University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
MORE SUMMER TALK.

A glorious morning, washed by the tears of last night's
shower, rose like a bride upon Canema. The rain-drops
sparkled and winked from leaf to leaf, or fell in showery
diamonds in the breeze. The breath of numberless roses,
now in full bloom, rose in clouds to the windows.

The breakfast-table, with its clean damask, glittering silver,
and fragrant coffee, received the last evening's participants
of the camp-meeting in fresh morning spirits,
ready to discuss, as an every-day affair, what, the evening
before, they had felt too deeply, perhaps, to discuss.

On the way home, they had spoken of the scenes of the
day, and wondered and speculated on the singular incident
which closed it. But, of all the dark circle of woe and
crime, — of all that valley of vision which was present to
the mind of him who spoke, — they were as practically
ignorant as the dwellers of the curtained boudoirs of New
York are of the fearful mysteries of the Five Points.

The aristocratic nature of society at the South so completely
segregates people of a certain position in life from
any acquaintance with the movements of human nature in
circles below them, that the most fearful things may be
transacting in their vicinity unknown or unnoticed. The
horrors and sorrows of the slave-coffle were a sealed book
to Nina and Anne Clayton. They had scarcely dreamed of
them; and Uncle John, if he knew their existence, took
very good care to keep out of their way, as he would turn
from any other painful and disagreeable scene.

All of them had heard something of negro-hunters, and
regarded them as low, vulgar people, but troubled their
heads little further on the subject; so that they would have
been quite at a loss for the discovery of any national sins
that could have appropriately drawn down the denunciations
of Heaven.

The serious thoughts and aspirations which might have
risen in any of the company, the evening before, assumed,
with everything else, quite another light under the rays of
morning.

All of us must have had experience, in our own histories,
of the great difference between the night and the morning
view of the same subject.

What we have thought and said in the august presence
of witnessing stars, or beneath the holy shadows of
moonlight, seems with the hot, dry light of next day's sun
to take wings, and rise to heaven with the night's clear
drops. If all the prayers and good resolutions which are
laid down on sleeping pillows could be found there on
awaking, the world would be better than it is.

Of this Uncle John Gordon had experience, as he sat
himself down at the breakfast-table. The night before, he
realized, in some dim wise, that he, Mr. John Gordon, was
not merely a fat, elderly gentleman, in blue coat and white
vest, whose great object in existence was to eat well, drink
well, sleep well, wear clean linen, and keep out of the way
of trouble. He had within him a tumult of yearnings and
aspirings, — uprisings of that great, life-long sleeper,
which we call soul, and which, when it wakes, is an awfully
clamorous, craving, exacting, troublesome inmate, and which
is therefore generally put asleep again in the shortest
time, by whatever opiates may come to hand. Last night,
urged on by this troublesome guest, stimulated by the
vague power of such awful words as judgment and eternity,
he had gone out and knelt down as a mourner for sin
and a seeker for salvation, both words standing for very
real and awful facts; and, this morning, although it was

probably a more sensible and appropriate thing than most
of the things he was in the habit of doing, he was almost
ashamed of it. The question arose, at table, whether
another excursion should be made to the camp-ground.

“For my part,” said Aunt Maria, “I hope you 'll not go
again, Mr. Gordon. I think you had better keep out of the
way of such things. I really was vexed to see you in that
rabble of such very common people!”

“You 'll observe,” said Uncle John, “that, when Mrs.
G. goes to heaven, she 'll notify the Lord, forthwith, that
she has only been accustomed to the most select circles,
and requests to be admitted at the front door.”

“It is n't because I object to being with common people,”
said Anne Clayton, “that I dislike this custom of going to
the altar; but it seems to me an invasion of that privacy
and reserve which belong to our most sacred feelings. Besides,
there are in a crowd coarse, rude, disagreeable
people, with whom it is n't pleasant to come in contact.”

“For my part,” said Mrs. John Gordon, “I don't believe
in it at all! It 's a mere temporary excitement. People
go and get wonderfully wrought up, come away, and are
just what they were before.”

“Well,” said Clayton, “is n't it better to be wrought up
once in a while, than never to have any religious feelings?
Is n't it better to have a vivid impression of the vastness
and worth of the soul, — of the power of an endless life, —
for a few hours once a year, than never to feel it at all?
The multitudes of those people, there, never hear or think a
word of these things at any other time in their lives. For
my part,” he added, “I don't see why it 's a thing to be
ashamed of, if Mr. Gordon or I should have knelt at the
altar last night, even if we do not feel like it this morning.
We are too often ashamed of our better moments; — I
believe Protestant Christians are the only people on earth
who are ashamed of the outward recognition of their religion.
The Mahometan will prostrate himself in the street,
or wherever he happens to be when his hour for prayer

comes. The Roman Catholic sailor, or soldier, kneels down
at the sound of the vesper bell. But we rather take pride
in having it understood that we take our religion moderately
and coolly, and that we are not going to put ourselves
much out about it.”

“Well, but, brother,” said Anne, “I will maintain,
still, that there is a reserve about these things which belongs
to the best Christians. And did not our Saviour tell us
that our prayers and alms should be in secret?”

“I do not deny at all what you say, Anne,” said Clayton;
“but I think what I said is true, notwithstanding;
and, both being true, of course, in some way they must be
consistent with each other.”

“I think,” said Nina, “the sound of the singing at these
camp-meetings is really quite spirit-stirring and exciting.”

“Yes,” said Clayton, “these wild tunes, and the hymns
with which they are associated, form a kind of forest liturgy,
in which the feelings of thousands of hearts have been
embodied. Some of the tunes seem to me to have been
caught from the song of birds, or from the rushing of wind
among the branches. They possess a peculiar rhythmical
energy, well suited to express the vehement emotions of
the masses. Did camp-meetings do not other good than to
scatter among the people these hymns and tunes, I should
consider them to be of inestimable value.”

“I must say,” said Anne, “I always had a prejudice
against that class both of hymns and tunes.”

“You misjudge them,” said Clayton, “as you refined,
cultivated women always do, who are brought up in the
kid-slipper and carpet view of human life. But just imagine
only the old Greek or Roman peasantry elevated to the
level of one of these hymns. Take, for example, a verse
of one I heard them sing last night:

What faith is there! What confidence in immortality!
How could a man feel it, and not be ennobled? Then,
what a rough, hearty heroism was in that first hymn! It
was right manly!”

“Ah, but,” said Anne, “half the time they sing them
without the slightest perception of their meaning, or the
least idea of being influenced by them.”

“And so do the worshippers in the sleepiest and most
aristocratic churches,” said Clayton. “That 's nothing peculiar
to the camp-ground. But, if it is true, what a certain
statesman once said, `Let me make the ballads of the
people, and I care not who makes their laws,' it is certainly
a great gain to have such noble sentiments as many of
these hymns contain, circulating freely among the people.”

“What upon earth,” said Uncle John, “do you suppose
that last fellow was about, up in the clouds, there? Nobody
seemed to know where he was, or who he was; and
I thought his discourse seemed to be rather an unexpected
addition. He put it into us pretty strong, I thought! Declare,
such a bundle of woes and curses I never heard distributed!
Seemed to have done up all the old prophets
into one bundle, and tumbled it down upon our heads!
Some of them were quite superstitious about it, and began
talking about warnings, and all that.”

“Pooh!” said Aunt Maria, “the likelihood is that some
itinerant poor preacher has fallen upon this trick for producing
a sensation. There is no end to the trickeries and the
got-up scenes in these camp-meetings, just to produce effect.
If I had had a pistol, I should like to have fired into the tree,
and see whether I could n't have changed his tune.”

“It seemed to me,” said Clayton, “from the little that I
did hear, that there was some method in his madness. It
was one of the most singular and impressive voices I ever
heard; and, really, the enunciation of some of those latter
things was tremendous. But, then, in the universal
license and general confusion of the scene, the thing was
not so much to be wondered at. It would be the most

natural thing in the world, that some crazy fanatic should
be heated almost to the point of insanity by the scene, and
take this way of unburthening himself. Such excitements
most generally assume the form of denunciation.”

“Well, now,” said Nina, “to tell the truth, I should
like to go out again to-day. It 's a lovely ride, and I like
to be in the woods. And, then, I like to walk around among
the tents, and hear the people talk, and see all the different
specimens of human nature that are there. I never saw
such a gathering together in my life.”

“Agreed!” said Uncle John. “I 'll go with you.
After all, Clayton, here, has got the right of it, when he
says a fellow ought n't to be ashamed of his religion, such
as it is.”

“Such as it is, to be sure!” said Aunt Maria, sarcastically.

“Yes, I say again, such as it is!” said Uncle John,
bracing himself. “I don't pretend it 's much. We 'll all
of us bear to be a good deal better, without danger of
being translated. Now, as to this being converted, hang
me if I know how to get at it! I suppose that it is something
like an electric shock, — if a fellow is going to get
it, he must go up to the machine!”

“Well,” said Nina, “you do hear some queer things
there. Don't you remember that jolly, slashing-looking
fellow, whom they called Bill Dakin, that came up there
with his two dogs? In the afternoon, after the regular services,
we went to one of the tents where there was a very
noisy prayer-meeting going on, and there was Bill Dakin,
on his knees, with his hands clasped, and the tears rolling
down his cheeks; and father Bonnie was praying over him
with all his might. And what do you think he said? He
said, `O, Lord, here 's Bill Dakin; he is converted; now
take him right to heaven, now he is ready, or he 'll be drunk
again in two weeks!'”

“Well,” said Anne Clayton, tossing her head, indignantly,
“that 's blasphemy, in my opinion.”

“O, perhaps not,” said Clayton, “any more than the
clownish talk of any of our servants is intentional rudeness.”

“Well,” said Anne, “don't you think it shows a great
want of perception?”

“Certainly, it does,” said Clayton. “It shows great
rudeness and coarseness of fibre, and is not at all to be
commended. But still we are not to judge of it by the
rules of cultivated society. In well-trained minds every
faculty keeps its due boundaries; but, in this kind of wild-forest
growth, mirthfulness will sometimes overgrow reverence,
just as the yellow jessamine will completely smother
a tree. A great many of the ordinances of the old Mosaic
dispensation were intended to counteract this very tendency.”

“Well,” said Nina, “did you notice poor Old Tiff, so
intent upon getting his children converted? He did n't
seem to have the least thought or reference to getting into
heaven himself. The only thing with him was to get those
children in. Tiff seems to me just like those mistletoes
that we see on the trees in the swamps. He don't seem
to have any root of his own; he seems to grow out of
something else.”

“Those children are very pretty-looking, genteel children,”
said Anne; “and how well they were dressed!”

“My dear,” said Nina, “Tiff prostrates himself at my
shrine, every time he meets me, to implore my favorable
supervision as to that point; and it really is diverting to
hear him talk. The old Caliban has an eye for color, and a
sense of what is suitable, equal to any French milliner. I
assure you, my dear, I always was reputed for having a
talent for dress; and Tiff appreciates me. Is n't it charming
of him? I declare, when I see the old creature lugging
about those children, I always think of an ugly old cactus
with its blossoms. I believe he verily thinks they belong
to him just as much. Their father is entirely dismissed from
Tiff's calculations. Evidently all he wants of him is to

keep out of the way, and let him work. The whole burden
of their education lies on his shoulders.”

“For my part,” said Aunt Nesbit, “I 'm glad you 've
faith to believe in those children. I have n't; they 'll be
sure to turn out badly — you see if they don't.”

“And I think,” said Aunt Maria, “we have enough to
do with our own servants, without taking all these miserable
whites on our hands, too.”

“I 'm not going to take all the whites,” said Nina. “I 'm
going to take these children.”

“I wish you joy!” said Aunt Maria.

“I wonder,” said Aunt Nesbit, “if Harry is under
concern of mind. He seems to be dreadfully down, this
morning.”

“Is he?” said Nina. “I had n't noticed it.”

“Well,” said Uncle John, “perhaps he 'll get set up, to-day
— who knows? In fact, I hope I shall myself. I tell
you what it is, parson,” said he, laying his hand on Clayton's
shoulder, “you should take the gig, to-day, and drive
this little sinner, and let me go with the ladies. Of course
you know Mrs. G. engrosses my whole soul; but, then,
there 's a kind of insensible improvement that comes from
such celestial bodies as Miss Anne, here, that ought n't to
be denied to me. The clergy ought to enumerate female
influence among the means of grace. I 'm sure there 's
nothing builds me up like it.”

Clayton, of course, assented very readily to this arrangement;
and the party was adjusted on this basis.

“Look ye here, now, Clayton,” said Uncle John, tipping
him a sly wink, after he had handed Nina in, “you must
confess that little penitent! She wants a spiritual director,
my boy! I tell you what, Clayton, there is n't a girl like
that in North Carolina. There 's blood, sir, there. You
must humor her on the bit, and give her her head a while.
Ah, but she 'll draw well at last! I always like a creature
that kicks to pieces harness, wagon, and all, to begin with.
They do the best when they are broken in.”

With which profound remarks Uncle John turned to hand
Anne Clayton to the carriage.

Clayton understood too well what he was about to make
any such use of the interview as Uncle John had suggested.
He knew perfectly that his best chance, with a nature so
restless as Nina's, was to keep up a sense of perfect freedom
in all their intercourse; and, therefore, no grandfather
could have been more collected and easy in a tête-à-tête
drive than he. The last conversation at the camp-meeting
he knew had brought them much nearer to each other than
they had ever stood before, because both had spoken in deep
earnestness of feeling of what lay deepest in their hearts;
and one such moment he well knew was of more binding
force than a hundred nominal betrothals.

The morning was one of those perfect ones which succeed
a thunder-shower in the night; when the air, cleared of
every gross vapor, and impregnated with moist exhalations
from the woods, is both balmy and stimulating. The steaming
air developed to the full the balsamic properties of the
pine-groves through which they rode; and, where the road
skirted the swampy land, the light fell slanting on the leaves
of the deciduous trees, rustling and dripping with the last
night's shower. The heavens were full of those brilliant,
island-like clouds, which are said to be a peculiarity of
American skies, in their distinct relief above the intense
blue. At a long distance they caught the sound of camp-meeting
hymns. But, before they reached the ground,
they saw, in more than one riotous group, the result of too
frequent an application to Abijah Skinflint's department,
and others of a similar character. They visited the quarters
of Old Tiff, whom they found busy ironing some clothes
for the baby, which he had washed and hung out the night
before. The preaching had not yet commenced, and the
party walked about among the tents. Women were busy
cooking and washing dishes under the trees; and there
was a great deal of good-natured gossiping.

One of the most remarkable features of the day was a

sermon from father Dickson, on the sins of the church. It
concluded with a most forcible and solemn appeal to all
on the subject of slavery. He reminded both the Methodists
and Presbyterians that their books of discipline had
most pointedly and unequivocally condemned it; that John
Wesley had denounced it as the sum of all villanies, and
that the general assemblies of the Presbyterian church had
condemned it as wholly inconsistent with the religion of
Christ, with the great law which requires us to love others
as ourselves. He related the scene which he had lately
witnessed in the slave-coffle. He spoke of the horrors of
the inter-state slave-trade, and drew a touching picture of
the separation of families, and the rending of all domestic
and social ties, which resulted from it; and, alluding to the
unknown speaker of the evening before, told his audience
that he had discerned a deep significance in his words, and
that he feared, if there was not immediate repentance and
reformation, the land would yet be given up to the visitations
of divine wrath. As he spoke with feeling, he awakened
feeling in return. Many were affected even to tears;
but, when the sermon was over, it seemed to melt away, as
a wave flows back again into the sea. It was far easier to
join in a temporary whirlwind of excitement, than to take
into consideration troublesome, difficult, and expensive
reforms.

Yet, still, it is due to the degenerate Christianity of the
slave states to say, that, during the long period in which
the church there has been corrupting itself, and lowering its
standard of right to meet a depraved institution, there have
not been wanting, from time to time, noble confessors, who
have spoken for God and humanity. For many years they
were listened to with that kind of pensive tolerance which
men give when they acknowledge their fault without any
intention of mending. Of late years, however, the lines
have been drawn more sharply, and such witnesses have
spoken in peril of their lives; so that now seldom a voice
arises except in approbation of oppression.

The sermon was fruitful of much discussion in different
parts of the camp-ground; and none, perhaps, was louder
in the approbation of it than the Georgia trader, who, seated
on Abijah's Skinflint's counter, declared: “That was a parson
as was a parson, and that he liked his pluck; and, for
his part, when ministers and church-members would give
over buying, he should take up some other trade.”

“That was a very good sermon,” said Nina, “and I
believe every word of it. But, then, what do you suppose
we ought to do?”

“Why,” said Clayton, “we ought to contemplate emancipation
as a future certainty, and prepare our people in the
shortest possible time.”

This conversation took place as the party were seated
at their nooning under the trees, around an unpacked
hamper of cold provisions, which they were leisurely discussing.

“Why, bless my soul, Clayton,” said Uncle John, “I
don't see the sense of such an anathema maranatha as we
got to-day. Good Lord, what earthly harm are we doing?
As to our niggers, they are better off than we are! I say
it coolly — that is, as coolly as a man can say anything
between one and two o'clock, in such weather as this.
Why, look at my niggers! Do I ever have any chickens,
or eggs, or cucumbers? No, to be sure. All my chickens
die, and the cut-worm plays the devil with my cucumbers;
but the niggers have enough. Theirs flourish like a green
bay tree; and of course I have to buy of them. They raise
chickens. I buy 'em, and cook 'em, and then they eat 'em!
That 's the way it goes. As to the slave-coffles, and slave-prisons,
and the trade, why, that 's abominable, to be sure.
But, Lord bless you, I don't want it done! I 'd kick a
trader off my door-steps forthwith, though I 'm all eaten up
with woolly-heads, like locusts. I don't like such sermons,
for my part.”

“Well,” said Aunt Nesbit, “our Mr. Titmarsh preached
quite another way when I attended church in E—. He

proved that slavery was a scriptural institution, and established
by God.”

“I should think anybody's common sense would show
that a thing which works so poorly for both sides could n't
be from God,” said Nina.

“Who is Mr. Titmarsh?” said Clayton to her, aside.

“O, one of Aunt Nesbit's favorites, and one of my aversions!
He is n't a man — he 's nothing but a theological
dictionary with a cravat on! I can't bear him!”

“Now, people may talk as much as they please of the
educated democracy of the north,” said Uncle John. “I
don't like 'em. What do working-men want of education?
— Ruins 'em! I 've heard of their learned blacksmiths
bothering around, neglecting their work, to make speeches.
I don't like such things. It raises them above their sphere.
And there 's nothing going on up in those Northern States
but a constant confusion and hubbub. All sorts of heresies
come from the North, and infidelity, and the Lord knows
what! We have peace, down here. To be sure, our poor
whites are in a devil of a fix; but we have n't got 'em
under yet. We shall get 'em in, one of these days, with
our niggers, and then all will be contentment.”

“Yes,” said Nina, “there 's Uncle John's view of the millennium!”

“To be sure,” said Uncle John, “the lower classes want
governing — they want care; that 's what they want. And
all they need to know is, what the Episcopal church catechism
says, `to learn and labor truly to get their own living
in the state wherein it has pleased God to call them.' That
makes a well-behaved lower class, and a handsome, gentlemanly,
orderly state of society. The upper classes ought
to be instructed in their duties. They ought to be considerate
and condescending, and all that. That 's my view of
society.”

“Then you are no republican,” said Clayton.

“Bless you, yes, I am! I believe in the equality of gen

tlemen, and the equal rights of well-bred people. That 's
my idea of a republic.”

Clayton, Nina, and Anne, laughed.

“Now,” said Nina, “to see uncle so jovial and free, and
`Hail fellow well met,' with everybody, you 'd think he
was the greatest democrat that ever walked. But, you see,
it 's only because he 's so immeasurably certain of his superior
position — that 's all. He is n't afraid to kneel at the
altar with Bill Dakin, or Jim Sykes, because he 's so sure
that his position can't be compromised.”

“Besides that, chick,” said Uncle John, “I have the
sense to know that, in my Maker's presence, all human
differences are child's play.” And Uncle John spoke with
a momentary solemnity which was heartfelt.

It was agreed by the party that they would not stay to
attend the evening exercises. The novelty of the effect
was over, and Aunt Nesbit spoke of the bad effects of
falling dew and night air. Accordingly, as soon as the air
was sufficiently cooled to make riding practicable, the party
were again on their way home

The woodland path was streaked with green and golden
bands of light thrown between the tree-trunks across the
way, and the trees reverberated with the evening song of
birds. Nina and Clayton naturally fell into a quiet and
subdued train of conversation.

“It is strange,” said Nina, “these talkings and searchings
about religion. Now, there are people who have
something they call religion, which I don't think does them
any good. It is n't of any use — it does n't make them
better — and it makes them very disagreeable I would
rather be as I am, than to have what they call religion.
But, then, there are others that have something which I
know is religion; something that I know I have not; something
that I 'd give all the world to have, and don't know
how to get. Now, there was Livy Ray — you ought to
have seen Livy Ray — there was something so superior
about her; and, what was extraordinary is, that she was

good without being stupid. What do you suppose the
reason is that good people are generally so stupid?”

“A great deal,” said Clayton, “is called goodness, which
is nothing but want of force. A person is said to have
self-government simply because he has nothing to govern.
They talk about self-denial, when their desires are so weak
that one course is about as easy to them as another. Such
people easily fall into a religious routine, get by heart a
set of phrases, and make, as you say, very stupid, good
people.”

“Now, Livy,” said Nina, “was remarkable. She had
that kind of education that they give girls in New England,
stronger and more like a man's than ours. She could read
Greek and Latin as easily as she could French and Italian.
She was keen, shrewd, and witty, and had a kind of wild
grace about her, like these grape-vines; yet she was so
strong! Well, do you know, I almost worship Livy? And
I think, the little while she was in our school, she did me
more good than all the teachers and studying put together.
Why, it does one good to know that such people are possible.
Don't you think it does?”

“Yes,” said Clayton; “all the good in the world is done
by the personality of people. Now, in books, it is n't so
much what you learn from them, as the contact it gives you
with the personality of the writer, that improves you. A
real book always makes you feel that there is more in the
writer than anything that he has said.”

“That,” said Nina, eagerly, “is just the way I feel
toward Livy. She seems to me like a mine. When I was
with her the longest, I always felt as if I had n't half seen
her. She always made me hungry to know her more. I
mean to read you some of her letters, some time. She
writes beautiful letters; and I appreciate that very much,
because I can't do it. I can talk better than I can write.
Somehow my ideas will not take a course down through
my arms; they always will run up to my mouth. But you
ought to see Livy; such people always make me very discontented

with myself. I don't know what the reason is
that I like to see superior people, and things, when they
always make me realize what a poor concern I am. Now,
the first time I heard Jenny Lind sing, it spoiled all my
music and all my songs for me, — turned them all to trash
at one stroke, — and yet I liked it. But I don't seem to have
got any further in goodness than just dissatisfaction with
myself.”

“Well,” said Clayton, “there 's where the foundation-stone
of all excellence is laid. The very first blessing that
Christ pronounced was on those who were poor in spirit.
The indispensable condition to all progress in art, science,
or religion, is to feel that we have nothing.”

“Do you know,” said Nina, after something of a
pause, “that I can't help wondering what you took up
with me for? I have thought very often that you ought to
have Livy Ray.”

“Well, I 'm much obliged to you,” said Clayton, “for
your consideration in providing for me. But, supposing I
should prefer my own choice, after all? We men are a little
wilful, sometimes, like you of the gentler sex.”

“Well,” said Nina, “if you will have the bad taste, then,
to insist on liking me, let me warn you that you don't know
what you are about. I 'm a very unformed, unpractical
person. I don't keep accounts. I 'm nothing at all of a
housekeeper. I shall leave open drawers, and scatter
papers, and forget the day of the month, and tear the newspaper,
and do everything else that is wicked; and then, one
of these days, it will be, `Nina, why have n't you done this?
and why have n't you done that? and why don't you do the
other? and why do you do something else?' Ah, I 've heard
you men talk before! And, then, you see, I shan't like
it, and I shan't behave well. Have n't the least hope of it;
won't ever engage to! — So, now, won't you take warning?”

“No,” said Clayton, looking at her with a curious kind
of smile, “I don't think I shall.”

“How dreadfully positive and self-willed men are!” said
Nina, drawing a long breath, and pretending to laugh.

“There 's so little of that in you ladies,” said Clayton,
“we have to do it for both.”

“So, then,” said Nina, looking round with a half-laugh
and half-blush, “you will persist?”

“Yes, you wicked little witch!” said Clayton, “since you
challenge me, I will.” And, as he spoke, he passed his
arm round Nina firmly, and fixed his eyes on hers. “Come,
now, my little Baltimore oriole, have I caught you?” And
— But we are making our chapter too long.