"Come, Alice," said Mr. Barbour, "I hear, not the trump of war, but the soul-inspiring scrape of the banjo. I notice the servants always choose the warmest nights to dance in. Let us go out and see them."
"We'll go to the arbor," said Alice; "where we will be near enough to see Uncle Bacchus's professional airs. Ole Bull can't exceed him in that respect."
"Nor equal him," said Mr. Barbour. "Bacchus is a musician by nature; his time is perfect; his soul is absorbed in his twangs and flourishes."
"I must come, too," said Mr. Weston. "You are afraid of the night air, Cousin Janet?"
"Never mind me," said Cousin Janet; "I'll sit here and fan myself."
"And as I prefer music, especially the banjo, at a distance, I will stay too," said Mrs. Weston.
Aunt Phillis was smoking outside her door, her mind divided between speculations as to what had become of Jim, and observations on the servants, as they were collecting from every direction, to join in the dancing or to find a good seat to look on.
The first sound of the banjo aroused Bacchus the younger from his dreams. He bounded from his bed on the chest, regardless of the figure he cut in his very slight dishabille, and proceeded to the front door,set, as his mother would have said, on having his own way.
"Oh, mammy," he said, "dare's de banjo."
"What you doin here?" said Phillis. "Go long to bed this minute, 'fore I take a switch to you."
"Oh, mammy," said the boy, regardless of the threat in his enthusiastic state of mind, "jist listen, daddy's gwine to play 'Did you ever see the devil?'"
"Will any body listen to the boy? If you don't go to bed"—
"Oh, mammy,pleaselem me go. Dare's Jake, he's gwine to dance. Massa said I'd beat Jake dancin one o' dese days."
"High," said Phillis; "where's the sore foot you had this morning?"
"Its done got well. It got well a little while ago, while I was asleep."
"Bound for you; go long," said Phillis.
Bacchus was about to go, without the slightest addition to his toilet.
"Come back here," said Phillis, "you real cornfield nigger; you goin there naked?"
The boy turned back, and thrust his legs in a pair of pants, with twine for suspenders. His motions were much delayed, by his nervous state of agitation, the consequence of the music which was now going on in earnest.
He got off finally, not without a parting admonition from his mother.
"Look here," said she, "if you don't behave yourself, I'll skin you."
Allusion to this mysterious mode of punishment had the effect of sobering the boy's mind in a very slight degree. No sooner was he out of his mother's sight than his former vivacity returned.
His father, meanwhile, had turned down a barrel, and was seated on it. Every attitude, every motion of his body, told that his soul, forgetful of earth and earthly things, had withdrawn to the regions of sound. He kicked his slippers off keeping time, and his head dodged about with every turn of the quick tune. A stranger, not understanding the state of mind into which a negro gets afterplaying "The devil among the tailors," would have supposed he was afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. The mistake would soon have been perceived, for two of the boys having tired themselves out with man[oe]uvres of every kind, were obliged to sit down to get some breath, and Bacchus fell into a sentimental mood, after a little tuning up.
It was uncertain in what strain he would finally go off. First came a bar that sounded like Auld Lang Syne, then a note or two of Days of Absence, then a turn of a Methodist hymn, at last he went decidedly into "Nelly was a lady." The tune of this William had learned from Alice singing it to the piano. He begged her to teach him the words. She did so, telling him of the chorus part, in which many were to unite. Bacchus prepared an accompaniment; a number of them sang it together. William sang the solos. He had a remarkably good voice and fine taste; he therefore did justice to the sweet song. When the full but subdued chorus burst upon the ear, every heart felt the power of the simple strain; the master with his educated mind and cultivated taste, and the slave with the complete power of enjoyment with which the Creator has endowed him.
Hardly had the cadence of the last note died away, when "Shout, shout, the devil's about," was heard from a stentorian voice. Above the peals of laughter with which the words were received, rose Jake's voice, "Come on, ole fiddler, play somefin a nigger kin kick up his heels to; what's de use of singing after dat fashion; dis aint no meetin."
"What'll you have, Jake?" said Bacchus.
"What'll I have? Why, I never dances to but one tune," and Jake started the first line of "Oh, plantation gals, can't you look at a body," while Bacchus was giving a prelude of scrapes and twangs. Jake made a circle of somersets, and come down on his head, with his heels in the air, going through flourishes that would have astonished an uninitiated observer. As it was, Jake's audience were ina high condition of enjoyment. They were in a constant state of expectation as to where he would turn up, or what would be the nature of the next caper. Now, he cut the pigeon-wing for a length of time that made the spectators hold their breath; then he would, so to speak, stand on his hands, and with his feet give a push to the barrel where Uncle Bacchus was sitting, and nearly roll the old man underneath. One moment he is dancing with every limb, making the most curious contortions of his face, rolling out his tongue, turning his eyes wrong side out. Suddenly, he stretches himself on the grass, snoring to a degree that might be heard at almost any distance. Starting up, he snaps his fingers, twirls round, first on one foot, and then on the other, till feeling the time approaching when he must give up, he strikes up again:
"Shout, shout, the devil's about;Shut the door and keep him out,"
leaps frog over two or three of the servants' shoulders, disappearing from among them in an immoderate state of conceit and perspiration.
Bacchus is forced at this crisis to put down the banjo and wipe his face with his sleeve, breathing very hard. He was thinking he wouldn't get near so tired if he had a little of the "Oh, be joyful" to keep up his spirits, but such aspirations were utterly hopeless at the present time: getting tipsy while his master, and Mr. Barbour, and Alice were looking at him, was quite out of the question. He made a merit of keeping sober, too, on the ground of setting a good example to the young servants. He consoled himself with a double-sized piece of tobacco, and rested after his efforts. His promising son danced Juba at Mr. Weston's particular request, and was rewarded by great applause.
A little courting scene was going on at this time, not far distant. Esther, Phillis's third daughter, was a neat,genteel-looking servant, entirely above associating with "common niggers," as she styled those who, being constantly employed about the field, had not the advantage of being called upon in the house, and were thus very deficient in manners and appearance from those who were so much under the eye of the family. Esther, like her mother, was a great Methodist. Reading well, she was familiar with the Bible, and had committed to memory a vast number of hymns. These, she and her sister, with William, often sung in the kitchen, or at her mother's cabin. Miss Janet declared it reminded her of the employment of the saints in heaven, more than any church music she had ever heard; especially when they sang, "There is a land of pure delight."
That heart must be steeled against the sweet influences of the Christian religion, which listens not with an earnest pleasure to the voice of the slave, singing the songs of Zion. No matter how kind his master, or how great and varied his comforts, he is a slave! His soul cannot, on earth, be animated to attain aught save the enjoyment of the passing hour. Why need he recall the past? The present does not differ from it—toil, toil, however mitigated by the voice of kindness. Need he essay to penetrate the future? it is still toil, softened though it be by the consideration which is universally shown to the feelings and weaknesses of old age. Yet has the Creator, who placed him in this state, mercifully provided for it. The slave has not the hopes of the master, but he is without many of his cares. He may not strive after wealth, yet he is always provided with comfort. Ambition, with its longings for fame, and riches, and power, never stimulates his breast; that breast is safe from its disappointments. His enjoyments, though few, equal his expectations. His occupations, though servile, resemble the mass of those around him. His eye can see the beauties of nature; his ear drinks in her harmonies; his soul contentitself with what is passing in the limited world around him. Yet, he is a slave! And if he is ever elevated above his condition, it is when praising the God of the white man and the black; when, with uplifted voice, he sings the songs of the redeemed; when, looking forward to the invitation which he hopes to receive, "Come in, thou servant of the Lord."
Christian of the South, remember who it was that bore thy Saviour's cross, when, toiling, and weary, and fainting beneath it, he trod the hill of Calvary. Not one of the rich, learned, or great; not one of thine ancestors, though thou mayest boast of their wealth, and learning, and heroic acts—it was a black man who relieved him of his heavy burden; Simon of Cyrene was his name.
Christian of the North, canst thou emancipate the Southern slave? Canst thou change his employments, and elevate his condition? Impossible. Beware then, lest thou add to his burden, and tighten his bonds, and deprive him of the simple enjoyments which are now allowed him.
Esther, seated on the steps of a small porch attached to the side of the house, was mentally treating with great contempt the amusements of the other servants. She had her mother's disposition, and disliked any thing like noisy mirth, having an idea it was not genteel; seeing so little of it in her master's family. She was an active, cheerful girl, but free from any thing like levity in her manner.
She had a most devoted admirer in the neighborhood; no less a personage than Mrs. Kent's coachman. His name was Robert, after Mrs. Kent's father. Assuming the family name, he was known as Robert Carter. Phillis called him a harmless goose of a fellow, and this gives the best idea of his character. He understood all about horses, and nothing else, if we except the passion of love, which was the constant subject of his conversation. Hehad made up his mind to court Esther, and with that in view he dressed himself in full livery, as if he were going to take his mistress an airing. He asks Mrs. Kent's permission to be married, though he had not the slightest reason to suppose Esther would accept him, with a confidence and self-exultation that man in general is apt to feel when he has determined to bestow himself upon some fortunate fair one. He went his way, passing the dancers without any notice, and going straight to that part of the house where he supposed he should find Esther.
Esther received him with politeness, but with some reserve; not having a chair to offer him, and not intending him to take a seat on the steps beside her, she stood up, and leaned against the porch.
They talked a little of the weather, and the health of the different members of their respective families, during which, Robert took the opportunity to say, "His master, (Mr. Kent) had a bilious attack, and he wished to the Lord, he'd never get better of it." Finally, he undid one of the buttons of his coat, which was getting too small for him, and drawing a long breath, proceeded to lay himself (figuratively) at Esther's feet.
He did not come to the point at once, but drove round it, as if there might be some impediment in the way, which, though it could not possibly upset the whole affair, might make a little unnecessary delay. Esther thought he was only talking nonsense, as usual, but when he waxed warm and energetic in his professions, she interrupted him with, "Look here, Robert, you're out of your head, aint you?"
"No deed, Miss Esther, but I'm dying in love with you."
"The best thing you can do, is to take yourself home," said Esther. "I hope you're sober."
"I was never soberer in my life," said Robert, "but the fact is, Miss Esther, I'm tired of a bachelor's life; 'pearsas if it wasn't respectable, and so I'm thinking of settling down."
"You want settling down, for true," said Esther.
"I'm mighty happy to hear you say so," said Robert, "and if you'll only mention what time it'll be agreeable to you to make me the happiest man in Virginny, I'le speak to Uncle Watty Harkins about performing the ceremony, without you prefer a white minister to tie the knot."
"Robert," said Esther, "you're a born fool; do you mean to say you want me to marry you?"
"Certainly, Esther; I shouldn't pay you no attentions, if I didn't mean to act like a gentleman by you."
"Well, I can tell you," said Esther, "I wouldn't marry you, to save your life."
"You ain't in earnest, Esther?"
"Indeed I am," said Esther, "so you better not be coming here on any such fool's errand again."
"Why, Esther," said Robert, reproachfully, "after my walking home from meeting with you, and thinking and dreaming about you, as I have for this long time, aint you going to marry me?"
"No, I aint," said Esther.
"Then I'll bid you good night; and look here, Esther, to-morrow, mistress will lose one of her most valuable servants, for I shall hang myself."
Esther went up the steps, and shut the door on him, internally marvelling at the impudence of men in general; Robert, with a strong inclination to shed tears, turned his steps homeward. He told Mrs. Kent, the next morning, that he had come to the conclusion not to be married for some time yet, women were so troublesome, and there was no knowing how things would turn out. Mrs. Kent saw he was much dejected, and concluded there were sour grapes in the question.
After due consideration, Robert determined not to commit suicide; he did something equally desperate. Hemarried Mrs. Kent's maid, an ugly, thick-lipped girl, who had hitherto been his especial aversion. He could not though, entirely erase Esther's image from his heart—always feeling a tendency to choke, when he heard her voice in meeting.
Esther told her mother of the offer she had had, and Phillis quite agreed with her, in thinking Robert was crazy. She charged "Esther to know when she was well off, and not to bring trouble upon herself by getting married, or any such foolishness as that."
"I tell you what, Abel," said Arthur Weston, "the more I think about you Northern people, the harder it is for me to come to a conclusion as to what you are made of."
"Can't you experiment upon us, Arthur; test us chemically?"
"Don't believe you could be tested," said Arthur, "you are such a slippery set. Now here is a book I have been looking over, called Annals of Salem, by Joseph B. Felt, published in 1827. On the 109th page it says: 'Captain Pierce, of the ship Desire, belonging to this port, was commissioned to transport fifteen boys and one hundred women, of the captive Pequods, to Bermuda, and sell them as slaves. He was obliged, however, to make for Providence Island. There he disposed of the Indians. He returned from Tortugas the 26th of February following, with a cargo of cotton, tobacco, salt, and negroes.' In the edition of 1849, this interesting fact is omitted. Now, was not that trading in human bodies and souls in earnest? First they got all they could for those poor captive Pequods, and theytraded the amount again for negroes, and someet ceteras. You are the very people to make a fuss about your neighbours, having been so excessively righteous yourselves. No wonder that the author left it out in a succeeding edition. I am surprised he ever put it in at all."
"It seems more like peddling with the poor devils than any thing else," said Abel. "But you must remember thespirit of the age, Arthur, as Mr. Hubbard calls it?"
"Yes," said Arthur, "I forgot that; but I wonder if Mr. Hubbard excuses the conduct of England to her colonies in consideration of the spirit of the age—thatallowed taxation and all of her other forms of oppression, I suppose. It is a kind of charity that covers a multitude of sins. But I was saying," continued Arthur, "that I could not make you out. While they were carrying on two kinds of slave trade, they were discussing in Boston the propriety of women's wearing veils, having lectures about it. Let me read to you. 'Mr. Cotton, though while in England of an opposite opinion on this subject, maintained that in countries where veils were to be a sign of submission, they might be properly disused. But Mr. Endicott took different ground, and endeavored to retain it by general argument from St. Paul. Mr. Williams sided with his parishioner. Through his and others' influence, veils were worn abundantly. At the time they were the most fashionable, Mr. Cotton came to preach for Mr. Skelton. His subject was upon wearing veils. He endeavored to prove that this was a custom not to be tolerated. The consequence was, that the ladies became converts to his faith in this particular, and for a long time left off an article of dress, which indicated too great a degree of submission to the lords of creation.' Did you ever hear of such a set of old meddlers, lecturing and preaching about women's dressing. I suppose the men wore petticoats at that time themselves."
"If they did," said Abel, "I am very glad they haveturned them over to the other sex since, as they are worn in the number which the present fashion requires. I should think they would be very uncomfortable. But, Arthur, I heard such a good story the other day, about Lawyer Page. He fights bravely with his tongue for other people's rights, but he daren't say his soul's his own before his wife. Well, when that affair came out about Morton's whipping his wife, as he was going to the Courthouse, Page said to old Captain Caldwell, 'Do you know, captain, that before all the facts were out in this case about Morton, they actually had it in every direction that it was I who had whipped my wife.' 'Now Page,' said the old captain, 'you know that's no such thing; for every body in New Haven is well aware that when there was any flogging going on in the matrimonial line, in your house, it was you that came off the worst.' Page did not say a word."
"I am glad I am not yoked with one of your New Haven belles, if turning a Jerry Sneak is to be the consequence," said Arthur.
"This marrying is a terrible necessity, Arthur," said Abel. "I don't know how I'll be supported under it when my time comes; but after all, I think the women get the worst of it. There were not two prettier girls in New Haven than my sisters. Julia, who has been married some eight or nine years, was really beautiful, and so animated and cheerful; now she has that wife-like look of care, forever on her countenance. Her husband is always reproaching her that that little dare devil of a son of hers does not keep his clothes clean. The other evening I was at their house, and they were having a little matrimonial discussion about it. It seems little Charlie had been picked up out of the mud in the afternoon, and brought in in such a condition, that it was sometime before he could be identified. After being immersed in a bathing tub it was ascertained that he had not a clean suit ofclothes; so the young gentleman was confined to his chamber for the rest of the evening, in a night gown. This my brother-in-law considered a great hardship, and they were talking the matter over when I went in.
"'Why don't you make the boy clothes enough, Julia?' said he.
"'I am forever making and forever mending,' said Julia; 'but it is impossible to keep that young one clean. He had twelve pairs of pantaloons in the wash last week, and the girl was sick, and I had to iron them myself. I guess if you had all the trouble I have with him, you would put him to bed and make him stay there a week.'
"'I tell you what it is, good people,' said I, 'when I go courting I intend to ask the lady in the first place if she likes to make boys' clothes. If she says No, I shan't have her, no matter what other recommendations she may possess.'
"'She'll be sure to give you the mitten for your impudence,' said Julia. Then, there is my pretty sister Harriet, quilting quilts, trimming nightcaps, and spoiling her bright eyes making her wedding-clothes; after a while she'll be undergoing some of the troubles of the married state, which will lengthen her face. The men get the best of it, decidedly; for they have not all the petty annoyances a woman must encounter. What do you think about it, Arthur?"
"I hardly know," said Arthur. "I have been in love ever since I could tell my right hand from my left. I have hardly ever looked forward to marriage; my time has been so much occupied here, that when I get a few moments for reflection, my thoughts go back to Alice, and the happy years I have passed with her, rather than to anticipations of any kind. I suppose I shall find out, though, and then you may profit by my experience."
"You will have a sad experience with those niggers of yours, I am afraid, Arthur," said Abel. "Our people aredetermined never to let them alone. I wonder you do not employ white hands upon the plantation, and have done with any trouble about the matter."
"What would be done with the slaves in the mean time?" said Arthur.
"Set 'em free," said Abel; "colonize, or hang 'em all."
"The latter is the more practicable suggestion," said Arthur. "As to setting them free, they could not remain in Virginia afterward if I were willing to do so: there is a law against it. Colonizing them would be equally difficult, for the most of them would refuse to go to Africa; and if I have not the right to hold them slaves, I certainly have not a right to force them into another country. Some of them would be willing and glad to come to the North, but some would object. My father set a house-servant free; he was absent a year, and returned voluntarily to his old condition. Mark had got some Abolition notions in his head, and my father told him he might have his free papers, and go: I have told you the result. The fact is, Abel, you Yankees don't stand very well with our slaves. They seem to consider you a race of pedlars, who come down upon them in small bodies for their sins, to wheedle away all their little hoardings. My father has several times brought servants to New York, but they have never run away from him. I think Virginia would do well without her colored people, because her climate is moderate, and white labor could be substituted. But it is not so with the more Southern States. I would like to see a Louisiana sun shining upon your New England States for a while—how quickly you would fit out an expedition for Africa. It is the mere accident of climate that makes your States free ones."
"I suppose so," said Abel. "A great many of your slaves run away through the year, don't they?"
"No, indeed," said Arthur; "comparatively, very few. Just before I came to New Haven, I went to pass a fewweeks at a plantation belonging to a family with whom we were intimate. One of the sons and I went on the river, two of the servants rowing us. I said to one of them, a large fat negro, 'What's your name, uncle?' 'Meschach, sir,' he said. 'Meschach,' said I; 'why, you ought to have two brothers, one named Shadrach and the other Abednego.' 'So I had, sir.' 'Well, what has become of them?' said I. 'Shadrach, he's dead,' he answered. 'And where is Abednego?' said I. 'He's gone, too,' he replied, in a low voice. My friend gave me a look, and told me afterwards that Abednego had ran away, and that his family considered it a disgrace, and never spoke of him. I hear of a negro boy who absconded, and when he was found and being brought home, an old washerwoman watched him as he went up the street. 'La,' said she, 'who'd a thought he'd a beginned to act bad so young,' But let us leave off Abolition and take a walk. Our cigars are out and we will resume the subject to-morrow afternoon, when we light some more."
"Now," said Abel, "having a couple of particularly good cigars, where did we leave off?"
"Its too warm for argument," said Arthur, watching the curling of the gray smoke as it ascended.
"We need not argue," said Abel; "I want to catechize you."
"Begin."
"Do you think that the African slave-trade can be defended?"
"No, assuredly not."
"Well," said Abel, "how can you defend your right to hold slaves as property in the United States?"
"Abel," said Arthur, "when a Yankee begins to question there is no reason to suppose he ever intends to stop. I shall answer your queries from the views of Governor Hammond, of Carolina. They are at least worthy of consideration.What right have you New England people to the farms you are now holding?"
"The right of owning them," said Abel.
"From whom did you get them?" asked Arthur.
"Our fathers."
"And how did they get them?"
"From the Red men, their original owners."
"Well," said Arthur, "we all know how these transactions were conducted all over the country. We wanted the lands of the Red men, and we took them. Sometimes they were purchased, sometimes they were wrested; always, the Red men were treated with injustice. They were driven off, slaughtered, and taken as slaves. Now, God as clearly gave these lands to the Red men as he gave life and freedom to the African. Both have been unjustly taken away."
"But," said Abel, "we hold property in land, you in the bodies and souls of men."
"Granted," said Arthur; "but we have as good a right to ourpropertyas you to yours—we each inherit it from our fathers. You must know that slaves were recognized aspropertyunder the constitution, John Q. Adams, speaking of the protection extended to the peculiar interests of South, makes these remarks: 'Protected by the advantage of representation on this floor, protected by the stipulation in the constitution for the recovery of fugitive slaves, protected by the guarantee in the constitution to owners of thisspecies of property, against domestic violence.' It was considered in England as any other kind of commerce; so that you cannot deny our right to consider them as property now, as well as then."
"But can you advocate the enslaving of your fellow man?" said Abel.
"No," said Arthur, "if you put the question in that manner; but if you come to the point, and ask me if I can conscientiously hold in bondage slaves in the South, I say yes, without the slightest hesitation. I'll tell you why.You must agree with me, if the Bible allow slavery there is no sin it. Now, the Bible does allow it. You must read those letters of Governor Hammond to Clarkson, the English Abolitionist. The tenth commandment, your mother taught you, no doubt: 'thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife nor hisman-servantnor hismaid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor's.' These are the words of God, and as such, should be obeyed strictly. In the most solemn manner, the man-servant and the maid-servant are considered thepropertyof thy neighbor. Generally the word is rendered slave. This command includes all classes of servants; there is the Hebrew-brother who shall go out in the seventh year, and the hired-servant and those 'purchased from the heathen round about,' who were to be bondmen forever. In Leviticus, speaking of the 'bondmen of the heathen which shall be round about' God says, 'And ye shall take them for an inheritance, for your children after you, to inherit them for a possession they shall be your bondmen forever.' I consider that God permitted slavery when he made laws for the master and the slave, therefore I am justified in holding slaves. In the times of our Saviour, when slavery existed in its worst form, it was regarded as one of the conditions of human society; it is evident Abolition was not shadowed forth by Christ or his apostles. 'Do unto all men as ye would have them do unto you,' is a general command, inducing charity and kindness among all classes of men; and does not authorize interference with the established customs of society. If, according to this precept of Christ, I am obliged to manumit my slaves, you are equally forced to purchase them. If I were a slave, I would have my master free me; if you were a slave, and your owner would not give you freedom, you would have some rich man to buy you. From the early ages of the world, there existed the poor and the rich, the master and the slave.
"It would be far better for the Southern slaves, if our institution, as regards them, were left to 'gradual mitigation and decay, which timemaybring about. The course of the Abolitionists, while it does nothing to destroy this institution, greatly adds to its hardships.' Tell me that 'man-stealing' is a sin, and I will agree with you, and will insist that the Abolitionists are guilty of it. In my opinion, those who consider slavery a sin, challenge the truth of the Bible.
"Besides, Abel," continued Arthur, "what right have you to interfere? Your Northern States abolished slavery when it was their interest to do so: let us do the same. In the meantime, consider the condition of these dirty vagabonds, these free blacks, who are begging from me every time I go into the street. I met one the other day, who had a most lamentable state of things to report. He had rheumatism, and a cough, and he spit blood, and he had no tobacco, and he was hungry, and he had the toothache. I gave him twenty-five cents as a sort of panacea, and advised him to travel South and get a good master. He took the money, but not the advice."
"But, Arthur, the danger of insurrection; I should think it would interfere greatly with your comfort."
"We do not fear it," said Arthur. "Mobs of any kind are rare in the Southern country. We are not (in spite of the bad qualities ascribed to us by the Abolitionists) a fussy people. Sometimes, when an Abolitionist comes along, we have a little fun with him, the negroes enjoying it exceedingly. Slaveholders, as a general thing, desire to live a peaceful, quiet life; yet they are not willing to have their rights wrested from them."
"One great disadvantage in a slaveholding community is, that you are apt to be surrounded by uneducated people," said Abel.
"We do not educate our slaves," said Arthur; "but you do not presume to say that we do not cultivate our mindsas assiduously as you do yours. Our statesmen are not inferior to yours in natural ability, nor in the improvement of it. We have far more time to improve ourselves than you, as a general thing. When you have an opportunity of judging, you will not hesitate to say, that our women can bear to be compared with yours in every respect, in their intellect, and refinement of manners and conversation. Our slaves are not left ignorant, like brutes, as has been charged upon us. Where a master feels a religious responsibility, he must and does cause to be given, all necessary knowledge to those who are dependent upon him. I must say, that though we have fewer sects at the South, we have more genuine religion. You will think I am prejudiced. Joining the church here is, in a great measure, a form. I have formed this opinion from my own observation. With us there must be a proper disregard of the customs of the world; a profession of religion implying a good deal more than a mere profession. Look at the thousand new and absurd opinions that have agitated New England, while they never have been advanced with us. There is Unitarianism, that faith that would undermine the perfect structure of the Christian religion; that says Christ is a man, when the Scriptures style him 'Wonderful, Counsellor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.' Why, it is hardly tolerated at the South. Have you any right to claim for yourself superior holiness? None whatever.
"There never was any thing so perfectly false (I cannot help referring to it again,) as that religion is discouraged among our slaves. It is precisely the contrary. Most of them have the same opportunities of attending worship as their owners. They generally prefer the Methodist and Baptist denominations; they worship with the whites, or they have exclusive occasions for themselves, which they prefer. They meet on the plantations for prayer, for singing, or for any religious purpose, when they choose; theladies on the plantations instruct them in the Bible, and how to read it. Many of them are taught to write.
"Religion seems to be a necessary qualification of the female mind—I think this, because I have been so fortunate in those of our own family. My mother died soon after my birth; her friends often dwell on the early piety so beautifully developed in her character. We have a relative, an old maid, who lives with us; she forgets her own existence, laboring always for the good of others. My aunt is a noble Christian woman, and Alice has not breathed such an atmosphere in vain. We have a servant woman named Phillis, her price is far above rubies. Her industry, her honesty, her attachment to our family, exceeds every thing. I wish Abolitionists would imitate one of her virtues—humility. I know of no poetry more beautiful than the hymns she sang to me in my infancy; her whole life has been a recommendation of the religion of the Bible. I wish my chance of Heaven were half as good as hers. She is a slave here, but she is destined to be a saint hereafter."
The evening is drawing on again at Exeter, and Alice and her mother are in a little sitting room that opens on the porch. Mrs. Weston is fanning her daughter, who has been suffering during the day from headache. Miss Janet is there, too, and for a rare occurrence, is idle; looking from the window at the tall peaks of the Blue Ridge upon which she has gazed for many a year. Little Lydia stands by her side, her round eyes peering into Miss Janet's face, wondering what would happen, that she should be unemployed. They are awaiting Mr. Weston's return from an afternoon ride, to meet at the last and most sociable meal of the day.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "aint Miss Alice white?"
"Very pale," said Miss Janet, looking at Alice; then, with a sigh, turning to the mountains again.
"What makes her so white?" asked Lydia, in an under tone.
"She has had a headache all day. Be quiet, child," said Miss Janet.
After a moment, Lydia said, "I wish I could have de headache all de time."
"What do you say such a foolish thing as that for, Lydia?"
"'Kase I'd like to be white, like Miss Alice." Miss Janet did not reply. Again Lydia spoke, "If I was to stay all time in de house, and never go in de sun, would I git white?"
"No—no—foolish child; what gives you such ideas?"
There was another pause. Mrs. Weston fanned Alice, who, with closed eyes, laid languidly on the lounge.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, speaking very softly, "who made de lightning-bugs?"
"God made them," said Miss Janet.
"Did God make de nanny-goats, too?"
"You know that God made every thing," said Miss Janet. "I have often told you so."
"He didn't make mammy's house, ma'am; I seed de men makin it."
"No; man makes houses, but God made all the beautiful things in nature. He made man, and trees, and rivers, and such things as man could not make."
Lydia looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and the moon was coming forth, a few stars glistened there. Long, fleecy clouds extended over the arch of heaven, and some passing ones for a moment obscured the brightness that gilded the beautiful scene.
"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "its mighty pretty there; but 'spose it was to fall."
"What was to fall?"
"De sky, ma'am."
"It cannot fall. God holds it in its place."
Another interval and Lydia said: "Miss Janet, 'spose God was to die, den de sky would broke down."
"What put such a dreadful thought into your head, child?" said Miss Janet. "God cannot die."
"Yes, ma'am, he kin," said Lydia.
"No, he cannot. Have I not often told you that God is a spirit? He created all things, but he never was made; he cannot die."
Lydia said inquiringly, "Wasn't Jesus Christ God, ma'am?"
"Yes, he was the Son of God, and he was God."
"Well, ma'am, he died onct, dat time de Jews crucified him—dat time de ground shook, and de dead people got up—dat time he was nailed to de cross. So, ma'am, if God died onct, couldn't he die agin?"
Miss Janet, arousing herself from her reverie, looked at the child. There she stood, her eyes fixed upon the sky, her soul engaged in solving this mysterious question. Her little hands hung listlessly by her side; there was no beauty in her face; the black skin, the projecting lips, the heavy features, designated her as belonging to a degraded race. Yet the soul was looking forth from its despised tenement, and eagerly essaying to grasp things beyond its reach.
"Could he die agin, Miss Janet?" asked Lydia.
Poor child! thought Miss Janet, how the soul pinioned and borne down, longs to burst its chains, and to soar through the glorious realms of light and knowledge. I thought but now that there was no more for me to do here; that tired of the rugged ascent, I stood as it were on the tops of those mountains, gazing in spirit on the celestial city, and still not called to enter in. Now, I see there is work for me to do. Thou art a slave, Lydia; yet God has called thee to the freedom of the children that he loves; thou art black, yet will thy soul be washed white in the blood of the Lamb; thou art poor, yet shalt thou be made rich through Him who, when on earth, was poor indeed. Jesus, forgive me! I murmured that I still was obliged to linger. Oh! make me the honored instrument of good to this child, and when thou callest me hence, how gladly will I obey the summons.
"Lydia," she said, "the Son of God died for us all, for you and for me, but he was then in the form of man. He died that we might live; he never will die again. He rose from the dead, and is in heaven, at the right hand of God. He loves you, because you think about him."
"He don't love me like he do Miss Alice, 'kase she's so white," said Lydia.
"He loves all who love him," said Miss Janet, "whether they are black or white. Be a good child, and he will surely love you. Be kind and obliging to everybody; beindustrious and diligent in all you have to do; obey your mother and father, and your master. Be truthful and honest. God hates a liar, and a deceitful person. He will not take care of you and love you, unless you speak the truth. Sometimes you try to deceive me. God will not be your friend if you deceive any one. And now go to your mother, she will put you to bed."
Lydia made a curtsey, and said, "Good-night, ma'am." She went to Mrs. Weston, and bade her good-night too. Then turning toward Alice, she gazed wonderingly at her pale face.
"Is you got de headache now, Miss Alice?"
"Not much," said Alice, gently.
"Good night, miss," said Lydia, with another curtesy, and she softly left the room. "Oh, mammy," she said, as she entered her mother's cabin, "Miss Janet say, if I'm a good child, God will love me much as he loves Miss Alice, if I is black. Miss Alice is so white to-night; you never see'd her look as white as she do to-night."
Mr. Weston alighted from his horse, and hurried to the sitting-room, "Have you waited tea for me?" he said. "Why did you do so? Alice, darling, is your head better?"
"A great deal, uncle," said Alice. "Have you had a pleasant ride?"
"Yes; but my child, you look very sick. What can be the matter with you? Anna, did you send for the doctor?"
"No—Alice objected so."
"But you must send for him—I am sure she is seriously ill."
"There is nothing the matter with me, but a headache," said Alice. "After tea, I will go to bed, and will be well in the morning."
"God grant you may, my sweet one. What has come over you?"
"Tea is ready," said Cousin Janet. "Let us go in to it, and then have prayers, and all go to bed early. Why Cousin Weston, you are getting quite dissipated in your old age; coming home to tea at this hour; I suppose I shall begin such practices next."
Miss Janet's suggestion of retiring early, was followed. Phillis came in to see how Alice's head was, and recommended brown paper and vinegar. She made no comment on her appearance, but did not wonder that Lydia was struck with the expression of her countenance. There was an uneasiness that was foreign to it; not merely had the glow of health departed, there was something in its place, strange there. It was like the storm passing over the beautiful lake; the outline of rock, and tree, and surface, is to be seen, but its tranquil beauty is gone; and darkness and gloom are resting where has been the home of light, and love, and beauty.
Alice undressed and went to bed; her mother raised all the windows, put out the candle, and laid down beside her. Hoping that she would fall asleep, she did not converse, but Alice after a few minutes, called her.
"What is it, Alice?"
"Did you hear what Cousin Janet said to Lydia, to-night, mother? God hates those who deceive."
"Why think of that now, my love?"
"Because it refers to me. She did not mean it for me, but it came home to my heart."
"Toyourheart? That has always been truth and candor itself. Try and banish such thoughts. If you were well, fancies like these would not affect you."
"They are not fancies, they are realities," said Alice. She sighed and continued, "Am I not deceiving the kind protector and friend of my childhood? Oh, mother, if he knew all, how little would he love me! And Arthur, can it be right for me to be engaged to him, and to deceive him, too?"
"Dear Alice, how often have we talked about this, and hoped you were satisfied as to the propriety of being silent on the subject at present. Your uncle's health is very feeble; he is subject to sudden and alarming attacks of sickness, and easily thrown into a state of agitation that endangers his life. Would you run such a risk? What a grief would it be to him to know that the hopes of years were to be destroyed, and by one whom he had nursed in his own bosom as a child. Poor Arthur, too! away from home so long—trusting you with such confidence, looking forward with delight to the time of his return, could you bear thus to dash his dearest prospects to the earth?"
"But he must know it, mother. I could not marry him with a lie in my right hand."
"It will not be so, Alice; you cannot help loving Arthur, above all men, when you are with him; so noble, so generous, so gifted with all that is calculated to inspire affection, you will wonder your heart has ever wavered."
"But it has," said Alice; "and he must know all."
"Of course," said Mrs. Weston; "nothing would justify your having any reserve with him, but this is not the time for explanation. If I believed that you really and truly loved Walter, so as to make it impossible for you to forget him and return Arthur's affection; if I thought you could not one day regard Arthur as he deserves, I would not wish you to remain silent for a day. It would be an injustice, and a sin, to do so. Yet I feel assured that there is no such danger.
"A woman, Alice, rarely marries her first love, and it is well that it is so. Her feelings, rather than her judgment, are then enlisted, and both should be exercised when so fearful a thing as marriage is concerned. You have been a great deal with Walter, and have always regarded him tenderly, more so of late, because the feelings strengthen with time, and Walter's situation is such as to enlist all your sympathies; his fascinating appearanceand interesting qualities have charmed your affections. You see him casting from him the best friends he has ever had, because he feels condemned of ingratitude in their society. He is going forth on the voyage of life, alone, you weep as any sister would, to see him thus. I do not blame him for loving you; but I do censure him in the highest degree, for endeavoring to win more than a sister's regard from you, in return; it was selfish and dishonorable. More than all, I blame myself for not foreseeing this. You said yesterday, you could not bear the thought of being separated from Arthur. You do not know your own heart, many a woman does not, until time has been her teacher; let it be yours. Cousin Janet has thus advised you; be guided by us, and leave this thing to rest for a while; you will have reason to rejoice in having done so. Would you leave me for Walter, Alice?"
"No, mother. How could you ask me?"
"Then trust me; I would not answer for your uncle's safety were we to speak to him on this subject. How cruel to pain him, when a few months may restore us to the hopes and happiness which have been ours! Do what is right, and leave the future to God."
"But how can I write to Arthur, when I know I am not treating him as I would wish him to treat me?"
"Write as you always have; your letters have never been very sentimental. Arthur says you write on all subjects but the one nearest his heart. If you had loved him as I thought you did, you never would have allowed another to usurp his place. But we cannot help the past. Now dear child, compose yourself; I am fatigued, but cannot sleep until you do."
Alice, restless for a while, at last fell asleep, but it was not the rest that brings refreshment and repose. Her mother watched her, as with her hand now pressed on her brow, now thrown on the pillow, she slept. Her mind, overtaxed, tried even in sleep to release itself of its burden.The wish to please, and the effort to do right, was too much for her sensitive frame. It was like the traveler unaccustomed to fatigue and change, forced to commence a journey, unassured of his way, and ignorant of his destination.
Her mother watched her—a deep hue was settled under her eyelashes, the veins in her temple were fearfully distinct, and a small crimson spot rested on her cheek. She watched her, by the moonlight that glanced over every part of the room. She listened to her heavy breathing, and lightly touched her dry and crimson lips. She stroked the long luxuriant curls, that appeared to her darker than they ever had before. She closed the nearest window, lest there should be something borne on the breath of night, to disturb the rest of the beloved one. But, mother! it will not do; the curse of God is still abroad in the world, the curse on sin. It falls, like a blighting dew, on the loveliest and dearest to our hearts. It is by our side and in our path. It is among the gay, the rich, the proud, and the gifted of the earth; among the poor, the despised, the desolate and forsaken. It darkens the way of the monarch and the cottager, of the maiden and the mother, of the master and the slave. Alas! since it poisoned the flowers in Eden, and turned the children of God from its fair walks, it is abroad in the world—the curse of God on sin.
There is a blessing, too, within the reach of all. He who bore the curse, secured the blessing. Son of God! teach us to be like thee; give us of thy spirit, that we may soften to each other the inevitable ills of life. Prepare us for that condition to which we may aspire; for that assembly where will be united the redeemed of all the earth, where will rejoice forever in thy presence those of all ages and climes, who looked up from the shadow of the curse, to the blessing which thou didst obtain, with thy latest sigh, on Calvary!
After Phillis left Mrs. Weston's room, she was on her way to her cabin, when she noticed Aunt Peggy sitting alone at the door. She was rather a homebody; yet she reproached herself with having neglected poor old Peggy, when she saw her looking so desolate and dejected. She thought to pay her a visit, and bidding her good evening, sat down on the door-step. "Time old people were in bed, Aunt Peggy," said she; "what are you settin up for, all by yourself?"
"Who's I got to set up wid me?" said Aunt Peggy.
"Why don't you go to bed, then?" asked Phillis.
"Can't sleep, can't sleep," said Aunt Peggy; "aint slep none dese two, three nights; lays awake lookin at de moon; sees people a lookin in de winder at me, people as I aint seen since I come from Guinea; hears strange noises I aint never heard in dis country, aint never hearn sence I come from Guinea."
"All notions," said Phillis. "If you go to sleep, you'll forget them all."
"Can't go to sleep," said Aunt Peggy; "somefin in me won't sleep; somefin I never felt afore. It's in my bones; mebbe Death's somewhere in the neighborhood."
"I reckon you're sick, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis; "why didn't you let me know you wasn't well?"
"Aint sick, I tell you," said Aunt Peggy, angrily; "nothin the matter wid me. 'Spose you think there's nothin bad about, 'cep what comes to me."
Phillis was astonished at her words and manner, and looked at her intently. Most of the servants on theplantation stood in awe of Aunt Peggy. Her having been brought from Africa, and the many wonders she had seen there; her gloomy, fitful temper; her tall frame, and long, skinny hands and arms; her haughty countenance, and mass of bushy, white hair. Phillis did not wonder most people were afraid of her. Besides, Peggy was thought to have the power of foresight in her old age. The servants considered her a sort of witch, and deprecated her displeasure. Phillis had too much sense for this; yet there was one thing that she had often wondered at; that was, that Aunt Peggy cared nothing about religion. When employed in the family, she had been obliged to go sometimes to church: since she had been old, and left to follow her own wishes, she had never gone. Miss Janet frequently read the Bible, and explained it to her. Alice, seated on a low stool by the old woman's side, read to her scenes in the life of Christ, upon which servants love to dwell. But as far as they could judge, there were no good impressions left on her mind. She never objected, but she gave them no encouragement. This Phillis had often thought of; and now as she sat with her, it occurred to her with overwhelming force. "Death's about somewhere," said Aunt Peggy. "I can't see him, but I feels him. There's somefin here belongs to him; he wants it, and he's gwine to have it."
"'Pears to me," said Phillis, "Death's always about. Its well to be ready for him when he 'comes; 'specially we old people."
"Always ole people," said Aunt Peggy, "you want to make out that Death's always arter ole people. No such thing. Look at the churchyard, yonder. See any little graves thar? Plenty. Death's always arter babies; 'pears like he loves 'em best of all."
"Yes," said Phillis, "young people die as well as old, but 'taint no harm to be ready. You know, Aunt Peggy, we aint never ready till our sins is repented of, and oursouls is washed in the blood of Jesus. People ought to think of that, old and young, but they don't."
"Death loves young people," said Aunt Peggy; "always arter 'em. See how he took young Mr. William Jones, thar, in town, and he healthy and strong, wid his young bride; and his father and mother old like me. See how he took little George Mason, not long ago, that Uncle Geoffrey used to bring home wid him from town, setting on de horse, before him. Didn't touch his ole grandmother; she's here yet. Tell you, Death loves 'em wid de red cheeks and bright eyes."
Phillis did not reply, and the old woman talked on as if to herself.
"Thinks thar's nothin bad but what comes to niggers; aint I had nuff trouble widout Death. I aint forgot de time I was hauled away from home. Cuss him, 'twas a black man done it; he told me he'd smash my brains out if I made a sound. Dragged along till I come to de river; thar he sold me. I was pushed in long wid all de rest of 'em, crying and howlin—gwine away for good and all. Thar we was, chained and squeezed together; dead or live, all one. Tied me to a woman, and den untied me to fling her into de sea—dead all night, and I tied to her. Come long, cross de great sea; more died, more flung to de sharks. No wonder it thundered and lightened, and de waves splashed in, and de captain prayed. Lord above! de captain prayed, when he was stealin and murderin of his fellow-creeturs. We didn't go down, we got safe across. Some went here, some went thar, and I come long wid de rest to Virginny. Ever sence, workin and slavin; ever sence, sweatin and drivin; workin all day, workin all night."
"You never worked a bit in the night time, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis; "and you know it."
"Worked all time," said Aunt Peggy, "niggers aintmade for nothin else. Now, kase Death's somewhar, wantin somefin, thinks it must be me."
"I didn't say 'twas you, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis.
"Wants somefin," said Aunt Peggy. "Tell you what, Phillis," and she laughed, "wants Miss Alice."
"What's come over you?" said Phillis, looking at her, terrified. "There's nothing the matter with Miss Alice but a headache."
"Headache!" said Aunt Peggy, "that's all?" and she laughed again. "Think I didn't see her yesterday? Whars the red cheeks?—white about her lips, black about her eyes; jist like Mistis when she was gwine fast, and de young baby on her arm. Death wants Miss Alice—aint arter me."
"Aint you ashamed to talk so about Miss Alice, when she's always coming to you, bringing you something, and trying to do something for you?" said Phillis. "You might as well sit here and talk bad of one of the angels above."
"Aint talking bad of her," said Aunt Peggy; "aint wishin her no harm. If there is any angels she's as good as any of 'em; but it's her Death's arter, not me; look here at my arms—stronger than yourn—" and she held out her sinewy, tough arm, grasping her cane, to go in the house.
Phillis saw she was not wanted there, and looking in to be assured that Nancy (Aunt Peggy's grand-daughter, who lived with her to take care of her,) was there, went home and thought to go to bed. But she found no disposition to sleep within her. Accustomed, as she was, to Aunt Peggy's fault finding, and her strange way of talking, she was particularly impressed with it to-night. 'Twas so strange, Phillis thought, that she should have talked about being stolen away from Guinea, and things that happened almost a hundred years ago. Then her saying, so often that, "Death was about." Phillis was no more nervousthan her iron tea-kettle, but now she could not feel right. She sat down by the door, and tried to compose herself. Every one on the plantation was quiet; it seemed to her the night got brighter and brighter, and the heavens more crowded with stars than she had ever seen them. She looked at her children to see if they all were well, and then gave a glance at old Bacchus, who was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. She shook him heartily and told him to hush his clatter, but she might as well have told a twenty-four pounder to go off without making a noise. Then she sat down again and looked at Alice's window, and could not avoid seeing Aunt Peggy's house when she turned in that direction; thus she was reminded of her saying, "Death was about and arter somefin." Wondering what had come over her, she shut the door and laid down without undressing herself.
She slept heavily for several hours, and waked with the thought of Aunt Peggy's strange talk pressing upon her. She determined not to go to bed again, but opened the door and fixed the old rush-bottomed chair within it. Bacchus, always a very early riser, except on Sunday, was still asleep; having had some sharp twinges of the rheumatism the day before, Phillis hoped he might sleep them off; her own mind was still burdened with an unaccountable weight. She was glad to see the dawning of "another blue day."
Before her towered, in their majestic glory, Miss Janet's favorite mountains, yet were the peaks alone distinctly visible; the twilight only strong enough to disclose the mass of heavy fog that enveloped them. The stars had nearly all disappeared, those that lingered were sadly paling away. How solemn was the stillness! She thought of the words of Jacob, "Surely God is here!"—the clouds were flying swiftly beneath the arch of Heaven, as if from God's presence. Many thoughts were suggested to her by the grandeur of the scene, for my reader must remember,that an admiration of the glories of nature is not unfrequently a characteristic of an uneducated mind. Many verses of Scripture occurred to her, "From the rising of the sun, unto the going down of the same, the Lord's name be praised. The Lord is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens. Who is like unto the Lord our God, who dwelleth on high? Who humbleth himself to behold the things that are in Heaven, and in the earth." The soul of the slave-woman rejoiced in the Lord, her Maker and her Redeemer.
Gradually a soft light arose above the mountains; the fog became transparent through its influence. A red hue gilded the top of the mist, and slowly descended toward it, as it sank away. All the shadows of the night were disappearing, at the command once given, "Let there be light," and re-obeyed at the birth of every day. Phillis's heart warmed with gratitude to God who had given to her a knowledge of himself. She thought of her many mercies, her health, her comforts, and the comparative happiness of each member of her family; of the kindness of her master and the ladies; all these considerations affected her as they never had before, for gratitude and love to God ever inspires us with love and kindness to our fellow creatures.
Her thoughts returned to Alice, but all superstitious dread was gone; Aunt Peggy's strange wanderings no longer oppressed her; her mind was in its usual healthy state. "The good Lord is above us all," she said, "and Miss Alice is one of his children." She saw the house door open, and William coming toward her on his way to the stable. It was without any agitation that she asked what was the matter? "Miss Alice is very sick," said William, "and I am going for the doctor."
"I am glad I happened to be here," said Phillis, "may be they want me."
"You better not go in now," said William, "for she'sasleep. Miss Anna told me to walk very easy, for she would not have her waked for all the world."
So Phillis, seeing Aunt Peggy's door open, thought she would step over and find out if the old lady had slept off her notions.
Aunt Peggy's cabin had two rooms, in one of which, she and her granddaughter slept, in the other Nancy cooked and washed, and occupied herself with various little matters. Nancy had been up a short time and was mixing some Indian bread for their breakfast. She looked surprised, at having so early a visitor.
"How is your grandmother, child?" said Phillis; "did she sleep well?"
"Mighty well," said Nancy. "She aint coughed at all as I heard, since she went to bed."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Phillis, "for I thought she was going to be sick, she was so curious last night."
"She didn't complain, any way," said Nancy, going on with her breadmaking, so Phillis got up to go home. As she passed the door of the other room, she could but stop to look in at the hard, iron features of the old creature, as she lay in slumber. Her long black face contrasted most remarkably with the white pillow on which it was supported, her hair making her head look double its actual size, standing off from her ears and head. One long black arm lay extended, the hand holding to the side of the bed. Something impelled Phillis to approach. At first she thought of her grumbling disposition, her bitter resentment for injuries, most of which were fanciful, her uncompromising dislike to the servants on the plantation. She almost got angry when she thought "the more you do for her, the more she complains." Then she recalled her talk the night before; of her being torn away from her mother, and sold off, tied to a dead woman, and the storm and the sharks; a feeling of the sincerest pity took the place of her first reflections, and well they did—for thenext idea—Phillis' knees knocked together, and her heart beat audibly, for what was before her?
What but death! with all his grimness and despair, looking forth from the white balls that were only partially covered with the dark lids—showing his power in the cold hands whose unyielding grasp had closed in the struggle with him. Setting his seal on brow and lips, lengthening the extended form, that never would rouse itself from the position in which the mighty conqueror had left it, when he knew his victory was accomplished. What but death, indeed! For the heart and the pulse were still forever, and the life that had once regulated their beatings, had gone back to the Giver of life.
The two slave women were alone together. She who had been, had gone with all her years, her wrongs, and her sins, to answer at the bar of her Maker. The fierce and bitter contest with life, the mysterious curse, the dealings of a God with the children of men. Think of it, Oh! Christian! as you gaze upon her. The other slave woman is with the dead. She is trembling, as in the presence of God. She knows he is everywhere, even in the room of death.Sheis redeemed from the slavery of sin, and her regenerate soul looks forward to the rest that remaineth to the people of God. She "submits herself to an earthly master," knowing that the dispensation of God has placed her in a state of servitude. Yet she trusts in a Heavenly Master with childlike faith, and says, "May I be ready when he comes and calls for me."
Phillis was perfectly self-possessed when she went back to the kitchen. "Nancy," she said, "didn't you think it was strange your grandmother slept so quiet, and laid so late this morning? She always gets up so early."
"I didn't think nothin about it," said Nancy, "for I was 'sleep myself."
"Well there's no use putting it off," said Phillis. "I might as well tell you, first as last. She's dead."
"Dead, what do you mean?" said Nancy.
"I mean she's dead," said Phillis, "and cold, and very likely has been so, for most of the night. Don't be frightened and make a noise, for Miss Alice is very sick, and you're so near the house."
Nancy went with her to the other room. A child would have known there was no mistake about death's being there, if the idea had been suggested to it. Nancy was in a moment satisfied that such was the case, but she shed very few tears. She was quite worn out taking care of the old woman, and the other servants were not willing to take their turns. They said they "couldn't abide the cross, ill-natured old thing."
Phillis went home for a few moments, and returned to perform the last offices. All was order and neatness under her superintendence; and they who avoided the sight of Aunt Peggy when alive, stood with a solemn awe beside her and gazed, now that she was dead.
All but the children. Aunt Peggy was dead! She who had been a kind of scarecrow in life, how terrible was the thought of her now! The severest threat to an unruly child was, "I will give you to Aunt Peggy, and let her keep you." But to think of Aunt Peggy in connection with darkness, and silence, and the grave, was dreadful indeed. All day the thought of her kept them awed and quiet; but as evening drew on, they crept close to their mothers' side, turning from every shadow, lest she should come forth from it. Little Lydia, deprived of Miss Janet's company in consequence of Alice's sickness, listened to the pervading subject of conversation all day, and at night dreamed that the old woman had carried her off to the top of the highest of the mountains that stood before them; and there she sat scowling upon her, and there, they were to be forever.
When the next afternoon had come, and the body was buried, and all had returned from the funeral, Phillislocked up the vacant cabin. Nancy was to be employed in the house, and sleep in the servants' wing. Then Phillis realized that death had been there, and she remembered once more, Aunt Peggy's words, "He's arter somefin, wants it, and he's gwine to have it; but it ain't me."
There is one thing concerning death in which we are apt to be sceptical, and that is, "Does he want me?"