University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
SUMMER TALK AT CANEMA.

In the course of a few days the family circle at Canema was
enlarged by the arrival of Clayton's sister; and Carson, in
excellent spirits, had started for a Northern watering-place.
In answer to Nina's letter of invitation, Anne had come
with her father, who was called to that vicinity by the duties
of his profession. Nina received her with her usual gay
frankness of manner; and Anne, like many others, soon
found herself liking her future sister much better than she
had expected. Perhaps, had Nina been in any other situation
than that of hostess, her pride might have led her to
decline making the agreeable to Anne, whom, notwithstanding,
she very much wished to please. But she was mistress
of the mansion, and had an Arab's idea of the privileges of
a guest; and so she chatted, sang, and played, for her; she
took her about, showed her the walks, the arbors, the flower-garden;
waited on her in her own apartment, with a thousand
little attentions, all the more fascinating from the kind
of careless independence with which they were rendered.
Besides, Nina had vowed a wicked little vow in her heart
that she would ride rough-shod over Anne's dignity; that
she would n't let her be grave or sensible, but that she
should laugh and frolic with her. And Clayton could scarce
help smiling at the success that soon crowned her exertions.
Nina's gayety, when in full tide, had a breezy infectiousness
in it, that seemed to stir up every one about her,
and carry them on the tide of her own spirits; and Anne,
in her company, soon found herself laughing at everything
and nothing, simply because she felt gay.

To crown all, Uncle John Gordon arrived, with his cheery,
jovial face; and he was one of those fearless, hit-or-miss
talkers, that are invaluable in social dilemmas, because they
keep something or other all the while in motion.

With him came Madam Gordon, or, as Nina commonly
called her, Aunt Maria. She was a portly, finely-formed,
middle-aged woman, who might have been handsome, had
not the lines of care and nervous anxiety ploughed themselves
so deeply in her face. Her bright, keen, hazel eyes,
fine teeth, and the breadth of her ample form, attested the
vitality of the old Virginia stock from whence she sprung.

“There,” said Nina, to Anne Clayton, as they sat in the
shady side of the veranda, “I 've marshalled Aunt Maria
up into Aunt Nesbit's room, and there they will have a
comfortable dish of lamentation over me.”

“Over you?” said Anne.

“Yes — over me, to be sure! — that 's the usual order of
exercises. Such a setting down as I shall get! They 'll
count up on their fingers all the things I ought to know and
don't, and ought to do and can't. I believe that 's the way
relatives always show their affection — aunts in particular
— by mourning over you.”

“And what sort of a list will they make out?” said
Anne.

“O, bless me, that 's easy enough. Why, there 's Aunt
Maria, is a perfectly virulent housekeeper — really insane,
I believe, on that subject. Why, she chases up every rat
and mouse and cockroach, every particle of dust, every
scrap of litter. She divides her hours, and is as punctual
as a clock. She rules her household with a rod of iron, and
makes everybody stand round; and tells each one how
many times a day they may wink. She keeps accounts
like a very dragon, and always is sure to pounce on anybody
that is in the least out of the way. She cuts out
clothes by the bale; she sews, and she knits, and she
jingles keys. And all this kind of bustle she calls housekeeping!
Now, what do you suppose she must think of

me, who just put on my hat in the morning, and go sailing
down the walks, looking at the flowers, till Aunt Katy calls
me back, to know what my orders are for the day?”

“Pray, who is Aunt Katy?” said Anne.

“O, she is my female prime minister; and she is very
much like some prime ministers I have studied about in
history, who always contrive to have their own way, let
what will come. Now, when Aunt Katy comes and wants to
know, so respectfully, `What Miss Nina is going to have for
dinner,' do you suppose she has the least expectation of getting
anything that I order? She always has fifty objections
to anything that I propose. For sometimes the fit comes
over me to try to be housekeepy, like Aunt Maria; but it 's
no go, I can tell you. So, when she has proved that everything
that I propose is the height of absurdity, and shown
conclusively that there 's nothing fit to be eaten in the
neighborhood, by that time I am reduced to a proper state
of mind. And, when I humbly say, `Aunt Katy, what
shall we do?' then she gives a little cough, and out comes
the whole program, just as she had arranged it the night
before. And so it goes. As to accounts, why, Harry has
to look after them. I detest everything about money, except
the spending of it — I have rather a talent for that.
Now, just think how awfully all this must impress poor
Aunt Maria! What sighings, and rollings up of eyes, and
shakings of heads, there are over me! And, then, Aunt
Nesbit is always dinging at me about improving my mind!
And improving my mind means reading some horrid, stupid,
boring old book, just as she does! Now, I like the idea of
improving my mind. I am sure it wants improving, bad
enough; but, then, I can't help thinking that racing through
the garden, and cantering through the woods, improves it
faster than getting asleep over books. It seems to me that
books are just like dry hay — very good when there is n't
any fresh grass to be had. But I 'd rather be out and eat
what 's growing. Now, what people call nature never bores
me; but almost every book I ever saw does. Don't you

think people are made differently? Some like books, and
some like things; don't you think so?”

“I can give you a good fact on your side of the argument,”
said Clayton, who had come up behind them during
the conversation.

“I did n't know I was arguing; but I shall be glad to
have anything on my side,” said Nina, “of course.”

“Well, then,” said Clayton, “I 'll say that the books
that have influenced the world the longest, the widest, and
deepest, have been written by men who attended to things
more than to books; who, as you say, eat what was growing,
instead of dry hay. Homer could n't have had much
to read in his time, nor the poets of the Bible; and they
have been fountains for all ages. I don't believe Shakspeare
was much of a reader.”

“Well, but,” said Anne, “don't you think that, for us
common folks, who are not going to be either Homers or
Shakespeares, that it 's best to have two strings to our bow,
and to gain instruction both from books and things?”

“To be sure,” said Clayton, “if we only use books
aright. With many people, reading is only a form of mental
indolence, by which they escape the labor of thinking for
themselves. Some persons are like Pharaoh's lean kine;
they swallow book upon book, but remain as lean as
ever.”

“My grandfather used to say,” said Anne, “that the
Bible and Shakspeare were enough for a woman's library.”

“Well,” said Nina, “I don't like Shakspeare, there!
I 'm coming out flat with it. In the first place, I don't
understand half he says; and, then, they talk about his being
so very natural! I 'm sure I never heard people talk as he
makes them. Now, did you ever hear people talk in blank
verse, with every now and then one or two lines of rhyme,
as his characters do when they go off in long speeches?
Now, did you?”

“As to that,” said Clayton, “it 's about half and half.
His conversations have just about the same resemblance to

real life that acting at the opera has. It is not natural for
Norma to burst into a song when she discovers the treachery
of her husband. You make that concession to the
nature of the opera, in the first place; and then, with that
reserve, all the rest strikes you as natural, and the music
gives an added charm to it. So, in Shakspeare, you
concede that the plays are to be poems, and that the people
are to talk in rhythm, and with all the exaltation of poetic
sentiment; and, that being admitted, their conversations
may seem natural.”

“But I can't understand a great deal that Shakspeare
says,” said Nina.

“Because so many words and usages are altered since
he wrote,” said Clayton. “Because there are so many allusions
to incidents that have passed, and customs that have
perished, that you have, as it were, to acquire his language
before you can understand him. Suppose a poem were
written in a foreign tongue; you could n't say whether you
liked it or disliked it till you could read the language. Now,
my opinion is, that there is a liking for Shakspeare hidden
in your nature, like a seed that has not sprouted.”

“What makes you think so?”

“O, I see it in you, just as a sculptor sees a statue in a
block of marble.”

“And are you going to chisel it out?” said Nina.

“With your leave,” said Clayton. “After all, I like
your sincerity in saying what you do think. I have often
heard ladies profess an admiration for Shakspeare that I
knew could n't be real. I knew that they had neither the
experience of life, nor the insight into human nature, really
to appreciate what is in him; and that their liking for him
was all a worked-up affair, because they felt it would be
very shocking not to like him.”

“Well,” said Nina, “I 'm much obliged to you for all
the sense you find in my nonsense. I believe I shall keep
you to translate my fooleries into good English.”

“You know I 'm quite at your disposal,” said Clayton,
“for that or anything else.”

At this moment the attention of Nina was attracted by
loud exclamations from that side of the house where the
negro cottages were situated.

“Get along off! don't want none o' yo old trash here!
No, no, Miss Nina don't want none o' yo old fish! She 's
got plenty of niggers to ketch her own fish.”

“Somebody taking my name in vain in those regions,”
said Nina, running to the other end of the veranda.
“Tomtit,” she said to that young worthy, who lay flat on
his back, kicking up his heels in the sun, waiting for his
knives to clean themselves, “pray tell me what 's going
on there!”

“Laws, missis,” said Tom, “it 's just one of dese yer
poor white trash, coming round here trying to sell one thing
o' nother. Miss Loo says it won't do 'courage 'em, and I 's
de same 'pinion.”

“Send him round here to me,” said Nina, who, partly
from humanity, and partly from a spirit of contradiction,
had determined to take up for the poor white folks, on all
occasions. Tomtit ran accordingly, and soon brought to
the veranda a man whose wretchedly tattered clothing
scarcely formed a decent covering. His cheeks were sunken
and hollow, and he stood before Nina with a cringing, half-ashamed
attitude; and yet one might see that, with better
dress and better keeping, he might be made to assume the
appearance of a handsome, intelligent man. “What do
you ask for your fish?” she said to him.

“Anything ye pleases!”

“Where do you live?” said Nina, drawing out her
purse.

“My folks 's staying on Mr. Gordon's place.”

“Why don't you get a place of your own to stay on?”
said Nina.

There was an impatient glance flashed from the man's

eye, but it gave place immediately to his habitual cowed
expression, as he said,

“Can't get work — can't get money — can't get nothing.”

“Dear me,” said her Uncle John, who had been standing
for a moment listening to the conversation. “This must
be husband of that poor hobgoblin that has lighted
down on my place lately. Well, you may as well pay him
a good price for his fish. Keep them from starving one day
longer, may be.” And Nina paid the man a liberal sum, and
dismissed him.

“I suppose, now, all my eloquence would n't make Rose
cook those fish for dinner,” said Nina.

“Why not, if you told her to?” said Aunt Maria, who
had also descended to the veranda.

“Why not? — Just because, as she would say, she had n't
laid out to do it.”

“That 's not the way my servants are taught to do!”
said Aunt Maria.

“I 'll warrant not,” said Nina. “But yours and mine
are quite different affairs, aunt. They all do as they have
a mind to, in my `diggings.' All I stipulate for is a little
of the same privilege.”

“That man's wife and children have come and `squatted'
down on my place,” said Mr. Gordon, laughing; “and so,
Nin, all you paid for his fish is just so much saving to me.”

“Yes, to be sure! Mr. Gordon is just one of those men
that will have a tribe of shiftless hangers on at his heels!”
said Mrs. Gordon.

“Well, bless my soul! what 's a fellow to do? Can't
see the poor heathen starve, can we? If society could only
be organized over, now, there would be hope for them. The
brain ought to control the hands; but among us the hands
try to set up for themselves; — and see what comes of it!”

“Who do you mean by brain?” said Nina.

“Who? — Why, we upper crust, to be sure! We educated
people! We ought to have an absolute sway over the working

classes, just as the brain rules the hand. It must come
to that, at last — no other arrangement is possible. The
white working classes can't take care of themselves, and
must be put into a condition for us to take care of them.
What is liberty to them? — Only a name — liberty to be
hungry and naked, that 's all. It 's the strangest thing in
the world, how people stick to names! I suppose that fellow,
up there, would flare up terribly at being put in with
my niggers; and yet he and his children are glad of the
crumbs that fall from their table! It 's astonishing to me
how, with such examples before them, any decent man can
be so stone blind as to run a tilt against slavery. Just
compare the free working classes with our slaves! Dear
me! the blindness of people in this world! It 's too much
for my patience, particularly in hot weather!” said Mr.
John, wiping his face with a white pocket-handkerchief.

“Well, but, Uncle John,” said Nina, “my dear old gentleman,
you have n't travelled, as I have.”

“No, child! I thank the Lord I never stepped my foot
out of a slave state, and I never mean to,” said Uncle
John.

“But you ought to see the northern working people,”
said Nina. “Why, the Governors of the States are farmers,
sometimes, and work with their own men. The brain and the
hand go together, in each one — not one great brain to fifty
pair of hands. And, I tell you, work is done up there very
differently from what 's done here! Just look at our ploughs
and our hoes! — the most ridiculous things that I ever saw.
I should think one of them would weigh ten pounds!”

“Well, if you don't have 'em heavy enough to go into
the ground by their own weight, these cussed lazy nigs
won't do anything with them. They 'd break a dozen Yankee
hoes in a forenoon,” said Uncle John.

“Now,” said Nina, “Uncle John, you dear old heathen,
you! do let me tell you a little how it is there. I went up
into New Hampshire, once, with Livy Ray, to spend a vacation.
Livy's father is a farmer; works part of every day

with his own men; hoes, digs, plants; but he is Governor
of the State. He has a splendid farm — all in first-rate
order; and his sons, with two or three hired men, keep it in
better condition than our places ever saw. Mr. Ray is a
man who reads a great deal; has a fine library, and he 's as
much of a gentleman as you 'll often see. There are no
high and low classes there. Everybody works; and everybody
seems to have a good time. Livy's mother has a
beautiful dairy, spring house, and two strong women to
help her; and everything in the house looks beautifully;
and, for the greater part of the day, the house seems so
neat and still, you would n't know anything had been done
in it. Seems to me this is better than making slaves of
all the working classes, or having any working classes
at all.”

“How wise young ladies always are!” said Uncle John.
“Undoubtedly the millennium is begun in New Hampshire!
But, pray, my dear, what part do young ladies take in all
this? Seems to me, Nin, you have n't picked up much of
this improvement in person.”

“O, as to that, I labor in my vocation,” said Nina; “that
is, of enlightening dull, sleepy old gentlemen, who never
travelled out of the state they were born in, and don't know
what can be done. I come as a missionary to them; I 'm
sure that 's work enough for one.”

“Well,” said Aunt Maria, “I know I am as great a
slave as any of the poor whites, or negroes either. There
is n't a soul in my whole troop that pretends to take any
care, except me, either about themselves or their children,
or anything else.”

“I hope that is n't a slant at me!” said Uncle John,
shrugging his shoulders.

“I must say you are as bad as any of them,” said Aunt
Maria.

“There it goes! — now I 'm getting it!” said Uncle
John. “I declare, the next time we get a preacher out here,
I 'm going to make him hold forth on the duties of wives!”

“And husbands, too!” said Aunt Maria.

“Do,” said Nina; “I should like a little prospective information.”

Nina, as often, spoke before she thought. Uncle John
gave a malicious look at Clayton. Nina could not recall
the words. She colored deeply, and went on hastily to
change the subject.

“At any rate, I know that aunt, here, has a much harder
time than housekeepers do in the free states. Just the
shoes she wears out chasing up her negroes would hire help
enough to do all her work. They used to have an idea, up
there, that all the southern ladies did was to lie on the sofa.
I used to tell them it was as much as they knew about it.”

“Your cares don't seem to have worn you much!” said
Uncle John.

“Well, they will, Uncle John, if you don't behave better.
It 's enough to break anybody down to keep you in order.”

“I wish,” said Uncle John, shrugging up his shoulders,
and looking quizzically at Clayton, “somebody would take
warning!”

“For my part,” said Aunt Maria, “I know one thing;
I 'd be glad to get rid of my negroes. Sometimes I think
life is such a burden that I don't think it 's worth having.”

“O, no, you don't, mother!” said Uncle John; “not with
such a charming husband as you 've got, who relieves you
from all care so perfectly!”

“I declare,” said Nina, looking along the avenue,
“what 's that? Why, if there is n't old Tiff, coming along
with his children!”

“Who is he?” said Aunt Maria.

“O, he belongs to one of these miserable families,” said
Aunt Nesbit, “that have squatted in the pine-woods somewhere
about here — a poor, worthless set! but Nina has a
great idea of patronizing them.”

“Clear Gordon, every inch of her!” said Aunt Maria, as
Nina ran down to meet Tiff. “Just like her uncle!”

“Come, now, old lady, I 'll tell of you, if you don't take

care!” said Mr. Gordon. “Did n't I find you putting up a
basket of provisions for those folks you scolded me so for
taking in?”

“Scold, Mr. Gordon? I never scold!”

“I beg pardon — that you reproved me for!”

Ladies generally are not displeased for being reproached
for their charities; and Aunt Maria, whose bark, to use a
vulgar proverb, was infinitely worse than her bite, sat fanning
herself, with an air of self-complacency. Meanwhile,
Nina had run down the avenue, and was busy in a confidential
communication with Tiff. On her return, she came skipping
up the steps, apparently in high glee.

“O, Uncle John! there 's the greatest fun getting up!
You must all go, certainly! What do you think? Tiff
says there 's to be a camp-meeting in the neighborhood,
only about five miles off from his place. Let 's make up a
party, and all go!”

“That 's the time of day!” said Uncle John. “I enrol
myself under your banner, at once. I am open to improvement!
Anybody wants to convert me, here I am!”

“The trouble with you, Uncle John,” said Nina, “is that
you don't stay converted. You are just like one of these
heavy fishes — you bite very sharp, but, before anybody can
get you fairly on to the bank, you are flapping and floundering
back into the water, and down you go into your sins
again. I know at least three ministers who thought they
had hooked you out; but they were mistaken.”

“For my part,” said Aunt Maria, “I think these camp-meetings
do more harm than good. They collect all the
scum and the riff-raff of the community, and I believe
there 's more drinking done at camp-meetings in one week
than is done in six anywhere else. Then, of course, all the
hands will want to be off; and Mr. Gordon has brought
them up so that they feel dreadfully abused if they are not
in with everything that 's going on. I shall set down my
foot, this year, that they shan't go any day except Sunday.”

“My wife knows that she was always celebrated for having

the handsomest foot in the county, and so she is always
setting it down at me!” said Mr. Gordon; “for she knows
that a pretty foot is irresistible with me.”

“Mr. Gordon, how can you talk so? I should think that
you 'd got old enough not to make such silly speeches!”
said Aunt Maria.

“Silly speeches! It 's a solemn fact, and you won't hear
anything truer at the camp-meeting!” said Uncle John.
“But come, Clayton, will you go? My dear fellow, your
grave face will be an appropriate ornament to the scene, I
can assure you; and, as to Miss Anne, it won't do for an old
fellow like me, in this presence, to say what a happiness it
would be.”

“I suspect,” said Anne, “Edward is afraid he may be
called on for some of the services. People are always taking
him for a clergyman, and asking him to say grace at
meals, and to conduct family prayers, when he is travelling
among strangers.”

“It 's a comment on our religion, that these should be
thought peculiar offices of clergymen,” said Clayton.
“Every Christian man ought to be ready and willing to take
them.”

“I honor that sentiment!” said Uncle John. “A man
ought not to be ashamed of his religion anywhere, no more
than a soldier of his colors. I believe there 's more religion
hid in the hearts of honest laymen, now, than is plastered up
behind the white cravats of clergymen; and they ought to
come out with it. Not that I have any disrespect for the
clergy, either,” said Uncle John. “Fine men — a little
stiffish, and don't call things by good English names. Always
talking about dispensation, and sanctification, and
edification, and so forth; but I like them. They are sincere.
I suppose they would n't any of them give me a
chance for heaven, because I rip out with an oath, every now
and then. But, the fact is, what with niggers, and overseers,
and white trash, my chances of salvation are dreadfully
limited. I can't help swearing, now and then, if I was to

die for it. They say it 's dreadfully wicked; but I feel more
Christian when I let out than when I keep in!”

“Mr. Gordon,” said Aunt Maria, reprovingly, “do consider
what you 're saying!”

“My dear, I am considering. I am considering all the
time! I never do anything else but consider — except, as
I said before, every now and then, when what-'s-his-name
gets the advantage over me. And, hark you, Mrs. G., let 's
have things ready at our house, if any of the clergy would
like to spend a week or so with us; and we could get them
up some meetings, or any little thing in their line. I always
like to show respect for them.”

“Our beds are always prepared for company, Mr. Gordon,”
said Aunt Maria, with a stately air.

“O, yes, yes, I don't doubt that! I only meant some
special preparation — some little fatted-calf killing, and so
on.”

“Now,” said Nina, “shall we set off to-morrow morning?”

“Agreed!” said Uncle John.