WE must deal gently with our scenes; we must describe them without exaggeration, and in rotation. While the scenes we have just described were proceeding, another, of deeper import, and more expressive of slavery's complicated combinations, was being enacted in another part of the city.
A raffle of ordinary character had been announced in the morning papers,—we say ordinary, because it came within the ordinary specification of trade, and violated neither statute law nor municipal ordinance,—and the raffler, esteemed a great character in the city, was no less celebrated for his taste in catering for the amusement of his patrons. On this occasion, purporting to be a very great one, the inducements held out were no less an incentive of gambling propensities than an aim to serve licentious purposes. In a word, it offered "all young connoisseurs of beauty a chance to procure one of the finest-developed young wenches,—fair, bright, perfectly brought up, young, chaste, and of most amiable disposition, for a trifling sum." This was all straight in the way of trade, in a free country; nobody should blush at it (some maidens, reading the notice, might feel modestly inclined to), because nobody could gainsay it. This is prize No. 1, prime-as set down in the schedule-and the amount per toss being only a trifle, persons in want of such prizes are respectfully informed of the fact that only a few chances remain, which will command a premium before candle-light. Prize No. 2 is a superior pony, of well-known breed-here the pedigree is set forth; which advantage had not been accorded to the human animal, lest certain members of the same stock should blush-raised with great care and attention, and exactly suited for a gentleman's jant or a lady's saddle-nag. Prize No. 3 is a superior setter dog, who has also been well brought up, is from good stock, is kind to children, who play with him when they please. He knows niggers, is good to watch them, has been known to catch runaways, to tear their shins wonderfully. Indeed, according to the setting forth of the sagacious animal, he would seem to understand slave-law quite well, and to be ready and willing to lend his aid with dogs of a different species to enforce its provisions. The only fault the brute has, if fault it may be called, is that he does not understand the constitutionality of the fugitive slave law,—a law destined to be exceedingly troublesome among a free people. Did the sagacity of the animal thus extend to the sovereign law of the land of the brave and free, he would bring a large price at the north, where men are made to do what dogs most delight in at the south.
The first prize, as set forth, is valued at seven hundred dollars: the magnanimous gentleman who caters thus generously for his patrons states the delicate prize to be worth fifty or a hundred dollars more, and will, with a little more developing, be worth a great deal more money. Hence, he hopes his patrons will duly appreciate enterprising liberality.
The second prize he considers generously low at two hundred dollars; and the dog-the sagacious animal constituting the third prize-would be a great bargain to anybody wanting such an animal, especially in consideration of his propensity to catch negroes, at sixty dollars. The trio of human and animal prizes produce no distinctive effect upon the feelings of those who speculate in such property; with them it is only a matter of gradation between dollars and cents.
But, to be more off-handed in this generous undertaking, and in consideration of the deep-felt sensibility and hospitality which must always protect southern character, the chances will be restricted to two hundred, at five dollars per chance. Money must be paid in before friends can consider themselves stock-holders. It is to be a happy time, in a happy country, where all are boasted happy. The first lucky dog will get the human prize; the next lucky dog will get the pony; the third will make a dog of himself by only winning a dog. The fun of the thing, however, will be the great attraction; men of steady habits are reminded of this. Older gentlemen, having very nice taste for colour, but no particular scruples about religion, and who seldom think morals worth much to niggers, "because they aint got sense to appreciate such things," are expected to be on hand. Those who know bright and fair niggers were never made for anything under the sun but to gratify their own desires, are expected to spread the good news, to set the young aristocracy of the city all agog,—to start up a first-best crowd,—have some tall drinking and first-rate amusement. Everybody is expected to tell his friend, and his friend is expected to help the generous man out with his generous scheme, and all are expected to join in the "bender." Nobody must forget that the whole thing is to come off at "Your House,"-an eating and drinking saloon, of great capacity, kept by the very distinguished man, Mr. O'Brodereque.
Mr. O'Brodereque, who always pledges his word upon the honour of a southern gentleman-frequently asserting his greatness in the political world, and wondering who could account for his not finding his way into Congress, where talent like his would be brought out for the protection of our south-has made no end of money by selling a monstrous deal of very bad liquor to customers of all grades,—niggers excepted. And, although his hair is well mixed with the grey of many years, he declares the guilt of selling liquor to niggers is not on his shoulders. It is owing to this clean state of his character, that he has been able to maintain his aristocratic position. "Yes, indeed," said one of his patrons, who, having fallen in arrears, found himself undergoing the very disagreeable process of being politely kicked into the street, "money makes a man big in the south: big in niggers, big in politics, big with everything but the way I'm big,—with an empty pocket. I don't care, though; he's going up by the process that I'm coming down. There's philosophy in that." It could not be denied that Mr. O'Brodereque-commonly called General O'Brodereque-was very much looked up to by great people and Bacchanalians,—men who pay court to appease the wondrous discontent of the belly, to the total neglect of the back. Not a few swore, by all their importance, a greater man never lived. He is, indeed, all that can be desired to please the simple pretensions of a free-thinking and free-acting southern people, who, having elevated him to the office of alderman, declare him exactly the man to develope its functions. A few of the old school aristocracy, who still retain the bad left them by their English ancestry, having long since forgotten the good, do sneer now and then at Mr. Brodereque's pretensions. But, like all great men who have a great object to carry out, he affects to frown such things down,—to remind the perpetrators of such aristocratic sneers what a spare few they are. He asserts, and with more truth than poetry, that any gentleman having the capacity to deluge the old aristocracy with doubtful wine, line his pockets while draining theirs-all the time making them feel satisfied he imports the choicest-and who can keep on a cheerful face the while, can fill an alderman's chair to a nicety.
In addition to the above, Mr. O'Brodereque is one of those very accommodating individuals who never fail to please their customers, while inciting their vanity; and, at the same time, always secure a good opinion for themselves. And, too, he was liberally inclined, never refused tick, but always made it tell; by which well-devised process, his patrons were continually becoming his humble servants, ready to serve him at call.
Always civil, and even obsequious at first, ready to condescend and accommodate, he is equally prompt when matters require that peculiar turn which southerners frequently find themselves turned into,—no more tick and a turn out of doors. At times, Mr. O'Brodereque's customers have the very unenviable consolation of knowing that a small document called a mortgage of their real and personal property remains in his hands, which he will very soon find it necessary to foreclose.
It is dark,—night has stolen upon us again,—the hour for the raffle is at hand. The saloon, about a hundred and forty feet long by forty wide, is brilliantly lighted for the occasion. The gas-lights throw strange shadows upon the distemper painting with which the walls are decorated. Hanging carelessly here and there are badly-daubed paintings of battle scenes and heroic devices, alternated with lithographic and badly-executed engravings of lustfully-exposed females. Soon the saloon fills with a throng of variously-mixed gentlemen. The gay, the grave, the old, and the young men of the fashionable world, are present. Some affect the fast young man; others seem mere speculators, attracted to the place for the purpose of enjoying an hour, seeing the sight, and, it may be, taking a throw for the "gal." The crowd presents a singular contrast of beings. Some are dressed to the very extreme of fantastic fashion, and would seem to have wasted their brains in devising colours for their backs; others, aspiring to the seriously genteel, are fashioned in very extravagant broadcloth; while a third group is dressed in most niggardly attire, which sets very loosely. In addition to this they wear very large black, white, and grey-coloured felt hats, slouched over their heads; while their nether garments, of red and brown linsey-woolsey, fit like Falstaff's doublet on a whip stock. They seem proud of the grim tufts of hair that, like the moss-grown clumps upon an old oak, spread over their faces; and they move about in the grotesque crowd, making their physiognomies increase its piquancy.
The saloon is one of those places at the south where great men, small men, men of different spheres and occupations, men in prominently defined positions, men in doubtful calls of life, and men most disreputably employed, most do congregate. At one end of the saloon is a large oyster counter, behind which stand two coloured men, with sauces, savories, and other mixtures at hand, ready to serve customers who prefer the delicacy in its raw state. Men are partaking without noting numbers. Mr. O'Brodereque has boys serving who take very good care of the numbers. Extending along one side of the saloon is an elaborately carved mahogany counter, with panels of French white and gilt mouldings. This is surmounted with a marble slab, upon which stand well-filled decanters, vases, and salvers. Behind this counter, genteelly-dressed and polite attendants are serving customers who stand along its side in a line, treating in true southern style. The calling for drinks is a problem for nice ears to solve, so varied are the sounds, so strange the names: style, quantity, and mixture seemed without limit, set on in various colours to flow and flood the spirits of the jovial. On the opposite side of the saloon are rows of seats and arm-chairs, interspersed with small tables, from which the beverage can be imbibed more at ease. On the second story is the great "eating saloon," with its various apartments, its curtained boxes, its prim-looking waiters, its pier-glass walls. There is every accommodation for belly theologians, who may discuss the choicest viands of the season.
The company are assembled,—the lower saloon is crowded; Mr. O'Brodereque, with great dignity, mounts the stand,—a little table standing at one end of the room. His face reddens, he gives several delinquent coughs, looks round and smiles upon his motley patrons, points a finger recognisingly at a wag in the corner, who has addressed some remarks to him, puts his thumbs in the sleeve-holes of his vest, throws back his coat-collar, puts himself in a defiant attitude, and is ready to deliver himself of his speech.
"A political speech from the General! Gentlemen, hats off, and give your attention to Mr. General O'Brodereque's remarks!" resounds from several voices. Mr. O'Brodereque is somewhat overcome, his friends compliment him so: he stands, hesitating, as if he had lost the opening part of his speech, like a statue on a molasses-cask. At length he speaks. "If it was a great political question, gentlemen, I'd get the twist of the thing,—I'd pitch into it, big! These little things always trouble public men more than the important intricacies of government do. You see, they are not comesurate,—that's it!" says Mr. Brodereque, looking wondrously wise the while. After bowing, smiling, and acknowledging the compliments of his generous customers with prodigious grace, he merely announces to his friends—with eloquence that defies imitation, and turns rhetoric into a discordant exposition of his own important self—that, not having examined the constitution for more nor three Sundays, they must, upon the honour of a gentleman, excuse his political speech. "But, gents," he says, "you all know how I trys to please ye in the way of raffles and such things, and how I throws in the belly and stomach fixins. Now, brighten up, ye men of taste"—Mr. Brodereque laughs satisfactorily as he surveys his crowd—"I'm going to do the thing up brown for ye,—to give ye a chance for a bit of bright property what ye don't get every day; can't scare up such property only once in a while. It'll make ye old fellers wink, some"—Mr. O'Brodereque winks at several aged gentlemen, whose grey hair is figurative in the crowd—"think about being young again. And, my friends below thirty-my young friends—ah, ye rascals! I thought I'd play the tune on the right string!"—he laughs, and puts his finger to his mouth quizzically—"I likes to suit ye, and please ye: own her up, now,— don't I?"
"Hurrah! for Brod,—Brod's a trump!" again resounds from a dozen voices.
They all agree to the remark that nobody can touch the great Mr. O'Brodereque in getting up a nice bit of fun, amusing young men with more money than mind, and being in the favour of aristocratic gentlemen who think nothing of staking a couple of prime niggers on a point of faro.
Mr. O'Brodereque has been interrupted; he begs his friends will, for a moment, cease their compliments and allow him to proceed. "Gentlemen!" he continues, "the gal's what ye don't get every day; and she's as choice as she's young; and she's as handsome as she's young; and for this delicious young crittur throws are only five dollars a piece." The sentimental southern gentleman has no reference to the throes of anguish that are piercing the wounded soul of the woman.
"A gentleman what ain't got a five-dollar bill in his pocket better not show his winkers in this crowd. After that, gentlemen, there's a slap-up pony, and one of the knowinest dogs outside of a court-house. Now,—gents! if this ain't some tall doings,—some of a raffle, just take my boots and I'll put it for Texas. A chance for a nigger gal-a pony-a dog; who on 'arth wants more, gentlemen?" Mr. O'Brodereque again throws back his coat, shrugs his shoulders, wipes the perspiration from his brow, and is about to descend from the table. No, he won't come down just yet. He has struck a vein; his friends are getting up a favourable excitement.
"Bravo! bravo!-long may General Brodereque keep the hospitable Your House! Who wouldn't give a vote for Brodereque at the next election?" re-echoes through the room.
"One more remark, gentlemen." Mr. Brodereque again wipes the perspiration from his forehead, and orders a glass of water, to loosen his oratorical organs. He drinks the water, seems to increase in his own greatness; his red face glows redder, he makes a theatrical gesticulation with his right hand, crumples his hair into curious points, and proceeds:—"The lucky man what gets the gal prize is to treat the crowd!" This is seconded and carried by acclamation, without a dissenting voice.
A murmuring noise, as of some one in trouble, is now heard at the door: the crowd gives way: a beautiful mulatto girl, in a black silk dress, with low waist and short sleeves, and morocco slippers on her feet, is led in and placed upon the stand Mr. O'Brodereque has just vacated. Her complexion is that of a swarthy Greek; her countenance is moody and reflective; her feelings are stung with the poison of her degraded position. This last step of her disgrace broods in the melancholy of her face. Shame, pain, hope, and fear, combine to goad her very soul. But it's all for a bit of fun, clearly legal; it's all in accordance with society; misfortune is turned into a plaything, that generous, good, and noble-hearted men may be amused. Those who stand around her are extravagant with joy. After remaining a few moments in silence, a mute victim of generous freedom, she turns her head bashfully, covers her face with her hands. Her feelings gush forth in a stream of tears; she cannot suppress them longer.
There is a touching beauty in her face, made more effective by the deplorable condition to which she is reduced. Again she looks upward, and covers her face with her hands; her soul seems merged in supplication to the God who rules all things aright. He is a forgiving God! Can he thus direct man's injustice to man, while this poor broken flower thus withers under the bane? Sad, melancholy, doomed! there is no hope, no joy for her. She weeps over her degradation.
"Stop that whimperin!" says a ruffianly bystander, who orders a coloured boy to let down her hair. He obeys the summons; it falls in thick, black, undulating tresses over her neck and shoulders. A few moments more, and she resumes a calm appearance, looks resolutely upon her auditors, with indignation and contempt pictured in her countenance.
"She'll soon get over that!" ejaculates another bystander, as he smooths the long beard on his haggard face. "Strip her down!" The request is no sooner made, than Mr. O'Brodereque mounts the stand to perform the feat. "Great country this, gentlemen!" he speaks, taking her by the shoulders.
"All off! all off, general!" is the popular demand.
The sensitive nature of the innocent girl recoils; she cringes from his touch; she shudders, and vainly attempts to resist. She must yield; the demand is imperative. Her dress falls at Mr. O'Brodereque's touch. She stands before the gazing crowd, exposed to the very thighs, holding the loose folds of her dress in her hands. There is no sympathy for those moistened eyes; oh, no! it is a luscious feast-puritans have no part in the sin-for those who, in our land of love and liberty, buy and sell poor human nature, and make it food for serving hell.
Naked she stands for minutes; the assembled gentlemen have feasted their eyes,—good men have played the part of their good natures. General O'Brodereque, conscious of his dignity, orders her to be taken down. The waiter performs the duty, and she is led out midst the acclamations and plaudits of the crowd, who call for the raffle.
Mr. O'Brodereque hopes gentlemen are satisfied with what they have seen, and will pledge his honour that the pony and dog are quite as sound and healthy as the wench whose portions they have had a chance to shy; and for which-the extra sight-they should pay an extra treat. This, however, his generosity will not allow him to stand upon; and, seeing how time is precious, and the weather warm, he hopes his friends will excuse the presence of the animals, take his word of honour in consideration of the sight of the wench.
"Now, gentlemen," he says, "the throws are soon to commence, and all what ain't put down the tin better attend that ar' needful arrangement, quicker!"
As the general concludes this very significant invitation, Dan Bengal, Anthony Romescos, and Nath Nimrod, enter together. Their presence creates some little commotion, for Romescos is known to be turbulent, and very uncertain when liquor flows freely, which is the case at present.
"I say, general!-old hoss! I takes all the chances what's left," Romescos shouts at the top of his voice. His eyes glare with anxiety,—his red, savage face, doubly sun-scorched, glows out as he elbows his way through the crowd up to the desk, where sits a corpulent clerk. "Beg your pardon, gentlemen: not so fast, if you please!" he says, entering names in his ledger, receiving money, "doing the polite of the establishment."
Romescos's coat and nether clothing are torn in several places, a hunting-belt girdles his waist; a bowie-knife (Sheffield make) protrudes from his breast-pocket, his hair hangs in jagged tufts over the collar of his coat, which, with the rough moccasons on his feet, give him an air of fierce desperaton and recklessness. His presence is evidently viewed with suspicion; he is a curious object which the crowd are willing to give ample space to.
"No, you don't take 'em all, neither!" says another, in a defiant tone. The remaining "chances" are at once put up for sale; they bring premiums, as one by one they are knocked down to the highest bidders, some as much as fifty per cent. advance. Gentlemen are not to know it, because Mr. O'Brodereque thinks his honour above everything else; but the fact is, there is a collusion between Romescos and the honourable Mr. O'Brodereque. The former is playing his part to create a rivalry that will put dollars and cents into the pocket of the latter.
"Well!" exclaims Romescos, with great indifference, as soon as the sale had concluded, "I've got seven throws, all lucky ones. I'll take any man's bet for two hundred dollars that I gets the gal prize." Nobody seems inclined to accept the challenge. A table is set in the centre of the saloon, the dice are brought on, amidst a jargon of noise and confusion; to this is added drinking, smoking, swearing, and all kinds of small betting.
The raffle commences; one by one the numbers are called. Romescos' turn has come; all eyes are intently set upon him. He is celebrated for tricks of his trade; he seldom repudiates the character, and oftener prides in the name of a shrewd one, who can command a prize for his sharp dealing. In a word, he has a peculiar faculty of shielding the doubtful transactions of a class of men no less dishonest, but more modest in point of reputation.
Romescos spreads himself wonderfully, throws his dice, and exults over the result. He has turned up three sixes at the first and second throws, and two sixes and five at the third.
"Beat that! who can?" he says. No one discovers that he has, by a very dexterous movement, slipped a set of false dice into the box, while O'Brodereque diverted attention at the moment by introducing the pony into the saloon.
We will pass over many things that occurred, and inform the reader that Romescos won the first prize-the woman. The dog and pony prizes were carried off by legitimate winners. This specific part of the scene over, a band of negro minstrels are introduced, who strike up their happy glees, the music giving new life to the revelry. Such a medley of drinking, gambling, and carousing followed, as defies description. What a happy thing it is to be free; they feel this,—it it is a happy feeling! The sport lasts till the small hours of morning advance. Romescos is seen leaving the saloon very quietly.
"There!" says Mr. O'Brodereque exultingly, "he hasn't got so much of a showing. That nigger gal ain't what she's cracked up to be!" and he shakes his head knowingly, thrusts his hands deep into his breeches pockets, smiles with an air of great consequence.
"Where did ye raise the critter? devil of a feller ye be, Brodereque!" says a young sprig, giving his hat a particular set on the side of his head, and adjusting his eye-glass anew. "Ye ain't gin her a name, in all the showin'," he continues, drawlingly.
"That gal! She ain't worth so much, a'ter all. She's of Marston's stock; Ellen Juvarna, I think they call her. She's only good for her looks, in the animal way,—that's all!"
"Hav'n't told where ye got her, yet," interrupts the sprig; "none of yer crossin' corners, general."
"Well, I started up that gal of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy. She takes it into her mind to get crazed now and then, and Marston had to sell her; and the Elder bought her for a trifle, cured up her thinkin'-trap, got her sound up for market, and I makes a strike with the Elder, and gets her at a tall bargain." Mr. O'Brodereque has lost none of his dignity, none of his honour, none of his hopes of getting into Congress by the speculation.
It is poor Ellen Juvarna; she has been cured for the market. She might have said, and with truth,—"You don't know me now, so wonderful are they who deal with my rights in this our world of liberty!"
ROMESCOS, having withdrawn from the saloon while the excitement raged highest, may be seen, with several others, seated at a table in the upper room. They are in earnest consultation,—evidently devising some plan for carrying out a deep-laid plot.
"I have just called my friend, who will give us the particulars about the constitutionality of the thing. Here he is. Mr. Scranton, ye see, knows all about such intricacies; he is an editor! formerly from the North," one of the party is particular to explain, as he directs his conversation to Romescos. That gentleman of slave-cloth only knows the part they call the rascality; he pays the gentlemen of the learned law profession to shuffle him out of all the legal intricacies that hang around his murderous deeds. He seems revolving the thing over in his mind at the moment, makes no reply. The gentleman turns to Mr. Scranton—the same methodical gentleman we have described with the good Mrs. Rosebrook—hopes he will be good enough to advise on the point in question. Mr. Scranton sits in all the dignity of his serious philosophy, quite unmoved; his mind is nearly distracted about all that is constitutionally right or constitutionally wrong. He is bound to his own ways of thinking, and would suffer martyrdom before his own conscientious scruples would allow him to acknowledge a right superior to that constitution. As for the humanity! that has nothing to do with the constitution, nothing to do with the laws of the land, nothing to do with popular government,—nothing to do with anything, and never should be taken into consideration when the point at issue involved negro property. The schedule of humanity would be a poor account at one's banker's. Mr. Scranton begins to smooth his face, which seems to elongate like a wet moon. "The question is, as I understand it, gentlemen, how far the law will give you a right to convict and sell the woman in the absence of papers and against the assertions of her owner, that she is free? Now, gentlemen, in the absence of my law books, and without the least scruple that I am legally right, for I'm seldom legally wrong, having been many years secretary to a senator in Congress who made it my particular duty to keep him posted on all points of the constitution—he drawls out with the serious complacency of a London beggar—I will just say that, whatever is legal must be just. Laws are always founded in justice—that's logical, you see,—and I always maintained it long 'afore I come south, long 'afore I knowed a thing about 'nigger law.' The point, thus far, you see, gentlemen, I've settled. Now then!" Mr. Scranton rests his elbow on the table, makes many legal gesticulations with his finger; he, however, disclaims all and every connection with the legal body, inasmuch as its members have sunk very much in the scale of character, and will require a deal of purifying ere he can call them brothers; but he knows a thing or two of constitutional law, and thus proceeds: "'Tain't a whit of matter about the woman, barring the dockerment's all right. You only want to prove that Marston bought her, that's all! As for the young scraps, why—supposing they are his-that won't make a bit of difference; they are property for all that, subject to legal restraints. Your claim will be valid against it. You may have to play nicely over some intricate legal points. But, remember, nigger law is wonderfully elastic; it requires superhuman wisdom to unravel its social and political intricacies, and when I view it through the horoscope of an indefinite future it makes my very head ache. You may, however, let your claim revert to another, and traverse the case until such time as you can procure reliable proof to convict." Mr. Scranton asserts this as the force of his legal and constitutional acumen. He addresses himself to a mercantile-looking gentleman who sits at the opposite side of the table, attentively listening. He is one of several of Marston's creditors, who sit at the table; they have attached certain property, and having some doubts of overthrowing Marston's plea of freedom, which he has intimated his intention to enter, have called in the valuable aid of Romescos. That indomitable individual, however, has more interests than one to serve, and is playing his cards with great "diplomatic skill." Indeed, he often remarks that his wonderful diplomatic skill would have been a great acquisition to the federal government, inasmuch as it would have facilitated all its Southern American projects.
The point in question at present, and which they must get over, in order to prove the property, is made more difficult by the doubt in which the origin of Clotilda has always been involved. Many are the surmises about her parentage-many are the assertions that she is not of negro extraction—she has no one feature indicating it—but no one can positively assert where she came from; in a word, no one dare! Hence is constituted the ground for fearing the issue of Marston's notice of freedom.
"Well! I'll own it puzzles my cunnin'; there's a way to get round it-there is-but deuced if 'tain't too much for my noddle," Romescos interposes, taking a little more whiskey, and seeming quite indifferent about the whole affair. "Suppose-Marston-comes-forward! yes, and brings somebody to swear as a kind a' sideways? That'll be a poser in asserting their freedom; it'll saddle you creditors with the burden of proof. There'll be the rub; and ye can't plead a right to enjoin the schedule he files in bankruptcy unless ye show how they were purchased by him. Perchance on some legal uncertainty it might be done,—by your producing proof that he had made an admission, anterior to the levy, of their being purchased by him," Romescos continues, very wisely appealing to his learned and constitutional friend, Mr. Scranton, who yields his assent by adding that the remarks are very legal, and contain truths worth considering, inasmuch as they involve great principles of popular government. "I think our worthy friend has a clear idea of the points," Mr. Scranton concludes.
"One word more, gentlemen: a bit of advice what's worth a right smart price to ye all"—here he parenthesises by saying he has great sympathy for creditors in distress—"and ye must profit by it, for yer own interests. As the case now stands, it's a game for lawyers to play and get fat at. And, seein' how Marston's feelins are up in a sort of tender way, he feels strong about savin' them young 'uns; and ye, nor all the gentlemen of the lower place, can't make 'em property, if he plays his game right;—he knows how to! ye'll only make a fuss over the brutes, while the lawyers bag all the game worth a dollar. Never see'd a nigger yet what raised a legal squall, that didn't get used up in law leakins; lawyers are sainted pocket masters! But—that kind a' stuff!—it takes a mighty deal of cross-cornered swearing to turn it into property. The only way ye can drive the peg in so the lawyers won't get hold on't, is by sellin' out to old Graspum-Norman, I mean—he does up such business as fine as a fiddle. Make the best strike with him ye can—he's as tough as a knot on nigger trade!—and, if there's any making property out on 'em, he's just the tinker to do it."
They shake their heads doubtingly, as if questioning the policy of the advice. Mr. Scranton, however, to whom all looked with great solicitation, speaks up, and affirms the advice to be the wiser course, as a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
"Oh, yes!" says Romescos, significantly, "you'll be safe then, and free from responsibility; Graspum's a great fellow to buy risks; but, seeing how he's not popular with juries, he may want to play behind the scenes, continue to prosecute the case in the name of the creditors,—that's all! Curious work, this making property out of doubtful women. Sell out to them what understands the curious of the things, clear yerselfs of the perplexin' risks—ye won't bag a bit of the game, you won't. Saddle it on Norman; he knows the philosophy of nigger trade, and can swim through a sea of legal perplexities in nigger cases." Mr. Romescos never gave more serious advice in his life; he finishes his whiskey, adjusts his hat slouchingly on his head, bids them good night; and, in return for their thanks, assures them that they are welcome. He withdraws; Mr. Scranton, after a time, gets very muddled; so much so, that, when daylight appears, he finds, to his utter astonishment, he has enjoyed a sweet sleep on the floor, some of his quizzical friends having disfigured his face very much after the fashion of a clown's. He modestly, and mechanically, picks up his lethargic body, views his constitutional self in the glass, and is much horrified, much disgusted with those who perpetrated the freak.
SLOWLY we pass through the precious scenes, hoping our readers will indulge us with their patience.
Five days have passed since Clotilda's departure; her absence is creating alarm. No one knows anything of her! a general search is instituted, but the searchers search in vain. Maxwell has eluded suspicion-Franconia no one for a moment suspects. Colonel M'Carstrow-his mind, for the time, absorbed in the charms of his young bride-gives little attention to the matter. He only knows that he has signed a bond for fifteen hundred dollars, to indemnify the sheriff, or creditors, in the event of loss; he reconciles himself with the belief that she has been enticed into some of the neighbouring bright houses, from which he can regain her in the course of time. M'Carstrow knows little of Clotilda's real character; and thus the matter rests a time.
The sheriff,—important gentleman of an important office,—will give himself no concern about the matter: the plaintiff's attorney acknowledged the deed of release, which is quite enough for him. Graspum, a perfect savan where human property was to be judged, had decided that her square inches of human vitality were worth strong fifteen hundred; that was all desirable for the sheriff-it would leave margin enough to cover the cost. But M'Carstrow, when given the bond, knew enough of nigger law to demand the insertion of a clause leaving it subject to the question of property, which is to be decided by the court. A high court this, where freemen sit assembled to administer curious justice. What constitutional inconsistencies hover over the monstrous judicial dignity of this court,—this court having jurisdiction over the monetary value of beings moulded after God's own image! It forms a happy jurisprudence for those who view it for their selfish ends; it gains freedom tyranny's license, gives birth to strange incongruities, clashing between the right of property in man and all the viler passions of our nature. It holds forth a jurisprudence that turns men into hounds of hell, devouring one another, and dragging human nature down into the very filth of earth.
Marston's troubles keep increasing. All the preliminaries of law necessary to a sale of the undisputed property have been gone through; the day of its disposal has arrived. The children, Annette and Nicholas, have remained in a cell, suffering under its malarious atmosphere, anxiously awaiting their fate. Marston has had them taught to read,—contrary to a generous law of a generous land,—and at intervals they sit together pondering over little books he has sent them.
What are such little books to them? the unbending avarice of human nature, fostered by slavery's power, is grappling at their existence. There is no sympathy for them; it is crushed out by the law which makes them chattels. Oh, no! sympathy, generosity, human affections, have little to do with the transactions of slave dealing; that belongs to commerce,—commerce has an unbending rule to maintain while money is to be made by a legalised traffic.
We must invite the reader to accompany us to the county gaol, on the morning of sale.
The "gang"-Marston's slaves-have been ordered to prepare themselves for the market; the yard resounds with their jargon. Some are arranging their little clothing, washing, "brightening up" their faces to make the property show off in the market. Others are preparing homony for breakfast; children, in ragged garments, are toddling, running, playing, and sporting about the brick pavement; the smallest are crouched at the feet of their mothers, as if sharing the gloom or nonchalance of their feeling. Men are gathering together the remnants of some cherished memento of the old plantation; they had many a happy day upon it. Women view as things of great worth the little trinkets with which good master, in former days, rewarded their energy. They recall each happy association of the cabin. Husbands, or such as should be husbands, look upon their wives with solicitude; they feel it is to be the last day they will meet together on earth. They may meet in heaven; there is no slavery there. Mothers look upon their children only to feel the pangs of sorrow more keenly; they know and feel that their offspring are born for the market, not for the enjoyment of their affections. They may be torn from them, and sold like sheep in the shambles. Happy, free country! How fair, how beautiful the picture of constitutional rights! how in keeping with every-day scenes of southern life!
"I'ze gwine to be sold; you're gwint to be sold; we're all gwine to be sold. Wonder what mas'r's gwine t'buy dis child," says Aunt Rachel, arranging her best dress, making her face "shine just so." Aunt Rachel endeavours to suit her feelings to the occasion, trims her bandana about her head with exquisite taste, and lets the bright-coloured points hang about her ears in great profusion.
"Da'h 's a right smart heap o' dollar in dis old nigger, yet!-if mas'r what gwine t'buy 'em know how't fotch um out; Mas'r must do da'h clean ting wid dis child," Rachel says, as if exulting over the value of her own person. She brushes and brushes, views and reviews herself in a piece of mirror-several are waiting to borrow it-thinks she is just right for market, asks herself what's the use of fretting? It's a free country, with boundless hospitality-of the southern stamp,—and why not submit to all freedom's dealings? Aunt Rachel is something of a philosopher.
"Aunte! da' would'nt gin much fo'h yer old pack a' bones if mas'r what gwine to buy ye know'd ye like I. Ye' h'ant da property what bring long price wid Buckra," replies Dandy, who views Aunt Rachel rather suspiciously, seems inclined to relieve her conceit, and has taken very good care that his own dimensions are trimmed up to the highest point.
"Dis nigger would'nt swop h'r carcas fo'h yourn. Dat she don't," Rachel retorts.
"Reckon how ye wouldn't, ah!" Dandy's face fills with indignation. "Buckra what sting ye back wid de lash 'll buy ye old bag a' bones fo'h down south; and when 'e get ye down da' he make ye fo'h a corn grinder." Dandy is somewhat inflated with his rank among the domestics; he is none of yer common niggers, has never associated with black, field niggers, which he views as quite too common for his aristocratic notions, has on his very best looks, his hair combed with extraordinary care, his shirt collar dangerously standing above his ears. He feels something better than nigger blood in his composition, knows the ins and outs of nigger philosophy; he knows it to be the very best kind of philosophy for a "nigger" to put on a good appearance at the shambles. A dandy nigger is not plantation stock,—hence he has "trimmed up," and hopes to find a purchaser in want of his specific kind of property; it will save him from that field-life so much dreaded.
The property, in all its varied shades, comes rolling out from all manner of places in and about the gaol, filling the yard. It is a momentous occasion, the most momentous of their life-time. And yet many seem indifferent about its consequences. They speak of the old plantation, jeer each other about the value of themselves, offer bets on the price they will bring, assert a superiority over each other, and boast of belonging to some particular grade of the property. Harry—we mean Harry the preacher—is busy getting his wife and children ready for market. He evinces great affection for his little ones, has helped his wife to arrange their apparel with so much care. The uninitiated might imagine them going to church instead of the man shambles. Indeed, so earnest are many good divines in the promotion of slavery, that it would not be unbecoming to form a connection between the southern church and the southern man shambles. The material aid they now give each other for the purpose of keeping up the man trade would be much facilitated.
However, there is a chance of Harry being sold to a brother divine, who by way of serving his good Lord and righteous master, may let him out to preach, after the old way. Harry will then be serving his brother in brotherly faith; that is, he will be his brother's property, very profitable, strong in the faith with his dear divine brother, to whom he will pay large tribute for the right to serve the same God.
Harry's emotions-he has been struggling to suppress them-have got beyond his control; tears will now and then show themselves and course down his cheeks. "Never mind, my good folks! it is something to know that Jesus still guards us; still watches over us." He speaks encouragingly to them. "The scourge of earth is man's wrongs, the deathspring of injustice. We are made bearers of the burden; but that very burden will be our passport into a brighter, a juster world. Let us meekly bear it. Cheer up! arm yourselves with the spirit of the Lord; it will give you fortitude to live out the long journey of slave life. How we shall feel when, in heaven, we are brought face to face with master, before the Lord Judge. Our rights and his wrongs will then weigh in the balance of heavenly justice." With these remarks, Harry counsels them to join him in prayer. He kneels on the brick pavement of the yard, clasps his hands together as they gather around him kneeling devotedly. Fervently he offers up a prayer,—he invokes the God of heaven to look down upon them, to bestow his mercy upon master, to incline his ways in the paths of good; and to protect these, his unfortunate children, and guide them through their separate wayfaring. The ardour, grotesqueness, and devotion of this poor forlorn group, are painfully touching. How it presents the portrait of an oppressed race! how sunk is the nature that has thus degraded it! Under the painful burden of their sorrow they yet manifest the purity of simple goodness. "Oh! Father in heaven, hast thou thus ordained it to be so?" breaks forth from Harry's lips, as the criminals, moved by the affecting picture, gather upon the veranda, and stand attentive listeners. Their attention seems rivetted to his words; the more vicious, as he looks through grated bars upon them, whispers words of respect.
Harry has scarcely concluded his prayer when the sheriff, accompanied by several brokers (slave-dealers), comes rushing through the transept into the yard. The sheriff is not rude; he approaches Harry, tells him he is a good boy, has no objection to his praying, and hopes a good master will buy him. He will do all he can to further his interests, having heard a deal about his talents. He says this with good-natured measure, and proceeds to take a cursory view of the felons. While he is thus proceeding, the gentlemen of trade who accompanied him are putting "the property" through a series of examinations.
"Property like this ye don't start up every day," says one. "Best I'ze seen come from that ar' district. Give ye plenty corn, down there, don't they, boys?" enjoins another, walking among them, and every moment bringing the end of a small whip which he holds in his right hand about their legs. This, the gentleman remarks, is merely for the purpose-one of the phrases of the very honourable trade-of testing their nimbleness.
"Well!" replies a tall, lithe dealer, whose figure would seem to have been moulded for chasing hogs through the swamp, "There's some good bits among it; but it won't stand prime, as a lot!" The gentleman, who seems to have a nicely balanced mind for judging the human nature value of such things, is not quite sure that they have been bacon fed. He continues his learned remarks. "Ye'h han't had full tuck out, I reckon, boys?" he inquires of them, deliberately examining the mouths and nostrils of several. The gentleman is very cool in this little matter of trade; it is an essential element of southern democracy; some say, nothing more!
"Yes, Boss!" replies Enoch, one of the negroes; "Mas'r ollers good t' e niggers, gin him bacon free times a week-sometimes mo' den dat." Several voices chime in to affirm what Enoch says.
"Ah, very good. Few planters in that district give their negroes bacon; and an all corn-fed nigger won't last two years on a sugar plantation," remarks one of the gentlemen dealers, as he smokes his cigar with great nonchalance.
While these quaint appendancies of the trade are proceeding, Romescos and Graspum make their appearance. They have come to forestall opinion, to make a few side-winded remarks. They are ready to enter upon the disgusting business of examining property more carefully, more scrupulously, more in private. The honourable sheriff again joins the party. He orders that every accommodation be afforded the gentlemen in their examinations of the property. Men, women, and children-sorrowing property-are made to stand erect; to gesticulate their arms; to expand their chests, to jump about like jackals, and to perform sundry antics pleasing to the gentlemen lookers-on. This is all very free, very democratic, very gentlemanly in the way of trade,—very necessary to test the ingredient of the valuable square inches of the property. What matters all this! the honourable sheriff holds it no dishonour; modest gentlemen never blush at it; the coarse dealer makes it his study,—he trades in human nature; the happy democrat thinks it should have a co-fellowship with southern hospitality-so long and loudly boasted.
Those little necessary displays over, the honourable sheriff invites his distinguished friends to "have a cigar round;" having satisfied their taste in gymnastarising the property. Romescos, however, thinks he has not quite satisfied his feelings; he is very dogged on nigger flesh. The other gentlemen may smoke their cigars; Mr. Romescos thinks he will enjoy the exercise of his skill in testing the tenacity of negroes' chests; which he does by administering heavy blows, which make them groan out now and then. Groans, however, don't amount to much; they are only nigger groans. Again Mr. Romescos applies the full force of his hands upon their ears; then he will just pull them systematically. "Nice property!" he says, telling the forbearing creatures not to mind the pain.
Messrs. Graspum and Romescos will make a close inspection of a few pieces. Here, several men and women are led into a basement cell, under the veranda, and stript most rudely. No discrimination is permitted. Happy freedom! What a boon is liberty! Mr. Romescos views their nice firm bodies, and their ebony black skins, with great skill and precaution; his object is to prove the disposition of the articles,—strong evidence being absence of scars. He lays his bony fingers on their left shoulders-they being compelled to stand in a recumbent position-tracing their bodies to the hips and thighs. Here the process ends. Mr. Romescos has satisfied his very nice judgment on the solidity of the human-flesh-property-he has put their bodies through other disgusting inspections-they belong to the trade-which cannot be told here; but he finds clean skins, very smooth, without scars or cuts, or dangerous diseases. He laughs exultingly, orders the people to stow themselves in their clothes again, and relights his cigar. "If it 'ant a tall lot!" he whispers to Graspum, and gives him a significant touch with his elbow. "Bright-smooth as a leather ninepence; han't had a lash-Marston was a fool, or his niggers are angels, rather black, though-couldn't start up a scar on their flesh. A little trimmin' down-it wants it, you see!-to make it show off; must have it-eh! Graspum, old feller? It only wants a little, though, and them dandy niggers, and that slap-up preacher, will bring a smart price fixed up. Great institution! The preacher's got knowin'; can discourse like a college-made deacon, and can convert a whole plantation with his nigger eloquence. A nigger preacher with Bible knowin, when it's smart, is right valuable when ye want to keep the pious of a plantation straight. And then! when the preacher 'ant got a notion a' runnin away in him." Romescos crooks his finger upon Graspum's arm, whispers cautiously in his ear.
"There 'll be a sharp bidding for some of it; they 'll run up some on the preacher. He 'll be a capital investment,—pay more than thirty per cent. insinuates another gentleman-a small inquisitive looking dealer in articles of the nigger line. When a planter's got a big gang a' niggers, and is just fool enough to keep such a thing for the special purpose of making pious valuable in 'um," Mr. Romescos rejoins, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his little hawk's eyes, and looking seriously indifferent. Romescos gives wonderful evidence of his "first best cunning propensities;" and here he fancies he has pronounced an opinion that will be taken as profound. He affects heedlessness of everything, is quite disinterested, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, assumes an air of dignity that would not unbecome my Lord Chief Justice.
"Let us see them two bits of disputed property,—where are they?" inquires Graspum, turning half round, and addressing himself to the gaoler.
"In the close cells," is the quick reply,—"through the narrow vault, up the stone passage, and on the right, in the arched cell."
The gaoler-good, honest-hearted man-leads the way, through a chilly vault, up the narrow passage, to the left wing of the building. The air is pestiferous; warm and diseased, it fans us as we approach. The gaoler puts his face to the grating, and in a guttural voice, says, "You're wanted, young uns." They understand the summons; they come forward as if released from torture to enjoy the pure air of heaven. Confinement, dreary and damp, has worn deep into their systems.
Annette speaks feebly, looks pale and sickly. Her flaxen curls still dangle prettily upon her shoulders. She expected her mother; that mother has not come. The picture seems strange; she looks childishly and vacantly round,—at the dealers, at Graspum, at the sheriff, at the familiar faces of the old plantation people. She recognizes Harry, and would fain leap into his arms. Nicholas, less moved by what is going on around him, hangs reluctantly behind, holding by the skirt of Annette's frock. He has lost that vivacity and pertness so characteristic on the plantation. Happy picture of freedom's love! Happy picture of immortalised injustice! Happy picture of everything that is unhappy! How modest is the boast that we live to be free; and that in our virtuous freedom a child's mother has been sold for losing her mind: a faithful divine, strong with love for his fellow divines, is to be sold for his faith; the child-the daughter of the democrat-they say, will be sold from her democratic father. The death-stinging enemy Washington and Jefferson sought to slaughter-to lay ever dead at their feet, has risen to life again. Annette's mother has fled to escape its poison. We must pause! we must not discourse thus in our day, when the sordid web of trade is being drawn over the land by King Cotton.
The children, like all such doubtful stock, are considered very fancy, very choice of their kind. It must be dressed in style to suit nice eyes at the shambles.
"Well! ye'r right interesting looking," says the sheriff—Messrs. Graspum and Co. look upon them with great concern, now and then interrupting with some observations upon their pedigree,—taking them by the arms, and again rumpling their hair by rubbing his hands over their heads. "Fix it up, trim; we must put them up along with the rest to-day. It 'll make Marston—I pity the poor fellow—show his hand on the question of their freedom. Mr. sheriff, being sufficiently secured against harm, is quite indifferent about the latent phases of the suit. He remarks, with great legal logic—we mean legal slave logic—that Marston must object to the sale when the children are on the stand. It is very pretty kind a' property, very like Marston—will be as handsome as pictures when they grow up," he says, ordering it put back to be got ready.
"Why didn't my mother come?" the child whimpers, dewy tears decorating her eyes. "Why won't she come back and take me to the plantation again? I want her to come back; I've waited so long." As she turns to follow the gaoler—Nicholas still holds her by the skirt of her frock—her flaxen curls again wave to and fro upon her shoulders, adding beauty to her childlike simplicity. "You'll grow to be something, one of these days, won't ye, little dear?" says the gaoler, taking her by the hand. She replies in those silent and touching arguments of the soul; she raises her soft blue eyes, and heaven fills them with tears, which she lifts her tiny hands to wipe away.
Nicholas tremblingly-he cannot understand the strange movement-follows them through the vault; he looks up submissively, and with instinctive sympathy commences a loud blubbering. "You're going to be sold, little uns! but, don't roar about it; there's no use in that," says the gaoler, inclining to sympathy.
Nicholas does'nt comprehend it; he looks up to Annette, plaintively, and, forgetting his own tears, says, in a whisper, "Don't cry, Annette; they 'll let us go and see mother, and mother will be so kind to us-."
"It does seem a pity to sell ye, young 'uns; ye'r such nice 'uns,—have so much interestin' in yer little skins!" interrupts the gaoler, suddenly. The man of keys could unfold a strange history of misery, suffering, and death, if fear of popular opinion, illustrated in popular liberty, did not seal his lips. He admits the present to be
We are narrating a scene related to us by the very gaoler we here describe, and as nearly as possible in his own language. rather an uncommon case, says it makes a body feel kind a' unhinged about the heart, which heart, however rocky at times, will have its own way when little children are sorrowing. "And then, to know their parents! that's what tells deeper on a body's feeling,—it makes a body look into the hereafter." The man of keys and shackles would be a father, if the law did but let him. There is a monster power over him, a power he dreads-it is the power of unbending democracy, moved alone by fretful painstakers of their own freedom.
"Poor little things! ye 'r most white, yes!-suddenly changing-just as white as white need be. Property's property, though, all over the world. What's sanctioned by the constitution, and protected by the spirit and wisdom of Congress, must be right, and maintained," the gaoler concludes. His heart is at war with his head; but the head has the power, and he must protect the rights of an unrighteous system. They have arrived at a flight of steps, up which they ascend, and are soon lost in its windings. They are going to be dressed for the market.
The sheriff is in the yard, awaiting the preparation of the property. Even he-iron-hearted, they say-gives them a look of generous solicitude, as they pass out. He really feels there is a point, no less in the scale of slave dealing, beyond which there is something so repugnant that hell itself might frown upon it. "It's a phase too hard, touches a body's conscience," he says, not observing Romescos at his elbow.
"Conscience!" interrupts Romescos, his eyes flashing like meteors of red fire, "the article don't belong to the philosophy of our business. Establish conscience-let us, gentlemen, give way to our feelins, and trade in nigger property 'd be deader than Chatham's statue, what was pulled through our streets by the neck. The great obstacle, however, is only this-it is profitable in its way!" Romescos cautiously attempts to shield this, but it will not do.
The gaoler, protruding his head from a second-story window, like a mop in a rain storm, enquires if it is requisite to dress the children in their very best shine. It is evident he merely views them as two bales of merchandise.
The sheriff, angrily, says, "Yes! I told you that already. Make them look as bright as two new pins." His honour has been contemplating how they will be mere pins in the market,—pins to bolt the doors of justice, pins to play men into Congress, pins to play men out of Congress, pins to play a President into the White House.
An old negress, one of the plantation nurses, is called into service. She commences the process of preparing them for market. They are nicely washed, dressed in clean clothes; they shine out as bright and white as anybody's children. Their heads look so sleek, their hair is so nicely combed, so nicely parted, so nicely curled. The old slave loves them,—she loved their father. Her skill has been lavished upon them,—they look as choice and interesting as the human property of any democratic gentleman can be expected to do. Let us be patriotic, let us be law-loving, patient law-abiding citizens, loving that law of our free country which puts them under the man-vender's hammer,—say our peace-abiding neighbours.
The gaoler has not been long in getting Annette and Nicholas ready. He brings them forward, so neatly and prettily dressed: he places them among the "gang." But they are disputed property: hence all that ingenuity which the system engenders for the advancement of dealers is brought into use to defeat the attempt to assert their freedom. Romescos declares it no difficult matter to do this: he has the deadly weapon in his possession; he can work (shuffle) the debt into Graspum's hands, and he can supply the proof to convict. By this very desirable arrangement the thing may be made nicely profitable.
No sooner has Aunt Rachel seen the children in their neat and familiar attire, than her feelings bound with joy,—she cannot longer restrain them. She has watched Marston's moral delinquencies with suspicion; but she loves the children none the less. And with honest negro nature she runs to them, clasps them to her bosom, fondles them, and kisses them like a fond mother. The happy associations of the past, contrasted with their present unhappy condition, unbind the fountain of her solicitude,—she pours it upon them, warm and fervent. "Gwine t' sell ye, too! Mas'r, poor old Mas'r, would'nt sell ye, no how! that he don't. But poor old Boss hab 'e trouble now, God bless 'em," she says, again pressing Annette to her bosom, nearer and nearer, with fondest, simplest, holiest affection. Looking intently in the child's face, she laughs with the bounding joy of her soul; then she smooths its hair with her brawny black hands: they contrast strangely with the pure carnatic of the child's cheek.
"Lor! good Lor, Mas'r Buckra," aunt Rachel exclaims, "if eber de Lor' smote 'e vengence on yeh, 't'll be fo' sellin' de likes o' dese. Old Mas'r tinks much on 'em, fo' true. Gwine t' sell dem what Mas'r be so fond on? Hard tellin' what Buckra don't sell win i' makes money on him. Neber mind, children; de Lor' aint so unsartin as white man. He,—da'h good Mas'r yonder in the clouds,—save ye yet; he'll make white man gin ye back when de day o' judgment come." Aunt Rachel has an instinctive knowledge of the errors, accidents, and delays which have brought about this sad event,—she becomes absorbed in their cares, as she loses sight of her own trouble.
All ready for the market, they are chained together in pairs, men and women, as if the wrongs they bore had made them untrustworthy.
Romescos, ever employed in his favourite trade, is busily engaged chaining up-assorting the pairs! One by one they quietly submit to the proceeding, until he reaches Harry. That minister-of-the-gospel piece of property thinks,—that is, is foolish enough to think,—his nigger religion a sufficient guarantee against any inert propensity to run away. "Now, good master, save my hands from irons, and my heart from pain. Trust me, let me go unbound; my old Master trust me wid 'is life-"
"Halloo!" says Romescos, quickly interrupting, and beginning to bristle with rage; "preach about old Master here you'll get the tinglers, I reckon. Put 'em on-not a grunt-or you'll get thirty more-yes, a collar on yer neck." Holding a heavy stick over the poor victim's head, for several minutes with one hand, he rubs the other, clenched, several times across his nose. Graspum interposes by reminding the minister that it is for his interest to be very careful how he makes any reply to white gentlemen.
"Why, massa, I'ze the minister on de plantation. My old master wouldn't sell-wouldn't do so wid me. Master knows I love God, am honest and peaceable. Why chain the honest? why chain the peaceable? why chain the innocent? They need no fetters, no poisoning shackles. The guilty only fear the hand of retribution," says Harry, a curl of contempt on his lip. He takes a step backwards as Romescos holds the heavy irons before him.
"You don't come nigger preacher over this ar' child; 't'ant what's crack'd up to be. I larns niggers to preach different tunes. Don't spoil prime stock for such nonsense-"
"Master Sheriff will stand answerable for me," interrupts Harry, turning to that honourable functionary, and claiming his protection. That gentleman says it is rather out of his line to interfere.
"Not a preacher trick, I say again-Romescos evinces signs of increasing temper-ya' black theologin. Preachers can't put on such dignity when they'r property." Preachers of colour must be doubly humbled: they must be humble before God, humbled before King Cotton, humbled before the king dealer, who will sell them for their dollars' worth. Harry must do the bidding of his king master; his monkey tricks won't shine with such a philosopher as Romescos. The man of bones, blood, and flesh, can tell him to sell a nigger preacher to his brother of the ministry, and make it very profitable. He assures Harry, while holding the shackles in his hands, that he may put on just as much of the preacher as he can get, when he gets to the shambles, and hears the fives and tens bidding on his black hide.
Harry must submit; he does it with pain and reluctance. He is chained to his wife-a favour suggested by the sheriff-with whom he can walk the streets of a free country,—but they must be bound in freedom's iron fellowship. The iron shackle clasps his wrist; the lock ticks as Romescos turns the key: it vibrates to his very heart. With a sigh he says, "Ours is a life of sorrow, streaming its dark way along a dangerous path. It will ebb into the bright and beautiful of heaven; that heaven wherein we put our trust-where our hopes are strengthened. O! come the day when we shall be borne to the realms of joy-joy celestial! There no unholy shade of birth-unholy only to man-shall doom us; the colour of our skin will not there be our misfortune-"
"What!" quickly interrupts Romescos, "what's that?" The property minister, thus circumstanced, must not show belligerent feelings. Romescos simply, but very skilfully, draws his club; measures him an unamiable blow on the head, fells him to the ground. The poor wretch struggles a few moments, raises his manacled hands to his face as his wife falls weeping upon his shuddering body. She supplicates mercy at the hands of the ruffian-the ruffian torturer. "Quietly, mas'r; my man 'ill go wid me," says the woman, interposing her hand to prevent a second blow.
Harry opens his eyes imploringly, casts a look of pity upon the man standing over him. Romescos is in the attitude of dealing him another blow. The wretch stays his hand. "Do with me as you please, master; you are over me. My hope will be my protector when your pleasure will have its reward."
A second thought has struck Romescos; the nigger isn't so bad, after all. "Well, reckon how nobody won't have no objection to ya'r thinking just as ya'v mind to; but ya' can't talk ya'r own way, nor ya' can't have ya'r own way with this child. A nigger what puts on parson airs-if it is a progressive age nigger-musn't put on fast notions to a white gentleman of my standing! If he does, we just take 'em out on him by the process of a small quantity of first- rate knockin down," says Romescos, amiably lending him a hand to get up. Graspum and the honourable sheriff are measuredly pacing up and down the yard, talking over affairs of state, and the singular purity of their own southern democracy-that democracy which will surely elect the next President. Stepping aside in one of his sallies, Graspum, in a half whisper, reminds Romescos that, now the nigger has shown symptoms of disobedience, he had better prove the safety of the shackles. "Right! right! all right!" the man of chains responds; he had forgot this very necessary piece of amusement. He places both hands upon the shackles; grasps them firmly; places his left foot against Harry's stomach; and then, uttering a fierce imprecation, makes his victim pull with might and main while he braces against him with full power. The victim, groaning under the pain, begs for mercy. Mercy was not made for him. Freedom and mercy, in this our land of greatness, have been betrayed.
Harry, made willing property, is now placed by the side of his wife, as four small children—the youngest not more than two years old—cling at the skirts of her gown. The children are scarcely old enough to chain; their strong affections for poor chained mother and father are quite enough to guarantee against their running away. Romescos, in his ample kindness, will allow them to toddle their way to market. They are not dangerous property;—they have their feelings, and will go to market to be sold, without running away.
The gang is ready. The gaoler, nearly out of breath, congratulates himself upon the manner of dispatching business at his establishment. Romescos will put them through a few evolutions before marching in the street; so, placing himself at their right, and the gaoler at their left flank, they are made to march and counter-march several times round the yard. This done, the generous gaoler invites the gentlemen into his office: he has a good glass of whiskey waiting their superior tastes.
The ward gates are opened; the great gate is withdrawn; the property, linked in iron fellowship,—the gentlemen having taken their whiskey,—are all ready for the word, march! This significant admonition the sheriff gives, and the property sets off in solemn procession, like wanderers bound on a pilgrimage. Tramp, tramp, tramp, their footsteps fall in dull tones as they sally forth, in broken file, through the long aisles. Romescos is in high glee,—his feelings bound with exultation, he marches along, twirling a stick over his head. They are soon in the street, where he invites them to strike up a lively song—"Jim crack corn, and I don't care, fo'h Mas'r's gone away!" he shouts; and several strike up, the rest joining in the old plantation chorus—"Away! away! away! Mas'r's gone away." Thus, with jingling chorus and seemingly joyous hearts, they march down to the man-market. The two children, Annette and Nicholas, trail behind, in charge of the sheriff, whose better feelings seem to be troubling him very much. Every now and then, as they walk by his side, he casts a serious look at Annette, as if conscience, speaking in deep pulsations, said it wasn't just right to sell such an interesting little creature. Onward they marched, his head and heart warring the while. "There's something about it that does'nt seem to come just right in a fellow's feelins," keeps working itself in his mind, until at length he mutters the words. It is the natural will to do good, struggling against the privileges which a government gives ungovernable men to do wrong.