Aunt Phillis's Cabin Part 10

"He was over in a moment. The superintendent, sir, gave him a blow between the eyes, with a fist that was hard as iron. The man staggered, and fell. I helped him up, sir; and I reckon he thought matters might be worse still, for he slowly walked off.

"'D----d free country,' he muttered to me, in a kind of confidential tone.

'I thought they only knocked n.i.g.g.e.rs over in Ameriky. Be me soul, but I'll go back to Ireland.'

"I could not help expressing my astonishment to the superintendent, repeating the Irishman's words, 'I thought only n.i.g.g.e.rs could be knocked over in this country.'

"'n.i.g.g.e.rs!' said the superintendent, 'I guess if you had to deal with Irishmen, you'd find yourself obliged to knock 'em down.'

"'But don't the laws protect them?' I asked.

"'Laws! why railroads have to be made, and have to be made the right way.

I aint afraid of the laws. I think no more of knocking an Irishman over, sir, than I do of eating my dinner. One is as necessary as the other.'

"Now," continued Mr. Chapman, "if an Abolitionist sees a slave knocked over, he runs home to tell his mammy; it's enough to bring fire and brimstone, and hail, and earthquakes on the whole country. A man must have a black skin or his sorrows can never reach the hearts of these gentlemen.

They had better look about at home. There is wrong enough there to make a fuss about."

"Well," said the Englishman, "you had both better come back to the mother country. The beautiful words, so often quoted, of Curran, may invite you: 'No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the G.o.d sink together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal emanc.i.p.ation.'"

"Thank you, sir, for your invitation," said Mr. Chapman, "but I'll stay in Virginia. The old State is good enough for me. I have been to England, and I saw some of your redeemed, regenerated, disenthralled people--I saw features on women's faces that haunted me afterward in my dreams. I saw children with shrivelled, attenuated limbs, and countenances that were old in misery and vice--such men, women, and children as d.i.c.kens and Charlotte Elizabeth tell about. My little grand-daughter was recovering from a severe illness, not long ago, and I found her weeping in her old nurse's arms. 'O!

grandpa,' said she, as I inquired the cause of her distress, 'I have been reading "The Little Pin-headers."' I wept over it too, for it was true. No, sir; if I must see slavery, let me see it in its best form, as it exists in our Southern country."

"You are right, sir, I fear," said the Englishman.

"Well," said Mr. Perkins, "I am glad I am not a slaveholder, for one reason; I am sure I should never get to heaven. I should be knocking brains out from morning till night, that is if there are brains under all that ma.s.s of wool. Why, they are so slow, and inactive--I should be stumbling over them all the time; though from the specimens I have seen in your house, sir, I should say they made most agreeable servants."

"My servants are very faithful," said Mr. Weston, "they have had great pains taken with them. I rarely have any complaints from the overseer."

"Your overseers,--that is the worst feature in slavery," said Mr. Perkins.

"Why, sir," said Mr. Chapman, ready for another argument, "you have your superintendents at the North--and they can knock their people down whenever they see fit."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Perkins. "I had forgotten that."

"Stay a little while with us," said Mr. Chapman, as Mr. Weston rose to lead the way to the drawing-room. "You will not find us so bad as you think. We may roast a negro now and then, when we have a barbecue, but that will be our way of showing you hospitality. You must remember we are only 'poor heathenish Southerners' according to the best received opinions of some who live with you in New England."

"Alice," said Mrs. Weston, at a late hour in the evening, when the last of the guests were taking their departure, "Walter would like to see you in the library; but, my love, I wish you would spare yourself and him the useless pain of parting."

"I must see him, dear mother, do not refuse me; it is for the last time--pray, let me go."

"If you choose," and Alice glided away as her mother was interrupted by the leave-taking of some of their visitors. The forms, the courtesies of life had no claims upon her now--she was enduring her first sorrow; the foundation of youth's slight fabric of happiness was yielding beneath her touch. The dread "nevermore," that Edgar Poe could not drive from his heart and sight, was oppressing her. She sought him before whom her young heart had bowed, not the less devotedly and humbly that it was silently and secretly. It was to be a bitter parting, not as when she watched to the last Arthur Weston, who was dear to her as ever was brother to a sister, for they had the promise and hope of meeting again; but now there was no tear in her eye, no trembling in her frame, and no hope in her heart. From the utmost depth of her soul arose the prophetic voice, "Thou shalt see him no more."

"Alice," said Walter, taking her hand between both of his, and gazing at her face, as pale and sad as his own, "it is your mother's wish that from this time we should be strangers to each other, even loving as we do; that our paths on earth should separate, never to meet again. Is it your wish too?"

"We must part; you know it, Walter," said Alice, musingly, looking out upon, but not seeing the calm river, and the stars that gazed upon its waves, and all the solemn beauty with which night had invested herself.

"But you love me, Alice; and will you see me go from you forever, without hope? Will you yourself speak the word that sends me forth a wanderer upon the earth?" said Walter.

"What can I do?" said Alice.

"Choose, Alice, your own destiny, and fix mine."

"Walter, I cannot leave my mother; I would die a thousand times rather than bring such sorrow upon her who has known so much. My uncle, too--my more than father--oh! Walter, I have sinned, and I suffer."

"You are wise, Alice; you have chosen well; you cling to mother, and home, and friends; I have none of these ties; there is not upon earth a being so utterly friendless as I am."

"Dear Walter, you have friends, and you can make them; you have wealth, talent, and many gifts from G.o.d. Go forth into the world and use them. Let your n.o.ble heart take courage; and in a.s.sisting others and making them happy, you will soon be happy yourself."

Walter looked at her with surprise: such words were unlike her, whom he had been accustomed to consider a loving and lovely child. But a bitter smile pa.s.sed over his countenance, and in a stern voice he said, "And you, Alice, what are you to do?"

"G.o.d alone knows," said Alice, forced into a consideration of her own sorrow, and resting against a lounge near which she had been standing. She wept bitterly. Walter did not attempt to restrain her, but stood as if contemplating a grief that he could not wish to control. Alice again spoke, "It must come, dear Walter, first or last, and we may as well speak the farewell which must be spoken--but I could endure my part, if I had the hope that you will be happy. Will you promise me you will try to be?"

"No, Alice, I cannot promise you that; if happiness were in our own power, I would not be looking on you, whom I have loved all my life, for the last time.

"But I will hope," he continued, "you may be fortunate enough to forget and be happy."

"Children," said Miss Janet--for she had gently approached them--"do you know when and where happiness is to be found? When we have done all that G.o.d has given us to do here; and in the heaven, above those stars that are now looking down upon you. Look upon Alice, Walter, with the hope of meeting again; and until then, let the remembrance of her beauty and her love be ever about you. Let her hear of you as one who deserves the pure affection of her young and trusting heart. You have lived as brother and sister; part as such, and may the blessing of G.o.d be upon both of you forever."

Walter took Alice in his arms, and kissed her cheek; all sternness and pride had gone from his handsome face, but there was such a look of hopeless sorrow there, as we would not willingly behold on the countenance of one so young.

Cousin Janet led him away, and with words of solemn, deep affection, bade him farewell--words that came again, for a time, unheeded and unwelcomed--words that at the last brought hope and peace to a fainting heart.

Cousin Janet returned to Alice, whose face lay hidden within her hands: "Alice, darling," she said, "look up--G.o.d is here; forget your own grief, and think of one who suffered, and who feels for all who, like Him, must bear the burden of mortality. Think of your many blessings, and how grateful you should feel for them; think of your mother, who for years wept as you, I trust, may never weep; think of your kind uncle, who would die to save you an hour's pain. Trust the future, with all its fears, to G.o.d, and peace will come with the very effort to attain it."

"Oh, Cousin Janet," said Alice, "if Walter were not so lonely; he knows not where he is going, nor what he is going to do."

"It is true," said Cousin Janet, weeping too; "but we can hope, and trust, and pray. And now, my love, let us join your mother in her room; it is a sad parting for her, too, for Walter is dear to us all."

Reader! have so many years pa.s.sed away, that thou hast forgotten the bitterness of thy first sorrow, or is it yet to come? Thinkest thou there is a way of escape--none, unless thou art young, and Death interpose, saving thee from all sadness, and writing on thy grave, "Do not weep for me, thou knowest not how much of sorrow this early tomb has saved me."

When were thy first thoughts of death? I do not mean the sight of the coffin, the pall, or any of its sad accompaniments, but the time when the mind first arrested itself with the melancholy convictions of mortality.

There was a holiday for me in my young days, to which I looked forward as the Mohammedan to his Paradise; this was a visit to a country-place, where I revelled in the breath of the woodbines and sweetbriers, and where I sat under tall and spreading trees, and wondered why towns and cities were ever built. The great willows swept the windows of the chamber where I slept, and faces with faded eyes looked upon me from their old frames, by the moonlight, as I fell asleep, after the day's enjoyment. I never tired of wandering through the gardens, where were roses and sweet-williams, hyacinths and honeysuckles, and flowers of every shape and hue. This was the fairy spot of my recollection, for even childhood has its cares, and there were memories of little griefs, which time has never chased away.

There I used to meet two children, who often roamed through the near woods with me. I do not remember their ages nor their names; they were younger though than I. They might not have been beautiful, but I recollect the bright eyes, and that downy velvet hue that is only found on the soft check of infancy.

Summer came; and when I went again, I found the clematis sweeping the garden walks, and the lilies-of-the-valley bending under the weight of their own beauty. So we walked along, I and an old servant, stopping to enter an arbor, or to raise the head of a drooping plant, or to pluck a sweet-scented shrub, and place it in my bosom. "Where are the little girls?" I asked. "Have they come again, too?"

"Yes, they are here," she said, as we approached two little mounds, covered over with the dark-green myrtle and its purple flowers.

"What is here?"

"Child, here are the little ones you asked for."

Oh! those little myrtle-covered graves, how wonderingly I gazed upon them.

There was no thought of death mingled with my meditation; there was, of quiet and repose, but not of death. I had seen no sickness, no suffering, and I only wondered why those fair children had laid down under the myrtle.

I fancied them with the fringed eyelids drooping over the cheeks, and the velvet hue still there. How much did I know of death? As little as of life!