'My Dearest Friend: I knowyouhave not forsaken me, but I have written you, oh! so many times. To-day, Ally has told me that perhaps our letters are intercepted at the Trenton post office. It must be so. He takes this to Newbern. Is he not kind? He has been my faithful friend through all. Though ordered away from the plantation, he refused to go, and stood by me through the worst. He whom my own sister so cruelly wronged, has done everything for me! Whatever may become of me, I shall ever bless him.'I have not heard from or seen any of my friends. Even my brother has not answered my letters; but he must be here, on the 17th, at the sale. That is now my only hope. I shall then be freed from this misery—worse than death. God bless you!Your wretchedSelma.'
'My Dearest Friend: I knowyouhave not forsaken me, but I have written you, oh! so many times. To-day, Ally has told me that perhaps our letters are intercepted at the Trenton post office. It must be so. He takes this to Newbern. Is he not kind? He has been my faithful friend through all. Though ordered away from the plantation, he refused to go, and stood by me through the worst. He whom my own sister so cruelly wronged, has done everything for me! Whatever may become of me, I shall ever bless him.
'I have not heard from or seen any of my friends. Even my brother has not answered my letters; but he must be here, on the 17th, at the sale. That is now my only hope. I shall then be freed from this misery—worse than death. God bless you!
Your wretchedSelma.'
'I will go,' was all that I said. Kate sat down, and wept 'Oh! some terrible thing has befallen her! What can it be?'
I was giving some hurried directions to my partners, when a telegram was handed in. It was from Boston, and addressed to me personally. I opened it, and read:
'I have just heard that Selma is a slave. To be sold on the seventeenth. I can't go. You must. Buy her on my account. Pay any price. I have written Frank. Let nothing prevent your starting at once. If your partners should be short while you're away, let them draw on me.'Augustus Cragin.'
'I have just heard that Selma is a slave. To be sold on the seventeenth. I can't go. You must. Buy her on my account. Pay any price. I have written Frank. Let nothing prevent your starting at once. If your partners should be short while you're away, let them draw on me.
'Augustus Cragin.'
It was then the morning of the twelfth. Making all the connections, and there being no delay of the trains, I should reach the plantation early on the seventeenth.
At twelve o'clock I was on the way. Steam was too slow for my impatience. I would have harnessed the lightning.
At last—it was sundown of the sixteenth—the stage drove into Newbern.
With my carpet bag in my hand, I rushed into the hotel. Four or five loungers were in the office, and the lazy bartender was mixing drinks behind the counter.
'Sir, I want a horse, or a horse and buggy, at once.'
'A horse? Ye're in a hurry, hain't ye?'
'Yes.'
'Wall, I reckon ye'll hev ter git over it. Thar hain't a durned critter in th' whole place.'
'I'm in no mood for jesting, sir. I want a horseat once. I will deposit twice his value.'
'Ye couldn't git nary critter, stranger, ef ye wus made uv gold. They're all off—off ter Squire Preston's sale.'
'The sale! Has it begun?'
'I reckon! Ben a gwine fur two days.'
My heart sank within me. I was too late!
'Are all the negroes sold?'
'No; them comes on ter morrer. He's got a likely gang.'
I breathed more freely. At this moment a well-dressed gentleman, followed by a good-looking yellow man, entered the room. He wore spurs, and was covered with dust. Approaching the counter, he said:
'Here, you lazy devil—a drink for me and my boy. I'm drier than a parson—Old Bourbon.'
As the bartender poured out the liquor, the new comer's eye fell upon me. His face seemed familiar, but I could not recall it. Scanning me for a moment, he held out his hand in a free, cordial manner, saying:
'Ah! Mr. Kirke, is this you? You don't remember me? my name is Gaston.'
'Mr. Gaston, I'm glad to see you,' I replied, returning his salutation.
'Have a drink, sir?'
'Thank you.' I emptied the glass. I was jaded, and had eaten nothing since morning. 'I'm in pursuit of a horse under difficulties, Mr. Gaston. Perhaps you can tell me where to get one. I must be at Preston's to-night.'
'They're scarcer than hen's teeth round here, just now, I reckon. But hold on; I go there in the morning. I'll borrow a buggy, and you can ride up with me.'
'No, I must be there to-night. How far is it?'
'Twenty miles.'
'Well, I'll walk. Landlord, give me supper at once.'
'Walkthere! My dear sir, we don't abuse strangers in these diggin's. The road is sandier than an Arab desert. You'd never get there afoot. Tom,' he added, calling to his man, 'give Buster some oats; rub him down, and have him here in half an hour. Travel, now, like greased lightning.' Then turning to me, he continued: 'You can havemyhorse. He's a spirited fellow, and you'll need to keep an eye on him; but he'll get you there in two hours.'
'But how willyouget on?'
'I'll take my boy's, and leave the darky here.'
'Mr. Gaston, I cannot tell you the service you are doing me.'
'Don't speak of it, my dear sir. A stranger can have anything of mine but my wife;' and he laughed pleasantly.
He went with me into the supper room, and there told me that the sale of Preston's plantation, furniture, live stock, farm tools, &c., had occupied the two previous days; and that the negroes were to be put on the block at nine o'clock the next morning. 'I've got my eye on one or two of them, that I mean to buy. The niggers will sell well, I reckon.'
After supper, we strolled again into the bar room. Approaching the counter, my eye fell on the hotel register, which lay open upon it. I glanced involuntarily over the book. Among the arrivals of the previous day, I noticed two recorded in a hand that I at once recognized. The names were,'John Hallet,New Orleans;Jacob Larkin,ditto.'
'Are these gentlemen here?' I asked the bartender.
'No; they left same day the' come.'
'Where did they go?'
'Doan't know.'
In five minutes, with my carpet bag strapped to the pommel of the saddle, I was bounding up the road to Trenton.
It was nearly ten o'clock when I sprang from the horse and rang the bell at the mansion. A light was burning in the library, but the rest of the house was dark. A negro opened the door.
'Where is master Joe, or Miss Selly?'
'In de library, massa. I'll tell dem you'm here.'
'No; I'll go myself. Look after my horse.'
I strode through the parlors and the passage way to the old room. Selma was seated on a lounge by the side of Joe, her head on his shoulder. As I opened the door, I spoke the two words: 'My child!'
She looked up, sprang to her feet, and rushed into my arms.
'And you are safe!' I cried, putting back her soft brown hair, and kissing her pale, beautiful forehead.
'Yes, I am safe. My brother is here—I amsafe.'
'Joe—God bless you!—you're a noble fellow!'
He was only twenty-three, but his face was already seamed and haggard, and his hair thickly streaked with white! We sat down, and from Selma's lips I learned the events of the preceding months.
Selma arrived at home about a week after her father's funeral. The affairs of the plantation were going on much asusual, but Mrs. Preston was there in apparently the greatest grief. She seemed inconsolable; talked much of her loss, and expressed great fears for the future. Her husband had left no will, and nothing would remain for her but the dower in the real estate, and that would sell for but little.
The more Preston's affairs were investigated, the worse they appeared. He was in debt everywhere. An administrator was appointed, and he decided that a sale of everything—the two plantations and the negroes—would be necessary.
Selma felt little interest in the pecuniary result, but sympathy for her stepmother induced her to remain at home, week after week, when her presence there was no longer of service. At last she made preparations to return; but, as she was on the point of departure, Mrs. Preston—whose face then wore an expression of triumphant malignity which chilled Selma's very life-blood—told her that she could not go; that she was a part of her father's estate, and must remain, and be sold with the other negroes!
Dawsey, shortly prior to this, had become a frequent visitor at the plantation; and, the week before, Phylly had been dreadfully whipped under his supervision. Selma interceded for her, but could not avert the punishment. She did not at the time know why it was done, but at last the reason was revealed to her.
Among the papers of the first Mrs. Preston, the second wife had found a bill of sale, by which, in consideration of one gold watch, two diamond rings, an emerald pin, two gold bracelets, some family plate, and other jewelry, of the total value of five hundred dollars, General ——, of Newbern, had conveyed a negro girl called 'Lucy', to Mrs. Lucy Preston, wife of Robert Preston, Esq. Said girl was described as seven years old, light complexioned, with long, curly hair, of a golden brown; and the child of Phyllis, otherwise called Phyllis Preston, then the property of Jacob Larkin.
Mrs. Preston inquired of Phyllis what had become of the child. The nurse denied all knowledge of it; but Selma's age, her peculiar hair, and her strong resemblance to Rosey, excited the Yankee woman's suspicions, and she questioned the mother more closely. Phyllis still denied all knowledge of her child, and, for that denial, was whipped—whipped till her flesh was cut into shreds, and she fainted from loss of blood. After the whipping, she was left in an old cabin, to live or die—her mistress did not care which; and there Ally found her at night, on his return from his work in the swamp. Wrapping her mangled body in an oiled sheet, he conveyed her to his cabin. Dinah carefully nursed her, and ere long she was able to sit up. Then Mrs. Preston told her that, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered to live through it, she would be again and again beaten, till she disclosed the fate of the child.
She still denied all knowledge of it; but, fearing the rage of her mistress, she sent for her husband, then keeping a small groggery at Trenton, four miles away. He came and had a conference with Ally and Dinah about the best way of saving his wife from further abuse. Phyllis was unable to walk or to ride, therefore flight was out of the question. Ally proposed that Mulock should oversee his gang for a time while he remained about home and kept watch over her. None of the negroes could be induced to whip her in his presence; and if Dawsey or any other white man attempted it, he was free—he would meet them with their own weapons. Mulock agreed to this, and the next day went to the swamp.
Learning of his presence on the plantation, the mistress sent for him, and, by means of a paltry bribe, induced him to reveal all! Selma thought he loved Phyllis as much as his brutal nature was capable of loving, and thathe betrayed her to save her mother from further ill usage.
The next morning, four strong men entered Ally's cabin before he had left his bed, bound him hand and foot, and dragged Phyllis away, to be again whipped for having refused to betray Selma. Unable to stand, she was tied to a stake, and unmercifully beaten. Weak from the effects of the previous whipping, and crushed in spirit by anxiety for her child, nature could no longer sustain her. A fever set in, and, at the end of a week, she died.
Selma was told of their relation to each other. The nurse, so devotedly attached to her, and whom she had so long loved, was her own mother! She learned this only in time to see her die, and to hear her last blessing.
Then Selma experienced all the bitterness of slavery. She was set at work in the kitchen with the other slaves. It seemed that Mrs. Preston took especial delight in assigning to the naturally high-spirited and sensitive girl the most menial employments. Patiently trusting in God that He would send deliverance, she endeavored to perform, uncomplainingly, her allotted tasks. Wholly unaccustomed to such work, weary in body and sick at heart, she dragged herself about from day to day, till at last Mrs. Preston, disgusted with her 'laziness,' as she termed it, directed her to be taken to the quarters and beaten with fifty lashes!
Ally had been ordered away by the mistress, and that morning had gone to Trenton to consult the administrator, and get his permission to stay on the plantation. That gentleman—a kind-hearted, upright man—not only told him he could remain, but gave him a written order to take and keep Selma in his custody.
He returned at night, to find she had been whipped. His blood boiling with rage, he entered the mansion, and demanded to see her. Mrs. Preston declined. He then gave her the order of the administrator. She tore it into fragments, and bade him leave the house. He refused to go without Selma, and quietly seated himself on the sofa. Mrs. Preston then called in ten or twelve of the field hands, and told them to eject him. They either would not or dared not do it; and, without more delay, he proceeded to search for Selma. At last he found her apartment. He burst open the door, and saw her lying on a low, miserable bed, writhing in agony from her wounds. Throwing a blanket over her, he lifted her in his arms, and carried her to his cabin. Dinah carefully attended her, and that night she thanked God, and—slept.
The next morning, before the sun was fully up, Dawsey and three other white men, heavily armed, came to the cabin, and demanded admittance. Ally refused, and barricaded the door. They finally stealthily effected an entrance through a window in the kitchen, and, breaking down the communication with the 'living room,' in which apartment the mulatto man and his mother were, they rushed in upon them. Ally, the previous day, had procured a couple of revolvers at Trenton, and Dinah and he, planting themselves before the door of old Deborah's room, in which Selma was sleeping, pointed the weapons at the intruders. The assailants paused, when Dawsey shouted out: 'Are you afraid of two d—d niggers—and one a woman!' Aiming his pistol at Ally, he fired. The ball struck the negro's left arm. Discharging two or three barrels at them, the old woman and her son then rushed upon the white men, and they FLED! all but one—he remained; for Dinah caught him in a loving embrace, and pummelled him until he might have been mistaken for calves-foot jelly.
Ally then sent a messenger to the administrator, who rode over in the afternoon, and took Selma to his own house. There she remained till her brother reached the plantation—three days before my arrival.
As soon as she was safely at Trenton, Selma wrote to her friends, mailing the letters at that post office. She received no answers. Again and again she wrote; the administrator also wrote, but still no replies came. At last Ally suggested mailing the letters at Newbern, and rode down with one to Joe, one to Alice, and one to Kate.
Her brother came on at once. In the first ebullition of his anger he ejected his stepmother from the mansion. She went to Dawsey's, and, the next day, appeared at the sale with that gentleman; and then announced that for two months she had been the woman-whipper's wife.
Dawsey had bought the plantation, and most of the furniture, the day before, and had said he intended to buy all of the 'prime' negroes.
As Selma concluded, Joe quietly remarked:
'He'll be disappointed in that. I allowed him the plantation and furniture, because I've no use for them; but I made him pay more than they are worth. The avails will help me through with father's debts; but not a single hand shall go into his clutches, I shall buy them myself.'
'What will you do with them?'
'I have bought a plantation near Mobile. I shall put them upon it. Joe will manage them, and I'll live there with Selly.'
'You're a splendid fellow, Joe. But it seems a pity that woman should profane your father's house.'
'Oh! there's no danger of that. I've engaged 'furnished apartments' for her elsewhere.'
'What do you mean?'
'The sheriff is asleep up stairs. He has a warrant against her for the murder of Phyllis. When she comes here in the morning, it will be served!'
The next morning I rose early, and strolled out to the negro quarters. At the distance of about a hundred yards from the mansion, the sun was touching the tops of about thirty canvas camps, and, near them, large numbers of horses, 'all saddled and bridled,' were picketed among the trees. Some dozens of 'natives' were littered around, asleep on the ground; and here and there a barelegged, barefooted woman was lying beside a man on a 'spring' mattress, of the kind that is supposed to have been patented in Paradise.
It was a beautiful morning in May, and one would have thought, from the appearance of the motley collection, that the whole people had 'come up to worship the Lord in their tents,' after the manner of the Israelites. The rich planter, the small farmer, the 'white trash'—all classes, had gathered to the negro sale, like crows to a feast of carrion.
A few half-awake, half-sober, russet-clad, bewhiskered 'gentry' were lighting fires under huge iron pots; but the larger portion of the 'congregation' was still wrapped in slumber.
Passing them, I knocked at the door of Ally's cabin. The family was already astir, and the various members gave me a greeting that cannot beboughtnow anywhere with a handful of 'greenbacks.' Boss Joe, Aggy, and old Deborah had arrived, and were quartered with Ally.
'An' 'ou wusn't a gwine ter leff massa Preston's own chile be sole widout bein' yere; wus 'ou, massa Kirke?' cried Dinah, her face beaming all over with pleasurable emotion.
'No, Dinah; and I've come here so early to tell you how much I think ofyou. A woman that can handle four white men as you did is fit to head an army.'
'Lor' bress 'ou, massa! dat wusn't nuffin'. I could handle a whole meetin'-house full ob sech as dem.'
'Joe, you know your master's plans, I suppose?'
'Yas, massa Kirke; he mean ter buy all de folks.'
'But can he raise money enough for the whole?'
'I reckon so. Massa Joe got a heap.'
'But don't you want to borrow some to help out your pile?'
'I'se 'bliged ter you, sar; but I reckon I doan't. I'se got nigh on ter free thousan', an' nary one'll pay more'n dat fur a ole man an' two ole wimmin.'
'I hope not.'
I remained there for a half hour, and then strolled back to the mansion. On the lawn, at the side of the house, was the auction block—the carpenter's bench which had officiated at Ally's wedding. It was approached by a flight of steps, and at one end was the salesman's stand—a high stool, in front of which was a small portable desk supported on stakes driven into the ground. Near the block was a booth fitted up for the special accommodation of thirsty buyers. The proprietor was just opening his own and his establishment's windows, and I looked in upon him. His red, bloated visage seemed familiar to me. Perceiving me, he said:
'How is ye, stranger? Hev a eye-opener?'
'I reckon not, old fellow; but I ought to know you. Your name is Tom.'
'Thomas, stranger; but Tom, fur short.'
'Well, Thomas, I thought you had taken your last drink. I saw your store was closed, as I came along.'
'Yas; th' durned 'ristocrats driv me out uv thet nigh a yar ago.'
'And where are you now?'
'Up ter Trenton. I'm doin' right smart thar. Me an' Mulock—thet used ter b'long yere—is in partenship. But war moight ye hev seed me, stranger?'
'At your store, over ten years since. I bought a woman there. You were having a turkey match at the time.'
'Oh, yas! I 'call ye now. An' th' pore gal's dead! Thet d—d Yankee 'ooman shud pull hemp fur thet.'
'Yes; but the devil seldom gets his due in this world.'
'Thet ar's a fact, stranger. Come, hev a drink; I woan't ax ye a red.'
'No, excuse me, Tom; it's before breakfast;' and, walking off, I entered the mansion.
Shortly after breakfast the people from the neighboring plantations began to gather to the sale, and, by the hour appointed for it to commence, about five hundred men and women had collected on the ground. Some were on horseback, some in carriages, but the majority were seated on the grass, or on benches improvised for the occasion.
A few minutes before the 'exercises' commenced, the negroes were marched upon the lawn. No seats had been provided for them, and they huddled together inside a small area staked off for their reception. They were of all colors and ages. Husbands and wives, parents and children, grandparents and grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and cousins, gathered in little family groups, and breathlessly awaited the stroke of the hammer which was to decide their destiny. They were all clad in their Sunday clothes, and looked clean and tidy; but on every face except Joe's was depicted an ill-defined feeling of dread and consternation. Husbands held their wives in their arms, and mothers hugged their children to their bosoms, as if they might soon part forever; but when old Joe passed among them, saying a low word to this one and the other, their cloudy visages brightened, and a heavy load seemed to roll off their hearts. Joe was as radiant as a summer morning, and walked about with a quiet dignity and unconcern that might have led one to think him the owner of the entire 'invoice of chattels.'
As the auctioneer—a spruce importation from Newbern—mounted the bench, a splendid carriage, drawn by two magnificent grays, and driven bya darky in livery, made its way through the crowd, and drew up opposite the stand. In it were Dawsey and his wife!
The salesman's hammer came down. 'Gentlemen and ladies,' he said, 'the sale has commenced. I am about to offer you one hundred and sixty-one likely negro men and women, belonging to the estate of Robert Preston, Esq., deceased. Each one will be particularly described when put up, and all will be warranted as represented. They will be sold in families; that is, husbands and wives, and parents and young children, will not be separated. The terms are, one quarter cash, the balance in one year, secured by an approved indorsed note. Persons having claims against the estate will be allowed to pay by authenticated accounts and duebills. The first lot I shall offer you will be the mulatto man Joe and his wife Agnes. Joe is known through all this region as a negro of uncommon worth and intelligence. He is'—
Here he was interrupted by Dawsey, who exclaimed, in a hurried manner:
'I came here expecting this sale would be conducted according to custom—that each hand would be put up separately. I protest against this innovation, Mr. Auctioneer.'
The auctioneer made no reply; but the administrator, a small, self-possessed man, mounted the bench, and said:
'Sir,Iregulate this sale. If you are not satisfied with its conditions, you are not obliged to bid.'
Dawsey made a passionate reply. In the midst of it, Joe sprang upon the stand, and, in a clear, determined voice, called out:
'Mr. Sheriff, do your duty.'
A large, powerful man, in blue coat and brass buttons, stepped to the side of the carriage, and coolly opening the door, said:
'Catharine Dawsey, you are charged with aiding and abetting in the murder of Phyllis Preston. I arrest you. Please come with me.'
'By ——, sir!' cried Dawsey; 'this lady is my wife!'
'It makes no difference whose wife she is, sir. She is my prisoner.'
'She must not be touched by you, or any other man!' yelled Dawsey, drawing his pistol. Before he could fire, he rolled on the ground, insensible. The sheriff had struck him a quick blow on the head with a heavy cane.
As her husband fell, Mrs. Dawsey sprang upon the driver's seat, and, seizing the reins from the astonished negro, applied the lash to the horses. They reared and started. The panic-stricken crowd parted, like waves in a storm, and the spirited animals bounded swiftly down the avenue. They had nearly reached the cluster of liveoaks which borders the small lake, when a man sprang at their heads. He missed them, fell, and the carriage passed over him; but the horses shied from the road into the trees, and in an instant the splendid vehicle was a mass of fragments, and Mrs. Dawsey and the negro were sprawling on the ground.
The lady was taken up senseless, and badly hurt, but breathing. The driver was dead!
The crowd hurried across the green to the scene of disaster. Joe and I reached the man in the road at the same instant. It was Ally! We took him up, bore him to the edge of the pond, and bathed his forehead with water. In a few minutes he opened his eyes.
'Are you much hurt, Ally?' asked Joe, with almost breathless eagerness.
'I reckon not, massa Joe,' said Ally; 'my head, yere, am sore, an' dis ankle p'raps am broke. Leff me see;' and he rose to his feet, and tried his leg. 'No, massa Joe; it'm sound's a pine knot. I hain't done furdistime.'
'Thank God!' exclaimed Joe, with an indescribable expression of relief.
Mrs. Dawsey was borne to the mansion, the negro carried off to the quarters, and, in a few moments, the crowd once more gathered around the auctioneer's stand. Dawsey, by this time recovered from the sheriff's blow, was cursing and swearing terribly over the disaster of his wife and—his property.
'Twenty-five hundred dollars gone at a blow! D—n the woman; didn't she know better than that?'
As he followed his wife into the house, the sheriff said to the administrator, who was a justice of the peace:
'Make me out a warrant for that man—obstructing the execution of the law.'
The warrant was soon made out, and in fifteen minutes, Dawsey, raving like a wild animal, was driven off to jail at Trenton. Mrs. Dawsey, too much injured to be removed, was left under guard at the mansion, and the sale proceeded.
Boss Joe and Aggy ascended the block, and 'Master Joe' took a stand beside them.
'How much is said for these prime negroes?' cried the auctioneer. Everybody knows what they are, and there's no use preaching a sermon over them. Boss Joe might do that, butIcan't. He can preach equal to any white man you ever hard. Come, gentlemen, start a bid. How much do you say?'
'A thousand,' said a voice in the crowd.
'Eleven hundred,' cried another.
'It's a d—d shame to bid on them, gentlemen. Boss Joe has been saving money to buy himself; and I think no white man should bid against him,' cried a man at my elbow.
It was Gaston, who had just arrived on the ground.
'Thet's a fact.' 'Them's my sentiments.' 'D—n th' man thet'll bid agin a nigger.' 'Thet's so, Gaston,' echoed from all directions.
'But I yere th' darky's got a pile—some two thousan';thetgwoes 'long with him, uv course,' yelled one of the crowd.
'Of course it don't!' said young Joe, from the stand. 'He's saved about three thousand out of a commission his master allowed him; but hegavethatto me, long before my father died. It ismine—nothis. I bid twelve hundred for him and his wife; and I will say to the audience, that I shall advance on whatever sum may be offered for them. So fire away, gentlemen; I ask no favors.'
'Is there any more bid for this excellent couple?' cried the auctioneer. 'It is my duty to cry them, and to tell you they're worth twice that money.'
There was no more bid, and Boss Joe and Aggy were struck down at twelve hundred dollars—about two thirds their market value.
'Now, gentlemen, we will offer you the old negress, Deborah, the mother of Joe. Bring her forward!' cried the man of the hammer.
Four strong negroes lifted the chair of the aged African, and bore her to the block. When the strange vehicle reached the steps, young Preston steadied it into its appropriate position, and then took a stand beside it.
'This aged lady, gentlemen, is warranted over eighty; she may be a hundred. She can't walk, but she can pray and sing to kill. How much is bid for all this piety done up in black crape?' cried the auctioneer, smiling complacently, as if conscious of saying a witty thing.
Joe turned on him quickly. 'Sir, you are employed tosellthese people, not to sport with their feelings. Let me hear no more of this.'
'No offence, Mr. Preston. Gentlemen, how much is bid for old Deborah?'
'Five dollars,' said young Preston.
The old negress, who sat nearly double, straightened up her bent form, and, looking at Joe with a sad, pleading expression, exclaimed:
'Oh, massa Joe! ole nussy'm wuth more'n dat. 'Ou woan't leff har be sole fur no sech money as dat, will 'ou, massa Joe?'
'No aunty; not if you want to bringmore. I'd give your weight in gold for you;' and, turning to the auctioneer, he said: 'A hundred dollars is my bid, sir.'
'Bress 'ou, massa Joe! bress 'ou! 'Ou'm my own dear, bressed chile!' exclaimed the old negress, clutching at his hand, and, with a sudden effort, rising to her feet. She stood thus for a moment, then she staggered back, fell into her chair, uttered a low moan, and—was FREE!
A wild excitement followed, during which the body was borne off. It was a full half hour before quiet was restored and the sale resumed. Then about twenty negroes, of both sexes, were put up singly. All of them were bought by Joe, except a young woman, whose husband belonged to Gaston. The bidding on her was spirited, and she was run up to ten hundred and fifty dollars. As Gaston bid that sum, he jumped upon a bench, and called out:
'Gentlemen, I can stand this as long as you can. I mean to have this woman, anyhow.'
No one offered more, and 'the lot' was struck off to Gaston. Joe did not bid on her at all.
When the next negro ascended the stand, Joe beckoned to me, and said:
'Selly is next on the catalogue. Will you bring her here?'
As I entered the mansion, she met me. Her face was pale, and there was a nervous twitching about her mouth, but she quietly said:
'You have come for me?'
'Yes, my child. Have courage; it will soon be over.'
She laid her head upon my shoulder for a moment; then, turning her large, clear, but tearless eyes up to mine, she said:
'I trust inGod!'
I took her arm in mine, and walked out to the stand. The auctioneer was waiting for her, and we ascended the block together. A slight tremor passed over her frame as she met the sea of upturned faces, all eagerly gazing at her; and, putting my arm about her, I whispered:
'Do not fear. Lean on me.'
'I do not fear,' was the low reply.
'Now, gentlemen,' cried the auctioneer, in an unfeeling, business-like way, 'I offer you the girl, Lucy Selma. She is seventeen years old; in good health; well brought up—a superior lot every way. She has recently been employed at cooking, but, as you see, is better adapted to lighter work. How much shall I have for her? Come, bid fast gentlemen; we are taking up too much time.'
Before any response could be made to this appeal, Joe stepped to the side of Selma, and, in a slow, deliberate voice, said:
'Gentlemen, allow me a few words. This young lady is my sister. I have always supposed—she has always supposed that she was the legitimate child of my father. She was not. My mother bought her when she was very young; gave her jewels—all she had—for her, and adopted her as her own child. The law does not allow a married woman to hold separate property, and Selma is therefore inventoried in my father's estate, and must be sold. Rightfully she belongs to me! She has been delicately and tenderly reared, and is totally unfitted for any of the usual work of slave women. Her value for such purposes is very little. I shall bid a thousand dollars for her, which is more than she is worth for any honest use. If any man bids more, it is HIS LIFE OR MINEbefore he leaves the ground!'
A breathless silence fell on the assemblage. It lasted for a few moments, when Gaston called out:
'Come, Joe, this isn't fair. You've no right to interfere with the sale. I came here prepared to go twenty-five hundred for her myself.'
In a firm but moderate tone, the young man replied:
'I intend no disrespect to you, Mr. Gaston, or to any gentleman present;but I mean what I say. I shall stand by my words!'
'Come, youngster, none uv yer brow-beatin' yere. It woan't gwo down,' cried a rough voice from among the audience. 'I've come all th' way from Orleans ter buy thet gal; an' buy har I shill!'
Quite a commotion followed this speech. It lasted some minutes, and the speaker was the object of considerable attention.
'He's some on th' trigger, ole feller,' cried one. 'He kin hit a turkey's eye at two hundred paces, he kin,' said another. 'He'll burn yer in'ards, shore,' shouted a third. 'Ye'll speak fur warm lodgin's, ef ye bid on thet gal, ye wull,' cried a fourth.
'Come, my friends, ye karn't skeer me,' coolly said the first speaker, mounting one of the rough benches. 'I've h'ard sech talk afore. It doan't turnmea hair. I come yere ter buy thet gal, an' buy har I shill, 'cept some on ye kin gwo higher'n my pile; an' my pile areighty-two hundred dollars!'
He was a tall, stoutly-built man, with bushy gray whiskers and a clear, resolute eye. It was Larkin!
Turning to Joe, I exclaimed:
'I understand this. Get the auctioneer to postpone the sale for half an hour for dinner. Take Selly into the house.'
'No. It might as well be over first as last. Let him bid—he's a dead man!' replied Joe coolly, but firmly.
'You're mad, boy. Would you take his life needlessly?'
The auctioneer, who overheard these remarks, then said to me:
'I will adjourn the sale, sir;' and, turning to the audience, he cried, drawing out his watch: 'Gentlemen, it is twelve o'clock. The sale is adjourned for an hour, to give you a chance for dinner.'
The Vicar desires briefly, modestly, and by way of suggestion, rather as Amicus Curiæ than as an advocate, to lay before his learned brethren of the law a legal point or two, for their consideration.
The case to which I refer is well known to all the members of the bar as that of Shylock—versusAntonio, reported, in full, in 2 Shakspeare 299. The decision which I am desirous of having reviewed, is that of the Chief Justice, or Ducal Magistrate, who heard that curious case, and who yielded to the extraordinary arguments of the young woman, Portia. The judgment rendered, and the argument or decision of the Lady Advocate, on that occasion, have been regarded as models of judicial acumen, have received the approbation of many worthy and enlightened students, and, when theatrically represented, have been greeted with the plaudits of nearly every theatre. It may be arrogant to impugn a judicial decision of such antiquity and acknowledged authority; but, as a member in full standing of the worshipful P. B., I have the right to be slightly arrogant; for I am well aware that this is a tribunal the circumference of whose jurisdiction is infinite, or rather is a circle whose centre is a little village on the Hudson river, where I reside.
No false modesty shall restrain me, therefore, from discussing this case upon its merits. Before entering upon it, however, I desire to call your attention to a few preliminary points.
In the first place, I ask you—who are all familiar with the record—if an undue sympathy for the defendant, Antonio, was not felt on the trial? The favor and good wishes of the court, the spectators, and of the reporter, were evidently enlisted for him as against his opponent. This Antonio, perhaps, was a very worthy fellow in his way; and in a criminal action—as on an indictment for murdering a family or two, or slaughtering a policeman—might have been, able to prove previous good character. But such a plea, in a civil action fordebt, is entitled to no weight, while the fact that he was a good fellow in a series of scrapes, not the least of which was matrimony, does not entitle him to our sympathy. The prejudices of the court ought to have been against instead of for him. He had failed in business, could not pay his outstanding liabilities, and thus stood before the commercial world in the position of bankruptcy. The fact that he had made a foolish contract, which imperilled his life, does not improve his moral condition, or entitle him to any just sympathy, unless it could be shown that there was insanity in his family. No such plea was entered. His counsel did not attempt to prove that his great-grandfather owned a mad dog; a plea from which the court, fortified by many modern criminal decisions, might have inferred his moral insanity. No such attempt to relieve Antonio from the consequences of his criminal folly was made, and I can see nothing in the case to entitle him to the sympathy which was and had been always entertained for him.
Again: The lengthy and much-admired plea of the defendant's counsel on the subject of mercy was clearly out of place, especially if, as I have endeavored to show, the defendant was not entitled to any particular clemency or sympathy. The remarks of Portia, commencing,
'The quality of Mercy is not strained,'
(and, by the way, who but a woman would talk of straining an emotion as one strains milk?) are wholly irrelevant to the issue, and ought not to have been allowed. They were eloquent, indeed, but had nothing whatever to do withthe trial, which arose on a very plain case at law: A owed B three thousand ducats, due and not paid on an ascertained day. Whereupon B moves the court for the penalty, and demands judgment. If the defendant had no answer at law, there is an end to the case; and it was very irregular, impertinent, and contrary to well-settled practice for the defendant's counsel to endeavor to lead off the mind of the court from the true issue of the case. Portia, in what she says of mercy being 'twice blessed' and 'dropping like the gentle rain from heaven,' &c., &c., was, I fear, 'talking buncombe,' and all that part of her speech should be stricken from the record, especially as it was addressed to the plaintiff instead of the court, a highly indecorous proceeding. Instead of indulging in all this sentimentality, her true course would have been to have filed a bill in equity against Shylock, and have obtained an injunction on anex parteaffidavit, which only requires a little strong swearing; or to have patched up a suit against him for obtaining his knife under false pretences; than which (under the New York code of procedure) nothing can be easier. But what better conduct of a suit can you expect from a she-advocate—an attorney-in-petticoats?
And this brings me to another point of some delicacy, and which nothing but a conscientious devotion to abstract justice would induce me to touch upon. What law, or what precedent, can be cited to authorize a woman to appear as an advocate in a court of justice andusurp the offices and prerogatives of a man? I will not dwell upon the impropriety of such conduct; but on my honor, as a member of the bar, the behavior of Portia was outrageous. This young female, not content with 'cavorting' around the country in a loose and perspicuous style, actually practises a gross swindle on the court. She assumes to be a man when she is only a woman, dons the breeches when she is only entitled to the skirts, and imposes herself upon the Duke of Venice as a learned young advocate from Rome, when in fact she is only a young damsel of Belmont, with half a dozen lovers on hand, on her own showing. And yet this young baggage, whose own father would not trust her to choose a husband, whose brains are addled by her own love affairs, and who had no more business in court than the deacon would have in Chancellor Whiting's suit in the Lowber claim, not only came into court under a fraudulent disguise, argued the case under false pretences, but actually took the words from the judge's own mouth, and decided her case on her own responsibility. I venture to say that such unparalleled impudence was never witnessed out of the court of a justice of the peace, and that even Judge —— (unless the editor of the —— had interfered) would have marched this false pretender out of court, or have deposited her in the Tombs on an attachment of contempt.
But these preliminary points appear of small moment when we come to consider the plea, if it be worthy of that name, which the counsel for the defendant opposed to the suit of the plaintiff. The bond is admitted, the penalty is confessed, the pound of flesh is forfeited, the bosom of Antonio is bared to the knife—when this brief but brief-less barrister, this skylarking young judge of Belmont steps jauntily forward, with a most preposterous quibble on her lips, and manages by an adroit subtlety to defeat the judgment to which the plaintiff is legally entitled. She awards the flesh, fibres, nerves, adipose matter, in controversy, to Shylock; but declares his life and fortune confiscate if he sheds a drop of blood, or takes more or less than the exact pound.
Now if there be one principle of law better settled than another (and probably it was as clearly set forth in the Revised Statutes of Venice as is set forth in our own common law), it is that a party entitled to the possession of a commodity, whether grain, guano, dead or live men's flesh, bones and sinews, is entitled, also, to pursue the usual necessary and appropriate means of obtaining the possession of the same. I appeal to Colonel W—— if this be not good law, and asking whether, if he be entitled to a dinner, he has not a right to seize upon it, whenever or however he can find it; whether, if a man owes him a bottle of champagne, he has not the right to break the neck of the bottle if a corkscrew is not convenient? So, to use a drier example, the sale of standing timber entitles the purchaser to enter the land upon which it is situated, and to cut down and carry off his own property. On the same principle, if A sells B a house and lot, entirely surrounded by other land owned by A, B has clearly a right of way to his own wife and fireside over A's land. (2 Blackstone 1149.) A hundred examples might be given in point, but it would be insulting the dignity of this court to argue at length a theory so transparently clear. If the shedding of a few drops of blood, more or less, was incidental and necessary to the rights of the plaintiff, if the article of personal property, forfeited to him on the bond, could be obtained in no other way, then, according to all the principles of law and common sense, hehada right to spill those drops, more or less; and that, too, without legal risk.
If the penalty was legal, and that were admitted, the method of exacting it was legal also. Portia's quibble wasso transparent and barefaced that the decision of the court can only be explained on the theory that the court was drunk, or in love, which seems to have been the condition of several of the prominent parties in this proceeding, excepting always the plaintiff. As to the other part of Portia's plea, it is doubtless true that the plaintiff would take more of the commodity involved in the suit than the court awarded him at his peril; but as half a pound, or a quarter of a pound, cut off from the right spot would have answered his purpose, I do not see under what principle of law he was defrauded of that satisfaction. There was nothing to have prevented him from cutting less than a pound from Antonio's body, and of so releasing him, the defendant, from a portion of the penalty; and the court should have instructed the plaintiff as to his rights in this particular, instead of adopting a quibble worthy of only a Tombs lawyer or a third-rate pettifogger.
I cannot then believe that Mr. Reporter Shakspeare, in handing down to posterity the record of this remarkable case, meant to express an approval of Portia's subterfuge. My inference rather is that he was aiming a covert sarcasm at those women who thrust themselves conspicuously upon the notice of the public, and that he meant to hint that those who thus unsex themselves often make a showy appearance without displaying much solid merit. If this subtle, sharp, and strong-minded female did not turn out to be something of a shrew, before her husband was done with her, I am much mistaken. Possibly, however, Shakspeare's sarcasm might bear a more general interpretation, and implies that women in an argument seldom meet the true issue presented to them, but are prone to go off at a tangent on some side quibble, and to repel the arguments of their antagonists by the subtlety of their inventions rather than by the cogency of their logic. I appeal to my friend, the sage of Cattaraugus, who has a large knowledge of the customs of the sex, if this be not the usual result.
Not to cut the reply of the deacon too short, I go on to remark that whether he agrees with me or not, neither he nor any other well-balanced man would have descended, on the trial of so important a case as the one we are discussing, to a trivial playing upon words. Even my friend, the district attorney, than whom no man is more remorselessly given—in private life—to the depraved habit of quibbling, and who never hesitates to impale truth upon the point of a verbal criticism, would by the temptation of a fee commensurate with the vigor of the moral effort required, have discussed the question on broader and truer principles. Had he been retained on the part of Antonio, he would have proved himself equal to the occasion, and have unfolded a logical and consistent answer to the claim of the plaintiff.
He would have boldly attacked the bond itself, as absolutely void in its inception, because it was aimed at the life of a citizen of Venice, and would have called upon the court to abrogate a contract which violated the very laws that the court was bound to administer. With his usual eloquence, he would have urged that a penalty so illegal, immoral, and monstrous, and which involved the commission of the highest crime, except treason, known to the laws of the state, could never be enforced in a civilized country. He would have offered to the court no woman's quibble like that of Portia, based upon the assumption that the penalty of a bond which sanctioned a high and capital crime could be enforced in a court of law; and in fine, would have addressed an argument to the reason and understanding of the court which might render a consideration of this case by the tribunal unnecessary.
But no good plea to the plaintiff'scause of action was made on the trial, and the court was, and I fear that the whole world has been deceived by Portia's subterfuge. We must, therefore, regard Shylock as a badly used man. After all, he was no worse than many creditors and note shavers of this day, whoonlydemand the life blood of their victims, and if on the pleas before the court he was entitled to judgment, like them he should have had it. Doubtless in private life Shylock was a very honest and well-behaved gentleman, not a mere mountebank as he is sometimes represented on the stage, but a vigorous and energetic man of the world, shrewd, sagacious, and long sighted in business, honored on change, respected by his friends, and a pattern of prudence and morality. And then, perhaps, he was only carrying on a joke, a kind ofJew d'esprit, conceived in a moment of amiable eccentricity, and never to be executed. If not a joke, however, the judgment of Judge Portia should be set aside, and a new trial, with costs, should, in my opinion, have been ordered.
We had watched with her alternate nights throughout all her illness, but this night we thought would be her last, and neither of us was willing to leave her. The surgeons and nurses had gone, and we were at last alone. We sat through the remaining hours in deathly stillness, occasionally moistening the lips and tongue of the sufferer. It was the last office of friendship, and I yielded it, though reluctantly, to her earliest and dearest friend. Monotonous the hours were, but not long. We would have made them longer if we could, for though the waning life before us was but the faintest shadow of the life we had companioned with, we were loath to lose it—to face the blank that would be left when it was gone.
One, two, three o'clock sounded, and still no perceptible change; but soon after the breathing became shorter, a slight film gathered on her eyes, and we stood in the presence of the last great mystery. Shorter and shorter grew the breath, deeper and deeper the film, till, just as the first gray light showed itself in the eastern horizon, came the last sigh, and Mrs. Simmons, leaning forward, exclaimed in a low voice, 'It is over.' As for me, I buried my face in the pillow and wept unrestrainedly.
In a hospital the day treads closely on the night, and soon the morning came. We retired to our apartment for rest, but we could not sleep. We could only think of our loss, and after an hour or two we rose, somewhat rested, but not refreshed. Ever since my first acquaintance with Laetitia Sunderland, I had eagerly desired to learn her previous life. Glimpses of it I had obtained, but I wanted it as a whole, and now I was with one, perhaps for the last time, who could give me a full account of it. It was an opportunity not to be lost, and while partaking of our morning coffee, I asked Mrs. Simmons if she would tell me what I so longed to know. She willingly assented, and as I was relieved from duty for the day, and the morning was mild and beautiful, we sought a rustic seat in the garden, and there in a little nook retired from view, I heard the story of that life to which my own during the past year had been so closely knit.
'There is one thing,' said Mrs. Simmons, 'in regard to our friend, to which we have never alluded, and which, perhaps, you would rather have me now pass over; but on that very thing her whole character and history turn, and to omit it would leave nothing worth the telling—I mean her personal appearance.
'When I was a child, my parents moved into the suburbs of Condar, and as there were no houses between ours and Mr. Sunderland's, the two families soon became well acquainted. On the day that I was ten years old, my mother told me there was a baby girl at Mrs. Sunderland's, and said she would take me to see it. I was delighted, and wanted to go immediately, but mother said I must wait till to-morrow. To-morrow came, and I was sick; and at last the baby was a week old when I was taken, the happiest little mortal in existence, into that upper room where the little one lay in its nurse's arms. I looked at it, and then at my mother.'
"What is the matter, Mary?' said she.
"It isn't a very pretty baby, is it, mother?'
"Oh it will grow prettier," said my mother, and with that I was satisfied. I was extravagantly fond of babies, and this one I adopted as my especial care, for there was no other in the neighborhood; and besides, in my childish confusion of ideas, I supposed we were twins, our birthdays being the same.
'From the time Laetitia first learned to speak, she came to me with all her troubles and her interests, and I was always glad to be her sympathizer, her counsellor, and her playmate. When she was five or six years old she went to the nearest district school. She was always a marked girl, from her extreme homeliness, her excellent scholarship, her boldness in all active sports, and an odd humor which never failed to interest and amuse. My mother's prophecy, alas! was not fulfilled. She grew no prettier, but rather the reverse. She was the same in childhood as when you knew her, with the high, bold forehead, crowned with white, towy hair, small greenish-gray eyes, shaded and yet not shaded with light yellowish eyelashes, short and thin; scanty eyebrows of the same color; a nose so small and flat it seemed scarcely a projection from her face; teeth tolerably good, but chin and mouth receding in a peculiar manner, and very disagreeably; and a thick, waxy complexion, worse in childhood than of late years, for the spirit had not then found its way through it, as it did afterward. Moreover, by a singular malignancy of fortune, when she was twelve years old, she was attacked with varioloid, and taking a severe cold as she was getting well, had a relapse, and was left as you see her, not closely marked, but sufficiently pitted to attract attention.
'My parents thought more of education than the Sunderlands, and my advantages were much better than Laetitia's. I went for some time to a good select school in the town, and afterward two years to an excellent boarding school. When Laetitia had learned all that her instructors in the little district school could teach her, she came to me and begged that I would let her read with me. I was very glad to do so, and soon after my cousin and niece joined us. To those readings I am indebted for some of the most delightful hours of my life. My pupils, as I used to call them, were at that age when childhood is verging into womanhood, and it was my delight to watch the first dawnings of consciousness in their minds, the first awakening to the realities of life. Laetitia was the youngest of the three, but she was as intelligent and mature as the others. How well I remember the glow of enthusiasm with which she read of the heroes and martyrs of old, the intense sympathy with which she entered into theamor patriæof the Greek and Roman, and her fervent admiration for the nobleness of action which this feeling called forth in them!
'The second year I began to see the development of new sentiments. The romance of life, as well as its heroism and duties, was revealed to them. Pieces of poetry which before had been read listlessly, or with only a distant apprehension of their meaning, were now full of interest. The sentiment which had passed unnoticed, now kindled their imaginations with delight; and there came, too, all the new attentions to dress and looks which first show themselves at this time. Life lay before them, golden and beautiful, and they saw all its shining angels coming to meet them—love, friendship, duty, praise, self-sacrifice, each with a joy in her hand, but the sorrow was concealed from their eyes, or, rather, was but another form of joy. They admitted its probability, but it was with the disguised pleasure which we feel in the troubles of the heroines of romance.
'Laetitia shared these feelings with the others, though with less reason; but her thought and imagination were so vivid, and gave color so completely to her life, that it would have been as absurd for her as for them to have looked at the probabilities of the case. Never once did she say to herself, that to one in her circumstances, life would most likely be full of disappointments and commonplace incidents. But time, the great revealer, soon opened to her those pages which her wisest friend would not have dared to show her so early.
'One evening I went to Mrs. Sunderland's on some trivial errand. The family were all out excepting Laetitia, whom I found sitting by the window, in the dark, with her head resting on her hand. Her manner indicated great depression; and I looked at her a moment and said, 'My dear child, what is the matter with you this evening?'
'Her head dropped upon the table, and she burst into tears. She continued to weep and sob, till, seeing she was not relieved, I put my hand upon her shoulder and said, 'Laetitia, Laetitia, don't cry so.'
'Don't call me Laetitia,' she replied. 'I shall never be Laetitia again.'
'The answer seemed melodramatic, but I knew she was suffering. Still I responded lightly: 'Oh yes, you will be Laetitia many, many times yet. 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,' you know.'
'She did not reply, and we sat a while in silence, till at length I begged of her to tell me the cause of her grief, just to see if I could not help her. I think she wanted to tell it, for she tried two or three times, but could not get any further than 'Yesterday afternoon'—At last she said, 'I have a very great trouble; it will never be any less as long as I live, and it will forever keep me from being happy. Icannottell it to you: can you help me without knowing it?'
'This was a new appeal, and I did not know how to answer it, but a thought came to me, and I replied: 'Go and tell God about it.'
'This I said at a venture, for, old as I was, I had never called upon Him in deep distress, and I did not know what the effect would be; but I saw immediately that the advice was unexpected, and seemed to meet the exigency.
'Her mother's voice was at that moment heard at the door, and I went out to give Laetitia an opportunity of slipping off to her room without meeting the family.
''Have you seen 'Titia?' said Mrs. Sunderland to me.
''Yes, she has just gone to her room.'
''Well, I don't know what's the matter with the child since last night, she's acted so queer. I 'spect she'll get over it, though; she always did have tantrums.'
'In one sense, however, she never did get over it, and it was many years before she really recovered much of her old light-heartedness, although she hadan appearance of it to superficial companions. For a long time her inner life was shut from the view of her friends; but I am at present able to read it for you, partly from what she herself told me afterward, and partly from that insight which we all have into those lives and experiences with which we are in sympathy.
'One afternoon she left me very happy and gay, and went to see a friend near the town. She was returning slowly toward home, satisfied with herself, and enjoying intensely the beauty of the season, when she saw two ladies approaching her. They were strangers, and she looked at them with interest, attracted by their pleasing faces and graceful bearing. As they passed her, she overheard one of them say in an undertone, 'What a frightfully homely girl!'
'There could be no mistake. She only was meant, and the words went like a sharp dagger to her heart.
'While she was thinking how charming they were, she to them appeared only frightful. The whole future in an instant opened before her, and she saw herself, as she moved through it, constantly exciting, wherever she went, only repulsion in the minds of strangers and friends.
'All the charm and interest of life fled at the moment. That day and the next she was in a stupor of grief, from which she was first awakened by my tones of sympathy. My advice, too, opened a door of relief by giving her something todo. For the first time she remembered there was a Being who knew all about her sorrow, knew it was coming, understood its cause, and its effects. This Being she could open her mind to, and only to Him. He would not be surprised, and He would not annoy her with sympathy which could not cure and would only irritate. She knelt down, and with minute fidelity told Him every thought of her heart. The next day she felt cheerful—she thought she was resigned; but it was only the reaction caused by the tears and confession of the previous night, and it soon passed away. The words 'frightfully homely' echoed and re-echoed through her heart. All that was dreary, hopeless, and miserable clustered around them, and shut out from her the bright, happy life of the past. Her duties were performed as before. With others she was sufficiently animated; but when alone, she was wretched. Thus the months rolled on, till they became a year; and I, who had never been deceived by her occasional liveliness, began to think what I could do to change the current of her thoughts, which seemed to have no tendency to change of themselves.
'But Laetitia's life was not all feeling. Feeling suffers passively, with greater or less endurance, according to the strength of the physical frame, but the intellect always seeks a remedy for sorrow. It seemed horrible to her that she of all the world—of all her world, at least—should be so homely that no one could look on her without pain. It was intolerable, it ought not to have been, but itwaspermitted, it must be. Rebellion came of course, bitter rebellion, but it could do no good. There was the fate, it was impossible to escape it. What then? Drag through a miserable life till death came happily to relieve it? She was too young. Fifty, sixty years of travel over a dreary, barren waste, with no joy upon it? No, no, she could not do it—suicide first. But suicide was wrong, and could never be resorted to. Theremustbe some relief elsewhere. Where was it? what was it?
'Continual dropping will wear away a stone, and continual thinking will wear a hollow into the stoniest of mysteries. At length, through all the mists of proximate causes and natural laws, some glorious truths became clear to her. The near and the visible receded to their proper importance, and she learned to hold principles and ideas more dear than the externals whichembody them. She saw that God loves His children equally, and though the laws of nature must take their course, there is room for each result in His design; and in the infinite of His heart and His work each individual has place and purpose. She found, too, that angels laden with joy might descend and ascend between His soul and hers without a ladder made of earthly triumphs and successes. Thus in place of rebellion came happy acquiescence.
'But she was not yet contented. She was convinced that there was a life for her which she could not or would not lead if she were like others; but this life she could not find. She saw no intimations of it in herself. She had no genius for any special thing, and she continued restless and disturbed, wondering what it was appointed to her to do. At length it came to her.
'One day, as she was passing the house of her physician, through the open window she saw and heard that which induced her to go in and offer her services. A man in a disgusting stage of intoxication had cut his arm badly, and had come to have it bound up. His little child was with him, shrieking with terror, her face and clothes covered with dirt. The doctor roughly and with ill-concealed repugnance was caring for the wound, while the cook, with no attempt at concealment, was loudly expressing her disapprobation of the whole proceeding. Laetitia assisted the doctor, and washed off the blood; then took the child home with her, bathed her, gave her clean clothes and a dinner, and sent her away with a new happiness in her heart. While she was doing all this, she found what she had been seeking. There are very many things in this world disagreeable in the extreme, which ought to be done with interest, with care, withlove. Why should she not undertake to do them? In themselves they would be repugnant, butshewould do them for God, and she loved her Heavenly Father so well that the hardest thing done for Him would be the sweetest. In a day or two the feeling settled itself: it was firmly impressed upon her mind that in these employments she would have rest.
'One morning, about two years perhaps after the first day of her sorrow, she dropped into my room with something of her old suddenness, and, after the customary greetings, said simply: 'I am happy again now.'
''You need not tell me that: I can see it in your face.'
'The pleased expression remained for a moment, and then an intensely black cloud fell upon her countenance. She said nothing more, and in a few minutes went away. You see how it was—by one of those freaks by which the imagination loves to torture us, my remark recalled her whole misery and its unalterable cause, and having lost for the time the keynote to her new-found joy, the other took entire possession of her mind and overwhelmed it. In a few days she came back to me, and I said: 'I pained you when you were here before. I do not know how, but I am very sorry.'
'You did pain me, but you were entirely innocent. Afterward it grieved me still more that Iwaspained—that what you said had thepowerto pain me. I will tell you all, if you will hear it;' and, without waiting for my answer, she gave me the key to the last two years of her life.
'She finished, but I had nothing to reply. She had said all. Hitherto I had led her, but now her experience was deeper than mine. Besides, I could then less than ever understand the life that was opening before her, for I had just yielded my heart and promised my hand to one whom I loved; and though I by no means thought it impossible that she, too, might have tried the same path, yet I knew she thought so; and I could not conceive how she could look forward with contentment to a life in which that element of happiness was wanting.I could only assure her of my own warm affection, an assurance which gave her a pleasure that it always makes me happy to think of.
'Notwithstanding the apparently contradictory evidence of her late depression, her new experience was not precarious and uncertain: it was firm, enduring, to berestedupon in the most trying emergencies; yet it was not, for many years, unwavering. During all that period of a woman's life when looks and manners pass for so much, and the real character for so little, she suffered at times greatly. As she went onward, every new phase of the feelings which possess a girl's heart brought with it its own pang, and each had to be overcome, some by stifling, some by postponement to another existence, and others by studying to dissever, if possible, the essential sentiment from the shows in which it was imbedded. She was unwilling passively to outgrow her trials, feeling that thereby she would lose the strength they were intended to give. Her work, however, helped her more than anything. She was not eager to enter upon it. She did not stretch forth impatient, unskilled hands toward what her Father had designed for her. Entirely confident, she was right, she was at ease, knowing her work would come to her in the proper time, and it did.
'I must say something about this work of hers, else you will be misled. She undertook to do that which others would not do, or would not do well, owing to a natural dislike to the thing itself. Not intending to become a drudge, she did not allow indolence or sentimentality to shift upon her that which others would be all the better for doing themselves. She knew what Master she served, and looked to Him for guidance, and not to the wishes and opinions of her fellow mortals. Gradually she found enough to do, first in her own house, and then outside. Friends and acquaintances called upon her, philanthropic societies applied for her services, surgeons and nurses sought her assistance, and even strangers learned that there was one who would willingly do for them, in cases of emergency, what they could not do, and what no wages could procure well done. As her life became known, she obtained the respect of some, the contempt of others, and the wonderment of most. I will not specify what she did, for my story is already getting too long; but you would be surprised to know how often she was needed.
'Her means, though small, were large enough to allow her to do most of her work gratuitously, but she received sufficient pecuniary compensation during the year to enable her to provide well for herself and give much to others.
'In pursuing the duties of her vocation, she came in contact at one time or another with almost every kind of misery, and though, from familiarity, she ceased to be shocked at new forms of suffering, yet she never became hardened, but each year grew more tender and sympathizing.
'In due time the practical workings of the great sin of the nineteenth century came under her observation. She talked with fugitive slaves, and all the pent-up fire within her burst forth in intense indignation. She had not thought of the question before—it had not been in her way; but now every feeling, her love of God, her love of country, her great interest in human rights and destinies, conspired to make her throw her whole soul into it, and she saw slavery as it is, its intense wickedness and its fearful results. She looked with dismay at its effect upon the country, its 'trail' upon everything in it, on church, on politics, on society, on commerce, on manufactures, on education. There was nothing which had not been corrupted by it—it was fast eating into the vitals of religion and liberty. The more she studied the subject the more earnest grew her feeling. But what should she do? She hadnot lost self-love, that passion which never deserts us; but she had lost itsglamour—eyes that have wept much see clear—and she knew that the least valuable offering which a woman without good looks, high position, or great talent, can make to an unpopular cause, is—herself. So far from her conspicuous support of a new thing being an encouragement and assistance to others, it would be a hindrance: fear of being identified with her would be another lion to be encountered in the path.