University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE OLD DAYS AND THE NEW.

Lucia availed herself of the permission accorded by
the old woman, and coming in, closed the door carefully,
and approached the old woman, whose sight latterly had
begun to fail her.

The child held out her hand, which the old woman
pressed in her own, and said gently:

“Good morning, Aunt Phillis—I am Lucia, you
know.”

“Lord bless you, chile!” said Aunt Phillis, heartily.
“I knows you, and many times have I laid my eyes on
you. Poor chile! you look sorry!”

“I'm not very well, this morning—but I thought I
would come down and see you, Aunt Phillis—I heard
you were sick, and I thought I might read some to you,
and I would like it, too. You 'are not much sick, are
you?”

“Well, de Lord knows—God knows my breast do
ache! Well, well! I hope I ain't a complainin' The
work's the thing which makes me mortified.”

“The work?”

“The washin' and ironing', chile! Bless de Lord! I
ain't been able to do nothin'. You know what I does,
chile, is common work, though I has some nice things,
too. I done in my time all sorts o' work, but 'taint
everybody that can plete and flute—'bleeged to have
flutin' irons to run in the little hollers, you know. I recklect,”

said the old woman, with her head on one side, and
counting on her fingers: “I recklect 'in old times there
was a mighty heap o' pletin' goin' on. I thought master
never would get enough o' shirts pleted—he! he!—seems
to me, had mor' a' half-a-hunderd! Sich pletes! we was
at de Springs, and I made twelve dollars by pletin!
Soon as they see my pletes, they send to me—all the
gentlemen—whole hamper baskets, crammed and crowdin'
to be pleted! Well, well! We was young people then,
and we didn't think 'bout nothin' but dancin' and 'stravagance,
and vainty! Wonder if white people is so now?
Sich things the ladies weared! Dresses all covered with
silver spangles, and high rows o' curls, and stockin's all
flowered over—I thought I never should a' got done
washin' and ironin' o' ladies' stockins'! They mos' put
on a pair at breakfas', dinner, 'n' supper—for the skirts
was short, and the gentlemen see 'em—and they all was
silk! Sich a washin' and a ironin', with frills an' pletes,
and flutin', and doin' up lace collars, and inside hank-shaws,
I never did see—no, never, God knows, long as I
have been livin'!”

And Aunt Phillis shook her head in depreciation of the
times and personages she had been speaking of.

“That was in the old, old times, wasn't it, Aunt Phillis?”
said Lucia, who had taken her seat, opposite the
old woman.

“Yes, indeed, honey! A sight ago—mos' a hunderd
years, I reckon! What fine times they was!” said the
old woman, with the logical inconsistency of the negro
character; “but they was mighty little religion, chile—

they didn't think o' nothin' but parties and balls, and sich
like things. The Lord forgive me, we cullered folks
wern't no better'n the rest! What a time it was! Well,
well, the Lord be thanked, them times is all gone, and
joy go with 'em.”

“You must be very old, now, Aunt Phillis,” said
Lucia, who experienced a sad pleasure in hearing the old
woman run on.

“I guess I is, chile! De Lord, he knows how old I
is! I bin see generation after generation come up, and
git cut down like the grass that's dried up. I'm goin'
on my long journey, chile.”

“Oh, no, Aunt Phillis—you are very hearty, ain't you?”

“No, de Lord knows I ain't, chile. I is done thinkin'
'bout anything in this world. I is beginnin' to think
'bout t'other worl', chile. Dis is a mighty wicked worl',
de Lord, he knows, and I'm done with it, an' all dat's in
it, chile—I'm goin' home!”

With which words Aunt Phillis began with great feeling
to croon a hymn to herself.

Unfortunately for her argument, however, and as
though to prove that as long as we are in the world
it is proper to attend to the material things of existence,
Aunt Phillis heard, as she concluded, the cry of
“charcoal!” without, and requested Lucia immediately
to go out, and stop the vender of that article. Lucia
accordingly left the cellar, and in a few minutes the
loud cry of “charcoal, ladies, charcoal!” ceased, and
the charcoal merchant appeared at the head of the steps.

He was a young African, with a smutty face, and a

complaining expression, as of one against whom the
world was banded in hostility. He carried his stock in
trade in a rectangular cart, constructed of strips of timber,
after the manner of a hencoop, and this machine was
drawn by an ancient and solemn looking donkey, who
seemed to have some time since reached that age when
donkeys, like men, cease to wonder at anything. That
donkey was evidently past surprise of any description,
and would have stabled himself in a cathedral, without
once looking at a single object, if the Pope himself had
been erected on the altar.

The charcoal vender ducked his head, and entered
Aunt Phillis' presence—that lady receiving him with
inflexible dignity.

“Now young man,” said Aunt Phillis: “don't you be
a-deceivin' me, and sayin' charcoal's high, for I know it's
no sich thing. How much a bar'l?”

“It's—”

“Don't say mor'n eight in pence!”

“Oh, ma'am,” said the charcoal boy, quite overcome
by this energetic address: “its fifopence, ma'am.”

“Fifopence!” cried Aunt Phillis, in great horror; “did
anybody ever! Now, young man! jest listen to me, while
I tell my mind to you!”

“Leastway ma'am its a eight in pence,” said the charcoal
martyr, who trembled before the irate judge.

“G'ime a bar'l,” said Aunt Phillis; “and next time
young man, look sharp, before you go about deceivin' the
commun'ty!”

The charcoal vender disappeared—unhitched his donkey,

and turned him with his head into the cart, his body
being between the shafts, which position is considered
absolutely essential to a valid sale of charcoal—and this
ceremony being gone through with, proceeded to fill the
barrel which he afterwards brought in and emptied in the
box prepared for it.

The expedition with which this was done highly pleased
Aunt Phillis, who set a plate of cold bones and cornbread
before the youthful charcoal vender, whereat his
countenance lit up with radiant satisfaction.

“Now you set there, up on them steps, 'an eat,” said
Aunt Phillis, “an' thank the Lord, not me.”

Whether the thanks were returned or not remains a
mystery—but certain it is that the last morsel was devoured,
after which the smutty youth ducked his head
with an injured air, and soon was crying again in the
distance.

“Charcoal!” cried Aunt Phillis, in derision, “I hear a
parrot cryin' `charcoal' to'ther day, down there jest by
the market, and a-sayin', `Julia!' tell I thought I should
a laughed myself away a-listenin' to him. They was too
on em, chile, bless you, and one try to sing like that crow
'ut used to live down on the bridge, and roll his eyes and
holler out to `Bob,' when Bob come back from market,
shakin' of his wings, and makin' b'lieve he wasn't hungry,
only playin'! I hear them parrots singin'. One singed
a song, and to'ther cried `that's mighty purty singin'!'
and I never see sech ugly things as I'm a livin' bein'.
Split ther tongues, and crows kin do the same as I am
toll. He! he! `that's mighty purty singin'!' and I

thought I should 'a dropped my basket full of clothes
there right down in the street, they made one laugh so,
chile—the Lord have mercy!”

With which account of her experience in the parrot
line, Aunt Phillis turned to other subjects, and surveyed
the charcoal.

“It's Providence sent that boy,” said the old lady, “I'm
jest out, and you, child, was down here for to run out and
git it. But yit, de Lord knows when I'll git to usin' that
there charcoal.”

“You mean washing and ironing, don't you, Aunt
Phillis?”

“Yes, chile.”

“Let me help you, wont you?”

“You, chile?”

“Yes, Aunt Phillis. I will help you—go for water—
and wash and iron, and do anything,” said Lucia, tremulously;
“I will ask nothing but a little to eat:—I—I—
that is I hardly know what to do, and I—don't like to be
a burden to my friends.”

“Why that's right, chile; but kin you wash an' ir'n?”

“I think I could, Aunt Phillis.”

“Poor little hands—poor chile! you ain't got nothin'!”

There was so much kind and motherly expression in
these words that Lucia's eyes filled with tears.

“You shell have somethin' as long's I's got anything,”
said Aunt Phillis; “an' if you choose to help me, de Lord
knows I will take it as a 'commodation. Come down in
de mornin' an I'll fin' the things. Them lace undersleeves
there 'longing' to a little lady jest about your age, as

rich as golden guineas, will jest suit you, chile, and you
kin do 'em up better 'n I kin.”

“Oh, thank you, Aunt Phillis,” said Lucia, who caught
at this means of procuring her daily bread without accepting
Sam's or Ellie's assistance, which was as we have said,
bitterly repugnant to her pride: “Oh, thank you, and I'll
come down early. Now, Aunt Phillis, would you please
to lend me your Bible—I haven't got one, and I do so
long to read.”

“My Bible! that I will, and bless the day you come
a-askin' after 't. It's a lovely sight to see the young
a-seekin' of the Lord. Read some to me, chile! There's
the Bible on the shelf—read, read it—anywhere, anywhere,
chile! it's all good.”

And Lucia got the Bible and opened it, and read the
Psalm which commences, “Lord thou hast been our dwelling
place in all generations.”

As the child read on in her low earnest voice, the old
woman nodded, and bent about, and drank in the words
with a pleasure and satisfaction which made the old face
glow.

“For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday
when it is past,” read the child, “and as a watch in the
night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood, they are
as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which
groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth and groweth
up, in the evening it is cut down and withered.”

“Cut down and withered,” repeated the old woman, in
a low voice, “bless de Lord, but we grows agin.”

“For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy

wrath are we troubled,” read Lucia. “Thou hast set our
iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy
countenance. For all our days are passed away in thy
wrath. We spend our years as a tale that is told.”

The child's head drooped as she read those words, and
she murmured something which the old woman did not
hear.

“The days of our years are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is
their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and
we fly away.”

“And we fly away!” repeated Aunt Phillis, in a low
voice.

The child read the whole, and then closed the book.

“The sound o' that makes me feel a blessed feelin',” said
the old woman, “no matter how dreadful it is, we knows
it is washed away!”

And Aunt Phillis began to sing to herself, in that low
touching tone, which those who have heard it once never
forget. Lucia thought she had better leave the old woman
in this happy mood—and so taking the Bible, which she
knew Aunt Phillis did not want at the moment, she stole
softly out, and ascended to her poor chamber with her
treasure.

A bran new Bible already lay there on the table.