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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

ELDER PEMBERTON PRAISEWORTHY CHANGES HIS BUSINESS.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's no uncommon business, Madam; hundreds follow it; some have got rich at it."

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

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

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

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

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

The Elder rises sedately, and walks across the room, considering his reply. "The question's so kind of round about," he mutters, as she continues:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How many have you in all?"

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

"You are alone in the business?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She will come to, soon: it's only one of her strange fits of aberration. Sometimes I fling cold water over her; and, if it's very cold, she soon comes to," Mr. Praiseworthy remarks, as he stands unmoved, probably contemplating the goodness of a forgiving God. What magic simplicity lies concealed in his nature; and yet it is his trade, sanctioned by the law of a generous state. Let us bless the land that has given us power to discover the depths to which human nature can reduce itself, and what man can make himself when human flesh and blood become mere things of traffic.

"That gal's name is Ellen. I wish I knew all that has turned up at Marston's," remarks the Elder.

"Ellen!" ejaculates the lady, looking at her more intently, placing her left hand under her chin. "Not Ellen Juvarna?"

"Yes, good missus-the lady has distributed her nourishment among the sick-that's my name," she says, raising her eyes with a look of melancholy that tells the tale of her troubles. Again her feelings subside into quiet; she seems in meditation. "I knowed you once, good missus, but you don't know me now, I'm changed so!" she whispers, the good lady holding her hand, as a tear courses down her cheek-"I'm changed so!" she whispers, shaking her head.



CHAPTER XII.

A FATHER TRIES TO BE A FATHER.



WE have conducted the reader through scenes perhaps unnecessary to our narration, nevertheless associated with and appertaining to the object of our work. And, in this sense, the reader cannot fail to draw from them lessons developing the corrupting influences of a body politic that gives one man power to sell another. They go to prove how soon a man may forget himself,—how soon he may become a demon in the practice of abominations, how soon he can reconcile himself to things that outrage the most sacred ties of our social being. And, too, consoling himself with the usages of society, making it right, gives himself up to the most barbarous practices.

When we left Marston in a former chapter, he had become sensible of the wrong he so long assisted to inflict upon innocent and defenceless persons; and, stung with remorse made painful by the weight of misfortune, had avowed his object of saving his children. Yet, strange as it may seem, so inured were his feelings to those arbitrary customs which slave-owners are educated to view as privileges guaranteed in the rights of a peculiar institution-the rights of property in the being slave-that, although conscious of his duty toward the children, no sooner had the mother of Nicholas been attacked with cholera, than he sold her to the Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, in whose infirmary we have just left her. The Elder, since his discharge from parochial life,—from ministering the gospel, has transferred his mission to that of being the partner in a firm, the ostensible business of which is purchasing the sick, the living, and the dying.

Do not blush, reader; you know not how elastic dealing in human kind makes man's feelings. Gold is the beacon-light of avarice; for it man will climb over a catacomb of the dead. In this instance the very man-Marston-who, touched by misfortune, began to cherish a father's natural feelings, could see nothing but property in the mother, though he knew that mother to be born free. Perhaps it was not without some compunction of feelings-perhaps it was done to soften the separation at that moment so necessary to the preservation of the children. But we must leave this phase of the picture, and turn to another.

Graspum had diligently watched Marston's affairs, and through the cunning and perseverance of Romescos, carefully noted every movement on the plantation. Each death from cholera was reported,—the change in Marston's feelings observed and provided against,—every stage of the crop carefully watched. Graspum, however, had secured himself in the real estate, and gave little heed to the epidemic that was carrying off the negro property. Finally, to pass over several stages in the decline of Marston's affairs, the ravages of the disease continued until but forty-three negroes, old and young, were left on the old homestead. The culminating point had arrived. He was in the grasp of Graspum, and nothing could save him from utter ruin. It had lately been proved that the Rovero family, instead of being rich, were extremely poor, their plantation having long been under a mortgage, the holder of which was threatening foreclosure.

With Marston, an amount of promiscuous debts had accumulated so far beyond his expectation that he was without means of discharging them. His affairs became more and more confused, while the amount of his liabilities remained a perfect obscurity to the community. Rumour began to disseminate his troubles, suspicion summoned her charges, and town-talk left little unadded; while those of his creditors who had been least suspicious of his wealth and honour became the most importunate applicants for their claims. At length, driven by the pressure of the times, he calls Clotilda to him, and tells her that he is resolved to send Annette and Nicholas into the city, where they will remain in the care of a coloured woman, until an opportunity offers of sending them to the north. He is fond of Clotilda,—tells her of the excitement concerning his business affairs, and impresses her with the necessity of preserving calmness; it is requisite to the evasion of any ulterior consequence that may be brought upon him. Every-thing hangs upon a thread-a political thread, a lawful thread-a thread that holds the fate of thirty, forty, or fifty human beings-that separates them from that verge of uncertainty upon which a straw may turn the weal or woe of their lives. "When I get them comfortably cared for, Clotilda, I will send for you. Nicholas's mother has gone, but you shall be a mother to them both," he says, looking upon her seriously, as if contemplating the trouble before him in the attempt to rescue his children.

"You will not send Annette away without me?" she inquires, quickly, falling on her knees at his side, and reiterating, "Don't send Annette away without me,—don't, mas'r!"

"The separation will only be for a few days. Annette shall be educated-I care not for the laws of our free land against it-and together you shall go where your parentage will not shame you,—where you may ornament society," he replies, as Clotilda's face lights up with satisfaction. With such an assurance-she does not comprehend the tenour of his troubles-her freedom seems at hand: it excites her to joy. Marston retires and she takes his seat, writes a note to Maxwell, who is then in the city, relating what has transpired, and concluding with a request that he will call and see her.

A few days passed, and the two children were sent into the city and placed in the charge of a free woman, with instructions to keep them secreted for several weeks. This movement being discovered by Romescos, was the first signal for an onset of creditors. Graspum, always first to secure himself, in this instance compelled Marston to succumb to his demands by threatening to disclose the crime Lorenzo had committed. Forcing him to fulfil the obligation in the bond, he took formal possession of the plantation. This increased the suspicion of fraud; there was a mystery somewhere,—nobody could solve it. Marston, even his former friends declared, was a swindler. He could not be honestly indebted in so large an amount to Graspum; nor could he be so connected with such persons without something being wrong somewhere. Friends began to insinuate that they had been misled; and not a few among those who had enjoyed his hospitality were first inclined to scandalise his integrity. Graspum had foreseen all this, and, with Romescos, who had purloined the bill of sale, was prepared to do any amount of swearing. Marston is a victim of circumstances; his proud spirit prompts him to preserve from disgrace the name of his family, and thus he the more easily yielded to the demands of the betrayer. Hence, Graspum, secure in his ill-gotten booty, leaves his victim to struggle with those who come after him.

A few weeks pass over, and the equity of Graspum's claim is questioned: his character for honour being doubted, gives rise to much comment. The whole thing is denounced-proclaimed a concerted movement to defraud the rightful creditors. And yet, knowing the supremacy of money over law in a slave state, Graspum's power, the revenge his followers inflict, and their desperate character, not one dare come forward to test the validity of the debt. They know and fear the fierce penalty: they are forced to fall back,—to seize his person, his property, his personal effects.

In this dilemma, Marston repairs to the city, attempts to make an arrangement with his creditors, singularly fails; he can effect nothing. Wherever he goes his salutation meets a cold, measured response; whisper marks him a swindler. The knife stabs deep into the already festered wound. Misfortune bears heavily upon a sensitive mind; but accusation of wrong, when struggling under trials, stabs deepest into the heart, and bears its victim suffering to the very depths of despair.

To add to this combination of misfortunes, on his return to the plantation he found it deserted,—a sheriff's keeper guarding his personal effects, his few remaining negroes seized upon and marched into the city for the satisfaction of his debts. Clotilda has been seized upon, manacled, driven to the city, committed to prison. Another creditor has found out the hiding-place of the children; directs the sheriff, who seizes upon them, like property of their kind, and drags them to prison. Oh, that prison walls were made for torturing the innocent!

Marston is left poor upon the world; Ellen Juvarna is in the hands of a resurrectionist; Nicholas-a bright boy he has grown-is within the dark confines of a prison cell, along with Clotilda and Annette. Melancholy broods over the plantation now. The act of justice,—the right which Marston saw through wrong, and which he had intended to carry out,—is now beyond his power. Stripped of those comforts he had enjoyed, his offspring carried off as trophies of avarice,—perhaps for sale to some ruffian who would set a price upon their beauty,—he sits down, sick at heart, and weeps a child's tears. The mansion, so long the scene of pleasure and hospitality, is like a deserted barrack;-still, gloomy, cold, in the absence of familiar faces. No servant comes to call him master,—Dandy and Enoch are gone; and those familiar words, so significant of affection between master and slave, "Glad to see ye home, mas'r," no longer sounded in his ears. Even his overseer has become alarmed, and like the rest levied for arrears of wages.

There is nothing for Marston but to give up all,—to leave the home of his childhood, his manhood, his happier days. He is suddenly reminded that there is virtue in fortitude; and, as he gazes round the room, the relics of happier days redouble his conviction of the evil he has brought upon himself by straying from the paths of rectitude. Indeed, so sudden was his fall from distinction, that the scene around him seemed like a dream, from which he had just awoke to question its precipitancy. "A sheriff is here now, and I am a mere being of sufferance," he says, casting a moody glance around the room, as if contemplating the dark prospect before him. A few moments' pause, and he rises, walks to the window, looks out upon the serene scene spread out before the mansion. There is the river, on which he has spent so many pleasant hours, calmly winding its way through deep green foliage mellowed by the moonlight. Its beauties only remind him of the past. He walks away,—struggles to forget, to look above his trials. He goes to the old side-board that has so long given forth its cheer; that, too, is locked! "Locked to me!" he says, attempting to open its doors. A sheriff's lock hangs upon them. Accustomed to every indulgence, each check indicated a doubt of his honour, wounding his feelings. The smaller the restraint the deeper did it pierce his heart. While in this desponding mood, vainly endeavouring to gain resolution to carry him through, a gentle rap is heard at the door. Who can it be at this hour? he questions to himself. No servant is near him; servants have all been led into captivity for the satisfaction of debts. He approaches the door and opens it himself, looking cautiously into the corridor. There, crouched in a niche, alternately presenting fear and joy,—fear lest he be seen by the enemy, and joy to see his master,—is a dark figure with the familiar face of Daddy Bob,—Bob of the old plantation. The old, faithful servant puts out his wrinkled hand nervously, saying, "Oh, good mas'r!" He has looked up to Marston with the same love that an affectionate child does to a kind parent; he has enjoyed mas'r's warm welcome, nurtured his confidence, had his say in directing the affairs of the plantation, and watched the frailties that threatened it.

"Why, Daddy Bob! Can it be you?" Marston says, modulating his voice, as a change comes over his feelings.

"Dis is me, mas'r; it is me," again says the old man. He is wet with the night dew, but his heart is warm and affectionate. Marston seizes his hand as if to return the old man's gratitude, and leads him into the room, smiling. "Sit down, Bob, sit down!" he says, handing him a chair. The old servant stands at the chair hesitatingly, doubting his position. "Fear nothing, Bob; sit down. You are my best friend," Marston continues. Bob takes a seat, lays his cap quietly upon the floor, smiles to see old mas'r, but don't feel just right because there's something wrong: he draws the laps of his jacket together, covers the remnant of a shirt. "Mas'r, what be da' gwine to do wid de old plantation? Tings, Bob reckon, b'nt gwine straight," he speaks, looking at Marston shyly. The old slave knew his master's heart, and had waited for him to unfold its beatings; but the kind heart of the master yielded to the burden that was upon it, and never more so than when moved by the strong attachment evinced by the old man. There was mutual sympathy pourtrayed in the tenderest emotions. The one was full of grief, and, if touched by the word of a friend, would overflow; the other was susceptible of kindness, knew something had befallen his master, and was ready to present the best proofs of his attachment.

"And how did you get here, my old faithful?" inquires Marston, drawing nearer to him.

"Well, mas'r, ye see, t'ant just so wid nigger what don' know how tings is! But, Bob up t' dese tings. I sees Buckra, what look as if he hab no rights on dis plantation, grab'n up all de folks. And Lor,' mas'r, old Bob could'nt leave mas'r no how. An, den, when da' begins to chain de folks up-da' chain up old Rachel, mas'r!-Old Bob feel so de plantation war'nt no-whare; and him time t'be gwine. Da'h an't gwine t' cotch old Bob, and carry 'm way from mas'r, so I jist cum possum ober dem-stows away yander, down close in de old corn crib,—"

"And you eluded the sheriff to take care of me, did you, Daddy?" interrupts Marston, and again takes the old man's hand.

"Oh, mas'r, Bob ain't white, but 'is feeling get so fo' h mas'r, he can't speak 'em," the old slave replies, pearls glistening in his eyes. "My feelings feel so, I can't speak 'em!" And with a brother's fondness he shakes his master's hand.

We must beg the reader's indulgence here for the purpose of making a few remarks upon the negro's power of observation. From the many strange disquisitions that have been put forward on the mental qualities of the man of colour-more particularly the African-few can be selected which have not had for their object his disqualification. His power of observation has been much undervalued; but it has been chiefly by those who judge him by a superficial scale, or from a selfish motive. In the position of mere property, he is, of necessity, compelled to yield all claims to mental elevation. And yet, forced to degradation, there are few negroes on the plantation, or in the spheres of labour, who do not note the rise and fall of their master's fortunes, study the nature and prospects of the crop, make enquiries about the market, concoct the best economy in managing lands, and consult among themselves as to what would promote the interests of the whole. So far is this carried out, that in many districts a rivalry for the largest amount of crop on a given space is carried on among the slaves, who not unfrequently "chafe" each other upon the superior wealth and talent of their masters. It is a well-known fact, that John C. Calhoun's slaves, in addition to being extremely fond of him, were proud and boastful of his talent.

Daddy Bob is an exemplification. The faithful old slave had become sensible of something wrong on the plantation: he saw the sheriff seizing upon the families, secreted himself in the corn crib, and fled to the woods when they were out of sight. Here, sheltered by the myrtle, he remained until midnight, intently watching the mansion for signs of old mas'r. Suddenly a light glimmers from the window; the old slave's feelings bound with joy; he feels it an invitation for him to return, and, leaving his hiding-place, approaches the house stealthily, and descries his master at the window. Confidence returns, his joy is complete, his hopes have not misled him. Hungry and wet, he has found his way back to master, whose face at the window gladdens his heart,—carries him beyond the bounds of caution. Hence the cordial greeting between the old slave and his indulgent master. We hear the oft-expressed words-"Master! I love ye, I do!" Marston gets a candle, lights the old man to a bed in the attic, bids him good night, and retires.



CHAPTER XIV.

IN WHICH THE EXTREMES ARE PRESENTED.



WHILE the gloomy prospect we have just presented hovered over Marston's plantation, proceedings of no minor importance, and having reference to this particular case, are going on in and about the city. Maxwell, moved by Clotilda's implorings, had promised to gain her freedom for her; but he knew the penalty, feared the result of a failure, and had hesitated to make the attempt. The consequences were upon him, he saw the want of prompt action, and regretted that the time for carrying his resolution into effect had passed. The result harassed him; he saw this daughter of misfortune, on her bended knees, breathing a prayer to Omnipotence for the deliverance of her child; he remembered her appeal to him, imploring him to deliver her from the grasp of slavery, from that licentiousness which the female slave is compelled to bear. He saw her confiding in him as a deliverer,—the sight haunted him unto madness! Her child! her child! Yes, that offspring in which her hopes were centered! For it she pleaded and pleaded; for it she offered to sacrifice her own happiness; for it she invoked the all-protecting hand. That child, doomed to a life of chattel misery; to serve the lusts of modern barbarism in a country where freedom and civilization sound praises from ocean to ocean; to be obscured in the darkness and cruelty of an institution in which justice is scoffed, where distress has no listeners, and the trap-keepers of men's souls scorn to make honest recompense while human flesh and blood are weighed in the scale of dollars and cents! He trembles before the sad picture; remonstrances and entreaties from him will be in vain; nor can he seize them and carry them off. His life might be forfeited in the attempt, even were they without prison walls. No! it is almost hopeless. In the narrow confines of a securely grated cell, where thoughts and anxieties waste the soul in disappointment, and where hopes only come and go to spread time with grief, he could only see her and her child as they suffered. The spectacle had no charm; and those who carried them into captivity for the satisfaction of paltry debts could not be made to divest themselves of the self in nature. Cries and sobs were nothing,—such were poor stock for "niggers" to have; pains and anxieties were at a discount, chivalry proclaimed its rule, and nothing was thought well of that lessened the market value of body and soul. Among great, generous, hospitable, and chivalrous men, such things could only be weighed in the common scale of trade.

Again, Maxwell remembered that Marston had unfolded his troubles to him, and being a mere stranger the confidence warranted mutual reciprocity. If it were merely an act dictated by the impulse of his feelings at that moment, the secret was now laid broadly open. He was father of the children, and, sensible of their critical situation, the sting was goading him to their rescue. The question was-would he interpose and declare them as such? Ah, he forgot it was not the father's assertion,—it was the law. The crime of being property was inherited from the mother. Acknowledging them his children would neither satisfy law nor the creditors. What honourable-we except the modernly chivalrous-man would see his children jostled by the ruffian trader? What man, with feelings less sensitive than iron, would see his child sold to the man-vender for purposes so impious that heaven and earth frowned upon them? And yet the scene was no uncommon one; slavery affords the medium, and men, laying their hearts aside, make it serve their pockets. Those whom it would insult to call less than gentlemen have covered their scruples with the law, while consigning their own offspring to the hand of an auctioneer. Man property is subvervient material,—woman is even more; for where her virtue forms its tissues, and can be sold, the issue is indeed deplorable. Again, where vice is made a pleasure, and the offspring of it become a burden on our hands, slavery affords the most convenient medium of getting rid of the incumbrance. They sell it, perhaps profitably, and console themselves with the happy recollection of what a great thing it is to live in a free country, where one may get rid of such things profitably. It may save our shame in the eyes of man, but God sees all,—records the wrong!

Thus Maxwell contemplated the prospects before him. At length he resolved to visit Marston upon his plantation, impress him with the necessity of asserting their freedom, in order to save them from being sold with the effects of the estate.

He visits Marston's mansion,—finds the picture sadly changed; his generous friend, who has entertained him so hospitably, sits in a little ante-chamber, pensively, as if something of importance has absorbed his attention. No well-dressed servants welcome him with their smiles and grimaces; no Franconia greets him with her vivacity, her pleasing conversation, her frankness and fondness for the old servants. No table is decked out with the viands of the season-Marston's viands have turned into troubles,—loneliness reigns throughout. It is night, and nothing but the dull sound of the keeper's tread breaks the silence. His (Maxwell's) mission is a delicate one. It may be construed as intrusive, he thinks. But its importance outweighs the doubt, and, though he approaches with caution, is received with that embrace of friendship which a gentleman can claim as his own when he feels the justice of the mission of him who approaches, even though its tenor be painful. Maxwell hesitated for a few moments, looked silently upon the scene. Trouble had already left its prints of sadness upon Marston's countenance; the past, full of happy associations, floated in his mind; the future—ah! that was—. Happily, at that moment, he had been contemplating the means by which he could save Clotilda and the children. He rises, approaches Maxwell, hands him a chair, listens to his proposal. "If I can assist you, we will save them," concludes Maxwell.

"That," he replies, doubtingly, "my good friend, has engaged my thoughts by night and day—has made me most uneasy. Misfortune likes sympathy; your words are as soothing as praiseworthy. I will defend my children if every creditor call me swindler. I will destroy the infernal bill of sale,—I will crush the hell-born paper that gives life to deeds so bloody,—I will free them from the shame!" Thus, his feelings excited to the uttermost, he rises from his seat, approaches a cupboard, draws forth the small trunk we have before described, unlocks it. "That fatal document is here, I put it here, I will destroy it now; I will save them through its destruction. There shall be no evidence of Clotilda's mother being a slave, oh no!" he mutters rapidly, running his fingers over packages, papers, and documents. Again he glances vacantly over the whole file, examining paper after paper, carefully. He looks in vain. It is not there; there is no document so fatal. Sharper men have taken better care of it. "It is not here!" he whispers, his countenance becoming pallid and death-like. "Not here!"-and they will swear to suit their purposes. Oaths are only worth what they bring in the market, among slave dealers. But, who can have taken it?" he continues, looking wildly at Maxwell. Consternation is pictured on his countenance; he feels there is intrigue at work, and that the want of that paper will prove fatal to his resolution. A man in trouble always confides in others, sometimes those whom he would scarce have trusted before. He throws the paper aside, takes a seat at Maxwell's side, grasps him by the hand, saying, "My friend! save them! save them! save them! Use what stratagem you please; make it the experiment of your life. Consummate it, and a penitent's prayer will bless you! I see the impending catastrophe-"

"We may do without it; be quiet. Let your feelings calm. I have consulted Franconia on the same subject. Woman can do much if she will; and she has promised me she will. My knowledge of her womanly nature tells me she will be true to Clotilda!" Maxwell speaks assuringly, and his words seem as balm to a wounded spirit.

The bill of sale was among the things intended for a more profitable use. Marston has satisfied Graspum's claim; but he knew that slavery deadened the sensibilities of men. Yet, could it have so deadened Graspum's feeling that he would have been found in a plot against him? No! he could not believe it. He would not look for foul play from that quarter. It might have been mislaid-if lost, all the better. A second thought, and he begins to quiet himself with the belief that it had become extinct; that, there not being evidence to prove them property, his word would be sufficient to procure their release. Somewhat relieved of the force of parental anxiety-we can call it by no other name-the troubled planter, with his troubles inherited, promises Maxwell, who has postponed his departure that he may aid in saving Clotilda and her child, that he will proceed direct to the sheriff's office, give notice of their freedom to that functionary, and forbid the sale. Upon this resolution they part for the night, and on the following morning, Marston, sick at heart, leaves for the city, hoping to make arrangements with his attorney, who will serve notice of freedom with all the expense and legality of form.

The reader will excuse us for passing over many things of minor importance which take place during the progress of arrangements between Marston and the attorney, Mr. Dyson—commonly called Thomas Dyson, Esq., wonderfully clever in the practice of slave law—and proceeding to where we find the notice formally served. The document forbids the sale of certain persons, physically and mentally described, according to the nicest rules of law and tenour of trade; and is, with the dignity of legal proceedings, served on the honourable sheriff. We give a portion of it, for those who are not informed on such curious matters: it runs thus:—"'The girl Clotilda-aged 27 years; her child Annette-aged 7 years, and a remarkable boy, Nicholas, 6 years old, all negroes, levied upon at the suit of—, to satisfy a fi fa issued from the—, and set forth to be the property of Hugh Marston of—, &c. &c.;'" as set forth in the writ of attachment. Thus runs the curious law, based on privilege, not principle.

The document served on the sheriff, Marston resolved to remain a few days in the city and watch its effect. The sheriff, who is seldom supposed to evince sympathy in his duties, conforms with the ordinary routine of law in nigger cases; and, in his turn, gives notice to the plaintiff, who is required to enter security for the purpose of testing the point of freedom. Freedom here is a slender commodity; it can be sworn away for a small compensation. Mr. Anthony Romescos has peculiar talent that way, and his services are always in the market. The point, however, has not resolved itself into that peculiar position where it must be either a matter of compromise, or a question for the court and jury to decide.

If Marston, now sensible of his position as father of the children, will yield them a sacrifice to the man trader, it is in his power; the creditors will make it their profit. Who, then, can solve the perplexity for him? The custom of society, pointing the finger of shame, denies him the right to acknowledge them his children. Society has established the licentious wrong,—the law protects it, custom enforces it. He can only proceed by declaring the mother to be a free woman, and leaving the producing proof to convict her of being slave property to the plaintiff. In doing this, his judgment wars with his softer feelings. Custom—though it has nothing to give him-is goading him with its advice; it tells him to abandon the unfashionable, unpolite scheme. Natural laws have given birth to natural feelings—natural affections are stronger than bad laws. They burn with our nature,—they warm the gentle, inspire the noble, and awake the daring that lies unmoved until it be called into action for the rescue of those for whom our affections have taken life.

Things had arrived at that particular point where law-lovers-we mean lawyers-look on with happy consciences and pleasing expectations; that is, they had arrived at that certain hinge of slave law the turn of which sends men, women, and children, into the vortex of slavery, where their hopes are for ever crushed. One day Marston had strong hopes of saving them; but his hopes vanished on the next. The fair creature, by him made a wretch, seemed before him, on her bended knees, clasping his hand while imploring him to save her child. The very thought would have doubly nerved him to action; and yet, what mattered such action against the force of slavery injustice? All his exertions, all his pleadings, all his protestations, in a land where liberty boasts its greatness, would sink to nothing under the power he had placed in their possession for his overthrow.

With this fatal scene before him, this indecision, he walked the streets, resolving and re-resolving, weighing and re-weighing the consequences, hoping without a chance for hope. He would be a father as he has been a kind master; but the law says, no! no! Society forbids right, the law crushes justice,—the justice of heaven! Marston is like one driven from his home, from the scene of his happy childhood, upon which he can now only look back to make the present more painful. He has fallen from the full flow of pleasure and wealth to the low ebb of poverty clothed in suspicion; he is homeless, and fast becoming friendless. A few days after, as he takes his morning walk, he is pointed to the painful fact, made known through certain legal documents, posted at certain corners of streets, that his "negro property" is advertised for sale by the sheriff. He fears his legal notice has done little legal good, except to the legal gentlemen who receive the costs. He retires to a saloon, finds the morning paper, commences glancing over its legal columns. The waiter is surprised to see him at that hour, is ignorant of the war of trouble that is waging within him, knows him only as a great man, a rice planter of wealth in negroes, treats him with becoming civility, and enquires, with a polite bow, what he will be served with. He wants nothing that will supply the physical man. He has supped on trouble,—the following, painful as it is, will serve him for breakfast; it meets his eye as he traces down the column:—"SHERIFF'S SALE.

"According to former notice, will be sold on the first Tuesday in September next, between the usual hours of sale, before the Court House door, in this city, the following property-to wit!

"Three yoke of prime oxen, and four carts.

"Seven horses; two of celebrated breed.

"Twenty-two mules, together with sundry other effects as per previous schedule, which will be produced at the sale, when the property will be pointed out. The said being levied on as the property of Hugh Marston, of—District, and sold to satisfy a fi fa issued from the Superior Court, W. W. C—.

"Also the following gang of negroes, many of whom have been accustomed to the cultivation of cotton and rice. Said negroes are very prime and orderly, having been well trained and fed, in addition to enjoying the benefit of Christian teaching through a Sunday-school worship on the plantation.

"Dandy, and Enock (yellow), prime house servants.

"Choate, and Cato, aged 29 and 32, coachman and blacksmith.

"Harry, a prime fellow of remarkable sagacity, said to be very pious, and has been very valuable as a preacher.

"Seventeen prime field hands, ranging from 17 to 63 years old, together with sundry children, set forth in the schedule.

"Peggy, aged 23 years, an excellent cook, house servant-can do almost any work, is faithful and strictly honest.

"Rachel, one of the very best wenches in the County; has had charge of the Manor for several years, is very motherly and well disposed, and fully capable of taking charge of a plantation."

The description of the negro property continues until it reaches the last and most touching point, which Marston reads with tears coursing down his cheeks. But, it is only trade, and it is refreshing to see how much talent the auctionee-himself a distinguished politician,—exhibits in displaying his bill. It is that which has worked itself so deep into Marston's feelings.

"Clotilda, a white negro, and her child Annette; together with Nicholas—a bright boy," remarkably intelligent-six years old. "These last," adds the list, "have been well brought up, with great care, and are extremely promising and pleasant when speaking. The woman has superior looks, is sometimes called beautiful, has finely developed features, and is considered to be the handsomest bright woman in the county."

We acknowledge the italics to be ours. The list, displaying great competency in the trade of human beings, concludes with warranting them sound and healthy, informing all those in want of such property of the wonderful opportunity of purchasing, and offering to guarantee its qualities. The above being "levied on to satisfy three fi fas," &c. &c.

Poor Clotilda! her beauty has betrayed her: her mother was made a slave, and she has inherited the sin which the enlightened of the western world say shall be handed down from generation to generation until time itself has an end. She is within the damp walls of a narrow cell; the cold stones give forth their moisture to chill her bleeding heart; the rust of oppression cuts into her very soul. The warm sunlight of heaven, once so cheering, has now turned black and cold to her. She sits in that cold confine, filled with sorrow, hope, and expectation, awaiting her doom, like a culprit who measures the chances of escape between him and the gallows. She thinks of Marston. "He was a kind friend to me-he was a good master," she says, little thinking that at that very moment he sits in the saloon reading that southern death-warrant which dooms so many to a life of woe. In it fathers were not mentioned-Marston's feelings were spared that pain; mothers' tears, too, were omitted, lest the sensitiveness of the fashionable world should be touched. Pained, and sick at heart-stung by remorse at finding himself without power to relieve Clotilda-he rises from his seat, and makes arrangement to return to his plantation.



CHAPTER XV.

A SCENE OF MANY LIGHTS.



WE must leave Marston wending his way for the old plantation, and pass to another phase of this complicated affair. In doing this, we must leave the reader to draw from his own imagination much that must have transpired previous to the present incidents.

The Rovero family-old and distinguished-had struggled against the misfortunes brought upon them by their son Lorenzo. Deeply involved, they had allowed their difficulties to go on till they had found themselves living by the favour of courtesy and indulgence. Lorenzo and Franconia were only children; and since the departure of the former the latter had been the idol of their indulgence. She was, as we have before said, delicate, sensitive, endowed with generous impulses, and admired for her gentleness, grace, and vivacity. To these she added firmness, and, when once resolved upon any object, could not be moved from her purpose. Nor was she-as is the popular fallacy of the South-susceptible to the influence of wealth. Her love and tenderness soared above it; she prized wealth less than moral worth. But she could not appease the pride of her parents with her feelings. They, labouring under the influence of their reduced fortunes, had favoured and insisted upon the advances of the very wealthy Colonel M'Carstrow, a rice-planter, who had a few years before inherited a large estate. The colonel is a sturdy specimen of the Southern gentleman, which combines a singular mixture of qualities, some of which are represented by a love of good living, good drinking, good horse-racing, good gambling, and fast company. He lives on the fat of the land, because the fat of the land was made for him to enjoy. He has no particular objection to anybody in the world, providing they believe in slavery, and live according to his notions of a gentleman. His soul's delight is faro, which he would not exchange for all the religion in the world; he has strong doubts about the good of religion, which, he says, should be boxed up with modern morality.

Laying these things aside, however, he is anything but what would have been properly selected as a partner for Franconia; and, while she is only eighteen, he has turned the corner of his forty-third year. In a word, his manners are unmodelled, his feelings coarse, his associations of the worst kind; nor is he adapted to make the happiness of domestic life lasting. He is one of those persons so often met with, whose affections-if they may be supposed to have any-are held in a sort of compromise between an incitement to love, and their natural inclination to revel in voluptuous pleasures. The two being antagonistic at times, the latter is sure to be the stronger, and not unfrequently carries its victim into dissolute extremes. Riches, however, will always weigh heavy in the scale; their possession sways,—the charm of gold is precious and powerful. And, too, the colonel had another attraction-very much esteemed among slave-dealers and owners—he had a military title, though no one knew how he came by it.

Franconia must be the affianced bride of the supposed wealthy Colonel M'Carstrow; so say her parents, who feel they are being crushed out by misfortune. It is their desire; and, however repulsive it may be to Franconia's feelings, she must accept the man: she must forget his years, his habits, his associations, for the wealth he can bring to the relief of the family.

To add clat to the event, it is arranged that the nuptial ceremony shall take place in the spacious old mansion of General P—, in the city. General P—is a distant relation of the Rovero family. His mansion is one of those noble old edifices, met here and there in the South—especially in South Carolina-which strongly mark the grandeur of their ancient occupants. It is a massive pile of marble, of mixed style of Grecian and Doric architecture, with three stories divided by projecting trellised arbours, and ornamented with fluted columns surmounted with ingeniously-worked and sculptured capitals, set off with grotesque figures. The front is ornamented with tablets of bas-relief, variegated and chaste. These are bordered with scroll-work, chases of flowers, graces, and historical designs. Around the lower story, palisades and curvatures project here and there between the divisions, forming bowers shaded by vines and sweet-scented blossoms. These are diffusing their fragrance through the spacious halls and corridors beneath. The stately old pile wears a romantic appearance; but it has grown brown with decay, and stands in dumb testimony of that taste and feeling which prevailed among its British founders. The garden in which it stands, once rich with the choicest flowers of every clime, now presents an area overgrown with rank weeds, decaying hedges, dilapidated walks, and sickly shrubbery. The hand that once nurtured this pretty scene of buds and blossoms with so much care has passed away. Dull inertness now hangs its lifeless festoons over the whole, from the vaulted hall to the iron railing enclosing the whole.

The day for consummating the nuptial ceremony has arrived; many years have passed since the old mansion witnessed such a scene. The gay, wealthy, and intelligent of the little fashionable world will be here. The spell of loneliness in which the old walls have so long slept will be broken. Sparkling jewels, bland smiles, the rich decorations of former years, are to again enhance the scene. Exhausted nature is to shake off its monotony, to be enlivened with the happiness of a seemingly happy assemblage. A lovely bride is to be showered with smiles, congratulations, tokens of love. Southern gallantry will doff its cares, put on its smiling face. Whatever may smoulder beneath, pleasure and gaiety will adorn the surface.

Franconia sits in her spacious chamber. She is arrayed in flowing nglig; a pensive smile invades her countenance; she supports her head on her left hand, the jewels on her tiny fingers sparkling though her hair. Everything round her bears evidence of comfort and luxury; the gentle breeze, as it sweeps through the window to fan her blushing cheek, is impregnated with sweetest odours. She contemplates the meeting of him who is to be the partner of her life; can she reconcile it? Nay, there is something forcing itself against her will. Her bridesmaids,—young, gay, and accomplished,—gather around her. The fierce conflict raging in her bosom discloses itself; the attempt to cheer her up, under the impression that it arises from want of vigour to buoy up her sensitive system, fails. Again she seems labouring under excitement.

"Franconia!" exclaims one, taking her by the hand, "is not the time approaching?"

"Time always approaches," she speaks: her mind has been wandering, picturing the gloomy spectacle that presents itself in Clotilda's cell. She moves her right hand slowly across her brow, casts an enquiring glance around the room, then at those beside her, and changes her position in the chair. "The time to have your toilet prepared-the servants await you," is the reply. Franconia gathers strength, sits erect in her chair, seems to have just resolved upon something. A servant hastens into her presence bearing a delicately-enveloped note. She breaks the seal, reads it and re-reads it, holds it carelessly in her hand for a minute, then puts it in her bosom. There is something important in the contents, something she must keep secret. It is from Maxwell. Her friend evinced some surprise, while waiting a reply as she read the letter.

"No! not yet," she says, rising from her chair and sallying across the room. "That which is forced upon me-ah! I cannot love him. To me there is no loving wealth. Money may shelter; but it never moves hearts to love truly. How I have struggled against it!" Again she resumes her chair, weeps. Her tears gush from the parent fountain-woman's heart. "My noble uncle in trouble, my dear brother gone; yes! to where, and for what, I dare not think; and yet it has preyed upon me through the struggle of pride against love. My father may soon follow; but I am to be consigned to the arms of one whom it would be folly to say I respect."