10. CHAPTER X.
EDITH'S ADVENTURES.
Poor Edith sped into Market street, and turning to the
right, ran down towards the river until her course was obstructed
by a dense crowd of men and women in the market-house.
Some were dancing, some singing, and most of
them laughing. The contents of a large confectionery
store, recently rifled, were spread out before them, and the
contributions of a neighboring wine establishment were being
added to the entertainment. No man's property was any
longer his own. “Everything,” said the mob, was “free.”
Edith was seized by a gaudily-dressed young woman and
held securely by the wrist.
“Whither away so fast, fair sir?” said she.
“Release me! exclaimed the poor girl, for an instant
forgetful of the part she was acting. This attracted much
notice, and produced a great deal of merriment.
“Why, where did this bird come from?” continued the
young woman. “He's neither a specimen of nature or
philosophy. He really trembles like some poor frightened
maiden. What sort of boy are you? Where did you
come from? You must take courage. Here! Swallow
this. It is good. You must drink it!”
She presented a glass of wine to Edith's lips, and poor
Edith, exhausted and thirsty, drank of it, and soon felt
renewed courage and strength.
“Now, wont you be my partner?” asked the young
woman. “We will waltz down between the rows. Music!”
“No—not now!” said Edith, with a decision which
inspired respect. “I am on an errand of life and death, and
you must await my return. if indeed I shall ever return.”
“He's in earnest,” said the young woman, “and we
must let him go. Can I assist you? If I say the word, a
hundred men will back you! And if that won't do, I have
but to see General Ruffleton, and you shall have a thousand!”
“No—thank you,” said Edith, shivering at the mention
of the hated name. “That would spoil all—I mean I
must go alone, or else my plan will be defeated.”
“Go, then; but come back when your errand is done.
Remember Flora Summers. If I am not here, ask for me.
Oho! yonder comes the General, now; and he, too, seems
on some hasty errand!”
Edith, released, did not pause to behold her pursuer.
But it occurred to her that she must soon be overtaken, if
Flora Summers's men should be sent in pursuit, a thing by
no means improbable. And therefore, when she supposed
no one observed her, she stooped down and concealed herself
under one of the counters used by the butchers. And
this was most fortunate; for, not many moments after,
General Ruffleton, Major Trapp, and several others came
running past. They did not pause, and poor Edith breathed
freer. There were fragments of old carpets under the
counter, and her position was not uncomfortable. Knowing
the necessity of bearing her ills with all the resolution
she could command, whilst hiding thus, she eat heartily of
the store of sweetmeats the liberal Flora had forced upon
her. For many minutes she remained in this situation, and
never ventured to peep out until, from the comparative
silence in the vicinity, she became aware that the market-house
had been deserted. Then she ventured to thrust
forth her head and reconnoitre. All was silent and still,
and she resolved to abandon her hiding-place. But her cap
had fallen off, and that being indispensable, she crawled
back in quest of it. At the farthest extremity of the shelter,
whilst groping in the dark, and after having just
recovered the cap, her hand was seized by another
fugitive.
“In the name of God!” said a tremulous voice, “have
pity on a poor old man!”
This speech served to dispel the affright at first experienced
by Edith.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“You are a boy, and will not hurt me,” said the old man,
for such it was, still grasping Edith's hand, and leading her
into the centre of the deserted market-place, where the
rays of the distant lamp enabled him to see her features.
“And you are not one of the bad boys, who prowl about
of nights. You are lost, or have been driven into the
streets. That's well. And I am an old man who has not
tasted food for forty hours. Thank you! thank you!” he
cried, eagerly seizing and devouring the cakes and candy
tendered him by Edith, whose pity was excited in his
behalf. He was indeed an old man, but yet not so tall as
Edith. His small face was sharp and cadaverous, and his
bent neck and narrow shoulders were enveloped in an old
blue cloth cloak.
“Now I must leave you, sir,” said Edith, preparing to
resume her flight.
“No! no!” said he, in piteous tones. “Don't leave me.
I shall be robbed and ruined. There is one, Moses Abra
hams, over yonder, in the upper story, where I will be safe.
I will pay you to help me—how much will you charge?”
“I want no reward,” said Edith.
“Not want money? Good boy! Don't leave me.”
“I must leave you, sir. I could not protect you.”
“No! no! Don't go. Good boy! You can help me
carry my little trunk.”
“Where is it, sir?”
“Wait a minute.” Saying this the diminutive old man
crept under the counter, and dragged forth a small trunk,
which, however, seemed weighty. “There now!” said he,
breathing rapidly from exhaustion, as he rose. “Do you
take one end and I will the other. It's some old scraps
I can sell for bread. Just help me into the alley and
this silver coin shall be yours.” He exhibited a half
dime!
Edith knew not what to do. But the idea occurring that
she, who required assistance, ought not, perhaps, to refuse
her aid to this trembling old man, she stooped down and
raised one end of the trunk. It was very heavy, and both
staggered under the burden while crossing the street. The
old man indicated the course in fearful whispers—but to no
purpose; for just when they were gliding round the corner
they were suddenly met by a number of ill-looking men
running rapidly. The trunk was knocked from the feeble
hands that held it, and breaking to pieces, a large amount
of gold coins rolled out, glittering and ringing upon the
pavement. The men threw themselves upon the treasure,
while the old Jew begged, and struggled, and cursed in vain.
He called upon Edith to save his treasure, and reproached
her for not fulfilling her bargain.
Edith ran away as fast as possible, and never cast a look
behind until she entered Second street. Here the massacre
of the negroes had commenced, and many of the victims
still lay where they had fallen. It was a horrible spectacle,
and the poor girl averted her eyes and hastened past. In
Walnut street she encountered an immense mob, vowing
vengeance against the “pro-slavery” Democracy. She
was irresistibly swept onward by the throng. In vain
were her endeavors to extricate herself; and in addition to
a natural aversion for such companions, she thought she
might be dragged in this manner to some bloody battle-field.
But suddenly her eyes rested upon the revered
features of her father! Not anticipating so joyful a realization
of her hopes in such a place, the revulsion was too
much for the poor girl. It was impossible to repress her
pent up feelings; and she sprang forward, struggling with
all her might, and called aloud, “Father! father!” He
heard the voice, and his heart was smitten with a tender
pang; but on beholding merely a boy fainting in the arms
of a bystander, he gave him some money, and requested
that the lad might be tenderly cared for. A moment after,
and the father and child were pursuing different directions!
“What is the matter, boy?” asked the man who bore
the fainting Edith, when he perceived symptoms of returning
animation.
“Where is my father?” asked she, springing from his
arms, and looking wildly.
“That is more than I can tell,” said the man.
“Was it a dream then? or merely the imagination?”
“I cannot tell that, either,” was the reply.
The head of the dense column soon came in view of the
rear of Independence Square—the conflict commenced.
The assailants had no shelter, and suffered the most. The
other party fired briskly from behind the wall, with smallarms,
and Edith could see that they were likewise preparing
to discharge cannon. People were falling around her,
and yet she could not retrace her steps, or escape to the
right or the left. She therefore took refuge in the ruins of
the block of houses that had been burned. Several voices
warned her against seeking such a refuge, and it was supposed
she would be suffocated or burnt to death. She
heeded them not, but sprang down and ran under an archway
of brick, where she found a clearer atmosphere than
that she had abandoned, and where she suffered no inconvenience
from the heat. The only source of alarm was the
many rats running about, seeking egress from the ruins.
But they did not molest her, except with their cries.
Meanwhile the cannon made such havoc that the attack
was soon repulsed. But Edith remained until the firing
ceased and the crowd dispersed. She then abandoned the
arch, and directed her steps towards the square, where all
was joy and hilarity. She learned, as she followed some
men towards the State House, that many speakers were
expected to address the meeting that night, and among the
rest Senator Langdon! Her first impulse was to proclaim
herself the Senator's daughter. But this was overcome by
a reluctance to attract attention to her disguise, and by the
rational conclusion that when her father should appear
there would be no necessity for the aid of any of his
friends. And if he did not come, circumstances might render
a preservation of her incognito still necessary.
She was borne by the dense throng slowly up the main
avenue, and in front of the row of cages which had been
prepared for retaliating on the Abolitionists the outrages of
the preceding evening. The profane politician and the fat
publisher were the managers.
“Take care, boy!” said the former, addressing Edith.
“Don't venture too near these animals.” Poor Edith was
so hemmed in that she could neither advance nor retire but
with the crowd. But she lifted her eyes and gazed at the
contents of the cage. Her astonishment was great on
beholding a middle-aged Quaker, of low stature, but large
calves, reached by the ample skirts of his coat, standing in
front of Frederick Douglas, who was seated in a barber's
chair. The Quaker was an apothecary who had come from
a town in New Jersey, where his sect greatly abounded, to
rescue the negroes from the avenging hands of their enemies.
He was now forced by the goad of the profane politician to
read W —'s poems to Frederick, an unmixed African!
As she gazed, Edith did not think the warning of the
profane politician at all necessary. The Quaker was one of
the class of conscientious Abolitionists, like the poet himself;
and so far from being angry at the indignities to which
he was subjected, he seemed to read, with much feeling, the
finest passages the volume contained, with the faintest hope
it might be, but yet with hope, that the hearts of his enemies
would be touched. But Fred. sat uneasily in his chair,
whilst large drops of perspiration ran down his dusky
cheeks. Nevertheless, he had the address to beseech his
keeper to permit him to resign his seat to the Quaker.
This, at last, was granted; and then the profane politician
cited the voluntary exchange as a proper demonstration of
the relative positions of the two races.
The next cage contained a huge monster frightful to behold.
Edith gazed long before she could be convinced that
the being before her was really of the human race. But he
too was a Quaker. It was the same who had been incarcerated
for his complicity with a gang of ruffians in depriving
a Southern citizen of his slaves. His corporeal dimensions
filled the cage. He had been immersed several times
in tar, and overwhelmed with feathers.
Another cage held a colored specimen from Bristol,
named Purvis, and three white men from the same town,
his constant admirers. The Abolitionists were required to
kiss the negro every third minute by the State House clock.
This was a great torture to them all, and it would have been
difficult to decide which was the most disgusted, the negro
or the white men.
There was also a literary cage, containing several ex-judges,
anti-slavery biographers, editors, and publishers,
upon whom no greater severity was inflicted than the forced
exhibition of their faces to the prying multitude.
And next to this was the cynosure of all eyes—a cage of
mammoth dimensions, from which there proceeded a medley
of discordant sounds, and before which the crowd, ever
and anon, fell suddenly back as if in fear of the claws or
fangs of wild beasts. It was, therefore, with no slight trepidation
that Edith found herself impelled in that direction.
But the matter was soon explained. The cage contained at
least a dozen distinguished women, Abby K., Lucy S., L.
M., Mrs. S., etc., etc. No wonder there was a Babel of
voices! These prisoners gesticulated most frantically, and
uttered every conceivable defiance. To each of the questions
the keeper or spectators propounded there were a
dozen answers, in every key of the gamut; and in every
controversy that arose they invariably assumed the offensive.
And when they ceased to speak from very weariness,
the keeper had the inhumanity to sprinkle them with vinegar,
using a large watering pot and sponge. And it was
on such occasions as these that the tempest of invectives
produced an involuntary falling back of the spectators.
One more surge of that multitudinous sea of human
beings brought Edith in front of the stand erected for the
speakers who were to address the meeting. Not less than
fifty were seated on it, but their faces could not all be
seen. Among these Edith did not recognise her father.
Nor could she change her position to be enabled to survey
the rest. She could only hear the announcement of his
name, and that he was certainly to address the meeting.
The first who rose to address the multitude was the son
of a distinguished Southern statesman who had occupied
the highest position in the government. This popular orator
was hailed with repeated and prolonged applause, for in
addition to the elevated rank of his family, he was possessed
of a high order of genius, and endowed with a power of eloquence
that never failed to captivate the masses. And
when he resumed his seat, cries were heard for many of
the distinguished men then in the city, and among the rest,
Senator Langdon.
Edith held her breath and gazed in painful suspense.
The calls for speakers continued, and, as it seemed it had
not been exactly arranged who should be the second orator,
there ensued a competition among the audience which of
several names should be demanded by the greatest number.
And while this incertitude prevailed, poor Edith swooned
again! One who stood near bore her away from the crowd,
room being made for him to pass. And when he had extricated
himself, he conveyed his burden towards the iron
gate on the western side of the enclosure.
