University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
RECOLLECTIONS OF AUNT PHILLIS.

Let us now return to Lucia and her friends, from
whom we have been diverted by the appearance of Doctor
Fossyl and Monsieur Guillemot.

As soon as the “company” left Aunt Phillis' cellar,
and scattered themselves on their various paths homeward,
Lucia went down to the old woman's apartment,
and assisted her in performing the various household
ceremonies which are necessary to the comfort of those
who are fond of neatness and order. In a little while,
the remains of the feast which Aunt Phillis had laid
before her friends were removed, and the old woman and
Lucia sat before the fire, and saw the gloomy evening
descend gradually, wrapping the streets and everything
in its chill cloud.

“Lord knows I b'lieve that hymn is made me stronger,”
said Aunt Phillis: “bless de Lord, I'll git sail in the ole
ship o' Zion over Jordan—I'm goin' over Jordan, chile
—now don't you say I ain't; de Lord do so to me, and
more also!”

With which Aunt Phillis relapsed into thought, and
remained for a long time silent. At last she said in a
low, feeling voice:

“'Seems to me all the ole days comin' back agin'.
They was a little boy ole master had, and I think I never
see a boy so smart. `Mammy Phillis! Mammy Phillis!'
he say: `Mammy Phillis, what a pretty moon it is!' and
then he say, `Papa, up there—bright, bright as day!'

An' he not three years ole, de Lord have mercy! Well,
well, this is a strange worl' I think—I think it is!
`bright, bright as day!”'

And Aunt Phillis laughed in a low tone.

“He was a mity pretty boy,” she went on; “prettier
an' any I mos' ever see: his face mos' shine! and I'm
seein' of him now a-playin' with his baby-house, and toddlin'
along, and makin' ev'rybody come and see it! Well
—well—well, de Lord, he knows it was a trial when he
was took down—an' when de flowers was tied upon his
coffin, 'seemed to me I liked to cried. Poor little thing
—but Jesus took him home! `Mammy,' says she—his
mother, my own blessed mistuss, says, my chile: `mammy,'
says she, a-cryin', with her hair all hangin' down,
and leanin' on the cradle': “mammy, he ain't cold, is he,
O! don't say he's cold!'—and when I say, `Now, mistuss,
you go right back whar you come from!' how she shaked
and cried! poor thing! The fust goes hard with em!—
but Jesus took him home!”

There was a strange pathos in the old woman's voice,
and in the gloom it sounded infinitely pitiful and touching.

“Dey buried him jis' when the sun was goin' down,
and never did I see a coffin that was littler! The flowers
was over it, and when they let it down thar in the e'rth,
it seemed mos' like he was a flower too. `Consider the
lilies of the field,'—and mistuss set a-cryin' in the carridge—yes,
she did!—poor mistuss! `Mammy,' says
she, that night: `they did'nt cut me any of his hair,'
says she. `Oh me!' says she: `why, why did God take
all I have away from me?' says she. And then she go

and fall down on her knees, and cry and say, `Thy will
be done—thy will be done, not mine,' says she. Poor
mistress, she's in heaven now, 'long with the baby an' ole
master. Jesus took 'em home.”

And Aunt Phillis rocked herself about, and began to
croon in a low voice:

Lucia was silent—only in the darkness her tears begun
to flow; and her heart was melted by the poor old
woman's memories. These memories seemed to possess
an infinite tenderness, and the voice of the old negro
woman penetrated to the subtle and hidden fountain of
tears. She seemed, thus, in a waking dream to see the
past defile before her with its thousand scenes of every
description—and even when those scenes, as now, were
sad. Still the sadness seemed to be removed from them
in some way, and they shone with a light brighter than
that of earth. Memory like a tablet covered with signs,
but crusted over by the thousand cares of life, seemed
now to be made whole again—to be cleared from the
obscuring material, and to shine in all its virgin purity.
Was it approaching death which thus removed the mould
from those impressions, and brought them out again so
plainly?

The old woman rambled on with many such memories
as this one we have set down in her own words; and
Lucia listened with a sad pleasure to the feeble words.

“Well, well, my chile,” Aunt Phillis at length said,
“I'm tirin' of you with my talkin'. Young folks don't
know what ole folks is seen. I'm thinkin' it'll be all right
in the end. `Let not your heart be troubled, neither let
it be afraid.' I wont live long, and ain't afeard to go.
My blessed Lord is callin' of me home, to glory. Yes,
my chile, I'm goin' home. Oh, Lord, my strength! I'm
comin' home!”

With which the old woman crooned to herself the lines
of a hymn, and taking a candle from the table lit it, and
asked Lucia to read some for her.

“What shall I read, Aunt Phillis?” said Lucia, in a
tremulous voice.

“Anywhere—everywhere—chile—De Lord, he knows I
like it anywhere—jist where you choose.”

Lucia opened the Bible, and her eyes fell on those verses
in which the great monarch of the Jews points as a warning
to youth, the drooping days of age, and the shadows
of approaching death.

“In the day,” Lucia read, “when the keepers of the
house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves,
and the grinders cease because they are few, and
those that look out of the window be darkened.”

“Be darkened,” murmured Aunt Phillis, “and the
light shineth in darkness.”

“When they shall be afraid of that which is high, and
fear shall be in their way, and the almond tree shall
flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire
shall fail, because man goeth to his long home, and
the mourners go about the streets.”

“And the mourner goeth about the streets,” repeated
Aunt Phillis, in a low voice.

“Or even the silken cord be loosened, or the golden
bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust
return to the earth, as it was, and the spirit shall return
unto God who gave it.'

“Oh, yes, my chile! return to God! Oh, yes,” said
the old woman, solemnly, “that'll do, don't read no more,
my chile—don't read no more.”

Lucia closed the book, and leaned her head upon her
hand, gazing sadly into the fire. As she sat thus, she
presented a strange contrast to the old negro woman,
trembling upon the verge of life, and passing slowly into
that darkness, which wraps from human eyes the mysterious
future. Young, of delicate and touching beauty,
and with that sad sweetness of eye and lip, which marks a
high nature, thrown, unprepared and weak, on the rude
surface of the world, Lucia could scarcely have presented
a more perfect contrast to her companion. There was one
thing in common, however, between these two beings—
one tie, which has bound together, nations and tongues
and peoples, in all ages—and this tie was stronger than
any earthly difference.

Lucia sat thus for some moments, gazing into the fire;
and then raising her head, said, with a sad smile:

“Aunt Phillis, I think I should like to die while I am
young—I would not like to live a long, long time.”

“Leave it to God, my chile,” said the old woman, “his

own appointed time is bes'; and none of us ain't got no
right to 'spect health always, or to 'scape ole age.”

“Oh, I didn't mean that?”

“Didn't mean what, my chile?”

“I didn't mean I was afraid of sickness or old age for
the pain: but it might make me impatient and rebellious.
I might think God had deserted me, because I suffered.”

“That ain't right, my child. We ain't got no right to
have sich feelin's. He doeth all things well, an' like as a
father pitieth his children—that's the way he sends down
weakness and sickness and sufferin', bless de Lord.”

“Oh, yes: and indeed, indeed, I did not mean to say I
would think God did not love me. Does he love me, Aunt
Phillis?—oh, does he love me?”

And Lucia covered her face and suppressed a sob, which
came to her lips.

“I know he does, my chile,” said Aunt Phillis, “I know
he does! Only believe!”

“Oh, yes, I do believe! indeed, indeed, I do! I have
been sick and sorrowful; but I am not sorrowful now! I
didn't know if I believed, before I saw you, Aunt Phillis,
but now I do!”

And the child bent and sobbed and murmured.

“Ellie made me think how sinful and rebellious I was,
and I thought I heard God speak to me, and often since
I thought he spoke to me! Oh, yes, Aunt Phillis, I believe—with
all my heart!—I am only a child—a poor
child—full of sin!—but—he will—not refuse me, when—I
kneel and pray to him!”

And overcome by emotion, the child's head drooped

still lower, and only a few broken sobs revealed the depth
of her agitation.

Let us pause here.

There are words which should not be repeated here for
the indifferent, perhaps the sneering, though for such we
care nothing—there are scenes which the writer lays down
his pen in presence of, and passes onward with respect and
silence as he gazes at them. Surely the pure emotion of
a child, in whose innocent heart the first seeds of a sublime
faith are sown, should not be laid bare, and dissected
in the cold, material spirit of the anatomist, who thrusts
his scalpel, with like carelessness, into whatever lies before
him. No art can adequately portray such scenes—the
infinite beauty of faith, and love, and singleness of heart,
has never yet been cut in marble, or placed upon canvass,
or described in words.

Lucia sat with the old woman until the long hours of
the night deepened and glided towards midnight: then
she rose and assisted Aunt Phillis, who tottered feebly, to
her bed: and then, with an affectionate good night, the
child sought her own poor chamber, and was soon buried
in sleep; the prayer she murmured, as her weary eyelids
closed, still on her lips—still on her lips, but elsewhere
heard and answered!