will be lost she has not the slightest doubt; but then it were better to lose a little in the price of the stubborn wretch, than to have her always creating disturbance about the genteel premises. In furtherance of this-my lady’s mandate-Annette is sold to Mr. Blackmore Blackett for the nice round sum of fifteen hundred dollars. Gourdoin Choicewest hates to part with the beauty, grieves and regrets,–she is so charmingly fascinating. “Must let her slide, though; critter won’t do at all as I wants her to,” he lisps, regretting the serious loss of the dollars. His friend Blackmore Blackett, however, is a gentleman, and therefore he would not deceive him in the wench: hence he makes the reduction, because he finds her decidedly faulty. Had Blackmore Blackett been a regular flesh trader, he would not have scrupled to take him in. As it is, gentlemen must always be gentlemen among themselves. Blackett, a gentleman of fortune, who lives at his ease in the city, and has the very finest taste for female beauty, was left, most unfortunately, a widower with four lovely daughters, any one of which may be considered a belle not to be rung by gentlemen of ordinary rank or vulgar pretension. In fact, the Blackett girls are considered very fine specimens of beauty, are much admired in society, and expect ere long, on the clear merit of polish, to rank equal with the first aristocracy of the place.

Mr. Blackmore Blackett esteems himself an extremely lucky fellow in having so advantageously procured such a nice piece of property,–so suited to his taste. Her price, when compared with her singularly valuable charms, is a mere nothing; and, too, all his fashionable friends will congratulate him upon his good fortune. But as disappointments will come, so Mr. Blackmore Blackett finds he has got something not quite so valuable as anticipated; however, being something of a philosopher, he will improve upon the course pursued by the younger Choicewest: he makes his first advances with great caution; whispers words of tenderness in her ear; tells her his happy jewel for life she must be. Remembering her mother, she turns a deaf ear to Mr. Blackett’s pleadings. The very cabin which he has provided for her in the yard reminds her of that familiar domicile on Marston’s plantation. Neither by soft pleadings, nor threatenings of sale to plantation life, nor terrors of the lash, can he soften the creature’s sympathies, so that the flesh may succumb. When he whispered soft words and made fascinating promises, she would shake her head and move from him; when he threatened, she would plead her abject position; when he resorted to force, she would struggle with him, making the issue her virtue or death. Once she paid the penalty of her struggles with a broken wrist, which she shows us more in sorrow than anger. Annette is beautiful but delicate; has soft eyes beaming with the fulness of a great soul; but they were sold, once,–now, sympathy for her is dead. The law gives her no protection for her virtue; the ruffian may violate it, and Heaven only can shelter it with forgiveness. As for Blackett, he has no forgiveness in his temperament,–passion soars highest with him; he would slay with violent hands the minion who dared oppose its triumph.

About this time, Mr. Blackett, much to his surprise, finds a storm of mischief brewing about his domestic domain. The Miss Blacketts, dashing beauties, have had it come to their ears over and over again that all the young men about the city say Annette Mazatlin (as she is now called) is far more beautiful than any one of the Blacketts. This is quite enough to kindle the elements of a female war. In the south nothing can spread the war of jealousy and vanity with such undying rage as comparing slave beauty with that of the more favoured of the sexes. A firman of the strongest kind is now issued from the portfolio of the Miss Blacketts, forbidding the wretched girl entering the house; and storms of abuse are plentifully and very cheaply lavished on her head, ere she puts it outside the cabin. She was a nasty, impudent hussy; the very worst of all kind of creatures to have about a respectable mansion,–enough to shock respectable people! The worst of it was, that the miserable white nigger thought she was handsome, and a lot of young, silly-headed men flattered her vanity by telling the fool she was prettier than the Blacketts themselves,–so said the very accomplished Miss Blacketts. And if ever domicile was becoming too warm for man to live in, in consequence of female indignation, that one was Mr. Blackmore Blackett’s. It was not so much that the father had purchased this beautiful creature to serve fiendish purposes. Oh no!-that was a thing of every-day occurrence,–something excusable in any respectable man’s family. It was beauty rivalling, fierce and jealous of its compliments. Again, the wretch-found incorrigible, and useless for the purpose purchased-is sold. Poor, luckless maiden! she might add, as she passed through the hands of so many purchasers. This time, however, she is less valuable from having fractured her left wrist, deformity being always taken into account when such property is up at the flesh shambles. But Mr. Blackmore Blackett has a delicacy about putting her up under the hammer just now, inasmuch as he could not say she was sold for no fault; while the disfigured wrist might lead to suspicious remarks concerning his treatment of her. Another extremely unfortunate circumstance was its getting all about the city that she was a cold, soulless thing, who declared that sooner than yield to be the abject wretch men sought to make her, she would die that only death. She had but one life, and it were better to yield that up virtuously than die degraded. Graspum, then, is the only safe channel in which to dispose of the like. That functionary assures Mr. Blackmore Blackett that the girl is beautiful, delicate, and an exceedingly sweet creature yet! but that during the four months she has depreciated more than fifty per cent in value. His remarks may be considered out of place, but they are none the less true, for it is ascertained, on private examination, that sundry stripes have been laid about her bare loins. Gurdoin Choicewest declared to his mother that he never for once had laid violent hands on the obstinate wench; Mr. Blackmore Blackett stood ready to lay his hand on the Bible, and lift his eyes to heaven for proof of his innocence; but a record of the infliction, indelible of blood, remained there to tell its sad tale,–to shame, if shame had aught in slavery whereon to make itself known. Notwithstanding this bold denial, it is found that Mr. Blackmore Blackett did on two occasions strip her and secure her hands and feet to the bed-post, where he put on “about six at a time,” remarkably “gently.” He admired her symmetrical form, her fine, white, soft, smooth skin-her voluptuous limbs, so beautifully and delicately developed; and then there was so much gushing sweetness, mingled with grief, in her face, as she cast her soft glances upon him, and implored him to end her existence, or save her such shame! Such, he says, laconically, completely disarmed him, and he only switched her a few times.

“She’s not worth a dot more than a thousand dollars. I couldn’t give it for her, because I couldn’t make it out on her. The fact is, she’ll get a bad name by passing through so many hands-a deuced bad name!” says Graspum, whose commercial language is politically cold. “And then there’s her broken wrist-doubtful! doubtful! doubtful! what I can do with her. For a plantation she isn’t worth seven coppers, and sempstresses and housemaids of her kind are looked on suspiciously. It’s only with great nicety of skill ye can work such property to advantage,” he continues, viewing her in one of Mr. Blackmore Blackett’s ante-rooms.

The upshot of the matter is, that Mr. Blackmore Blackett accepts the offer, and Graspum, having again taken the damaged property under his charge, sends it back to his pen. As an offset for the broken wrist, she has three new dresses, two of which were presented by the younger Choicewest, and one by the generous Blackmore Blackett.

Poor Annette! she leaves for her home in the slave-pen, sad at heart, and in tears. “My mother! Oh, that I had a mother to love me, to say Annette so kindly,–to share with me my heart’s bitter anguish. How I could love Nicholas, now that there is no mother to love me!” she mutters as she sobs, wending her way to that place of earthly torment. How different are the feelings of the oppressor. He drinks a social glass of wine with his friend Blackett, lights his cigar most fashionably, bids him a polite good morning, and intimates that a cheque for the amount of the purchase will be ready any time he may be pleased to call. And now he wends his way homeward, little imagining what good fortune awaits him at the pen to which he has despatched his purchase.

Annette has reached the pen, in which she sits, pensively, holding her bonnet by the strings, the heavy folds of her light auburn hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders. Melancholy indeed she is, for she has passed an ordeal of unholy brutality. Near her sits one Pringle Blowers, a man of coarse habits, who resides on his rice-plantation, a few miles from the city, into which he frequently comes, much to the annoyance of quietly disposed citizens and guardsmen, who are not unfrequently called upon to preserve the peace he threatens to disturb. Dearly does he love his legitimate brandy, and dearly does it make him pay for the insane frolics it incites him to perpetrate, to the profit of certain saloons, and danger of persons. Madman under the influence of his favourite drink, a strange pride besets his faculties, which is only appeased with the demolition of glass and men’s faces. For this strange amusement he has become famous and feared; and as the light of his own besotted countenance makes its appearance, citizens generally are not inclined to interpose any obstacle to the exercise of his belligerent propensities.

Here he sits, viewing Annette with excited scrutiny. Never before has he seen anything so pretty, so bright, so fascinating-all clothed with a halo of modesty-for sale in the market. The nigger is completely absorbed in the beauty, he mutters to himself: and yet she must be a nigger or she would not be here. That she is an article of sale, then, there can be no doubt. “Van, yer the nicest gal I’ve seen! Reckon how Grasp. paid a tall shot for ye, eh?” he says, in the exuberance of his fascinated soul. He will draw nearer to her, toss her undulating hair, playfully, and with seeming unconsciousness draw his brawny hand across her bosom. “Didn’t mean it!” he exclaims, contorting his broad red face, as she puts out her hand, presses him from her, and disdains his second attempt. “Pluck, I reckon! needn’t put on mouths, though, when a feller’s only quizzin.” He shrugs his great round shoulders, and rolls his wicked eyes.