University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
LYNCH LAW.

The rays of the afternoon sun were shining through the
fringy needles of the pines. The sound of the woodpecker
reverberated through the stillness of the forest, answering
to thousand woodland notes. Suddenly, along the distant
path, a voice is heard singing, and the sound comes strangely
on the ear through the dreamy stillness:

And, as the last lines fall upon the ear, a figure, riding
slowly on horseback, comes round the bend of the forest
path. It is father Dickson. It was the habit of this good
man, much of whose life was spent in solitary journeyings,
to use the forest arches for that purpose for which they
seemed so well designed, as a great cathedral of prayer
and praise. He was riding with the reins loose over the
horse's neck, and a pocket-Bible in his hand. Occasionally
he broke out into snatches of song, like the one which we
heard him singing a few moments ago. As he rides along
now, he seems absorbed in mental prayer. Father Dickson,
in truth, had cause to pray. The plainness of speech which
he felt bound to use had drawn down upon him opposition

and opprobrium, and alienated some of his best friends.
The support which many had been willing to contribute to
his poverty was entirely withdrawn. His wife, in feeble
health, was toiling daily beyond her strength; and hunger
had looked in at the door, but each day prayer had driven
it away. The petition, “Give us THIS DAY our daily bread,”
had not yet failed to bring an answer; but there was no
bread for to-morrow. Many friendly advisers had told him
that, if he would relinquish a futile and useless undertaking,
he should have enough and to spare. He had been conferred
with by the elders in a vacant church, in the town of
E., who said to him, “We enjoy your preaching when you
let alone controverted topics; and if you 'll agree to confine
yourself solely to the Gospel, and say nothing on any of
the delicate and exciting subjects of the day, we shall rejoice
in your ministrations.” They pleaded with him his poverty,
and the poor health of his wife, and the necessities of his
children; but he answered, “`Man shall not live by bread
alone.' God is able to feed me, and he will do it.” They
went away, saying that he was a fool, that he was crazy.
He was not the first whose brethren had said, “He is beside
himself.”

As he rode along through the forest paths, he talked of
his wants to his Master. “Thou knowest,” he said, “how
I suffer. Thou knowest how feeble my poor wife is, and
how it distresses us both to have our children grow up
without education. We cast ourselves on thee. Let us not
deny thee; let us not betray thee. Thou hadst not where
to lay thy head; let us not murmur. The disciple is not
above his master, nor the servant above his lord.” And
then he sang:

And, as he sang and prayed, that strange joy arose within
him which, like the sweetness of night flowers, is born of
darkness and tribulation. The soul hath in it somewhat of
the divine, in that it can have joy in endurance beyond the
joy of indulgence.

They mistake who suppose that the highest happiness
lies in wishes accomplished — in prosperity, wealth, favor,
and success. There has been a joy in dungeons and on
racks passing the joy of harvest. A joy strange and
solemn, mysterious even to its possessor. A white stone
dropped from that signet-ring, peace, which a dying Saviour
took from his own bosom, and bequeathed to those who
endure the cross, despising the shame.

As father Dickson rode on, he lifted his voice, in solemn
exultation:

At this moment Dr. Cushing, in the abundant comforts
of his home, might have envied father Dickson in his desertion
and poverty. For that peace seldom visited him. He
struggled wearily along the ways of duty, never fulfilling
his highest ideal; wearied by confusing accusations of
conscience, and deeming himself happy only because, having
never lived in any other state, he knew not what happiness
was like. He alternately condemned his brother's

rashness, and sighed as he thought of his uncompromising
spirituality; and once or twice he had written him a
friendly letter of caution, enclosing him a five-dollar bill,
wishing that he might succeed, begging that he would
be careful, and ending with the pious wish that we might
all be guided aright; which supplication, in many cases,
answers the purpose, in a man's inner legislation, of laying
troublesome propositions on the table. Meanwhile the
shades of evening drew on, and father Dickson approached
the rude church which stood deep in the shadow of the
woods. In external appearance it had not the pretensions
even of a New England barn, but still it had echoed
prayers and praises from humble, sincere worshippers.
As father Dickson rode up to the door, he was surprised
to find quite a throng of men, armed with bludgeons and
pistols, waiting before it. One of these now stepped forward,
and, handing him a letter, said,

“Here, I have a letter for you to read!”

Father Dickson put it calmly in his pocket. “I will read
it after service,” said he.

The man then laid hold of his bridle. “Come out here!”
he said; “I want to talk to you.”

“Thank you, friend, I will talk with you after meeting,”
said he. “It 's time for me to begin service.”

“The fact is,” said a surly, wolfish-looking fellow, who
came behind the first speaker, “the fact is, we an't going
to have any of your d—d abolition meetings here! If he
can't get it out, I can!”

“Friends,” said father Dickson, mildly, “by what right
do you presume to stop me?”

“We think,” said the first man, “that you are doing
harm, violating the laws —”

“Have you any warrant from the civil authorities to stop
me?”

“No, sir,” said the first speaker; but the second one,
ejecting a large quid of tobacco from his mouth, took up
the explanation in a style and taste peculiarly his own.

“Now, old cock, you may as well know fust as last, that
we don't care a cuss for the civil authorities, as you call
them, 'cause we 's going to do what we darn please; and
we don't please have you yowping abolishionism round
here, and putting deviltry in the heads of our niggers!
Now, that ar 's plain talk!”

This speech was chorused by a group of men on the steps,
who now began to gather round and shout,

“Give it to him! That 's into him! make the wool fly!”

Father Dickson, who was perfectly calm, now remarked
in the shadow of the wood, at no great distance, three or
four young men mounted on horses, who laughed brutally,
and called out to the speaker,

“Give him some more!”

“My friends,” said father Dickson, “I came here to perform
a duty, at the call of my heavenly Master, and you
have no right to stop me.”

“Well, how will you help yourself, old bird? Supposing
we have n't?”

“Remember, my friends, that we shall all stand side by
side at the judgment seat to give an account for this night's
transactions. How will you answer for it to God?”

A loud, sneering laugh came from the group under the
trees, and a voice, which we recognize as Tom Gordon's,
calls out,

“He is coming the solemn dodge on you, boys! Get on
your long faces!”

“Come,” said the roughest of the speakers, “this here
don't go down with us! We don't know nothing about no
judgments; and as to God, we an't none of us seen him,
lately. We 'spect he don't travel round these parts.”

“The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the
evil and the good,” said father Dickson.

Here one in the mob mewed like a cat, another barked
like a dog, and the spectators under the tree laughed more
loudly than ever.

“I say,” said the first speaker, “you shan't go to getting

rat-traps and calling 'em meetings! This yer preaching
o' yourn is a cussed sell, and we won't stand it no
longer! We shall have an insurrection among our niggers.
Pretty business, getting up churches where you won't have
slaveholders commune! I 's got niggers myself, and I
know I 's bigger slave than they be, and I wished I was
shet of them! But I an't going to have no d—d old parson
dictating to me about my affairs! And we won't,
none of the rest of us, will we? 'Cause them that an't got
niggers now means to have. Don't we boys?”

“Ay, ay, that we do! Give it to him!” was shouted
from the party.

“It 's our right to have niggers, and we will have them,
if we can get them,” continued the speaker.

“Who gave you the right?” said father Dickson.

“Who gave it? Why, the constitution of the United
States, to be sure, man! Who did you suppose? An't we
got the freest government in the world? Is we going to be
shut out of communion, 'cause we holds niggers? Don't
care a cuss for your old communion, but it 's the principle
I 's going for! Now, I tell you what, old fellow, we 've
got you; and you have got to promise, right off the reel,
that you won't say another word on this yer subject.”

“Friend, I shall make no such promise,” said father
Dickson, in a tone so mild and steadfast that there was a
momentary pause.

“You 'd better,” said a man in the crowd, “if you know
what 's good for you!”

A voice now spoke from the circle of the young men,

“Never cave in, boys!”

“No fear of us!” responded the man who had taken
the most prominent part in the dialogue hitherto. “We 'll
serve it out to him! Now, ye see, old feller, ye 're treed,
and may as well come down, as the coon said to Davy.
You can't help yourself, 'cause we are ten to one; and if
you don't promise peaceable, we 'll make you!”

“My friends,” said father Dickson, “I want you to think

what you are doing. Your good sense must teach you the
impropriety of your course. You know that you are doing
wrong. You know that it is n't right to trample on all law,
both human and divine, out of professed love to it. You
must see that your course will lead to perfect anarchy and
confusion. The time may come when your opinions will be
as unpopular as mine.”

“Well, what then?”

“Why, if your course prevails, you must be lynched,
stoned, tarred and feathered. This is a two-edged sword
you are using, and some day you may find the edge turned
towards you. You may be seized, just as you are seizing
me. You know the men that threw Daniel into the den got
thrown in themselves.”

“Daniel who?” shouted one of the company; and the
young men under the tree laughed insultingly.

“Why are you afraid to let me preach, this evening?” said
father Dickson. “Why can't you hear me, and, if I say
anything false, why can't you show me the falsehood of it?
It seems to me it 's a weak cause that can only get along by
stopping men's mouths.”

“No, no — we an't going to have it!” said the man who
had taken the most active part. “And now you 've got to
sign a solemn promise, this night, that you won't ever open
your mouth again about this yer subject, or we 'll make it
worse for you!”

“I shall never make such a promise. You need not think
to terrify me into it, for I am not afraid. You must kill me
before you can stop me.”

“D—n you, then, old man,” said one of the young
men, riding up by the side of him, “I 'll tell you what you
shall do! You shall sign a pledge to leave North Carolina
in three days, and never come back again, and take your
whole spawn and litter with you, or you shall be chastised
for your impudence! Now, look out, sir, for you are speaking
to your betters! Your insolence is intolerable! What
business have you passing strictures reflecting on the conduct

of gentlemen of family? Think yourself happy that
we let you go out of the state without the punishment that
your impudence deserves!”

“Mr. Gordon, I am sorry to hear you speaking in that
way,” said father Dickson, composedly. “By right of
your family, you certainly ought to know how to speak as
a gentleman. You are holding language to me that you
have no right to hold, and uttering threats that you have no
means of enforcing.”

“You 'll see if I have n't!” replied the other, with an
oath. “Here, boys!”

He beckoned one or two of the leaders to his side, and
spoke with them in a low voice. One of them seemed inclined
to remonstrate.

“No, no — it 's too bad!” he said.

But the others said,

“Yes, it serves him right! We 'll do it! Hurra, boys!
We 'll help on the parson home, and help him kindle his
fire!”

There was a general shout, as the whole party, striking
up a ribald song, seized father Dickson's horse, turned him
round, and began marching in the direction of his cabin in
the woods.

Tom Gordon and his companions, who rode foremost, filled
the air with blasphemous and obscene songs, which entirely
drowned the voice of father Dickson whenever he attempted
to make himself heard. Before they started, Tom Gordon
had distributed freely of whiskey among them, so that what
little manliness there might have been within seemed to be
“set on fire of hell.” It was one of those moments that try
men's souls.

Father Dickson, as he was hurried along, thought of that
other one, who was led by an infuriate mob through the
streets of Jerusalem, and he lifted his heart in prayer to
the Apostle and High Priest of his profession, the God in
Jesus. When they arrived before his little cabin, he made
one more effort to arrest their attention.

“My brethren,” he said.

“None of your brethren! Stop that cant!” said Tom
Gordon.

“Hear me one word,” said father Dickson. “My wife
is quite feeble. I 'm sure you would n't wish to hurt a sick
woman, who never did harm to any mortal creature.”

“Well, then,” said Tom Gordon, facing round to him, “if
you care so very much about your wife, you can very easily
save her any further trouble. Just give us the promise we
want, and we 'll go away peaceably, and leave you. But,
if you won't, as true as there is a God in heaven, we 'll pull
down every stick of timber in your old kennel! I 'll tell you
what, old man, you 've got a master to deal with, now!”

“I cannot promise not to preach upon this subject.”

“Well, then, you must promise to take yourself out of
the state. You can go among your Northern brethren, and
howl and mawl round there; but we are not going to have
you here. I have as much respect for respectable ministers
of the Gospel as any one, when they confine themselves to
the duties of their calling; but, when they come down to
be intriguing in our worldly affairs, they must expect to be
treated as we treat other folks that do that. Their black
coats shan't protect them! We are not going to be priest-ridden,
are we, boys?”

A loud whoop of inflamed and drunken merriment chorused
this question. Just at this moment the door of the
cottage was opened, and a pale, sickly-looking woman came
gliding out to the gate.

“My dear,” she said, and her voice was perfectly calm,
“don't yield a hair's breadth, on my account. I can bear
as well as you. I am not afraid. I am ready to die for
conscience' sake. Gentlemen,” she said, “there is not much
in this house of any value, except two sick children. If it
is agreeable to you to pull it down, you can do it. Our
goods are hardly worth spoiling, but you can spoil them.
My husband, be firm; don't yield an inch!”

It is one of the worst curses of slavery that it effaces

from the breast all manly feeling with regard to woman.
Every one remembers the story how the frail and delicate
wife of Lovejoy placed her weakness as a shield before the
chamber door where her husband was secreted, and was
fought with brutal oaths and abuse by the drunken gang,
who were determined to pass over her body, if necessary,
to his heart! They who are trained to whip women in a
servile position, of course can have none of the respect which
a free man feels for woman as woman. They respect the
sex when they see it enshrined by fashion, wealth, and
power; but they tread it in the dust when in poverty and
helplessness it stands in the path of their purposes.

“Woman,” said Tom Gordon, “you are a fool! You
need n't think to come it round us with any of that talk!
You need n't think we are going to stop on your account,
for we shan't! We know what we are about.”

“So does God!” said the woman, fixing her eye on him
with one of those sudden looks of power with which a
noble sentiment sometimes lights up for a moment the
weakest form.

There was a momentary pause, and then Tom broke out
into oaths and curses.

“I 'll tell you what, boys,” he said, “we had better bring
matters to a point! Here, tie him up to this tree, and give
him six-and-thirty! He is so dreadful fond of the niggers,
let him fare with them! We know how to get a promise
out of him!”

The tiger was now fully awake in the crowd. Wild
oaths and cries of “Give it to him! Give it to him, G—d
d—n him!” arose.

Father Dickson stood calm; and, beholding him, they saw
his face as if it had been that of an angel, and they gnashed
on him with their teeth. A few moments more, and he was
divested of his outer garments, and bound to a tree.

“Now will you promise?” said Tom Gordon, taking out
his watch. “I give you five minutes.”

The children, now aroused, were looking out, crying, from

the door. His wife walked out and took her place before
him.

“Stand out of the way, old woman!” said Tom Gordon.

“I will not stand out of the way!” she said, throwing
her arms round her husband. “You shall not get to him
but over my body!”

“Ben Hyatt, take her away!” said Tom Gordon. “Treat
her decently, as long as she behaves herself.”

A man forced her away. She fell fainting on his shoulder.

“Lay her down,” said Tom Gordon. “Now, sir, your
five minutes are up. What have you got to say?”

“I have to say that I shall not comply with your demands.”

“Very well,” said Tom, “it 's best to be explicit.”

He drew his horse a little back, and said to a man who
was holding a slave-whip behind,

“Give it to him!”

The blows descended. He uttered no sound. The mob,
meanwhile, tauntingly insulted him.

“How do you like it? What do you think of it? Preach
us a sermon, now, can't you? Come, where 's your text?”

“He is getting stars and stripes, now!” said one.

“I reckon he 'll see stars!” said another.

“Stop,” said Tom Gordon. “Well, my friend,” he said,
“you see we are in earnest, and we shall carry this
through to the bitter end, you may rely on it. You won't
get any sympathy; you won't get any support. There
an't a minister in the state that will stand by you. They
all have sense enough to let our affairs alone. They 'd any
of them hold a candle here, as the good elder did when they
thrashed Dresser, down at Nashville. Come, now, will you
cave in?”

But at this moment the conversation was interrupted by
the riding up of four or five gentlemen on horseback, the
headmost of whom was Clayton.

“What 's this?” he exclaimed, hurriedly. “What, Mr.

Gordon — father Dickson! What — what am I to understand
by this?”

“Who the devil cares what you understand? It 's no
business of yours,” said Tom Gordon; “so stand out of my
way!”

“I shall make it some of my business,” said Clayton,
turning round to one of his companions. “Mr. Brown,
you are a magistrate?”

Mr. Brown, a florid, puffy-looking old gentleman, now
rode forward.

“Bless my soul, but this is shocking! Mr. Gordon,
don't! how can you? My boys, you ought to consider!”

Clayton, meanwhile, had thrown himself off his horse, and
cut the cords which bound father Dickson to the tree. The
sudden reäction of feeling overcame him. He fell, fainting.

“Are you not ashamed of yourselves?” said Clayton,
indignantly glancing round. “Is n't this pretty business
for great, strong men like you, abusing ministers that you
know won't fight, and women and children that you know
can't!”

“Do you mean to apply that language to me?” said Tom
Gordon.

“Yes, sir, I do mean just that!” said Clayton, looking at
him, while he stretched his tall figure to its utmost height.

“Sir, that remark demands satisfaction.”

“You are welcome to all the satisfaction you can get,”
said Clayton, coolly.

“You shall meet me,” said Tom Gordon, “where you
shall answer for that remark!”

“I am not a fighting man,” said Clayton; “but, if I were,
I should never consent to meet any one but my equals.
When a man stoops to do the work of a rowdy and a bully,
he falls out of the sphere of gentlemen. As for you,” said
Clayton, turning to the rest of the company, “there 's more
apology for you. You have not been brought up to know
better. Take my advice; disperse yourselves now, or I
shall take means to have this outrage brought to justice.”

There is often a magnetic force in the appearance, amid
an excited mob, of a man of commanding presence, who
seems perfectly calm and decided. The mob stood irresolute.

“Come, Tom,” said Kite, pulling him by the sleeve,
“we 've given him enough, at any rate.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Brown, “Mr. Gordon, I advise
you to go home. We must all keep the peace, you know.
Come, boys, you 've done enough for one night, I should
hope! Go home, now, and let the old man be; and there 's
something to buy you a treat, down at Skinflint's. Come,
do the handsome, now!”

Tom Gordon sullenly rode away, with his two associates
each side; but, before he went, he said to Clayton,

“You shall hear of me again, one of these days!”

“As you please,” said Clayton.

The party now set themselves about recovering and comforting
the frightened family. The wife was carried in and
laid down on the bed. Father Dickson was soon restored
so as to be able to sit up, and, being generally known and
respected by the company, received many expressions of
sympathy and condolence. One of the men was an elder
in the church which had desired his ministerial services.
He thought this a good opportunity of enforcing some of
his formerly expressed opinions.

“Now, father Dickson,” he said, “this just shows you
the truth of what I was telling you. This course of yours
won't do; you see it won't, now. Now, if you 'd agree
not to say anything of these troublesome matters, and just
confine yourself to the preaching of the Gospel, you see
you would n't get into any more trouble; and, after all, it 's
the Gospel that 's the root of the matter. The Gospel will
gradually correct all these evils, if you don't say anything
about them. You see, the state of the community is peculiar.
They won't bear it. We feel the evils of slavery just
as much as you do. Our souls are burdened under it,” he
said, complacently wiping his face with his handkerchief.

“But Providence does n't appear to open any door here for
us to do anything. I think we ought to abide on the patient
waiting on the Lord, who, in his own good time, will bring
light out of darkness, and order out of confusion.”

This last phrase being a part of a stereotyped exhortation
with which the good elder was wont to indulge his brethren
in church prayer-meetings, he delivered it in the sleepy
drawl which he reserved for such occasions.

“Well,” said father Dickson, “I must say that I don't
see that the preaching of the Gospel, in the way we have
preached it hitherto, has done anything to rectify the evil.
It 's a bad sign if our preaching does n't make a conflict.
When the apostles came to a place, they said, `These men
that turn the world upside down are come hither.'”

“But,” said Mr. Brown, “you must consider our institutions
are peculiar; our negroes are ignorant and inflammable,
easily wrought upon, and the most frightful consequences
may result. That 's the reason why there is so
much sensation when any discussion is begun which relates
to them. Now, I was in Nashville when that Dresser affair
took place. He had n't said a word — he had n't opened
his mouth, even — but he was known to be an abolitionist;
and so they searched his trunks and papers, and there they
found documents expressing abolition sentiments, sure
enough. Well, everybody, ministers and elders, joined in
that affair, and stood by to see him whipped. I thought,
myself, they went too far. But there is just where it is.
People are not reasonable, and they won't be reasonable, in
such cases. It 's too much to ask of them; and so everybody
ought to be cautious. Now, I wish, for my part, that
ministers would confine themselves to their appropriate
duties. `Christ's kingdom is not of this world.' And,
then, you don't know Tom Gordon. He is a terrible fellow!
I never want to come in conflict with him. I thought I 'd
put the best face on it, and persuade him away. I did n't
want to make Tom Gordon my enemy. And I think, Mr.
Dickson, if you must preach these doctrines, I think it would

be best for you to leave the state. Of course, we don't
want to restrict any man's conscience; but when any kind
of preaching excites brawls and confusion, and inflames
the public mind, it seems to be a duty to give it up.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cornet, the elder, “we ought to follow
the things which make for peace — such things whereby
one may edify another.”

“Don't you see, gentlemen,” said Mr. Clayton, “that such
a course is surrendering our liberty of free speech into the
hands of a mob? If Tom Gordon may dictate what is to
be said on one subject, he may on another; and the rod
which has been held over our friend's head to-night may be
held over ours. Independent of the right or wrong of
father Dickson's principles, he ought to maintain his position,
for the sake of maintaining the right of free opinion in
the state.”

“Why,” said Mr. Cornet, “the Scripture saith, `If they
persecute you into one city, flee ye into another.'”

“That was said,” said Clayton, “to a people that lived
under despotism, and had no rights of liberty given them
to maintain. But, if we give way before mob law, we make
ourselves slaves of the worst despotism on earth.”

But Clayton spoke to men whose ears were stopped by
the cotton of slothfulness and love of ease. They rose up,
and said,

“It was time for them to be going.”

Clayton expressed his intention of remaining over the
night, to afford encouragement and assistance to his friends,
in case of any further emergency.