the pretty children are to be sold
how varied are the sources of human nature-how changing its tints and glows-how immeasurable its uncertainties, and how obdurate the will that can turn its tenderest threads into profitable degradation! but what democrat can know himself a freeman when the whitest blood makes good merchandise in the market? when the only lineal stain on a mother's name for ever binds the chains, let no man boast of liberty. the very voice re-echoes, oh, man, why be a hypocrite! cans't thou not see the scorner looking from above? but the oligarchy asks in tones so modest, so full of chivalrous fascination, what hast thou to do with that? be no longer a fanatic. so we will bear the warning-pass from it for the present.
more than two years have passed; writs of error have been filed and argued; the children have dragged out time in a prison-house. is it in freedom's land a prison was made for the innocent to waste in? so it is, and may heaven one day change the tenour! excuse, reader, this digression, and let us proceed with our narrative.
the morning is clear and bright; mrs. rosebrook sits at the window of her cheerful villa, watching the approach of the post-rider seen in the distance, near a cluster of oaks that surround the entrance of the arbour, at the north side of the garden. the scene spread out before her is full of rural beauty, softened by the dew-decked foliage, clothing the landscape with its clumps. as if some fairy hand had spread a crystal mist about the calm of morning, and angels were bedecking it with the richest tints of a rising sun at morn, the picture sparkles with silvery life. there she sits, her soft glowing eyes scanning the reposing scene, as her graceful form seems infusing spirit into its silent loveliness. and then she speaks, as if whispering a secret to the wafting air: "our happy union!" it falls upon the ear like some angel voice speaking of things too pure, too holy for the caprices of earth. she would be a type of that calmness pervading the scene-that sweetness and repose which seem mingling to work out some holy purpose; and yet there is a touching sadness depicted in her face.
"two years have passed; how changed!" she exclaims, as if rousing from a reverie: "i would not be surprised if he brought bad tidings."
the postman has reached the gate and delivered a letter, which the servant quickly bears to her hand. she grasps it anxiously, as if recognising the superscription; opens it nervously; reads the contents. it is from franconia, interceding with her in behalf of her uncle and the two children, in the following manner:--"my dearest friend,
"can i appeal to one whose feelings are more ready to be enlisted in a good cause? i think not. i wish now to enlist your feelings in something that concerns myself. it is to save two interesting children-who, though our eyes may at times be blinded to facts, i cannot forget are nearly allied to me by birth and association-from the grasp of slavery. misfortune never comes alone; nor, in this instance, need i recount ours to you. of my own i will say but little; the least is best. into wedlock i have been sold to one it were impossible for me to love; he cannot cherish the respect due to my feelings. his associations are of the coarsest, and his heartless treatment beyond my endurance. he subjects me to the meanest grievances; makes my position more degraded than that of the slave upon whom he gratifies his lusts. had my parents saved me from such a monster-i cannot call him less-they would have saved me many a painful reflection. as for his riches-i know not whether they really exist-they are destined only to serve his lowest passions. with him misfortune is a crime; and i am made to suffer under his taunts about the disappearance of my brother, the poverty of my parents.
"you are well aware of the verdict of the jury, and the affirmation of the court of appeal, upon those dear children. the decree orders them to be sold in the market, for the benefit of my uncle's creditors: this is the day, the fatal day, the sale takes place. let me beseech of you, as you have it in your power, to induce the deacon to purchase them. o, save them from the fate that awaits them! you know my uncle's errors; you know also his goodness of heart; you can sympathise with him in his sudden downfall. then the affection he has for annette is unbounded. no father could be more dotingly fond of his legitimate child. but you know what our laws are-what they force us to do against our better inclinations. annette's mother, poor wretch, has fled, and m'carstrow charges me with being accessory to her escape: i cannot, nor will i, deny it, while my most ardent prayer invokes her future happiness. that she has saved herself from a life of shame i cannot doubt; and if i have failed to carry out a promise i made her before her departure-that of rescuing her child-the satisfaction of knowing that she at least is enjoying the reward of freedom partially repays my feelings. let me entreat you to repair to the city, and, at least, rescue annette from that life of shame and disgrace now pending over her-a shame and disgrace no less black in the sight of heaven because society tolerates it as among the common things of social life.
"i am now almost heart-broken, and fear it will soon be my lot to be driven from under the roof of colonel m'carstrow, which is no longer a home, but a mere place of durance to me. it would be needless for me here to recount his conduct. were i differently constituted i might tolerate his abuse, and accept a ruffian's recompense in consideration of his wealth.
"go, my dear friend, save that child,
"is the prayer of your affectionate
"franconia."
mrs. rosebrook reads and re-reads the letter; then heaves a sigh as she lays it upon the table at her side. as if discussing the matter in her mind, her face resumes a contemplative seriousness.
"and those children are to be sold in the market! who won't they sell, and sanctify the act? how can i relieve them? how can i be their friend, for franconia's sake? my husband is away on the plantation, and i cannot brave the coarse slang of a slave mart; i cannot mingle with those who there congregate.
"and, too, there are so many such cases-bearing on their front the fallacy of this our democracy-that however much one may have claims over another, it were impossible to take one into consideration without inciting a hundred to press their demands. in this sense, then, the whole accursed system would have to be uprooted before the remedy could be applied effectually. notwithstanding, i will go; i will go: i'll see what can be done in the city," says mrs. rosebrook, bristling with animation. "our ladies must have something to arouse their energies; they all have a deep interest to serve, and can do much:" she will summon resolution and brave all. rising from her seat, she paces the room several times, and then orders a servant to command uncle bradshaw to get the carriage ready, and be prepared for a drive into the city.
soon bradshaw has got the carriage ready, and our good lady is on the road, rolling away toward the city. as they approach a curvature that winds round a wooded hill, bradshaw intimates to "missus" that he sees signs of a camp a short distance ahead. he sees smoke curling upwards among the trees, and very soon the notes of a long-metre tune fall softly on the ear, like the tinkling of distant bells in the desert. louder and louder, as they approach, the sounds become more and more distinct. then our good lady recognises the familiar voice of elder pemberton praiseworthy. this worthy christian of the southern church is straining his musical organ to its utmost capacity, in the hope there will be no doubt left on the minds of those congregated around him as to his very sound piety. the carriage rounds the curvature, and there, encamped in a grove of pines by the road side, is our pious elder, administering consolation to his infirm property. such people! they present one of the most grotesque and indiscriminate spectacles ever eyes beheld. the cholera has subsided; the elder's greatest harvest time is gone; few victims are to be found for the elder's present purposes. now he is constrained to resort to the refuse of human property (those afflicted with what are called ordinary diseases), to keep alive the christian motive of his unctuous business. to speak plainly, he must content himself with the purchase of such infirmity as can be picked up here and there about the country.
a fire of pine knots blazes in the centre of a mound, and over it hangs an iron kettle, on a straddle, filled with corn-grits. around this, and anxiously watching its boiling, are the lean figures of negroes, with haggard and sickly faces, telling but too forcibly the tale of their troubles. they watch and watch, mutter in grumbling accents, stir the homony, and sit down again. two large mule carts stand in the shade of a pine tree, a few yards from the fire. a few paces further on are the mules tethered, quietly grazing; while, seated on a whiskey-keg, is the elder, book in hand, giving out the hymn to some ten or a dozen infirm negroes seated round him on the ground. they have enjoyed much consolation by listening with wondrous astonishment to the elder's exhortations, and are now ready to join their musical jargon to the words of a watts's hymn.
on arriving opposite the spot, our good lady requests bradshaw to stop; which done, the elder recognises her, and suddenly adjourning his spiritual exercises, advances to meet her, his emotions expanding with enthusiastic joy. in his eagerness, with outstretched hand, he comes sailing along, trips his toe in a vine, and plunges head foremost into a broad ditch that separates the road from the rising ground.
the accident is very unfortunate at this moment; the elder's enthusiasm is somewhat cooled, nevertheless; but, as there is seldom a large loss without a small gain, he finds himself strangely bespattered from head to foot with the ingredients of a quagmire.
"u'h! u'h! u'h! my dear madam, pardon me, i pray;--strange moment to meet with a misfortune of this kind. but i was so glad to see you!" he ejaculates, sensitively, making the best of his way out, brushing his sleeves, and wiping his face with his never-failing india handkerchief. he approaches the carriage, apologising for his appearance.
he hopes our lady will excuse him, having so far lost himself in his enthusiasm, which, together with the fervency and devotion of the spiritual exercises he was enjoying with his poor, helpless property, made him quite careless of himself. begging a thousand pardons for presenting himself in such a predicament (his gallantry is proverbially southern), he forgets that his hat and spectacles have been dislodged by his precipitation into the ditch.
the good lady reaches out her hand, as a smile curls over her face; but bradshaw must grin; and grin he does, in right good earnest.
"bless me, my dear elder! what trade are you now engaged in?" she enquires.
"a little devotional exercises, my dear madam! we were enjoying them with so much christian feeling that i was quite carried away, indeed i was!" he rubs his fingers through his bristly hair, and then downwards to his nasal organ, feeling for his devoted glasses. he is surprised at their absence-makes another apology. he affirms, adding his sacred honour, as all real southerners do, that he had begun to feel justified in the belief that there never was a religion like that preached by the good apostles, when such rural spots as this (he points to his encampment) were chosen for its administration. everything round him made him feel so good, so much like the purest christian of the olden time. he tells her, with great seriousness, that we must serve god, and not forget poor human nature, never! to the world he would seem labouring under the influence of those inert convictions by which we strive to conceal our natural inclinations, while drawing the flimsy curtain of "to do good" over the real object.
he winks and blinks, rubs his eyes, works his face into all the angles and contortions it is capable of, and commences searching for his hat and spectacles. both are necessary adjuncts to his pious appearance; without them there is that in the expression of his countenance from which none can fail to draw an unfavourable opinion of his real character. the haggard, care-worn face, browned to the darkest tropical tints; the ceaseless leer of that small, piercing eye, anxiety and agitation pervading the tout ensemble of the man, will not be dissembled. nay; those acute promontories of the face, narrow and sharp, and that low, reclining forehead, and head covered with bristly iron-grey hair, standing erect in rugged tufts, are too strong an index of character for all the disguises elder pemberton praiseworthy can invent.
"one minute, my dear madam," he exclaims, in his eagerness for the lost ornaments of his face.
"never mind them, elder; never mind them! in my eyes you are just as well without them," she rejoins, an ironical smile invading her countenance, and a curl of contempt on her lip. "but,--tell me what are you doing here?"
"here! my dear madam? doing good for mankind and the truth of religion. i claim merit of the parish, for my pursuit is laudable, and saves the parish much trouble," says the elder, beginning to wax warm in the goodness of his pursuit, before anyone has undertaken to dispute him, or question the purity of his purpose.
"still speculating in infirmity; making a resurrection man of yourself! you are death's strongest opponent; you fight the great slayer for small dollars and cents."
"well, now," interrupts the elder, with a serious smile, "i'd rather face a mexican army than a woman's insinuating questions,--in matters of this kind! but it's business, ye see! according to law; and ye can't get over that. there's no getting over the law; and he that serveth the lord, no matter how, deserveth recompense; my recompense is in the amount of life i saves for the nigger."
"that is not what i asked; you evade my questions, elder! better acknowledge honestly, for the sake of the country, where did you pick up these poor wretches?"
"i goes round the district, madam, and picks up a cripple here, and a cancer case there, and a dropsy doubtful yonder; and then, some on em's got diseases what don't get out until one comes to apply medical skill. shan't make much on these sort o' cases,--"
the lady interrupts him, by bidding him good morning, and advising him, whenever he affects to serve the lord, to serve him honestly, without a selfish motive. she leaves the elder to his own reflections, to carry his victim property to his charnel-house, where, if he save life for the enjoyment of liberty, he may serve the lord to a good purpose. she leaves him to the care of the christian church of the south,--the church of christian slavery, the rules of which he so strictly follows.
as our good lady moves quickly away toward the city, the elder looks up, imploringly, as if invoking the praise of heaven on his good deeds. he is, indeed, astonished, that his dear friend, the lady, should have made such a declaration so closely applied, so insinuating. that such should have escaped her lips when she must know that his very soul and intention are purity! "i never felt like making a wish before now; and now i wishes i was, or that my father had made me, a lawyer. i would defend my position in a legal sense then! i don't like lawyers generally, i confess; the profession's not as honourable as ours, and its members are a set of sharpers, who would upset gospel and everything else for a small fee, they would!" he concludes, as his eyes regrettingly wander after the carriage. the words have moved him; there is something he wishes to say, but can't just get the point he would arrive at. he turns away, sad at heart, to his sadder scenes. "i know that my redeemer liveth," he sings.
in the city a different piece is in progress of performance. papers, and all necessary preparations for procuring the smooth transfer of the youthful property, are completed; customers have begun to gather round the mart. some are searching among the negroes sent to the warehouse; others are inquiring where this property, advertised in the morning journals, and so strongly commented upon, may be found. they have been incited to examine, in consequence of the many attractions set forth in the conditions of sale.
there the two children sit, on a little seat near the vender's tribune. old aunt dina, at the prison, has dressed annette so neatly! her white pinafore shines so brightly, is so neatly arranged, and her silky auburn locks curl so prettily, in tiny ringlets, over her shoulders; and then her round fair face looks so sweetly, glows with such innocent curiosity, as her soft blue eyes, deep with sparkling vivacity, wander over the strange scene. she instinctively feels that she is the special object of some important event. laying her little hand gently upon the arm of an old slave that sits by her side, she casts shy glances at those admirers who stand round her and view her as a marketable article only.
"auntie, where are they going to take me?" the child inquires, with a solicitous look, as she straightens the folds of her dress with her little hands.
"gwine t' sell 'um," mumbles the old slave. "lor', child, a'h wishes ye wa'h mine; reckon da'h wouldn't sell ye. t'ant much to sell nigger like i, nohow; but e' hurt my feelins just so 'twarnt right t' sell de likes o' ye." the old slave, in return, lays her hand upon annette's head, and smooths her hair, as if solicitous of her fate. "sell ye, child-sell ye?" she concludes, shaking her head.
"and what will they do with me and nicholas when they get us sold?" continues the child, turning to nicholas and taking him by the arm.
"don' kno': perhaps save ye fo'h sinnin' agin de lor'," is the old slave's quick reply. she shakes her head doubtingly, and bursts into tears, as she takes annette in her arms, presses her to her bosom, kisses and kisses her pure cheek. how heavenly is the affection of that old slave--how it rebukes our christian mockery!
"will they sell us where we can't see mother, auntie? i do want to see mother so," says the child, looking up in the old slave's face. there seemed something too pure, too holy, in the child's simplicity, as it prattled about its mother, for such purposes as it is about to be consigned to. "they do not sell white folks, auntie, do they? my face is as white as anybody's; and nicholas's aint black. i do want to see mother so! when will she come back and take care of me, auntie?"
"lor', child," interrupts the old negro, suppressing her emotions, "no use to ax dem questions ven ye gwine t' market. buckra right smart at makin' nigger what bring cash."
the child expresses a wish that auntie would take her back to the old plantation, where master, as mother used to call him, wouldn't let them sell her away off. and she shakes her head with an air of unconscious pertness; tells the old negro not to cry for her.
the cryer's bell sounds forth its muddling peals to summon the customers; a grotesque mixture of men close round the stand. the old slave, as if from instinct, again takes annette in her arms, presses and presses her to her bosom, looks compassionately in her face, and smiles while a tear glistens in her eyes. she is inspired by the beauty of the child; her heart bounds with affection for her tender years; she loves her because she is lovely; and she smiles upon her as a beautiful image of god's creation. but the old slave grieves over her fate; her grief flows from the purity of the heart; she knows not the rules of the slave church.
annette is born a child of sorrow in this our land of love and liberty; she is a democrat's daughter, cursed by the inconsistencies of that ever-praised democratic goodness. a child! nothing more than an item of common trade. it is even so; but let not happy democracy blush, for the child, being merchandise, has no claims to that law of the soul which looks above the frigidity of slave statutes. what generosity is there in this generous land? what impulses of nature not quenched by force of public opinion, when the associations of a child like this (we are picturing a true story), her birth and blood, her clear complexion, the bright carnatic of her cheek, will not save her from the mercenary grasp of dollars and cents? it was the law; the law had made men demons, craving the bodies and souls of their fellow men. it was the white man's charge to protect the law and the constitution; and any manifestation of sympathy for this child would be in violation of a system which cannot be ameliorated without endangering the whole structure: hence the comments escaping from purchasers are only such as might have been expressed by the sporting man in his admiration of a finely proportioned animal.
"what a sweet child!" says one, as they close round.
"make a woman when she grows up!" rejoins another, twirling his cane, and giving his hat an extra set on the side of his head.
"take too long to keep it afore its valuable is developed; but it's a picture of beauty. face would do to take drawings from, it's so full of delicate outlines," interposes a third.
an old gentleman, with something of the ministerial in his countenance, and who has been very earnestly watching them for some time, thinks a great deal about the subject of slavery, and the strange laws by which it is governed just at this moment. he says, "one is inspired with a sort of admiration that unlocks the heart, while gazing at such delicacy and child-like sweetness as is expressed in the face of that child." he points his cane coldly at annette. "it causes a sort of reaction in one's sense of right, socially and politically, when we see it mixed up with niggers and black ruffians to be sold."
"must abide the laws, though," says a gentleman in black, on his left.
"yes," returns our friend, quickly, "if such property could be saved the hands of speculators"--
"speculators! speculators!" rejoins the gentleman in black, knitting his brows.
"yes; it's always the case in our society. the beauty of such property makes it dangerous about a well-ordained man's house. our ladies, generally, have no sympathy with, and rather dislike its ill-gotten tendencies. the piety of the south amounts to but little in its influence on the slave population. the slave population generates its own piety. there is black piety and white piety; but the white piety effects little when it can dispose of poor black piety just as it pleases; and there's no use in clipping the branches off the tree while the root is diseased," concludes our ministerial-looking gentleman, who might have been persuaded himself to advance a bid, were he not so well versed in the tenour of society that surrounded him.
during the above ad interim at the shambles, our good lady, mrs. rosebrook, is straining every nerve to induce a gentleman of her acquaintance to repair to the mart, and purchase the children on her account.
