Our World Or the Slaveholder's Daughter Part 40

"Not one cent lower would I take for that chap. In fact, I almost feel like recanting now," says Graspum, by way of breaking the monotony.

"Well, I'll bid you good day," says the other, in return, affecting preparation to leave. He puts out his hand to Graspum, and with a serious look desires to know if that be the lowest figure.

"Fact! Don't care 'bout selling at that. Couldn't have a better investment than to keep him!"

Mr. Grabguy considers and reconsiders the matter over in his mind; paces up and down the floor several times, commences humming a tune, steps to the door, looks up and down the street, and says, "Well, I'll be moving homeward, I will."

"Like yer custom, that I do; but then, knowing what I can do with the fellow, I feels stiff about letting him go," interposes Graspum, with great indifference, following to the door, with hands extended.

This is rather too insinuating for Mr. Grabguy. Never did piece of property loom up so brightly, so physically and intellectually valuable. He will return to the table. Taking his seat again, he draws forth a piece of paper, and with his pencil commences figuring upon it. He wants to get at the cost of free and slave labour, and the relative advantages of the one over the other. After a deal of multiplying and subtracting, he gives it up in despair. The fine proportions of the youth before him distract his very brain with contemplation. He won't bother another minute; figures are only confusions: so far as using them to compute the relative value of free and slave labour, they are enough to make one's head ache.

"Would ye like to go with me, boy? Give ye enough to eat, but make ye toe the mark!" He looks at Nicholas, and waits a reply.

"Don't matter!" is the boy's answer. "Seems as if n.o.body cared for me; and so I don't care for n.o.body."

"That's enough," he interrupts, turning to Graspum: "there's a showing of grit in that, eh?"

"Soon take it out," rejoins that methodical gentleman. "Anyhow, I've a mind to try the fellow, Graspum. I feel the risk I run; but I don't mind-it's neck or nothin here in the south! Ye'll take a long note, s'pose? Good, ye know!"

Graspum motions his head and works his lips, half affirmatively.

"Good as old gold, ye knows that," insinuates Mr. Grabguy.

"Yes, but notes aint cash; and our banks are shut down as tight as steel traps. At all events make it bankable, and add the interest for six months. It's against my rules of business, though," returns Graspum, with great financial emphasis.

After considerably more very nice exhibitions of business tact, it is agreed that Mr. Grabguy takes the "imp" at five hundred and twenty dollars, for which Graspum accepts his note at six months, with interest. Mr. Grabguy's paper is good, and Graspum considers it equal to cash, less the interest. The "imp" is now left in charge of the negro, while the two gentlemen retire to the private counting-room, where they will settle the preliminaries.

A grave-looking gentleman at a large desk is ordered to make the entry of sale; as the initiate of which he takes a ponderous ledger from the case, and, with great coolness, opens its large leaves.

"Nicholas, I think his name is?" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, turning to Graspum, who, unconcernedly, has resumed his seat in the great arm-chair.

"Yes; but I suppose it must be Nicholas Grabguy, now," returns Graspum, bowing to his book-keeper, and then turning to Mr. Grabguy.

"One minute, if you please!" rejoins that gentlemen, as the sedate book-keeper turns to his page of N's in the index. Mr. Grabguy will consider that very important point for a few seconds.

"Better drop the Marston, as things are. A good many high feeling connections of that family remain; and to continue the name might be to give pain." This, Graspum says, he only puts out as a suggestion.

"Enter him as you say, gentlemen," interposes the clerk, who will mend his pen while waiting their pleasure.

Mr. Grabguy runs his right hand several times across his forehead, and after a breathless pause, thinks it as well not to connect his distinguished name with that of the n.i.g.g.e.r,--not just at this moment!

Being his property, and a.s.sociating with his business and people, that will naturally follow. "Just enter him, and make out the bill of sale describing him as the boy Nicholas," he adds.

"Boy Nicholas!" reiterates the book-keeper, and straight-way enters his name, amount fetched, to whom sold, and general description, on his files. In a few minutes more-Graspum, in his chair of state, is regretting having sold so quick,--Mr. Grabguy is handed his bill of sale, duly made out. At the same time, that sedate official places the note for the amount into Graspum's hands. Graspum examines it minutely, while Mr. Grabguy surveys the bill of sale. "Mr. Benson, my clerk here, does these things up according to legal tenour; he, let me inform you, was brought up at the law business, and was rather celebrated once; but the profession won't pay a man of his ability," remarks Graspum, with an "all right!" as he lays the note of hand down for Mr. Grabguy's signature.

Mr. Benson smiles in reply, and adjusts the very stiffly starched corners of his ponderous shirt collar, which he desires to keep well closed around his chin. "An honourable man, that's true, sir, can't live honestly by the law, now-a-days," he concludes, with measured sedateness. He will now get his bill-book, in which to make a record of the piece of paper taken in exchange for the human 'imp.'

"Clap your name across the face!" demands Graspum; and Grabguy seizes a pen, and quickly consummates the bargain by inscribing his name, pa.s.sing it to Mr. Benson, and, in return, receiving the bill of sale, which he places in his breast pocket. He will not trouble Mr. Benson any further; but, if he will supply a small piece of paper, Mr. Grabguy will very kindly give the imp an order, and send him to his workshop.

"Will the gentleman be kind enough to help himself," says Mr.

Benson, pa.s.sing a quire upon the table at which Mr. Grabguy sits.

"I'll trim that chap into a first-rate mechanic," says Mr. Grabguy, as he writes,--"I have bought the bearer, Nicholas, a promising chap, as you will see. Take him into the shop and set him at something, if it is only turning the grindstone; as I hav'nt made up my mind exactly about what branch to set him at. He's got temper-you'll see that in a minute, and will want some breakin in, if I don't calklate 'rong." This Mr. Grabguy envelopes, and directs to his master mechanic. When all things are arranged to his satisfaction, Nicholas is again brought into his presence, receives an admonition, is told what he may expect if he displays his bad temper, is presented with the note, and despatched, with sundry directions, to seek his way alone, to his late purchaser's workshop.

"Come, boy! ain't you going to say 'good-by' to me 'afore you go? I hav'nt been a bad master to you," says Graspum, putting out his hand.

"Yes, master," mutters the child, turning about ere he reaches the door. He advances towards Graspum, puts out his little hand; and in saying "good by, master," there is so much childish simplicity in his manner that it touches the tender chord embalmed within that iron frame. "Be a good little fellow!" he says, his emotions rising.

How strong are the workings of nature when brought in contact with unnatural laws! The monster who has made the child wretched--who has for ever blasted its hopes, shakes it by the hand, and says--"good by, little 'un!" as it leaves the door to seek the home of a new purchaser. How strange the thoughts invading that child's mind, as, a slave for life, it plods its way through the busy thoroughfares!

Forcibly the happy incidents of the past are recalled; they are touching reclections-sweets in the dark void of a slave's life; but to him no way-marks, to measure the happy home embalmed therein, are left.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

WORKINGS OF THE SLAVE SYSTEM.

DEMOCRACY! thy trumpet voice for liberty is ever ringing in our ears; but thy strange workings defame thee. Thou art rampant in love of the "popular cause," crushing of that which secures liberty to all; and, whilst thou art great at demolishing structures, building firm foundations seems beyond thee, for thereto thou forgetteth to lay the cornerstone well on the solid rock of principle. And, too, we love thee when thou art moved and governed by justice; we hate thee when thou showest thyself a sycophant to make a mad mob serve a pestilential ambition. Like a young giant thou graspest power; but, when in thy hands, it becomes a means of serving the baser ends of factious demagogues. Hypocrite! With breath of poison thou hast sung thy songs to liberty while making it a stepping-stone to injustice; nor hast thou ever ceased to wage a tyrant's war against the rights of man. Thou wearest false robes; thou blasphemest against heaven, that thy strength in wrong may be secure-yea, we fear thy end is fast coming badly, for thou art the b.a.s.t.a.r.d offspring of Republicanism so purely planted in our land. Clamour and the lash are thy sceptres, and, like a viper seeking its prey, thou charmest with one and goadeth men's souls with the other. Having worked thy way through our simple narrative, show us what thou hast done. A father hast thou driven within the humid wall of a prison, because he would repent and acknowledge his child. Bolts and bars, in such cases, are democracy's safeguards; but thou hast bound with heavy chains the being who would rise in the world, and go forth healing the sick and preaching G.o.d's word. Even hast thou turned the hearts of men into stone, and made them weep at the wrong thou gavest them power to inflict. That bond which G.o.d gave to man, and charged him to keep sacred, thou hast sundered for the sake of gold,--thereby levelling man with the brutes of the field. Thou hast sent two beautiful children to linger in the wickedness of slavery,--to die stained with its infamy! Thou hast robbed many a fair one of her virtue, stolen many a charm; but thy foulest crime is, that thou drivest mothers and fathers from the land of their birth to seek shelter on foreign soil. Would to G.o.d thou could'st see thyself as thou art,--make thy teachings known in truth and justice,--cease to mock thyself in the eyes of foreign tyrants, nor longer serve despots who would make thee the shield of their ill-gotten power!

Within those malarious prison walls, where fast decays a father who sought to save from slavery's death the offspring he loved, will be found a poor, dejected negro, sitting at the bedside of the oppressed man, administering to his wants. His friendship is true unto death,--the oppressed man is his angel, he will serve him at the sacrifice of life and liberty. He is your true republican, the friend of the oppressed! Your lessons of democracy, so swelling, so boastfully arrayed for a world's good, have no place in his soul,--goodness alone directs his examples of republicanism. But we must not be over venturous in calling democracy to account, lest we offend the G.o.ds of power and progress. We will, to save ourselves, return to our narrative.

Marston, yet in gaol, stubbornly refuses to take the benefit of the act,--commonly called the poor debtor's act. He has a faithful friend in Daddy Bob, who has kept his ownership concealed, and, with the a.s.sistance of Franconia, still relieves his necessities. Rumour, however, strongly whispers that Colonel M'Carstrow is fast gambling away his property, keeping the worst of company, and leading the life of a debauchee,--which sorely grieves his n.o.ble-hearted wife. In fact, Mrs. Templeton, who is chief gossip-monger of the city, declares that he is more than ruined, and that his once beautiful wife must seek support at something.

An honest jury of twelve free and enlightened citizens, before the honourable court of Sessions, have declared Romescos honourably acquitted of the charge of murder, the fatal blow being given in commendable self-defence.

The reader will remember that in a former chapter we left the stolen clergyman (no thanks to his white face and whiter necked brethren of the profession), on the banks of the Mississippi, where, having purchased his time of his owner, he is not only a very profitable investment to that gentleman, but of great service on the neighbouring plantations. Earnest in doing good for his fellow bondmen, his efforts have enlisted for him the sympathy of a generous-hearted young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring planter.

Many times had he recounted Mrs. Rosebrook's friendship for him to her, and by its influence succeeded in opening the desired communication. Mrs. Rosebrook had received and promptly answered all his fair friend's letters: the answers contained good news for Harry; she knew him well, and would at once set about inducing her husband to purchase him. But here again his profession interposed a difficulty, inasmuch as its enhancing the value of the property to so great an extent would make his master reluctant to part with him.

However, as nothing could be more expressive of domestic attachment than the manner in which the Rosebrooks studied each other's feelings for the purpose of giving a more complete happiness, our good lady had but to make known her wish, and the deacon stood ready to execute it. In the present case he was but too glad of the opportunity of gratifying her feelings, having had the purchase of a clergyman in contemplation for some months back. He sought Harry out, and, after bartering (the planter setting forth what a deal of money he had made by his clergyman) succeeded in purchasing him for fourteen hundred dollars, the gentleman producing legalised papers of his purchase, and giving the same. As for his running away, there is no evidence to prove that; nor will Harry's pious word be taken in law to disclose the kidnapping. M'Fadden is dead,--his estate has long since been administered upon; Romescos murdered the proof, and swept away the dangerous contingency.

Here, then, we find Harry-we must pa.s.s over the incidents of his return back in the old district-about to administer the Gospel to the negroes on the Rosebrook estates. He is the same good, generous-hearted black man he was years ago. But he has worked hard, paid his master a deal of money for his time, and laid up but little for himself. His clothes, too, are somewhat shabby, which, in the estimation of the Rosebrook negroes-who are notoriously aristocratic in their notions-is some detriment to his ministerial character. At the same time, they are not quite sure that Harry Marston, as he must now be called, will preach to please their peculiar mode of thinking. Master and missus have given them an interest in their labour; and, having laid by a little money in missus's savings bank, they are all looking forward to the time when they will have gained their freedom, according to the promises held out. With these incitements of renewed energy they work cheerfully, take a deep interest in the amount of crop produced, and have a worthy regard for their own moral condition. And as they will now pay tribute for the support of a minister of the Gospel, his respectability is a particular object of their watchfulness. Thus, Harry's first appearance on the plantation, shabbily dressed, is viewed with distrust. Uncle Bradshaw, and old Bill, the coachman, and Aunt Sophy, and Sophy's two gals, and their husbands, are heard in serious conclave to say that "It won't do!" A clergy gentleman, with no better clothes than that newcomer wears, can't preach good and strong, nohow! Dad Daniel is heard to say. Bradshaw shakes his white head, and says he's goin' to have a short talk with master about it.

Something must be done to reconcile the matter.

Franconia and good Mrs. Rosebrook are not so exacting: the latter has received him with a warm welcome, while the former, her heart bounding with joy on hearing of his return, hastened into his presence, and with the affection of a child shook, and shook, and shook his hand, as he fell on his knees and kissed hers. "Poor Harry!" she says, "how I have longed to see you, and your poor wife and children!"

"Ah, Franconia, my young missus, it is for them my soul fears."

"But we have found out where they are," she interrupts.

"Where they are!" he reiterates.

"Indeed we have!" Franconia makes a significant motion with her head.

"It's true, Harry; and we'll see what can be done to get them back, one of these days," adds Mrs. Rosebrook, her soul-glowing eyes affirming the truth of her a.s.sertion. They have come out to spend the day at the plantation, and a happy day it is for those whose hearts they gladden with their kind words. How happy would be our south-how desolate the mania for abolition--if such a comity of good feeling between master and slaves existed on every plantation! And there is nothing to hinder such happy results of kindness.

"When that day comes, missus,--that day my good old woman and me will be together again,--how happy I shall be! Seems as if the regaining that one object would complete my earthly desires. And my children,--how much I have felt for them, and how little I have said!" returns Harry, as, seated in the veranda of the plantation mansion, the two ladies near him are watching his rising emotions.