 | CHAPTER IX. Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
A death, and a snow storm.
“If men were to act and think just as their ancestors have acted and
thought before them, human nature would be merely idolatry and slavery.”
English translation of De Lamartine.
“I hope it will not be conceived, that it is my wish to hold the unhappy
people, who are the subject of this letter, in slavery. I can only say, that
there is not a man living, who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a
plan adopted for the abolition of it; but there is only one proper and effectual
mode by which it can be accomplished; and that is, by legislative authority;
and this, as far as my suffrage will go, shall never be wanting.”
Washington.
“You have among you many a purchased slave,
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them.”
—Shakspeare.
“I cannot see how Venetians or Englishmen, while they practise the
purchase and sale of slaves, can much enforce or demand the law of `Doing
to others as we would have that they should do to us.' ”
—Johnson.
“To set the slaves afloat at once, would, I really believe, be productive
of much inconvenience and mischief; but by degrees it certainly might,
and assuredly ought to be affected; and that, too, by legislative authority.”
—Washington.
“I was born as free as they,
And what I think, that will I say.”
—Southey.
“After life's fitful fever they sleep well.
Nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch them further.”
—Shakspeare.
“I never mean, unless some particular circumstances should compel me
to it, to possess another slave by purchase, it being among my first wishes
to see some plan adopted, by which slavery in this country may be abolished
by law.”
—Washington.
“Just Death! kind umpire of man's miseries.”
“Our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
“But in that sleep of death what dreams may chance
To come, must give us pause.”
—Shakspeare.
Some weeks had flown on time's wings, when another incident
occurred, even more nearly affecting the fortunes of
Emma Portland than that last recorded.
My readers must excuse me if I again introduce them to the
dingy company of John Kent and his wife: it is necessary
that we follow our heroine, even though our motives for so doing
should not be as pure as hers were.
The snows of winter had for some time covered the wide
fields of the agriculturist, cherishing the root and the seed of
succeeding harvests. The streets of our city were ringing
with bells, as the gay and the beautiful enjoyed the rapid motion
of the sleigh, while silks, velvets, and feathers, of every colour,
glittered and danced in the sunbeams; or, as the thoughtless
and dissipated flew shouting to the nightly rendezvous of intemperance.
Again the north-east wind whirled the dark clouds over us,
and the snow had fallen all day without intermission, when
honest old Kent appeared at Mrs. Epsom's, soliciting Emma
Portland to give the consolation of her beloved presence to his
wife, whose sufferings appeared to be drawing to a close. He
proposed sending a hackney-coach for her, in the evening; but
this she positively refused. She knew that his circumstances
did not warrant the expense. She promised to come as soon
as her duties at home permitted.
When the evening arrived, she was longer detained by offices
of kindness and assistance, performed for her aunt and cousin,
than she had anticipated; but after they had gone, with Mr.
Spiffard, to their duties at the theatre, she prepared to encounter
the storm. Taking Rachel, the black servant, with her to
Kent's door, she again entered the abode of sickness, after
charging the faithful girl to return quickly home, and be vigilant
in her sphere of usefulness.
Kent having been excused from his duties at the theatre, in
consequence of his wife's extreme illness, was at home; and
the reader may imagine the same picture, once before presented
to him; the same room, the same table, lamp, book, and
figures; but, at the time we draw the curtain, the book was
closed; the invalid had recovered temporary strength, appearing
unusually animated, and the parties were engaged earnestly
in conversation. It was that strength and animation
which not unfrequently precedes death.
The aged man and dying woman are the same we have already
introduced to the reader. The same honest old Kent,
as faithful a servant to his employers, as his namesake was to
the improvident and misjudging Lear.
His wife, though not a white, was an interesting figure,
even in the eyes of the most fastidious. Pale and emaciated,
appearance, beyond that cleanliness which might have
been expected from her condition, there was in everything
about her and her humble dwelling, the evidences of economy
and propriety.
The old property-man was occupied, in compliance with
Emma's request, with that, which is always pleasant to age,
recounting the eventful circumstances of his early life.
“I was born, as I have told you, Miss Emmy, in this city,
when it was a poor little place compared to what it is now;
when the park, now level as a floor, and filled with trees, was
called the fields; no houses, but some mean wooden ones,
around it; and neither tree nor green thing to be seen. The
people were almost as much Dutch as English. My master
took me with him to Canada, when the rebels, as they called
them then, were mobbing the tories—for he was an Englishman
and a loyalist.”
“He was a good master to you—was he not?”
“Why do you think so, Miss?”
“Because you had a good education for—for—”
“A slave, Miss. You did not like to speak the word. Yes,
I was a slave. Yes, Miss, he was a good master; but he was
a master.”
“He had you taught a trade, too.”
“That makes the slave a more valuable property. He can
earn more wages for his master. Having a trade, he will
bring a higher price if set up at auction, to be knocked down
to the highest bidder, like a horse or a dog.”
“But you were not so sold?”
“No, Miss; but I saw others so bought and sold; and I
knew that it might be my case. I knew that I was a something
that must go one way when I wished to go another. No
matter! It's past! No matter!”
He paused, as if looking back to long gone days. Emma
said soothingly, “Such is the fate of all; and probably it is
best for us that it is so. My dear mother taught me, very
early in life, that it was better her will should govern me than
my own. I was taught this so very early in my infancy, that
I cannot remember the arguments she used; but I was convinced.
Probably my conviction was the result of her universally
tender behaviour—her protecting care and love—her
strict adherence to truth. She told me that her commands
were for my good; and I believed her.”
“Ah, there it is, Miss. There's the difference. The slave
to be for any other than the master's pleasure. The slave,
even if he feels that he has more strength and more disposition
to do good than his master, sees that he is treated as an inferior
being. He labours, at the will of another, knowing that
his own good is not intended; and that he must not seek his
own good, if, by so doing, he interferes with his master's pleasures.
He receives food as it is given to the horse, the ox,
and the ass, to repair the strength that labour for his master
has exhausted. Like the horse and the ass he is subjected to
blows; and like them he is transferred to another master and
another country, when his master wants money to supply his
wine-cellar, or to pay his losses at the gaming-table. The
slave cannot think that to be forced from his wife and children
is for his good. The child of a good parent may think and
feel that all is intended for his good; but not the man of mature
age, controlled by the will of one, perhaps neither wiser
nor better than himself.”
“You state an extreme case. Few masters would separate
husband from wife.”
“I am sorry, Miss, that we happened to talk on this subject.
I have known masters who inherited slaves, and who
acted conscientiously for their good. My master was one.
He did better for me, than I probably could have done for
myself.”
“His superior knowledge enabled him to do so.”
“True, Miss. I had no right to expect more from him than
he did. He had me taught reading, writing, and arithmetic—
gave me a trade—and though that is often done by slave-holders
for their own interest, I did not mean to say that my master
acted from that motive. That he had me taught to read
was my greatest blessing! You know, Miss Emmy, that many
slave-holders are afraid to let their slaves read, even the word
of God.”
“It is the comment of the slave-holder upon his own practice,
and proves more than all Clarkson or Wilberforce has
said. I am glad to leave Mrs. Kent so much better; and
now, Mr. Kent, if you will prepare the lantern you shall accompany
me home—whether you will or no,” she said
smiling.
“God bless you, Miss! I wish all the world was as willing
to serve you as I am.”
“Before you go, Miss Emma,” said the sick woman, “if
it is not too late, please to read one chapter in the New Testament.”
“I will. What chapter shall it be?”
“You know best what will suit.”
Emma opened the book. She read feelingly. Kent sat
with his eyes fixed on the floor, and his hands clasped, and
resting on his knees.
As the reading progressed, the sick woman sighed, and occasionally
sobbed; but not so as to occasion interruption.
After a time, Emma heard a groan; but considering it only
as the effect of the passage she was reading, from the book of
wisdom, on the feelings of the patient, prepared by long suffering
to experience a more powerful effect than the same words
would produce on the strong and happy, she continued her
reading until she had finished the chapter. She then shut the
book, and turned her eyes to the bed, preparatory to taking
leave. What was her surprise on perceiving that she had been
reading to the dead! The woman was a corpse.
Accustomed as she was to self-command, she could not repress
a cry; and not until then did the old man see that the
companion of years passed in slavery and in freedom, had left
him childless and alone, for the remaining portion of his life.
Emma recovered her self-possession before the man; who
was so utterly bewildered, at an event as unexpected at the
moment as if the woman had been in health, that he could do
nought but utter broken and unintelligible exclamations.
Emma directed him to run for the nearest physician.
“Yes! yes!” he exclaimed. “Is there any hope?”
“Run quickly! It may be. But all will depend upon your
speed.”
The old man hastened for aid. Emma raised the head of
the corpse, after feeling in vain for pulsation. She was soon
convinced that life had fled. The interval had been so long
between the groan, which had passed almost unheeded, and
the conclusion of the lecture, that the body which then parted
with its last breath, had become nearly stark and cold.
Long appeared the time before the bereaved old man returned.
Emma had no fears for herself, but thought that her
aunt and cousin would be made uneasy by her long protracted
visit. The wind howled without, and the snow, mingled with
hail, beat upon the windows and the roof.
Emma Portland prayed.
At length Kent returned, and brought with him Doctor McLean,
the kind physician who had long administered to the
comfort of the patient; but who immediately ascertained that
his skill was of no avail.
Some females living in the house were brought to the apartment
by the unusual stir this catastrophe had occasioned; and,
leaving the corpse to their care, Emma, (unnoticed by Kent
or the doctor), stole out of the room, taking with her the mantle
and hood which sheltered her from the storm when she
came. As she descended the stairs, she wrapped herself in
these convenient garments, and trusted herself again to the
well-known pavement, which she had thought not again to venture
on, unaccompanied.
The night was cold, and the snow fell thick. She hastened
on, anxious to reach home and quiet the fears of her expecting
relatives. It was so late, and so inclement, that the streets
were abandoned. This circumstance rather assured than discouraged
the courageous girl; and well protected by her long
and warm mantle, and close well-padded hood, drawn over
head and face, she speeded on, congratulating herself that none
of the usual frequenters of Theatre-alley were seen or heard.
The entertainments of the play-house were over, and the
crowds who attended them, or assisted in them, were dispersed.
She had left the theatre and its alley behind, and met, on
turning the first corner, the full force of the piercing blast,
drifting the snow before it, and threatening to overwhelm her;
but, shrinking from the gale for a moment, she recovered her
strength, and encouraged by the knowledge, that on her way
home she should pass the door of one to whom she had made
frequent visits of charity (in its highest sense) and love, she
pressed on. Arrived opposite to the door of Mrs. Johnson,
she hesitated whether she should not stop, and ask a companion
for the remainder of the way. But the very lateness of the
hour determined her not to disturb the repose of one whom
she knew to be in a state little fitted to bear a night alarm.
“I shall only be later in getting home; and I may injure
her.” So she thought, and on she passed, opposing her delicate
form to the furious blast, but speeding with the untiring
elasticity of youth. On! on!
| CHAPTER IX. Thirty years ago, or, The memoirs of a water drinker | |