"I was but a youth when first I was called on,To think of my soul and the state I was in;I saw myself standing from God a great distance,And betwixt me and him was a mountain of Sin."Old Satan declared that I had been converted,Old Satan persuaded me I was too young;And before my days ended that I would grow tired,And I'd wish that I'd never so early begun."
"But, praise de Lord," exclaimed the woman, stopping short in her hymn, and rising suddenly to her feet, "I habn't growed tired yet, and I's been walkin in de ways of goodness forty years and more. De Lord, he is good,—I knows he is, for I's tried him and found him out, and I's neber tired o' praisin him. Bress de Lord! He's new to me ebery mornin, and fresh as de coolin waters ebery ebening. Praise de Lord! Hallelujah! When I was a chile, I use to make massa's boys mad so's to hear 'em swar. It pleased dis wicked cretur to hear de fierce swarrin'. One day I went to de garden behind de house to git de water-melons for dinner, and I heerd a voice. 'Pears 'twas like a leetle, soft voice, but I couldn't see nobody nowhar dat spoke, and it said, 'Lony, Lony, don't yer make dem boys swar no more, ef ye do, ye'll lose yer soul.' I looked all roun and roun, for I was skeered a'most to deff, but I couldn't see nobody, and den I know'd 'twas a voice from heaben, for I'd heerd o' sich, and I says, 'No, Lord, no, I won't.' I didn't know den what de SOUL was, or what a drefful ting 'twas to lose it; but I knowd it mus mean suffin orful. So I began to consider all de time 'bout de soul. Byme-by a Baptis' min'ster comed to de place, and massa and missus was converted. Den dey let us hab meetin's and de clersh'-man he comed and talked to us. I didn't comperhend much he said, 'caus I was young and foolish; but he telled a good many times 'bout dat ef we want to save our souls we mus be babtize and git under de Lord's table. Says I to my own sef, 'Specs now ef poor Lony could only find de table of de bressed Lord, 'twould all be well, and she'd be pertected foreber.' So I prayed and prayed, and one night de good Lord comed hissef, and bringd his great, splendid table, and all de fair angels dressed in white and gold and settin roun it, and I got under, and I ate de crumbs dat fell down, and den 'pears I begun to live. Oh, 'twas sich a peace dat came all ober me, and I wanted to sing and shout all of de time. And dat's jess whar I been eber sence, my friends, and I neber wants to come away till I dies; and den de good Lord'll take me up to de great heabenly mansion, and gib me de gold robes, and den I shall set up wid de rest and be like 'em all. And I's willin to wait, 'caus I lubs de Lord and praises him ebery day. He is de good Lord, and he lubs me and hearkens ebery time I speaks to him; and I ha'n't 'bleeged to holler loud, nuther, for he's neber far away, but he keeps close by dis poor soul so he can hear ebery word and cry. And he'll hear all yer cries, my friends, when ye prays for yersef or for yer chillen, or yer bredren and sisters. Le's pray, now."
Then kneeling down, this representative of a despised and untutored race, with a faith that triumphed gloriously over her abject surroundings, poured forth her supplications, talking with the Lord as a man talks with his friend, as it were face to face.
"O bressed Lord, dat's in de heaben and de earf and ebery whar; you's heerd all de tings dat we's asked for. And you knows all dat dese yer poor chillen wants dat dey hasn't axed for; and if dere's any ob 'em here, dat doesn't dare to speak out loud, and tell what dey does want, you can hear it jess as well, ef it is way down deep buried up in de heart; and oh, bressed Lord, do gib 'em de desires of de heart, 'less it's suffin dat'll hurt 'em, and den Lord don't gib it to 'em at all."
This was enough for our little Tidy. Her heart swelled, and the great tears ran down her cheeks, as she thought instantly of the one dear, cherished petition that she dared not utter, but which was uppermost in her heart continually; and as the woman pleaded with the Lord to hear and answer the desires of every soul present, she held that want of hers up before Him as a cup to be filled, and the Lord verily did fill it up to the brim. A quiet, restful feeling took the place of the burning, eager anxiety she had hitherto felt, and from that moment she was sure, yes, SURE that she would have her wish, and some day be able to read. Nothing had ever encouraged and strengthened her so much as the earnest words and prayers of this Christian woman. How thankful she always felt that she had been brought to the prayer-meeting at Massa Bertram's that night.
To obtain possession of the hymn-book she desired, was not so very difficult in Tidy's estimation. The numerous visitors at the house, pleased with her bright face, her gentle manners, and ready attentions, often dropped a coin into her hand, and these little moneys were carefully treasured for the accomplishment of her purpose. She calculated that by Christmas-time she should have enough money to buy it, and Uncle Simon she knew would procure it for her. Her greatest anxiety now was to be ready to use it.
But how could she make herself ready? How was she to learn without a teacher or a book?
There had been an old primer for some time tossing about the play-room—its scarlet cover looking more gorgeous and tempting in Tidy's eyes, as they fell upon it day after day, than any trinket or gewgaw she could have seen; yet she dared not touch it. She was too honest to appropriate it to herself without leave, and she was afraid to allude to the forbidden lessons by asking Amelia or Susan for it. Several times she tried to draw their attention to the neglected book, and to give them some hint of her own longing for it,—but all to no avail. One day, however, she had orders from the children to clear up the room thoroughly.
"Make every thing neat as a pin," said Amelia, "while we go down to dinner, for we are going to have company this afternoon; and if it looks right nice, I'll give you an orange."
"What shall I do with dis yer book, then, Miss Mely?" hastily asked Tidy, as she stooped to pick up the book, and felt herself trembling all over that she had dared to put her fingers upon it.
"That? Oh, that's no good; throw it away,—we never use it now,—or keep it yourself, if you want to," said she, after a second thought.
It was done. The book was quickly deposited in a safe place, and the clearing up proceeded rapidly. The orange was a small consideration; for had she not got a book, her heart's desire, and now she could learn to read.
She could learn all alone; she would be her own teacher. If she got into a very narrow place she would get Uncle Simon to help her out. No one else on the estate knew how to read, and he didn't know much, but no doubt he could be of some assistance. Such was Tidy's inward plan.
After this, the little girl might have been seen every evening stretched at full length on the cabin floor, her head towards the fireplace, where the choicest pine knots were kindled into a cheerful blaze, with her spelling-book open before her. She was "clambering" up the rough way of knowledge.
Did she accomplish her purpose? To be sure she did. Little reader, did you ever make up your mind to do any thing and fail? There's an old proverb that says, "Where there's a will there's a way;" and this is true. Resolution and energy, patience and perseverance, will achieve nearly every thing you set about. Try it. Try it when you have hard lessons to do, puzzling examples in arithmetic to solve, that long stint in sewing to do, that distasteful music to practice, those bad habits to conquer. Try it faithfully, and when you grow up, you'll be able to say, from your own experience, "Where there's a will there's a way."
You must not expect, however, that Tidy learned very rapidly or very perfectly under such discouragements. Think how it would be with yourself, if you only knew your letters. You might read quite easily m-a-n, but how do you think you could find out that those letters spelled man?
Tidy advanced much more expeditiously after she had obtained possession of her hymn-book. Some of the hymns were quite familiar to her from her having heard them sung so often at the meetings, and she determined to study these first; and you may well imagine how proud she felt,—not sinfully, but innocently proud,—when she seated herself one afternoon by Mammy Grace's side, and pulling her hymn-book out of her bosom, asked if she might read a hymn.
"Yes, chile, 'deed ye may, ef ye can. Specs 'twill do yer ole mammy's heart good to hear ye read de books like de white folks."
And the child opened the book, and in a clear, pleasant, happy voice she read slowly, but correctly,—
"My God, the spring of all my joys,The life of my delights,The glory of my brightest days,And comfort of my nights."In darkest shades if he appear,My dawning is begun;He is my soul's sweet morning star,And he my rising sun."
"Look dar, chile," cried the old nurse, springing to her feet, "Massa George's jess a'most out ob de door. Ef he SHOULD fall and break his neck, what WOULD 'come of us. Dis yer chile 'd neber hab no more peace all de days of her life. Yer reads raal pooty, honey; but ye mus'n't neglect duty for de books, 'caus ef ye do, ye isn't worthy of de prevelege."
So Tidy had to forego her hymns till the children were put to bed.
After this, in the long winter evenings, in Mammy Grace's snug cabin, what harvests of enjoyment were gathered from that precious book. Uncle Simon was the favored guest on such occasions, and always "bringed his welcome wid hissef," he said, in the shape of pitch-pine fagots, the richest to be found, by the light of which they read and sung the songs of Zion, which they dearly loved; the pious old slave in the mean time commending, congratulating, and encouraging Tidy in her wonderful intellectual achievements.
PERSONS of will and energy generally have some distinct object before them which they are striving to reach,—something of importance to be gained or done. As fast as one thing is attained, another plan is projected; and so they go on, mounting up from one achievement to another all through life. And this enterprising spirit begins to be developed at a very early age in children.
Tidy was one of these active little beings, full of business, never unhappy for want of something to do; and besides the ordinary and more trivial occupations of the outer life, her spirit or inner life had ever a dear, cherished object before it, which engrossed her thoughts, taxed her capabilities, and raised her above the degraded level of her companions in servitude.
Now that she had attained one grand point in learning to read, she ventured on another and far more difficult enterprise. What do you think it was? Why, nothing more or less than to GET HER LIBERTY.
She had heard Miss Matilda say in the kitchen, "If I don't give the child her liberty, I hope she will take it." This was her warrant. She perceived, by Miss Matilda's words and manner, in the first place, that liberty was desirable, and, in the second, that she COULD take it. But, ignorant child as she was, she little knew the difficulties that stood in the way.
She had now lived several years in Mr. Lee's family, and had grown wiser in many respects. She began to realize more fully what it was to be a slave, and what her probable prospects were, if she did not escape. She learned that there was a place, not a great way from her Virginian home, where people did not hold her race in bondage; where she could go and come as she pleased, choose her own employers and occupation, be paid for her labor, provide for herself, and perhaps some day have a home of her own, with husband and children whom she could hold and enjoy. Do you think it strange that such a condition seemed attractive, and that she was willing to make great efforts and run fearful risks to reach it?
She kept her intentions profoundly secret. Even Mammy Grace and Uncle Simon, her best friends, were not in her confidence. But she prayed about it constantly, and sought information from every possible source with regard to this free land,—where it was, and how it could be reached,—and at last formed her plan, which she determined to carry out during the coming summer.
She knew she must have money, if she was going to travel, and for a long time she had been carefully saving up all she could command. She constantly endeavored to make herself useful in various ways in order to get it. The summer-time was her money harvest; and this season she was delighted to find visitors thronging to the Springs in greater numbers than she had ever seen before. She knew if there was plenty of company, there would be plenty of business, and consequently a plenty of money; for the class of people who came there were for the most part wealthy, and were quite willing to pay for the attentions they received. The little brick houses in which they lodged were under the care of the slave girls. Each one had two of these cabins, as they were called, in charge, and were required to keep them in order, to wait upon the ladies and children, and serve them at the table. Tidy was unwearied in her efforts to please. She answered promptly to every call, and kept her rooms in the neatest manner; and for her pains she received many a bright coin, which was providently stored away in a little bag, and concealed beneath her mattress. Perhaps these conscientious people would not have bestowed money so freely on their favorite young maid, if they had known the purpose to which it was to be applied. For they say that slavery is a Christian institution, a sort of missionary enterprise, which has been divinely appointed for the good of the colored race; and of course to get away from it is to run away from God and the privileges and blessings he is so kind as to give.
Tidy, however, thought differently, as the slaves generally do; and as she had made up her mind that she should gain greater advantages in a state of freedom, she determined to persevere in her attempt. Her accumulations finally became so large, that she thought she might venture to start on her journey.
She knew, too, that she must have clothes quite different from those she usually wore. And how was she to get these? Ah, she had had an eye for a long while to this. She and Amelia were not only of the same age, but of the same size. Tidy had grown in the last two years very rapidly, and had now reached a womanly hight and figure. She had watched the growth of Amelia with the keenest interest. So far, it had corresponded with her own so exactly that she could easily wear the clothes made for her young mistress. In fact, Amelia often dressed Tidy up in her own garments that she might get a better idea of how they looked upon herself. This season, Amelia, for the first time, had a traveling suit complete, for she was going a journey with her father; and when it was finished, she was so pleased that she sent for Tidy at once to participate in her joy, and insisted that she should immediately put it on, that she might see how it fitted, and if every thing about it was as it should be. The dress was a dark green merino, made with a very long pelerine cape, which was the very pink of the fashion, and was the especial admiration of all the children. Tidy arrayed herself in these, and, putting the little jaunty cap of the same color on her head, stood before the glass and surveyed herself with as perfect satisfaction as the owner of the becoming costume herself experienced. Indeed she could hardly keep her eye from telling tales of the joy within, as she inwardly said, "There's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, and may be, Miss Amelia, I shall go traveling in this before you do." She felt that nothing could have been provided more suitable or timely than this charming suit.
Are you shocked, little reader, that Tidy, the good, exemplary, conscientious Tidy, should have thought of appropriating Amelia's wardrobe to herself? I must stop a moment here to explain to you the slaves' code of morals. They are so ignorant that we must not expect them to have so high or correct a standard of conduct as we have, or to be able to make such nice distinctions in questions of right and wrong.
Ever since Mammy Grace had made to her young pupil the first imperfect revelation of God's character and government, declaring that he would punish with eternal fire those who should lie, swear, or steal, the child had held these sins in the greatest abhorrence, and was scrupulously careful to avoid them. She would not have taken from the baby-house a trinket, or an article of food from the kitchen, without leave, on any account. At the same time, she had learned the slave theory that as they are never paid for their labor, they have a right to any thing which their labor has purchased, OF WHICH THEY HAVE NEED. Consequently if a slave is not provided with food sufficient for his wants, he supplies himself. The pigs and chickens, vegetables and fruits, or any thing else which he can handily obtain, he helps himself to, as though they were his own, and never burdens his conscience with the sin of stealing. A slave, who had obtained his freedom, once remarked in a public meeting, that when he was a boy, he was OBLIGED to steal, or TAKE food, as he called it, in order to live, because so little was provided for him. "But now," said he, while his face shone with a consciousness of honesty and honor, "I wouldn't take a cent's worth from any man; no, not for my right hand."
So, you see, that this principle of appropriating what the labor of her own hands had earned, when necessity demanded it, was that upon which Tidy was to act. She never needed to steal food, nor even luxuries, for she always had enough; nor money, because, for her limited wants, she always had enough of that. But now, when she was going a journey, and wanted to look especially nice, she felt very glad to have the dress prepared so fitting for the occasion; and she did not feel a single misgiving of conscience about taking it when she got ready to use it. Whether this was just right or not, I shall leave an open question for you to decide in your own minds. It will bear thought and discussion, and will be quite a profitable subject for you to consider.
When the preparations were all made, Mammy Grace and old Simon were let into the secret. Whether they said any thing by way of discussion I do not know—at any rate, it did not alter Tidy's determination. I think, however, that she found her two aged friends very useful in aiding her last movements; and when the eventful moment arrived, and Tidy, attired in Miss Amelia's garments, with a traveling-bag in her hand, containing her hymn-book, her money, and a few needed articles, stood at the foot of the walk that led into the public road, Mammy Grace stood with her in the starlight of the early summer's morning, and bade her God-speed.
"Ye looks like a lady for all de world, honey; I 'clare dese yer old eyes neber would a thought 'twas you, in dis yer fine dress—hi, hi, hi! Specs nobody'll tink ye's run away. De old nuss hates to part wid her chile; but ef ye must go, ye must, and de bressed Lord go wid ye, and keep ye safe."
Then giving her a most affectionate hug, she put a paper of eatables in her hand, and helped her to mount the horse before Uncle Simon, who was already in the saddle. Where or how the old man procured the horse and equipments, HE knew—but nobody else did.
The animal was a fast trotter, and brought them speedily five miles to the village, where Tidy was to take the stage-coach to Baltimore. It was before railroads and steam-engines were much talked of in Virginia. Alighting in the outskirts of the town, Simon lifted the young girl to the ground, and hastily commending her to "de bressed Lord of heaben and earf," he bade her good-by, and went back to his bondage and toil. They never saw each other again.
The day was fine, and riding a novel occupation for Tidy, but so full was her trembling heart of anxiety and fear that she could not enjoy it. She was afraid to look out of the window lest she might be recognized by some one; and she dared not look at the two pleasant-faced gentlemen who were in the coach with her, lest they might question her, and find out her true condition. So she cuddled back as closely as possible in the corner, and when they kindly offered her cakes and fruit, she just ventured to say, "No, thank you." Her own food, which the dear old nurse had taken so much pains to put up for her, lay untouched in her lap, for her heart was so absorbed she could not eat.
Night brought her to the hotel in Baltimore. The great city, the large building, and busy servants running hither and thither quite bewildered her, and she had to watch herself very closely lest she should betray herself. The waiters looked at her rather suspiciously; but she behaved with all propriety, called for her room and supper, paid for what she had, and in the morning was ready to take her seat in the northern stage, and no one ventured to molest or question her. How her heart leaped when she found herself safely on her way to Philadelphia. One day more, and she would be in a free city. What she should do when she arrived there, how she was to support herself in future, did not trouble her. That she might stand on free soil, and lift up her eyes to the stars that shone on her liberated body was all she thought of; and to-night this was to be. With every step of the plodding horses, she grew bolder and more assured, and her faith and hope and joyousness rose. But, alas! there was a lion in the way of which she had not dreamed.
"Your pass!" shouted a grim-looking man, as she stepped, bag in hand, with gentle dignity on the boat that was to take her across the stream which divided slave territory from our free States. "Where's your pass? Don't stand there staring at me," said the official, as the frightened girl looked up as if for an explanation.
A pass! She had never once thought of that! No one had mentioned her need of it. What was she to do? She looked confounded and terrified.
"No pass?" inquired the man, sternly. "'Tis easy enough to see what YOU are, then. A runaway!" said he, turning to a man at his right hand, "make her fast."
Frightened and trembling, Tidy tried to run, but it was of no use; a strong hand seized her slender arm, and held her securely. Then her sight seemed to fail her, she grew dizzy, and fell fainting on the deck. A crowd gathered about her. They remarked her light skin and delicate features, her ladylike form and neat dress. Could she be a slave? they asked. Would such a child as she appeared to be attempt to gain her liberty? They dashed water on her head, and, as her consciousness returned, she saw the faces of those two pleasant Scotch gentlemen, who had rode with her the day before all the way from Virginia, looking kindly and pitifully upon her.
"If you had only told us," they said, "we could have helped you."
But there was no friend or helper in that terrible hour, and poor Tidy, weeping and almost heart-broken, was carried back to Baltimore, and thrown into the SLAVE-JAIL.
IF I pronounce this disastrous event in Tidy's life another link in the chain of loving-kindness by which God was leading her to himself, perhaps you will wonder. But, my dear children, adversities are designed for this very purpose, and are all directed in infinite love and wisdom for our good. Tidy had prayed that she might be free, and the Lord heard, and meant to answer her prayer. He meant not only to give her the liberty she sought, but, more than that, to make her soul free in Christ Jesus; but there were some things she needed to learn first. She was not prepared yet to use her personal liberty rightly, nor did she at all appreciate or desire that other and better freedom. Therefore the Lord disappointed her at this time, and turned the course of her life, as it were, upside down, that by painful experiences and narrow straits she might learn what an all-sufficient Friend he could be to her; that she might learn too the sinfulness of her own heart, and his free grace and mercy for her pardon and salvation.
God "leads the blind in the way they know not." Tidy knew nothing of the method by which he was guiding her, and when she found her hopes crushed, and herself crouching, forlorn and friendless, weary and half-famished, in a prison, she gave up all for lost. She felt indeed cast off and forsaken. For hours she sat and cried despairingly, the pretty dress crumpled and stained with tears, and the hat which had been so much admired trampled under foot. Shame, grief, and fear of what was to come drove her almost to distraction.
At the end of three days, Mr. Lee, acting as her master, who had been apprised of her arrest, arrived at the prison. But what a wretched object had he come to see! He could scarcely believe that the miserable, dejected being before him was the once bright, beautiful Tidy,—such a change had her disappointment and sorrow wrought. He really pitied her, if a slaveholder ever can pity a slave, and yet he reproached her severely. He told her she was a fool to run away; that niggers never knew when they were well off; that if she had had a thimble-full of sense she might have known she couldn't make her escape. He said they had just been offered a thousand dollars for her,—which was then considered an enormous price,—by a gentleman in Virginia, and they had been on the point of selling her.
"I's Miss Matilda's," fiercely cried the poor girl at this, "and SHE wouldn't a sold me; she said she never would."
"Yes, she would, Miss," replied Mr. Lee; "we don't let her throw away such a valuable piece of property for nothing, I can tell you. A thousand dollars in the bank isn't a small thing. It wouldn't find feet to walk off with very soon, that we know."
"Miss Matilda TOLD me to take my liberty," said Tidy, disconsolately.
"Miss Matilda is a fool, like you. But we shall look out she don't cheat herself in such a fashion. Now you can have your choice, little one; you can go home with me, and take a good flogging for an example to the rest, and stay with us till another buyer comes up,—for Mr. Nicholson won't take such an uncertain piece of goods as you have showed yourself to be,—or you can go South. There's a trader here ready to take you right off. I'll give you till tomorrow morning to make up your mind."
"I'll go South," said the poor girl, the next morning. "I can't bear ever to see Miss Tilda again." And she settled herself down to her fate. She knew her life of bondage would be hard there, and she would not have much chance of getting her freedom. But it was better than the mortification of going back.
So she was sold to Mr. Pervis, the slave-trader. Mr. Pervis made about fifty purchases in Baltimore and the vicinity, and then organizing his gang he started for the South. Oh, what a different journey from that which Tidy had intended when she left home. A thousand miles South, into the very heart of slavery's dominions, with a company of coarse, stupid, filthy, wretched creatures, such as she never would have willingly associated with at home, so much more delicately had she been reared. Many of these were field-hands sold to go to the cotton plantations,—sold for "rascality."
Do you know what that means? You think it is ugliness. But no; it is a DISEASE. It is a droll sort of malady, to which a learned Louisiana doctor has given a singular name, which I can't spell, and which you wouldn't know how to pronounce; but the symptoms I can describe. Where a slave is attacked with this disease, he acts in a very stupid and careless manner, and does a great deal of mischief, breaking, abusing, and wasting every thing he can lay his hands on. He tears his clothes, throws away food, cuts up plants in the field, breaks his tools, hurts the horses and cattle, and does a vast amount of injury, and in such a way that it seems as if it was all done on purpose. He will neither work, nor eat the food offered him; quarrels with the other slaves and fights with the drivers, and altogether acts in such an ugly way that the overseer says he is "rascally." If it was really ugliness, he would be whipped; but, of course, whipping won't cure disease; so the masters consider it incurable, and sell the slave to go South to work in the rice-swamps and cotton-fields. They, perhaps, think a change of climate will do more for the patient than any other means. The Southern physicians don't have much success, to tell the truth, in curing this difficulty, for they don't seem to understand it. If they would only consult with some of their profession at the North, I have no doubt they would get some valuable suggestions on the subject. I really believe that the liberty-cure, practised by some judicious money-pathic physician, would effectually cure this "rascality." I wish I could see it tried.
Tidy found herself, therefore, in very undesirable company on this expedition to Georgia, and made up her mind very shortly that there would not be much enjoyment in it. She did not have to drag wearily along on foot all the way; for Mr. Lee was considerate enough to suggest to Mr. Pervis, that, as she had been brought up as a house-servant, and not accustomed to very hard work, she would not be able to walk much, and if she was not allowed to ride, there would be no Tidy left by the time they got to their journey's end, and the thousand dollars which had just been paid for her would have been thrown away. So Mr. Pervis gave her a permanent place in one of the wagons, and the other women were taken up by turns, whenever the poor creatures could step no longer. The men dragged along, handcuffed in pairs, and their low, brutal, and profane conversation was dreadful to Tidy. Oh, how often she wished she had staid contentedly with Mammy Grace, and not tried to run away. And yet her hope was not utterly gone, for she often caught herself saying, with closed teeth, "Give me a chance, and I'll try it again." Freedom looked too attractive to be entirely relinquished.
The gang halted at night, put up their tents, lighted fires and cooked their mean repast. Then they stretched themselves on the bare ground to sleep. In the morning, after the wretched breakfast was eaten, the tents were struck, the wagons loaded again, and they started for another day's travel,—and so on till the long, wearisome march was over. It took them many weeks before they arrived at their destination.
There Tidy was soon resold, the trader making two hundred dollars by the bargain, and she became the property of Mr. Turner, who took her to Natchez, on the Mississippi River, where she became waiting-maid to Mrs. Turner, his wife.
The poor girl was never the same in appearance after she left her Virginia home. A deep pall seemed to have been thrown over her spirit, and her hopes and happiness lay buried beneath it. Her disposition had lost its buoyancy, and her face wore a sad, pensive look. She tried to do her duty here as before, and her skill and neatness made her a favorite. But there was no one here to care for her and love her as Mammy Grace had done; and she missed the children sadly. Her hymn-book was neglected; for when she opened it such a flood of recollections came over her that the tears blinded her eyes and she could not see a word, and she never now heard a prayer. She was again in an irreligious family, and among an ungodly set of servants, and her faith, hope, and love began to grow dim. A dull, heavy manner, and a careless, reckless state of mind was growing upon her.
It required deeper sorrow than she had yet experienced to wake her up from this sluggish, unhappy condition.
SHE was standing one beautiful evening at the front gate of the house, leaning on the rail, and gazing listlessly up the street. She was thinking, perhaps, of that starry night when first she had heard of the name of God, or that other, when her faith had been so wonderfully built up in listening to the striking experiences and prayer of the memorable Lony. Perhaps she had wandered farther back to the time, when, under old Rosa's protection, she had fed the chickens and watered the flowers at Rosevale with childish content. Whatever it was, the tears would come, and several times she raised her hand and dashed them away. Then she turned her head and gazed the other way.
A large hotel stood nearly opposite the house, and across the narrow street she watched the mingling, busy crowd of black and white, young and old, coming and going, each intent on his own interests, each holding in his heart the secret of his own history. Who are they all? thought Tidy, what business are they all about? I wonder if they are all happy? not one of them knows or cares for poor, unhappy me,—when lo! there suddenly loomed up before her a familiar face. She watched it eagerly as it moved up and down in the throng, for she felt that she had seen it before. But it was some minutes before she could tell exactly where. At last it all came to her. It was Arthur Carroll, the son of the man who had owned her when a baby. She had often seen and played with him in her visits to her mother. Many years had passed since she last beheld him, and he had grown to be a young gentleman; but she was sure it was he. He stepped out of the hotel and came towards the house. She uttered a little, quick cry, "Why, Mass Arthur!" He turned and recognized her, and at once stopped to inquire into her condition and circumstances.
It was almost like a visit to old Virginia to see young Carroll; and as cold water to a thirsty soul was the news he brought her from that far country. Tidy drank in eagerly every word he could tell her of the Lees, and others whom she knew, and they were enjoying an animated conversation when Tidy's master passed that way. He saw his slave engaged in familiar talk with a stranger, and remembering the remark of the trader of whom he had bought her, that she had tried "the running-away game" once, and must be watched lest she should repeat the attempt, without waiting to inquire into the circumstances of the case, he resolved to administer a proper chastisement. Coming up behind, he struck her a violent blow on the side of the head that sent the frail girl reeling to the ground.
For a few minutes Tidy lay stunned upon the earth. When she came to herself, her head was smarting with pain and her heart burned like fire with indignation, and in a perfect frenzy of distress and mortification she rushed out of the gate and flew down the street. Up and down, through the streets and lanes of the city, she ran for hours, not knowing or caring whither she went, until finally, exhausted and bewildered, she dropped down upon the ground. Some one raised the panting girl and took her to the guard-house. There she lay until morning before she could give any distinct thought to what she had done, and what course she was now to pursue.
When she began to think clearly, she felt that she had acted very unwisely. For a slave to resist punishment, if it is ever so undeserved, or to attempt to escape it by running away, is only to provoke severer chastisement. That she well knew, and that there was nothing to be done now, but to walk back to her master's house and meet a fate she could not avoid. She only hoped that, when she acknowledged her fault, and frankly told her master that she did it under a wild and bewildering excitement, he would pardon her and let it pass.
She dragged her weary steps back to her master's house, fainting with fatigue and hunger, and presented herself before her mistress.
"I's right sorry I runned so," she said, "but I was kind o' scared like, and didn't know jest what I did. I knows I's no business to run away when massa cuffed me."
Her mistress made no reply but an angry look; but nothing was said by any one about what had happened, and Tidy felt that trouble was brewing. What it would be she could not tell, but her heart was heavy within her. Nothing occurred that day, but the next morning she was told to tie up her clothes and be ready to go up the river at ten o'clock. She knew what going up the river meant. Mr. Turner owned a large cotton plantation about twenty miles from Natchez, and the severest punishment dreaded by his servants in the city was to be sent there.
Tom, the coachman, accompanied Tidy, bearing in his pocket a note to the overseer of the plantation. Would you take a peep into it before she, whom it most concerned, learned its contents? It ran thus,—
"NATCHEZ, Wednesday, A. M.
"DIOSSY,—
"Give this wench a hundred lashes with the long whip this afternoon. Wash her down well, and when she is fit to work, put her into the cotton field.
"ABRAM TURNER."
Oh, let us weep, dear children, for the poor girl, who, for no crime at all, not even a misdeed, was made to bare her tender skin to such shameless cruelty. No friend was there to help her, to plead for her, to deliver her from the relentless, violent hand of the wicked oppressor. She was left all alone to her terrible suffering. Can we wonder that she felt that even the Lord had forgotten her?
That night there was scarcely an inch of flesh from her neck to her feet that was not torn, raw, and bleeding. The salt brine, which is used to heal the wounds, although when first applied it seems to aggravate the torture, was poured pitilessly over her, and writhing with agony, fainting, and almost dead, she was borne to a wretched hut, and laid on a hard pallet. Three weeks she lay there, sick and helpless; but she cried unto the Lord in her distress, and he heard her, and prepared to deliver her, though the time of her deliverance was not yet fully come. She had been brought low, but her eyes were not yet opened to her true needs, and she had not yet learned the prayer God would have her offer, "Be merciful to me, a SINNER."
Children, when you pray, do not be discouraged, if God does not answer you INSTANTLY. His way is not as our way; and though he hears us, and means to answer us, he may see that we are not yet ready to receive and appreciate the blessing we seek. Besides, there is no TIME with God as we count time. WE reckon by days and weeks, by months and years, but with him all is "one, eternal NOW;" and he goes steadily on, executing his purposes of love and mercy, without regard to those points and measures of time which seem so important to us. We must remember, too, that it takes longer to do some things than others. A praying woman whose faith was greatly tried, once asked her minister what this verse meant,—Luke xviii. 8: "I tell you that he will avenge them SPEEDILY." He replied, "If you make a loaf of bread in ten minutes, you think you have done your work speedily. Supposing a steam-engine is to be built. The pattern must be drafted, the iron brought, the parts cast, fitted, polished, tried,—it will take months to complete it, and then you may consider it SPEEDILY executed. So, when we ask God to do something for us, he may see a good deal of preparation to be necessary,—obstacles are to be removed, stepping-stones to be laid,—in the words of the Bible, the rough places are to be made plain, and the crooked ways straight, before the way of the Lord is prepared, and he can come directly with the thing we have asked."
It was thus with Tidy. She kept praying all the time to be free, but the Lord, who meant to give her a larger and better freedom than she asked, led her through such rough and crooked paths that she was quite discouraged, and nearly gave up all for lost.
This was her painful condition when she was driven, for the first time in her life, with a gang of men and women to work in the cotton-field.
LET us look into a cotton-field; we will take this one of a hundred acres. The cotton is planted in rows, and requires incessant tillage to secure a good crop. The weeds and long grass grow so rankly in this warm climate that great watchfulness and care are required to keep them down. If there should be much rain during the season, they will spread so rapidly as perhaps quite to outgrow and ruin the crop.
Two gangs of laborers work in the field. The plough-gang go first through the rows, turning up the soil, and are followed by the hoe-gang, who break out the weeds, and lay the soil carefully around the roots of the young plants. This operation has to be repeated again and again; and so important is it to have it done seasonably that the workers are urged on, early and late, until the field is in a flourishing condition. Hot or cold, wet or dry, day and night, sometimes, the poor creatures have to toil through this busy season. Then there is a little intermission of the severe labor until the picking time, when again they are obliged to work incessantly.
Most of the hoers are women and boys, some of whom do the whole allotted task; others only a quarter, half, or three quarters, according to their ability. When the children are first put into the field, they are only put to quarter tasks, and some of the women are unable to do more. The bell is rung for them at early dawn, when they rise, prepare and eat their breakfast, and move down to the field. Clad in coarse, filthy, and scanty clothing, they drag sullenly along, and use their implements of labor with a slow, reluctant motion, that says very plainly, "This work is not for ME. My toil will do ME no good." Oh, how would freedom, kindness, and good wages spur up those unwilling toilers! How would the bright faces, the cheerful words and songs of independent, self-interested, intelligent laborers, make those fields to rejoice, almost imparting vigor and growth to the cotton itself! But, alas! it is a sad place, a valley of sighs and groans and tears and blood, a realm of hate and malice, of imprecation and wrath, and every fierce and wicked passion.
A "water-toter" follows each gang with a pail and calabash; and the negro-driver stands among them with a long whip in his hand, which he snaps over their heads continually, and lets the lash fall, with more or less severity, on one and another, shouting and yelling meanwhile in a furious and brutal manner, as a boisterous teamster would do to his unruly oxen.
If the season is wet, the danger to the crop being greater, there is more necessity for constant toil, and the poor slaves are whipped, pushed, and driven to the very utmost, and allowed no time to rest. It is no matter if the old are over-worked, or the young too hardly pressed, or the feeble women faint under their burdens. So that a good crop is produced, and the planter can enjoy his luxuries, it is no consideration that tools are worn out, mules are destroyed, or the slaves die; more can be bought for next year, and the slaveholder says it pays to force a crop, though it be at the expense of life among the hands.
At noon, the dinner is brought to each gang in a cart. The hoers stop work only long enough to eat their poor fare standing,—and poor fare indeed it is. The corn that is made into bread is so filled with husks and ground so poorly that it is scarcely better than the fodder given to the cattle; and the bacon, if they have any, is badly cured and cooked. But they must eat that or starve; there is no chance of getting any thing better. The ploughmen take their dinners in the sheds where the mules are allowed to rest; and since two hours is usually given these animals, for rest and foddering, they, of course, must take the same.
At sunset they leave off work, and, tired and hungry, they have to prepare their own supper; and after hastily eating it, at nine o'clock the bell is rung for them to go to bed. Sundays they are not usually required to work, and some planters give their slaves a portion of Saturday, in the more leisure season; and this intermission of field labor is all the opportunity they have to wash and mend their clothes, or for any enjoyment. What a sorry life! sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, with a hoe in the hand, or a heavy cotton sack or basket tied about the neck, toiling on under the curses and lash of the driver and the overseer.
Tidy dreaded it. Brought up as she had been, accustomed to comparatively neat clothing, good food, cheerful associates, and light work, how could she live here? She felt that she could not long endure it. Her strength would fail, her task be unfinished, then she must be punished, and before long, through hard fare, unwearied toil, and ill usage, she felt that she should die. But there was no help. Once she had ventured to send an entreaty to her master to take her back to house service. But he was hardhearted and unrelenting, and declared with an oath that made her ears tingle that she should never leave the cotton-field till she died, and there was no power in heaven or earth that could make him change his determination. So she hopelessly plodded on, day after day, scorched beneath the hot sun, and drenched with the pouring rain, weak, faint, and thirsty, trembling before the coarse shouts, and shrinking from the tormenting lash of the pitiless driver, sure that her fate was sealed.
[illustration omitted]
Was there no eye to pity, and no arm to rescue? Yes, the unseen God, whose name is love, was leading her still. Through all the dark, rough places of her life, his kind, invisible hand was laying link to link in that wondrous chain which was finally to bring her safe and happy into his own bosom.