 | IV.
SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY. Coupon bonds, and other stories |  |
4. IV.
SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY.
“Silence, now,” said Mr. Williams, “so 's we can go on
with the reading.”
Order was restored. Bill hung up his coat, and sat
down. Joe nestled in the old woman's lap. And now the
storm was heard beating against the house.
“Say!” spoke up Fessenden's, “can I stop here over
night?”
“You don't suppose,” said Mr. Williams, “we 'd turn
you out in such weather as this, do you?”
“Wal!” said Fessenden's, “nobody else would keep
me.”
“Don't you be troubled! While we 've a ruf over our
heads, no stranger don't git turned away from it that
wants shelter, and will put up with our 'commodations.
We can keep you to-night, and probably to-morrow night,
if you like to stay; but after that I can't promise. Mebby
trust the Lord,” said Mr. Williams, with a deep serious
smile, — while Mrs. Williams sighed.
“How is it about that matter?” Gentleman Bill inquired.
“The house is to be tore down Monday, I suppose,”
replied his father, mildly.
“My gracious!” exclaimed Bill; “Mr. Frisbie a'n't
really going to carry that threat into execution?”
“That 's what he says, William. He has got a prejudice
ag'inst color, you know. Since he lost the election,
through the opposition of the abolitionists, as he thinks,
he 's been very much excited on the subject,” added Mr.
Williams, in his subdued way.
“Excited!” echoed his wife, bitterly.
She was a much-suffering woman, inclined to melancholy;
but there was a latent fire in her when she seemed
most despondent, and she roused up now and spoke with
passionate, flashing eyes: —
“Sence he got beat, town-meetin' day, he don't 'pear to
take no comfort, 'thout 't is hatin' Judge Gingerford and
spitin' niggers, as he calls us. He sent his hired man
over ag'in this mornin', to say, if we wa'n't out of the
house by Monday, 't would be pulled down on to our
heads. Call that Christian, when he knows we can't git
another house, there 's sich a s'picion ag'in people o'
color?”
“'T wa'n't alluz so; 't wa'n't so in my day,” said the
old woman, pausing, as she was administering the gruel to
Fessenden's with a spoon. “Here 's gran'pa, he was a
slave, and I was born a slave, in this here very State, as
long ago as when they used to have slaves here, as I 've
told ye time and ag'in; though I don't clearly remember
it, for I scace ever knowed what bondage was, bless the
got along, — for it did seem as though God kind o' looked
arter us, and took keer on us, same as he did o' white
folks. We 've been carried through, somehow or 'nother;
and I can't help thinkin' as how we shall be yit, spite
o' Mr. Frisbie. S'pose God 'll forgit us 'cause his grand
church-folks do? S'pose all they can say 'll pedijice
him?”
Having advanced this unanswerable question, she turned
once more to her patient, who put up his head, and opened
his mouth wide, to receive the great spoon.
“Lucky for them that can trust the Lord!” said Mrs.
Williams, over her patching. “But if I was a man, I 'm
'fraid I should put my trust in a good knife, and stan' by the
ol' house when they come to pull it down! The fust man
laid hands on 't 'ud git hurt, I 'm dreffle 'fraid! Prayin'
won't save it, you see!”
“Mr. Frisbie owns the house,” observed Gentleman Bill,
“and I would n't resort to violent measures to prevent
him; though 't is n't possible for me to believe he 'll be
so unhuman as to demolish it before you find another.”
“I 'm inclined to think he will,” answered Mr. Williams,
calmly. “He 's a rather determined man, William. But
God won't quite forget us, I 'm sartin sure. And we won't
worry about the house till the time comes, anyhow. Le' 's
see what the Good Book says to comfort us,” he added,
with a hopeful smile.
Unfortunately, the “Timberville Gazette” had not
reached this benighted family; and not having the
Judge's Address to read, Mr. Williams read the Sermon
on the Mount.
Fessenden's listened with the rest. And a light, not of
the understanding, but of the spirit, shone upon him.
His intellect was too feeble, I think, to draw any very
Gazette” was taken and read that evening and
this lowly abode, — between the rich there, who had shut
their proud, prosperous doors against him, and these poor
servants of the Lord, who had taken him in and comforted
him, though the hour was nigh, when they, too, were to be
driven forth shelterless in the wintry storms. The deep
and affecting suggestiveness of that wide contrast his mind
was, no doubt, too weak thoroughly to appreciate. Yet
something his heart felt, and something his soul perceived;
his pale and vacant face was illumined; and at the close
of the reading he rose up. The coarse wrappings of his
body fell away; and the muffling ignorance, the swaddling
dulness, wherein that divine infant, the bright immortal
spirit, was confined, seemed also to fall off. He lifted up
his hands, spreading them as if dispensing blessings; and
his countenance had a vague, smiling wonder in it, almost
beautiful, and his voice, when he spoke, thrilled the ear.
“Praise the Lord! praise the Lord! for he will provide!
“Be comforted! for ye are the children of the Lord!
“Be glad! be glad! for the Angel of the Lord is here!
“Don't you see him? don't you see him? There!
there!” he cried, pointing, with an earnestness and radiance
of look which filled all who saw him with astonishment.
They turned to gaze, as if really expecting to
behold the vision; then fixed their eyes again on the
stranger.
“You 'll be taken care of, the Angel says. Even they
that hate you shall do you good. The mercy you have
shown, Christ will show to you.”
Having uttered these sentences at intervals, in a loud
voice, the speaker gave a start, turned as if bewildered,
and sat down again.
Not a word was spoken. A hush of awe suspended the
lighted up like daybreak the negro's dark visage, and his
joy broke forth in song. The others joined him, filling the
house with the jubilee of their wild and mellow voices.
Hath often crossed me on my way,
And sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.”
And so the fair fame of Gingerford, as we said before,
was saved from blight. The beggar-boy awakes this Sunday
morning, not in the blaze of Eternity, but in that
dim nook of the domain of Time, Nigger Williams's hut.
He made his couch, not on the freezing ground, but in a
bunk of the low-roofed garret. His steaming clothes had
been taken off, a dry shirt had been given him, and he had
Joe for a bedfellow.
“Hug him tight, Joey dear!” said the old woman, as
she carried away the candle. “Snug up close, and keep
him warm!”
“I will!” cried Joe, as affectionate as he was roguish;
and Fessenden's never slept better than he did that night,
with the tempest singing his lullaby, and the arms of the
loving negro boy about him.
In the morning he found his clothes ready to put on.
They had been carefully dried; and the old woman had
got up early and taken a few needful stitches in them.
“It 's Sunday, granny,” Creshy reminded her, to see
what she would say.
“A'n't no use lett'n' sich holes as these 'ere go, if 't is
Sunday!” replied the old woman. “Hope I never sh'll
ketch you a doin' nuffin' wus! A'n't we told to help our
neighbor's sheep out o' the ditch on the Lord's day? An'
which is mos' consequence, I 'd like to know, the neighbor's
sheep, or the neighbor hisself?”
“But his clothes a'n't him,” said Creshy.
“S'pose I do'no' that? But what 's a sheep for, if 't
a'n't for its wool to make the clo'es? Then, to look arter
the sheep that makes the clo'es, and not look arter the
clo'es arter they 're made, that 's a mis'ble notion!”
“But you can mend the clothes any day.”
“Could I mend 'em yis'day, when I did n't have 'em to
mend? or las' night, when they was wringin' wet? Le' me
alone, now, with your nonsense!”
“But you can mend them to-morrow,” said the mischievous
girl, delighted to puzzle her grandmother.
“And let that poor lorn chile go in rags over Sunday,
freezin' cold weather like this? Guess I a'n't so onfeelin',
— an' you a'n't nuther, for all you like to tease your ole
granny so! Bless the boy, seems to me he 's jest go'n' to
bring us good luck. I feel as though the Angel of the
Lord did r'a'ly come into the house with him las' night!
Wish I had somefin' r'al good for him for his breakfas'
now! He 'll be dreffle hungry, that 's sartin. Make a
rousin' good big Johnnycake, mammy; and, Creshy, you
stop botherin', and slice up them 'ere taters for fryin'.”
Soon the odor of the cooking stole up into the garret.
Fessenden's snuffed it with delighted senses. The feeling
of his garments dry and whole pleased him mightily. He
heard the call to breakfast; and laughing and rubbing his
eyes he followed Joe down the dark, uncertain footing of
the stairs.
The family was already huddled about the table. But
room was reserved for their guest, and at his appearance
the old patriarch rose smilingly from his seat, pulled off
his cap, which it seemed he always wore, and shook hands
with him, with the usual hospitable greeting.
“Sarvant, sah! Welcome, sah!”
Fessenden's was given a seat by his side. And the old
was filled. For he was by no means dainty, and had not,
simple soul! the least prejudice against color.
And he was happy. The friendly black faces around
him, — the cheerful, sympathetic, rich-toned voices, — the
motherly kindness of the old woman, — the exquisite
smiling politeness of the old man, who got up and shook
hands with him, on an average, every half-hour, — the
Bible-reading, — the singing, — the praying, — the elegance
and condescension of Gentleman Bill, — the pleasant
looks and words of the laughing-eyed girls, — and the
irrepressible merriment of Joe, made that a golden Sabbath
in the lad's life.
Alas that it should come to this! Associate with black
folks! how shocking! What if he was a — Fessenden's?
was n't he white? Where were those finer tastes and
instincts which make you and me shrink from persons of
color? He rolls and tumbles in mad frolic with Joe on
the garret floor, and plays horse with him. He suffers his
hair to be combed by the girls, and actually experiences
pleasure at the touch of their gentle hands, and feels a
vague wondering joy when they praise his smooth flaxen
locks. In a word, he is so weak as to wish that good Mr.
Williams was his father, and this delightful hut his home!
And so he spends his Sunday. The family does not
attend public worship. They used to, when the old meeting-house
was standing, and the old minister was alive.
But they do not feel at ease in the new edifice, and the
smart young preacher is too smart for them. His rhetoric
is like the cold carving and frescos, — very fine, very
admirable, no doubt; but it has no warmth in it for
them; it is foreign to their common daily lives; it comes
not near the hopes and fears and sufferings of their humble
hearts. Here religion, which too long suffered abasement,
has the tone of society. It is worth while coming hither
of a Sunday morning, if only to hear the organ and see the
fashions. Yet it can hardly be expected that such creatures
as the Williamses should appreciate the privilege of
hearing and beholding from the enclosure which has been
properly set off for their class, — the colored people's pew.
But Fessenden's might have done better, one would say,
than to stay at home with them. Why did n't he go to
church, and be somebody? He would not have been put
into the niggers' pew. As for his clothes, which might
have been objected to by worldly people, who would have
thought of them, or of anything else but his immortal soul,
in the house of God? Of course, there were no respecters
of persons there, — none to say to a rich Frisbie, or an
eloquent Gingerford, “Sit thou, here, in a good place,”
and to a ragged Fessenden's, “Stand thou there.”
But perhaps the less said on the subject the better.
Pass over that golden Sunday in the lad's life. Alas, when
will he ever have such another? For here it is Monday
morning, and the house is to be torn down.
| IV.
SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY. Coupon bonds, and other stories | |