CHAPTER XII."WILL you go to the plantation with me to-morrow, Eulalia?" asked Moreland of his wife, a few days after the departure of Ildegerte. "Oh, yes!" she answered with eagerness; "there is nothing I desire so much." "As the season has advanced with uncommon rapidity,"
said he, "they have already commenced the picking of
cotton, which will be something of a novelty to you. The
fields are whitening for the harvest, and the labourers are
gathering it in. But oh! my sweet Northern wife!" he added
with a smile, "what a trial it will be of your love, to see your
husband in the full exercise of his despotic power! You
have only seen me in the household, and have thought me,
perhaps, tolerably gentle. But what will you say when you
see me driving
the poor creatures through the cotton rows with a knotted lash, and making the white bolls red with their dripping blood? Can you love me still, and plead the force of custom in my behalf?" "You speak mockingly. I fear no such test of the strength of my affection. You allude to what I once believed, to what so many of my Northern friends still believe; and I cannot wonder so much at the scornful smile that curls your lip. I know you too well now to credit such enormities. How I wish father were here, even for a little while! Cannot we induce him to come?" "I hope so. I hope to see all your family, my Eulalia, gathered round your Southern home. Reuben is to be a lawyer. The professions are all crowded at the North; here he will have a wider scope and more abundant materials to work upon. Plenty of litigation here. I promised Dora to build her a bower of roses, and people it with canaries and mocking birds, expressly for her accommodation. Mark my prophecy, Eulalia. You will have all your family here, true-hearted Southerners, by and by." "And Betsy with them?" said Eulalia, smiling. "Oh, yes! I plighted my vows to Betsy, before our
marriage, and I must not falsify them. She is an honest,
industrious creature, worth a dozen of our pampered
negroes. You must have perceived, even now, how much
heavier the burthen of servitude is at the
North than here, where the labour is divided among so many." "Yes! in the town; but I suppose on the plantations they must work very hard indeed, even when they have humane masters and overseers." "You shall judge for yourself. They have their appointed
tasks, and then, if they choose, they labour for themselves.
There is one trait in the negro character of which you may
not be conscious. You cannot make them work habitually
beyond their strength. You can get a certain amount of
labour out of them, and beyond that they will not go.
Masters and overseers, having learned this fact from
experience, seldom attempt to push them over this
boundary. If they do, they meet with an obstinate
resistance which coercion never can overcome. This
peculiarity is one of the negro's greatest safeguards from
the requirements of selfish power. The self-interest of his
employer is enlisted on his side, and we all know what a
powerful principle it is. A certain amount of labour is a
blessing to every human being. That God willed it to be so,
is proved by the withering curse of ennui, resting on the
idler. You think, perhaps, it must be a curse to work under
the burning sun of our sultry clime. It would be for me; it
would be for the white man; but the negro, native of a
tropic zone, and constitutionally adapted to its heat,
luxuriates in the beams which would parch us with fever. I
have studied him physiologically as well as
mentally and morally, and I find some remarkable characteristics, perhaps unknown to you. In the first place, his skull has a hardness and thickness far greater than our own, which defy the arrowy sunbeams of the South. Then his skin, upon minute examination, is very different from ours, in other respects as well as colour. It secretes a far greater quantity of moisture, which, like dew, throws back the heat absorbed by us. I could mention many more peculiarities which prove his adaptedness to the situation he occupies, but I fear I weary you, Eulalia." "Oh, no! I have heard the subject discussed since my earliest recollection, yet I acknowledge my profound ignorance. Every circumstance you mention is new to me." "No man living," added Moreland, with a countenance
of deep and earnest thought, "regards the negro with more
kindness and sympathy than myself. I would sooner give
my right hand to the flames than make it the instrument of
cruelty and oppression to them. They are entwined with my
affections as well as my interests. I was born and brought
up in their midst, and they are as much incorporated with
my being as the trees which have shaded my infancy and
childhood, and the streams on whose banks I have been
accustomed to wander. I never dreamed, when a boy, that it
was possible to separate my existence from theirs, any more
than I could flee from the shadows of night. How little do
the people
of the North reflect upon all this! How little do they understand the almost indissoluble ties that bind us to each other! And yet," he cried, excited to greater warmth as he proceeded, "strong as are these ties, and dear as are these interests, I can never look upon the negro as my equal in the scale of being. He has a heart as kind and affectionate as my own, a soul as immortal, and so far I claim him as my brother; but he is not my equal physically or mentally, and I do not degrade him or exalt myself by this admission. When Africa, as a nation, stands side by side with the other nations of the world in the arts and sciences, in literature and genius, by its own inherent energies and powers, then I will subscribe to this equality, but not till then. God has not made all men equal, though men wiser than God would have it so. Inequality is one of Nature's laws. The mountains and the valleys proclaim it. It is written on the firmament of heaven. It is felt in the social system, and always will be felt, in spite of the dreams of the enthusiast or the efforts of the reformer." Moreland paused. The shadow of a great thought rested on his brow. Eulalia looked anxiously towards him. He smiled. "You must not mind me when I fall into revery. It is my
habit. But come, my Eulalia,"—there was inexpressible
grace and tenderness in the manner in which he thus
expressed his ownership—never had her name
sounded so sweet, never had the possessive pronoun seemed so significant or appropriate—"sing me one of your own charming songs. I have heard a great deal of music, but never anything that thrilled my heart like the voice of the village chorister." Eulalia looked at the superb piano that stood near, silent beneath its crimson cover, at the guitar swathed in green, leaning against the wall, instruments which the fingers of Claudia had once swept, and a blush rose to her cheeks. Moreland interpreted the glance and blush. "Will my wife become a pupil, for my sake?" asked he, drawing her towards him. "Will she learn the use of those now silent keys and loosened chords?" "Gladly, most gladly," she answered. "I have always sighed for such advantages, but I never expressed the wish. I knew my father toiled to supply us with the comforts of life. How could I be selfish enough to beg for its luxuries?" "Well, as soon as we return from the plantation we will arrange our plans. You shall have the best of music masters, and I know you will make a marvellous pupil. But after all there is no instrument comparable to the God-tuned human voice!" As soon as Eulalia began to sing, the little Effie came
flying in, and nestling in her arms, listened, as if an angel
were singing. She sat with her head thrown
slightly back, her red lips parted, and her wildly brilliant eyes suffused with a glistening moisture. "More!" she cried, when Eulalia paused. "Effie good girl, when mamma sing." "She will make a musician," said Eulalia, turning to her husband, while she fondly caressed the child. "I never saw so young a child exhibit such a passionate love of music. Several times, when she has stubbornly resisted my authority, I have subdued her into the gentlest obedience, by singing a few simple strains." "I do not wonder at it," said Moreland, gazing with passionate tenderness on the lovely young stepmother, cradling in her arms the brilliant little sprite, whom she was teaching him to love. "I am sure if I were in the wildest paroxysm of anger, your voice would soothe me into peace." "But you never have such paroxysms," said she, with a smile; "so I shall have no opportunity of proving my power on you." "You do not know me, my Eulalia. My bosom is the couchant lion's lair." "I have never seen you angry. I think the lion must be very tame. I do not fear it." "You need not," said he, looking fixedly upon the sweet,
confiding, angelic countenance; "you could bind it with a
silken thread. I remember, when a boy, reading about a holy
virgin going on a pilgrimage through the wilderness, and
the wild beasts hushed their
howlings, and crouched submissively at her feet. The serpent that came hissing from the crevices of the rocks, curled in loving folds innoxious in her path; and the birds flew down and nestled in her bosom. You have taught me the meaning of that allegory, my gentle wife." He stooped down, kissed her, and left the room. He seemed moved, agitated. There was a world of sensibility in the darkening lustre of his eyes. She knew he had been thinking of Claudia, whose name had never been breathed between them since she had taken her place as the mistress of his home. A thousand times had it hovered on her lips, yet she had never dared to utter it; and the past seemed a sealed book to him. The servants had evidently been instructed not to talk of their former mistress; and Eulalia had too much delicacy to question them on a forbidden theme. Sometimes Kizzie would say, looking at Effie, "Just see, ain't she the living military of her mother?—them black eyes, and that red, saucy mouth of hers. Bless your soul, Kizzie!" clapping her hand over her own broad lips, "what that you talking 'bout? What your Mars. Russell tell you? Poor master! he had a heap of trouble!—all over now, tho', bless a Lord!" Eulalia well knew that Kizzie longed to relate all that she
knew; and, had she questioned her, she would have
considered herself bound to obey her mistress, even in
opposition to her master's commands, for had he not
told her himself, to obey her in all things? But Eulalia's respect for her husband equalled her love, and she considered his domestic misfortunes too sacred for curiosity. Yet the image of Claudia was for ever flitting before her. She would have given anything for one glimpse of the face, the haunting face, her imagination had drawn. It was not jealousy she felt, for she was sure of her husband's undivided love; but he had loved and wedded another, and death had not broken the nuptial bond. She lived!—where, how near, she knew not. She had a conviction that they must one day meet, and a thrill of indescribable emotion penetrated her, at the thought. She knew that, whatever were the circumstances of the separation, Moreland was not the offending party; but she also knew, by the dark expression that sometimes swept over his countenance, how much and deeply he must have suffered. "Oh, never, never may he suffer through me!" was her soul's most fervent prayer; "let sorrow, danger, death come, if God will, but let our hearts still be one. Welcome any thing, every thing but estrangement from him!" The next morning, at an early hour, they commenced their
journey to the plantation. It was a two days' ride, and Kizzie
made sumptuous preparations for their comfort. She packed
up the greatest quantity of cake, biscuits, cold ham, and
tongue, for their wayside luncheons,
not forgetting the generous cordial and the sparkling wine. "You must think, Kizzie, that your mistress and myself are blest with fine appetites," said Moreland, laughing. "Ain't I going too, Mars. Russell, and ain't Miss Effie to be provided for? Besides, one likes to give a bit to the driver, you know, master." "Is it your wish to take the child?" asked he, in some surprise, turning to Eulalia. "Certainly—that is, if you have no objection." "Oh, no! but will she not trouble you?" "Even if she did, I would not like to leave her behind." "Then I will go on horseback, as your escort, Kizzie will occupy a very comfortable space in the carriage, and Effie frisks about like a little monkey, wherever she is." "Let us leave her by all means, then," said Eulalia. "I did not think of its depriving you of a seat. How inconsiderate I am!" "Effie, my darling," added she, taking her up in her arms, "I am sorry we cannot take you; but Aunt Kizzie will be very good to you while we are gone. And you will be very good, will you not?" "No! I won't be good! I'll go too!" cried the child, struggling and kicking like an angry kitten. "I won't stay! Kizzie sha'n't stay!" The little creature's eyes actually blazed on her stepmother. "Take her away, Kizzie," said her father; "she is a perfect little tigress. It is no wonder," muttered he, in a low voice, and with a reddening face. "Wait a moment," said Eulalia, entreatingly; "you know you said I could tame the beasts of the field." Then whispering in Effie's ear a few words which seemed to have the effect of magic, while she bent upon her her soft, serene, dark eyes; the child remained perfectly still a moment, while the angry crimson faded from its cheek, then, looking up with the gentleness of a lamb, lisped— "I had rather not, mamma!" "Well! you are certainly a female Van Amburg," said Moreland, wondering at the sudden transformation from passion to gentleness; "let her go, Eulalia. Keep her with you, by all means. I really prefer going on horseback; I do not feel half a man pent up in a carriage. Nothing but your company could reconcile me to it, and that I can enjoy through the open windows." Effie, wild with delight, was perched upon the seat
before the others were half ready, swinging her little gipsy
straw hat by one string, till it looked like a twisted cord. It
took a long time for Aunt Kizzie to deposit her "goodies,"
as she called them, to her own satisfaction in the
carriage-pockets and by-places; and it took her a long time
to go up and down the steps of the
carriage, as she had a good deal to carry besides her bundles and bottles. Albert, who stood near, holding his master's high-mettled and prancing steed, laughed at the audible grunt, by which she relieved her fatigue, every time she stooped. He laughed, too, to see little Effie punch her with her feet, as she tucked away the packages; but he laughed still more, when Kizzie sailed majestically by him, pretending to be angry and consequential, her face beaming with good-nature the whole time. When Eulalia was about to take her place at Effie's side, she was astonished at seeing two nice pillows on the seat. "Why are these here?" she asked. "I am no invalid, Aunt Kizzie, to require propping. Please take them out." "Wait a little, missus, while I tells you the real reason. When we stops at night, you won't find a pillow-slip fit to scrape your feet on, let alone your honey-sweet face. There ain't no quality folks at the stopping-places, and the piny-woods people have mighty curous ways of doing things, I tell you, missus." "You had better let Kizzie arrange everything; you can rely on her judgment and experience," said Moreland, mounting the beautiful horse, whose caracoling and prancing made Eulalia tremble for the fearless rider. "You are not familiar with the phases of backwoods life, Eulalia. They will at least have the freshness of novelty." While the inspiring breeze of morn was blowing, and the dew yet glittered on the grass of the wayside, their ride was delightful and exhilarating. The bright-green tassels of the silver pine showered odours as they waved above them; the sturdy blackjack, the graceful willow oak, the shining-leaved magnolia, alternately shaded them from the sunshine, and thrust, here and there, a projecting bough into the carriage window as they passed. Eulalia's spirits were so elastic, she could have bounded, like Effie, to catch the festoons of hoary moss that hung in gray loops from the branches; and when the noonday-heat made the sandy road turn under the horses' fetlocks, and flecks of foam whiten the rich, mahogany-coloured skin, and they all stopped near a beautiful spring, that gushed right out of a rock, and sat down on the mossy ground, while Kizzie fumbled after the goodies, and spread them out on a broad, flat stone, close to the spring, and put the bottles in the bubbling water to cool, Eulalia's rapture burst forth in joyous ejaculations. Moreland was charmed with her childlike enthusiasm, and dipping the silver cup, which the aristocratic Kizzie had not failed to bring, in the heart of the fountain, he drank sportively to the health of his Northern bride. "Stay a moment," he said, tossing the silver cup on the grass. "I must teach you how to drink from a greenwood goblet." Then gathering some large, fresh, glabrous oak leaves,
he wove them together in a mysterious manner, so as to form a rural cup. Eulalia declared she had never tasted a draught so delicious or food so refreshing; while Kizzie looked on with a comfortable, motherly, liberal expression of countenance, as if she had not only provided the feast, but the spring, the greenwood, and the covering heavens themselves, for their accommodation. An air of serene repose was diffused over every object, and every sound breathed of tranquillity. The water murmured and gurgled as sweetly and softly as if it feared to disturb the shadows that played upon its bosom. The trees dipped lightly their long, swaying branches in the fountain, and the low, musical buzz of insect life gave one the idea of an all-pervading, void-filling, infinite existence. The horses stood quietly feeding in the shade, wrinkling their glossy sides and flapping their tails, as the flies lit upon their moist hides; the driver reclined lazily near them, trailing his whip in the water with an occasional glance at the sun to see how late it was getting, and, fast asleep on the shady grass, with her little gipsy hat lying by her side, her cheek flushed with heat and moist with perspiration, Effie presented the anomalous picture of a noonday fairy. Moreland and Eulalia sat side by side, feeling that exquisite sense of heart-communion which silence only can express. They sat so still, so near, they could hear the beating of each other's hearts, and there was no need of any other language. Eulalia remembered the hour when she thus sat on the deck of the steamboat, in the hush of the moonlight, wishing she could glide on for ever over the shining river. Even so she wished she could sit for ever, indulging in that quiet dream of happiness in the midst of the languishing brightness of noon; but the journey was before them, and after a little bustle and considerable Aunt Kizzieism, they again started. After travelling a few miles they began to ascend a long, sandy, winding hill, and so slow was their progress, the wheels sometimes appeared to stand still. Moreland rode close to the carriage, keeping up a gay conversation with Eulalia, in which Aunt Kizzie occasionally joined with the freedom of a privileged member of the family, when they caught a glimpse of a carriage slowly descending, and Moreland turned his horse into a side path, to give the two carriages room to pass each other. Eulalia looked out with the interest one feels in meeting strangers on a solitary road, where the sight of a log-cabin is an event worth remembering, and even a grave-stone has a social aspect. A lady sat lolling indolently on the back seat, with her
arms folded in a drapery of black lace. She was young and
handsome; but what chiefly distinguished her was a pair of
large, brilliant black eyes, that glanced carelessly and
haughtily towards the travellers she was about to meet. The
moment Eulalia met that cold, bright, haughty glance, she
started as if it had pierced her bosom, and leaned against
the window side,
keeping her own eyes fixed upon the stranger with an intense, magnetic gaze. She saw the brilliant, haughty orbs turn from her to Moreland and suddenly flash up like burning gas, while every feature expressed scorn, hatred and revenge. Never had she seen such an expression on a woman's face, and her own turned pale as marble as she gazed. She looked at her husband; he was lividly pale, and his lips had the rigidness of stone. Again the scorching glance flashed back into the carriage and riveted itself on Eulalia with withering scrutiny. Effie, with the eager curiosity of childhood, stood up on tiptoe, and, leaning over Eulalia's lap, exclaimed in a clear, ringing, decided tone, peculiar to herself, "Let me see, mamma." At sight of the child, at the sound of its voice, an instantaneous change passed over the lady's countenance. The proud, scornful, defying lip quivered with sudden emotion; tenderness, anguish, and remorse swept in clouds over her haughty features. The arms so disdainfully, yet gracefully folded, opened as if to clasp her to her breast,—but, with one more revolution of the wheels, it all fled like a vision. Where the dark, bright, avenging angel or demon, whichever it was, appeared, there was empty space, with the white glare of the sand below. When they reached the summit of the hill, the driver stopped the panting horses to give them breath, and Moreland approached the carriage; the shadow of the thunder-cloud yet lingered on his brow. "Eulalia," he exclaimed, startled by her deadly paleness, "Are you ill? Are you faint?" She shook her head, but so great was her agitation her lips faded to a pale ashy hue. "Give her some wine, Kizzie! She is faint! She will faint! There is no water to be had!" Kizzie fumbled in the pocket for the silver cup, declaring in her trepidation, that she believed "her fingers was all thumbs." Moreland, with a gesture of impatience, threw his bridle reins to the driver, and, jumping into the carriage, placed Effie in Kizzie's lap, seated himself by Eulalia and put his arm around her. "It is all over now," she said, the cold, benumbing sensation passing away. "I am sorry to have troubled you so." "Troubled!" he repeated. "Don't talk in that way, my Eulalia, when you know I would lay down my life at any moment to save you from suffering." Yes! she knew he would—she had not one doubt of his
exclusive devotion to herself,—then why the sickening
anguish she had just endured? Was it jealousy of the past
or dread of the future? or were the mingling shades of both
rolling darkly over her soul? She had been so happy a few
moments before. Why had this woman come in her dark,
splendid, terrible beauty, between her and her happiness?
Yet, had she not yearned to behold her with strong,
irrepressible desire? Yes! but now that desire was fulfilled,
she would give anything
to shut out the image of that flashing, passionate, haunting countenance. Ashamed of her want of self- possession, she raised her eyes and met those of her husband fixed so earnestly and sadly upon her, that every other feeling was swallowed up in sympathy for him. What untold agony he must have suffered, and yet he cared only for her, foolish, childish, selfish as he must think her! Sure it was her place to soothe and comfort him, and beguile him of the remembrance of his wrongs. "I am better," said she, with a smile; "nay, I am quite well. You must not feel anxious if I do look pale now and then. You shall find that I am a heroine, for all that." "I believe you," he replied, his grave, sad countenance lighting up in her smile. "Kizzie, supposing you take my seat on horseback and let me lounge in the carriage a while?" "Oh, master, wouldn't I look funny on that are fine beast? Wouldn't young missus laugh till she done dead?" "A merry laugh would do her no hurt;—but you ride like an Amazon, Kizzie. Come, I am not afraid to trust you." Eulalia thought him in jest, but Kizzie knew that he was
in earnest, and prepared to obey with great good-nature.
She had no objection to stretch her limbs and carry on a
social chat with the driver. She had been
brimming with indignation at the sight of Claudia, whose evil eye she had no doubt had made her young mistress sick, and she was bursting to have a talk with some body. "Let me ride with mammy," exclaimed Effie, springing up with elfish lightness; "I so tired sitting here—I most sick!" "Yes, Mars. Russell, let me have little missy right here," said Kizzie, who had mounted the spirited animal from the steps of the carriage with an agility that surprised Eulalia, considering her rheumatic affection. The next moment Effie lighted on the pommel of the saddle, like a bright-winged bird, and burst into wild, exulting laughter. Nor did she laugh alone—for Kizzie's figure did form an extraordinary contrast to her young master's. She looked very much like a large ball of India rubber, with a butterfly sticking to it; but the ball, though it seemed to roll about, this side and that, and threaten to tumble off, kept its place, as if it knew what it was about. It bounded up and down, when the horse pranced, as he always would when any one first mounted his back, but it settled in the right spot, and in spite of a quivering, jelly-like motion, maintained its equilibrium to the last. "Laugh away, young missus," said she, "it does me
good to hear you. Mars. Russell put me here purpose to
make you laugh. What I going to do with this here
strap? Can't get my big foot where master does his! Hi—see how Kizzie's long heel stick out!" As she was not encumbered with long, flowing skirts, the form of her feet and ankles were liberally displayed. Eulalia could not help laughing, and the horse, turning his head entirely round and gazing at his new rider, seemed to enter into the spirit of the change, and twinkling his eyes merrily, jogged on, like a cornfield animal, accommodating itself to circumstances. Moreland had accomplished his object. He had diverted
the thoughts of Eulalia from the dark channel in which they
were flowing, and he was left alone at her side. Then he
opened to her his whole heart, and told her all the history of
the past, without any reservation. From the perfect
confidence of this hour, "that perfect love which casteth
out fear" was born in Eulalia's bosom. She felt as one does,
who, after gazing in quaking terror on the ghost which
imagination has created, finds it, on approach, a mass of
shadows or a bundle of moonbeams. The interdicted name,
the forbidden subject, the deserted dwelling, are always
invested with a dread charm, which vanishes with
familiarity. While there is one forbidden theme to a husband
and wife, it will rise between them a cold, icy barrier, freezing
by slow degrees the living warmth of love. It was well that
Moreland felt the truth of this in the morning glow of their
wedded life, when the dew was on the flower and the
freshness on the leaf and the glory in the sky. It
kept off the mildew and the cloud. It kept away the tempest and the whirlwind. "Is this where we are to rest for the night?" asked Eulalia, as they stopped about twilight at the door of a log-cabin, whose dark and dingy walls were unrelieved by a single pane of glass, the light and air being admitted through wooden shutters. "Even so," answered her husband, as he assisted her to alight. "Are you sorry you came?" "Oh, no! it makes me think a little of poor Nancy's cottage, only hers has glass windows." "Are you very tired, Kizzie?" said she, hearing several expressive grunts, as she descended from the saddle, fearing she had purchased the happinesss of her husband's company at the expense of Kizzie's comfort. "I does feel sorter bruised, missus, but not more than I can bear; you see I ain't used to master's saddle no how, and it makes me a little oneasy and discomforted. Never mind, missus; if you and Mars. Russell is satisfied, Kizzie won't complain." Though it was a warm evening, a bright lightwood fire
burned in the large tumble-down looking chimney. It was
the lamp that lighted the cabin, and displayed, in its broad
illumination, the persons of its occupants. A man,
hard-favoured and sun-browned, who had evidently been at
work in the field, sat in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a long
pipe, in the back-door. A woman,
nearly as brown as himself, dressed in the coarsest home spun, stood looking out of the front window, while two girls, one about twelve, the other fifteen, with short thick, coarse brown hair hanging in masses over their eyes, while dark calico sunbonnets covered their heads were peeping over her shoulders. They all appeared very clean and tidy, though rough and uncouth. Their frocks were of a dark indigo colour, and they all wore dark-blue woollen mitts, with long points reaching over the backs of their hands. Why they were so careful of these members, which were of the hue of mahogany, was a mystery, especially the two girls, whose feet were bare as Eve's were in Paradise. Their costume gave Eulalia such an impression of warmth, that, combined with the bright blaze and long wreaths of blue smoke curling up round the warm, brown face in the back door, made her feel very sultry and uncomfortable. She was sure she would melt and suffocate; but she was very much amused, notwithstanding, with the rustic greeting that welcomed them. Her husband was received as a known guest, and evidently an honoured one. Aunt Kizzie was also recognized kindly; but on her, as the Squire's new lady, they bestowed most abundant attention. They came up to her, extending their hands in a straight line, while the long blue tongues on the back of their hands flapped up and down, and gave her the true, hearty, backwood gripe. Then the two girls walked around her, looking at her admiringly through their short, thick hair, and taking an inventory of her dress. The little Effie too received her due share of admiration, and, being a child, they ventured to approach her, as she sat enthroned on Aunt Kizzie's lap, and even slipped their fingers into her coal black ringlets. But the little lady was tired, sleepy, and consequently cross and inaccessible. Nothing could exceed the haughtiness with which she repelled their advances. "Get away!" she cried, drawing up her right shoulder and pushing them with her feet; "you too ugly—you shan't touch me!" "Shame, little missy," said Kizzie, gathering the offending feet in her black fingers—"Is that the way quality ladies talk?" Eulalia, though shocked at the child's imperious rudeness, knew it was not the moment to correct it. She thought of the eyes, so full of pride, disdain, and vindictiveness—eyes that seemed burning on her still, and trembled to think that those dark passions might have been transmitted to the bosom of her offspring. Then she remembered the look of yearning anguish she had cast upon her child, the opening arms, the bending figure, and intense pity quenched her aversion. "You had better put Effie to bed, Kizzie," said she,
looking round the room, with a vague feeling of anxiety
about their accommodations for the night. Moreland was
watching her bewildered, half-frightened glance, and could
not forbear smiling. There seemed to be but that
one room in the whole house, for the rafters overhead indicated that there was no upper story. There were four beds in the room, one in each corner, two of them covered with white counterpanes, having a deep border of netting, and the two others with patchwork quilts The corners occupied by the white beds were evidently considered the guest-chambers of the establishment, and in one of these Kizzie deposited the now sleeping Effie. Eulalia had reason to thank the providing care of Kizzie, in having supplied them so liberally with home dainties, for she could taste nothing at supper but a cup of milk. Tumblers and goblets were unknown luxuries to this family of primitive habits. A large dish of bacon and greens, flanked by tremendous hoe-cakes, was the crowning glory of the table. A remnant of a cold sweet-potato pie, and some gingerbread cakes, as large as cheeses, were extra flourishes of gentility, introduced in honour of the guests. But what chiefly attracted Eulalia's admiration was the candlestick which dignified the centre of the table—a large gourd, with a tall, majestic handle, truncated to receive a dim compound of beeswax and tallow, stood upright and towering as Cleopatra's Needle, giving an occasional contemptuous sputter, and shooting upwards a long, fierce, fiery wick. "Come, squire," said the lord of the feast, "set yourself
convenient, and lay to and help yourself. We don't stand
for ceremony in the piny woods—not a bit. Your lady there
don't eat one mouthful. I 'spose she
ain't used to such coarse vittles. She don't look as if she was. I tell you what, squire, you oughter leave her in the woods a while, and let her scuffle about with my gals a while. Then she'd have an appetite. See how brown and strong they look!" "I do sometimes envy the labouring man his keen appetite and sound sleep," answered Moreland; "but we indulged in too late a luncheon to do justice to your hospitality." "Well, squire, it's the truth," said the farmer, laying down his knife and fork, and using his sleeve for a napkin; "there's nothing like work to make a man contented. I wouldn't changes places with nobody—I wouldn't give a snap for a fine house. What's the use, I want to know, of so much paint and white-wash? It just shows the dirt. Who wants to sit on anything better than a good splint-bottomed chair? Not I. As for eating, I wouldn't give this bacon and greens for all your stuffed nonsense and made up-dishes. It's a great thing, squire, to know what you're eating. Here's my old woman and I hadn't had a day's sickness, to speak of, since we was married, and the gals are as tough and healthy as all out doors." "Do you never have chills and fevers?" asked Moreland. "Pho! what's that? We don't call that sickness. Shake a
little one day, up and smart as a pipestem the next. I mean
your right down, regular, doctor-bill sickness, that takes all
a man earns to pay for. There's
only one thing I want, and that is, to give my gals an eddication. I am going to send them to school next year, if I have a good crop this. Eddication is a beautiful thing in a woman; it don't matter so much in a man, 'cause he's got more natteral smartness; but it does set a woman off mightily. My old woman, here, is a right good scholar. She can write as good a hand-write as anybody need want to see." The good lady really blushed at this compliment from her husband, but was evidently pleased and grateful. Eulalia began to like her new acquaintances, for their homely good sense, contentment, and appreciation of each other. There was one fact that impressed her as very strange. The father spoke as if his daughters had their education yet to begin, though the eldest was fast approaching the years of womanhood. She thought of the superior advantages of the children of New England, where the blessings of education are as diffusive as the sunbeams of heaven, gilding the poor and lowly as well as the rich. "Are you very weary?" asked Moreland of his wife, after the supper-table was removed and the farmer had smoked another pipe. "No! I have been so much interested in studying character," she remarked in a low voice, "that I have quite forgotten my fatigue." "Let us walk, then, awhile. The night is mild and starry, and the scenery around wild and picturesque." Knowing the early habits of this class of people, he knew they would have an opportunity of retiring during their ramble, to their own peculiar corners, and that poor Eulalia would thus be saved from unspeakable embarrassment. They extended their walk to a spring, whose gushings made soft music in the ear of night. The back-wood farmer always pitches his tent near some welling spring, where his horses and his cattle can be abundantly watered and his own thirst slaked at will. A beautiful grove of willow oaks surrounded it, and a sweet, low, quivering sound went through their branches. "What a lonely life this family must lead!" said Eulalia; "no neighbours, no friends, no intercourse with society, save what the passing stranger permits them to enjoy. It seems like living in a wilderness." "And so it is; and yet, you see, this life has its own
peculiar enjoyments. You must recollect that it is
comparatively but a few years since the red man was lord
of these woods and plains, and the wild beast made its lair
in their shades. This man, energetic and intelligent, is
breaking in, as they say, a new portion of the country, and
by and by the wild places will show the beauty of
cultivation. He has already made money enough to
purchase some negroes, who assist him in the field, he
being chief workman, as well as overseer. His children, I
doubt not, will be rich, and be associated with the
magnates of the land. Our social system is
like the tree now bending over you, Eulalia—its roots without grace or beauty, are hidden in the earth, from which they derive strength and support; its hardy trunk rises, without ornament, brown and substantial; then the branches extend, green with foliage, and the birds of the air make their nests among the leaflets. Hark! there is a mocking-bird singing now." Yes! the nightingale of the South was just over their heads, and rills of melody, clear, silvery, liquid as the waters of the spring, came flowing down, and bubbled and sparkled around them. It sounded as if a whole orchestra of birds were practicing their wild overtures and cavatinas for a great concert, so rich and varied were the notes. Surely such waves of music could not roll from one little, slender, feathered throat! Ah! the mocking-bird is the Jenny Lind of the wild-wood, and her single voice has echoed through the world! A very different serenade greeted them when they
returned into the cabin. A deep, sonorous bass was rising
from under one of the patchwork bed-covers,—showing
that the weary were resting from their labours. Every one
was wrapped in profound slumber. Kizzie, whose pallet was
spread upon the floor by the side of little Effie, was nodding
in a chair to some invisible potentate, while waiting for her
young mistress to retire. In spite of the novelty of her
situation, and the loud, stentorian breathing within the
room, Eulalia was soon wandering in the far-off land of
dreams. When she
awoke, the patchwork quilts were smoothly spread, the workman abroad in the field, his wife busy with her household duties, with the family poke on the top of her head; the girls, in their long-pointed blue mitts and dark calico sun-bonnets, seeming ready for any emergency; and Effie, bright as the morning, frolicking all over Aunt Kizzie. Moreland had gone out to meet the sun, whose coming was heralded by banners of crimson and gold unrolled in the East. Eulalia's toilet was soon completed, but when she looked round in perplexity for a ewer, that she might wash her face and hands, Kizzie made mysterious signs for her to come to the door. "You see, missus," she whispered, "these is nobody but Georgia crackers; they just lives any which way; the way they washes, they pours water out of the gourd on their hands, and then scrubs their faces. I brought some towels, and if you'll just step down to the spring I'll bring 'em, and little missy, too,—there's where massa washed hisself." Eulalia was quite delighted with Aunt Kizzie's arrangement, and felt the joy of childhood glowing in her heart, as she bathed her face in the cool, gurgling fountain, and moistened the soft waves of her dark-brown hair. It brought a pale but beautiful bloom to her cheek, which the master of the house complimented, by telling her she looked 'most as well as his gals did. "You going to put me horseback to-day, Mars. Russell?"
asked Kizzie, putting on a rueful look, when the horses and carriage were at the door. "No, Kizzie. I think that would be too great a task." "Lordy, master, I didn't mean that. I mean you going to ride in the carriage this time?" "I believe I will ride in the open air this morning," he replied, to the great joy of Kizzie, who had an impression that she did not appear to particular advantage as an equestrian, and who was not partial to the exercise in general. The parting benediction of the family was a cordial "wish you well" and "be sure and come agin;" and it probably had more heart in it than the graceful adieus and au revoirs of the fashionable world. It was just before sunset when they arrived at the plantation, and Moreland welcomed Eulalia to her country home. And now for the first time she realized that she was the wife of a Southern planter. All around, far as the eye could reach, rich, rolling fields
of cotton, bearing the downy wealth of the South, stretched
out a boundless ocean of green, spotted with white, like the
foam of the wave. Long rows of whitewashed cabins,
extending back of the central building, whose superior style
of architecture distinguished it as the master's mansion,
exhibited some black sign at every door, to show the colour
of the occupants. Though it
wanted something of the usual time, as Moreland wished Eulalia to witness a true plantation scene before the duskiness of twilight, he ordered the bugle blast to sound which called the labourers home, and its echoes rolled over the whitened plains with clear and sweet reverberations. Soon, returning in grand march from the fields, came the negroes, poising on their heads immense baskets, brimming with the light and flaky cotton. Little children, looking very much like walking semicolons, toddled along, balancing their baskets also, with an air of self-importance and pride. Eulalia gazed with a kind of fascination on the dark procession, as one after another, men, women, and children, passed along to the gin house to deposit their burdens. It seemed as if she were watching the progress of a great eclipse, and that soon she would be enveloped in total darkness. She was a mere speck of light, in the midst of shadows. How easy it would be to extinguish her! She recollected all the horrible stories she had heard of negro insurrections, and thought what an awful thing it was to be at the mercy of so many slaves, on that lonely plantation. When she saw her husband going out among them, and they all closed round, shutting him in as with a thick cloud, she asked herself if he were really safe. Safe! Napoleon, in the noonday of his glory, surrounded by the national guard, was not more safe—more honoured or adored. They gathered round him, eager to get within reach of his hand, the sound of his voice, the glance of his kind, protecting, yet commanding, eye. More like a father welcomed by his children than a king greeted by his subjects, he stood, the centre of that sable ring. Eulalia thought she had never seen him look so handsome, so noble, so good. She had never felt so proud of being his wife. An impression of his power, gently used, but still manifest, produced in her that feeling of awe, softened by tenderness, so delicious to the loving, trusting heart of woman. He appeared to her in a new character. She had known him as the fond, devoted bridegroom; now he was invested with the authority and responsibility of a master. And she must share that responsibility, assist him in his duties, and make the welfare, comfort, and happiness of these dependent beings the great object of her life. He had twined round her the roses of love, but she was not born to sit idly in a bower and do nothing for those who were toiling for her. He had adorned her with the gems of wealth, but she must not live in selfish indulgence while the wants of immortal souls were pressing upon her, while the solemn warning "Thou must give an account of thy stewardship" was ringing in her soul. Never before had she made an elaborate comparison
between the white and the black man. She had so often
heard her father say that they were born equal—equal in
mind, body, and soul, having only the accidental difference
of colour to mark them—that she had believed it, and
loathed herself for the feeling of superiority over
them, which she could not crush. But as she looked at her husband, standing in their midst, the representative of the fair sons of Japheth, wearing on his brow the signet of a loftier, nobler destiny, every lineament and feature expressive of intellect and power, and then at each of that dark, lowly throng, she felt a conviction that freedom, in its broadest latitude, education, with its most exalted privileges, could never make them equal to him. Gradually they dispersed to their several cabins, and Moreland rejoined his wife. "To-morrow, I will take you to their cabins," he said. "They are all anxious to see their young mistress." "Why not now?" "You are too weary." "No, I am not. I have been watching their reception of you with such interest! Oh! my husband! I never dreamed that slavery could present an aspect so tender and affectionate! What a kind, indulgent master you must be, to inspire such warm attachment! Ah! I fear there are not many such!" "Sceptic in all goodness but mine! That is not right, my
Eulalia. I must not be complimented at the expense of my
brethren. I am no better, perhaps not as good as the
majority of masters, as you will find out after having dwelt
longer at the South. The cruel ones you will not see, as we
have no fellowship with them. I would far sooner make the
negro my social companion
than the man who abuses him. Are not those cotton fields beautiful? Do you see the white blossoms blooming on the surface, some of them shaded with a pale golden tinge, others with rose colour, while the snow-white tufts are bursting from the bolls below? Did you ever see a Northern flower-garden half as beautiful? Do you say you are not tired? Let us go then to some of the cabins. I acknowledge I am impatient to introduce to them my sweet Northern bride." We will not attempt to describe all the Aunt Dilsys and Dinahs and Venuses, the Patsys and Pollys, the Uncle Bills and Dicks and Jupiters and Vulcans—to whom Moreland presented his bashful, blushing wife. She really felt more trepidation in passing this ordeal than she would in attending one of the President's levees. He carried her first to Aunt Dilsy's cabin, she being the most ancient and honourable matron of the establishment. There Miss Effie was sitting on a little piece of carpet, tossing up a large, scarlet pomegranate, with her lap full of all kind of goodies. Dilsy was not as old as Dicey, but her wool was profusely sprinkled with the ashes of age, and time had made many a groove on her face, where its shadows gathered. The locks of the white man grow gray as life wears on, but the negro's black skin, as well as his wool, assumes a dim and hoary aspect, as the dawn of a brighter day approaches. "Bless you, for a sweet angel, as you be!" cried
Dilsy, whose salutation was a sample of the others, and whose dialect Eulalia at once observed differed from the household slaves;—"bless you, young missis, and make you de name and de praise of many generations, dat luv de Lord Jesus Christ. I didn't 'spec to see young missus 'fore I die; but, praise de Lord, she come,—and young massa look so happy. Well! he deserves it, de Lord knows. I've had him a baby in dese arms, and his moder before him. I've been praying my Hebenly Massa to send him good wife, good crishen wife, to be his 'zilary in 'nevolence and piety. Now poor Dilsy willing to lay down and neber wake up no more." "I will try to deserve your blessing, and be a kind and faithful mistress," answered Eulalia, with unaffected humility, the tears trembling in her soft dark eyes, while she pressed the dry and wrinkled hand of the aged negro. Dilsy wept like a child, completely melted by such sweetness and condescension, and really believed that the Lord had sent an angel among them. In one of the cabins, a young, bright-looking negro girl seemed quite beside herself with rapture, at the sight of her master's lovely young bride. She gazed upon her with distended eyes, showing every tooth of dazzling ivory, then threw herself on the floor, and rolled over several times, shaking with convulsive laughter. "What is the matter with her?" asked Eulalia timidly, fearing she had fallen in a fit. "Oh! you're so putty, missus," said the girl, sitting up and rubbing her eyes,—"I can't help it. Oh, Luddy! I never seed any ting like it, since I ben born. I grate big fool, I know, but I can't help it." Here she burst into a fresh peal of laughter, and covered her face with both her hands. Moreland, laughing at this hysterical tribute to his young wife's beauty, drew her away, to receive new testimonies of the personal magnetism, whose drawings he had felt when the choral strains first thrilled his soul, in the village church. Eulalia, who had never seen the negro at the North, but
as an isolated being, beheld him now in his domestic and
social relations, and, it seemed to her, that he must be a great deal happier
thus situated, bearing the name of a slave, than wandering about a nominal
freeman, without the genial influences of home and friends. She had seen
the Northern labourer return after a day of toil to the
bosom of his family, feeling rest more grateful and
refreshing because it was enjoyed there. So the negro
returned to his cabin and sat down with his wife and
children, and smoked his pipe, and ate his supper, and
appeared to think himself very comfortable. But there
is one difference. The Northern labourer has anxious
thoughts for the morrow, fears that the daily
bread for which he is toiling may be withheld, that sickness may paralyze his strong arm, and his children feel the pangs of destitution. The slave thinks not of the morrow, lays up nothing for the future, spends his money for the gratification of the present moment, and gives care and trouble to the winds. No matter how hard he has been at work, if it be a moonlight night, he steals off on a 'possum hunt, or a fishing frolic, or if he hears a violin, he is up and dancing the Virginia breakdown, or the Georgia rattlesnake. If he be one of the "settled ones," to use one of their favourite expressions, he may be heard singing the songs of Zion, in that plaintive, melodious voice peculiar to his race. Do the spirits of the labourers in Northern factories ever
rebound more lightly than this, after laying down the
burden of toil? Do the two hundred thousand poor that
throng the royal streets of London breathe forth a more
gladdening strain, or lie down to rest with more
contentment or gratitude? Do the hundreds and
thousands buried in the black coal-pits and wretched dens
of Great Britain, who have never heard, in their living
graves, of the God who created, the Saviour who redeemed
them, pass their sunless lives in greater comfort or fuller
enjoyment? Are Russia's forty millions of slaves more free
from care and sorrow? Can the victims of Austrian and
Prussian despotism boast of greater privileges? Does the
groan of oppression, rising above the vine hills of France,
speak of joys more dear? Alas!
all these are forgotten, and the "bolt, red with uncommon wrath,"is hurled at the devoted South; as if all the rest of the world were basking in a blaze of freedom and slavery, condensed into the blackness of darkness, dwelt alone with her. "Free! I wonder who is free?" exclaimed the Northern Betsy. We repeat the exclamation. We wonder who is really free in this great prison-house the world. One is bound to the Ixion wheel of habit, and dare not break the fetters that enthral him; another is the slave of circumstances, and writhes till the iron enters his soul. Bigotry stretches one on its Procrustes bed, dragging out the resisting muscles into torturing length, or mangling and mutilating the godlike proportions the Almighty has made. Fanaticism hurls another into an abyss of flame, and laughs over the burning agonies she has created. Poverty! most terrible of masters! We have tried already to depict some of the sufferings of its slaves. Let them pass here. Ask that pale, majestic statesman, in whose travailing soul and toiling brain a nation's interests are wrought, who, month after month, is doomed to exchange the sweet atmosphere of home for the feverishness and strife of a political arena, whose sleepless nights are passed in the forge of intense and burning thought, and whose days in gladiatorial combats with warring intellects,—if he is free! Ask him who sits in the White Palace, chief of this
great republic, filling the grandest station in the vast globe,—if he is free! Are you free? Are we? No! There is a long chain, winding round the whole human race, and though its links be sometimes made of silver and gold, nay, even twined with flowers, it is still a chain, and if the spirit struggle for liberation, it will feel the galling and the laceration, as much as if the fetters were of brass or iron. For six thousand years the cry for freedom has been going up from the goaded heart of humanity—freedom from the bondage and mystery and necessity of life—and still it rends the heavens and echoes over the earth. And the answer has been, and now is, and ever will be—"Be still, and know that I am God." |