Dred, whose eyes, sharpened by habitual caution, never lost sight of any
change in his vicinity, had been observant of that which had taken place
in Old Tiff's affairs. When, therefore, he saw him sleeping as we have
described, he understood the whole matter at once. He looked at the
children, as they lay nestled at the roots of the tree, with something
of a softened expression, muttering to himself, "They embrace the Rock
for shelter."

He opened a pouch which he wore on his side, and took from thence one or
two corn-dodgers and half a broiled rabbit, which his wife had put up
for hunting provision, the day before; and, laying them down on the
leaves, hastened on to a place where he had intended to surprise some
game in the morning.

The chorus of birds we have before described awakened Old Tiff,
accustomed to habits of early rising. He sat up, and began rubbing his
eyes and stretching himself. He had slept well, for his habits of life
had not been such as to make him at all fastidious with regard to his
couch.

"Well," he said to himself, "any way, dat ar woman won't get dese yer
chil'en, dis yer day!" And he gave one of his old hearty laughs, to
think how nicely he had outwitted her.

"Laws," he said to himself, "don't I hear her now! 'Tiff! Tiff! Tiff!'
she says. Holla away, old mist'! Tiff don't hear yer! no, nor de chil'en
eider, por blessed lambs!"

Here, in turning to the children, his eye fell on the provisions. At
first he stood petrified, with his hands lifted in astonishment. Had the
angel been there? Sure enough, he thought.

"Well, now, bress de Lord, sure 'nough, here's de bery breakfast I's
asking for last night! Well, I knowed de Lord would do something for us;
but I really didn't know as 't would come so quick! May be ravens
brought it, as dey did to 'Lijah--bread and flesh in de morning, and
bread and flesh at night. Well, dis yer 's 'couraging--'tis so. I won't
wake up de por little lambs. Let 'em sleep. Dey'll be mighty tickled
when dey comes fur to see de breakfast; and, den, out here it's so sweet
and clean! None yer nasty 'bacca spittins of folks dat doesn't know how
to be decent. Bress me, I's rather tired, myself. I spects I'd better
camp down again, till de chil'en wakes. Dat ar crittur 's kep me gwine
till I's got pretty stiff, wid her contrary ways. Spect she'll be as
troubled as King Herod was, and all 'Rusalem wid her!"

And Tiff rolled and laughed quietly, in the security of his heart.

"I say, Tiff, where are we?" said a little voice at his side.

"Whar is we, puppit?" said Tiff, turning over; "why, bress yer sweet
eyes, how does yer do, dis morning? Stretch away, my man! Neber be
'fraid; we's in de Lord's diggins now, all safe. And de angel's got a
breakfast ready for us, too!" said Tiff, displaying the provision which
he had arranged on some vine-leaves.

"Oh, Uncle Tiff, did the angels bring that?" said Teddy. "Why didn't you
wake me up? I wanted to see them. I never saw any angel, in all my
life!"

"Nor I neider, honey. Dey comes mostly when we's 'sleep. But, stay,
dere's Miss Fanny, a waking up. How is ye, lamb? Is ye 'freshed?"

"Oh, Uncle Tiff, I've slept so sound," said Fanny; "and I dreamed such a
beautiful dream!"

"Well, den, tell it right off, 'fore breakfast," said Tiff, "to make it
come true."

"Well," said Fanny, "I dreamed I was in a desolate place, where I
couldn't get out, all full of rocks and brambles, and Teddy was with me;
and while we were trying and trying, our ma came to us. She looked like
our ma, only a great deal more beautiful; and she had a strange white
dress on, that shone, and hung clear to her feet; and she took hold of
our hands, and the rocks opened, and we walked through a path into a
beautiful green meadow, full of lilies and wild strawberries; and then
she was gone."

"Well," said Teddy, "maybe 'twas she who brought some breakfast to us.
See here, what we've got!"

Fanny look surprised and pleased, but, after some consideration, said,--

"I don't believe mamma brought that. I don't believe they have corn-cake
and roast meat in heaven. If it had been manna, now, it would have been
more likely."

"Neber mind whar it comes from," said Tiff. "It's right good and we
bress de Lord for it."

And they sat down accordingly, and ate their breakfast with a good
heart.

"Now," said Tiff, "somewhar roun' in dis yer swamp dere's a camp o' de
colored people; but I don' know rightly whar 'tis. If we could get dar,
we could stay dar a while, till something or nuder should turn up. Hark!
what's dat ar?"

'Twas the crack of a rifle reverberating through the dewy, leafy
stillness of the forest.

"Dat ar an't fur off," said Tiff.

The children looked a little terrified.

"Don't you be 'fraid," he said. "I wouldn't wonder but I knowed who dat
ar was. Hark, now! 'tis somebody coming dis yer way."

A clear, exultant voice sung, through the leafy distance,--

     "Oh, had I the wings of the morning,
     I'd fly away to Canaan's shore."

"Yes," said Tiff, to himself, "dat ar's his voice. Now, chil'en," he
said, "dar's somebody coming; and you mustn't be 'fraid on him, 'cause I
spects he'll get us to dat ar camp I's telling 'bout."

And Tiff, in a cracked and strained voice, which contrasted oddly
enough with the bell-like notes of the distant singer, commenced singing
part of an old song, which might, perhaps, have been used as a signal:--

     "Hailing so stormily,
     Cold, stormy weder;
     I want my true love all de day.
     Whar shall I find him? Whar shall I find him?"

The distant singer stopped his song, apparently to listen, and, while
Tiff kept on singing, they could hear the crackling of approaching
footsteps. At last Dred emerged to view.

"So you've fled to the wilderness?" he said.

"Yes, yes," said Tiff with a kind of giggle, "we had to come to it, dat
ar woman was so aggravating on de chil'en. Of all de pizin critturs dat
I knows on, dese yer mean white women is de pizinest! Dey an't got no
manners, and no bringing up. Dey doesn't begin to know how tings ought
to be done 'mong 'spectable people. So we just tuck to de bush."

"You might have taken to a worse place," said Dred. "The Lord God giveth
grace and glory to the trees of the wood. And the time will come when
the Lord will make a covenant of peace, and cause the evil beast to
cease out of the land; and they shall dwell safely in the wilderness,
and shall sleep in the woods; and the tree of the field shall yield her
fruit, and they shall be safe in the land, when the Lord hath broken the
bands of their yoke, and delivered them out of the hands of those that
serve themselves of them."

"And you tink dem good times coming, sure 'nough?" said Tiff.

"The Lord hath said it," said the other. "But first the day of vengeance
must come."

"I don't want no sich," said Tiff. "I want to live peaceable."

Dred looked upon Tiff with an air of acquiescent pity, which had in it a
slight shade of contempt, and said, as if in soliloquy,--

"Issachar is a strong ass, couching down between two burdens; and he saw
that rest was good, and the land that it was pleasant, and bowed his
shoulder to bear, and became a servant unto tribute."

"As to rest," said Tiff, "de Lord knows I an't had much of dat ar, if I
be an ass. If I had a good, strong pack-saddle, I'd like to trot dese
yer chil'en out in some good cleared place."

"Well," said Dred, "you have served him that was ready to perish, and
not betrayed him who wandered; therefore the Lord will open for you a
fenced city in the wilderness."

"Jest so," said Tiff; "dat ar camp o'yourn is jest what I's arter. I's
willing to lend a hand to most anyting dat's good."

"Well," said Dred, "the children are too tender to walk where we must
go. We must bear them as an eagle beareth her young. Come, my little
man!"

And, as Dred spoke, he stooped down and stretched out his hands to
Teddy. His severe and gloomy countenance relaxed into a smile, and, to
Tiff's surprise, the child went immediately to him, and allowed him to
lift him in his arms.

"Now I'd thought he'd been skeered o' you!" said Tiff.

"Not he! I never saw a child or dog that I couldn't make come to me.
Hold fast, now, my little man!" he said, seating the boy on his
shoulder. "Trees have long arms; don't let them rake you off. Now,
Tiff," he said, "you take the girl and come after, and when we come into
the thick of the swamp, mind you step right in my tracks. Mind you don't
set your foot on a tussock if I haven't set mine there before you;
because the moccasons lie on the tussocks."

And thus saying, Dred and his companion began making their way towards
the fugitive camp.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE CLERICAL CONFERENCE.

A few days found Clayton in the city of ----, guest of the Rev. Dr.
Cushing. He was a man in middle life; of fine personal presence, urbane,
courtly, gentlemanly. Dr. Cushing was a popular and much-admired
clergyman, standing high among his brethren in the ministry, and almost
the idol of a large and flourishing church, a man of warm feelings,
humane impulses, and fine social qualities, his sermons, beautifully
written, and delivered with great fervor, often drew tears from the eyes
of the hearers. His pastoral ministrations, whether at wedding or
funeral, had a peculiar tenderness and unction. None was more capable
than he of celebrating the holy fervor and self-denying sufferings of
apostles and martyrs; none more easily kindled by those devout hymns
which describe the patience of the saints; but, with all this, for any
practical emergency, Dr. Cushing was nothing of a soldier. There was a
species of moral effeminacy about him, and the very luxuriant softness
and richness of his nature unfitted him to endure hardness. He was
known, in all his intercourse with his brethren, as a peace-maker, a
modifier, and harmonizer. Nor did he scrupulously examine how much of
the credit of this was due to a fastidious softness of nature which made
controversy disagreeable and wearisome. Nevertheless, Clayton was at
first charmed with the sympathetic warmth with which he and his plans
were received by his relative. He seemed perfectly to agree with Clayton
in all his views of the terrible evils of the slave system and was
prompt with anecdotes and instances to enforce everything that he said.
"Clayton was just in time," he said; "a number of his ministerial
brethren were coming to-morrow, some of them from the northern states.
Clayton should present his views to them."

Dr. Cushing's establishment was conducted on the footing of the most
liberal hospitality; and that very evening the domestic circle was made
larger by the addition of four or five ministerial brethren. Among these
Clayton was glad to meet, once more, father Dickson. The serene, good
man, seemed to bring the blessing of the gospel of peace with him
wherever he went.

Among others, was one whom we will more particularly introduce, as the
Rev. Shubael Packthread. Dr. Shubael Packthread was a minister of a
leading church, in one of the northern cities. Constitutionally, he was
an amiable and kindly man, with very fair natural abilities, fairly
improved by culture. Long habits, however, of theological and
ecclesiastical controversy had cultivated a certain species of acuteness
of mind into such disproportioned activity, that other parts of his
intellectual and moral nature had been dwarfed and dwindled beside it.
What might, under other circumstances, have been agreeable and useful
tact, became in him a constant and life-long _habit_ of stratagem. While
other people look upon words as vehicles for conveying ideas, Dr.
Packthread regarded them only as mediums for concealment. His constant
study, on every controverted topic, was so to adjust language that, with
the appearance of the utmost precision, it should always be capable of a
double interpretation. He was a cunning master of all forms of
indirection; of all phrases by which people _appear_ to say what they do
not say, and _not_ to say what they _do_ say.

He was an adept also in all the mechanism of ecclesiastical debate, of
the intricate labyrinths of heresy-hunting, of every scheme by which
more simple and less advised brethren, speaking with ignorant sincerity,
could be entrapped and deceived. He was _au fait_ also in all compromise
measures, in which two parties unite in one form of words, meaning by
them exactly opposite ideas, and call the agreement a _union_. He was
also expert in all those parliamentary modes, in synod or general
assembly, by which troublesome discussions could be avoided or disposed
of, and credulous brethren made to believe they had gained points which
they had not gained; by which discussions could be at will blinded with
dusty clouds of misrepresentation, or trailed on through interminable
marshes of weariness, to accomplish some manoeuvre of ecclesiastical
tactics.

Dr. Packthread also was master of every means by which the influence of
opposing parties might be broken. He could spread a convenient report on
necessary occasions, by any of those forms which do not assert, but
which disseminate a slander quite as certainly as if they did. If it was
necessary to create a suspicion of the orthodoxy, or of the piety, or
even of the morality, of an opposing brother, Dr. Packthread understood
how to do it in the neatest and most tasteful manner. He was an
infallible judge whether it should be accomplished by innocent
interrogations, as to whether you had heard "so and so of Mr. ----;" or,
by "charitably expressed hopes that you had not heard so and so;" or, by
gentle suggestions, whether it would not be as well to inquire; or, by
shakes of the head, and lifts of the eyes, at proper intervals in
conversation; or, lastly, by _silence_ when silence became the strongest
as well as safest form of assertion.

In person, he was rather tall, thin, and the lines of his face appeared,
every one of them, to be engraved by caution and care. In his boyhood
and youth, the man had had a trick of smiling and laughing without
considering why; the grace of prudence, however, had corrected all this.
He never did either, in these days, without understanding precisely what
he was about. His face was a part of his stock in trade, and he
understood the management of it remarkably well. He knew precisely all
the gradations of smile which were useful for accomplishing different
purposes. The solemn smile, the smile of inquiry, the smile affirmative,
the smile suggestive, the smile of incredulity, and the smile of
innocent credulity, which encouraged the simple-hearted narrator to go
on unfolding himself to the brother, who sat quietly behind his face, as
a spider does behind his web, waiting till his unsuspecting friend had
tangled himself in incautious, impulsive, and, of course, contradictory
meshes of statement, which were, in some future hour, in the most gentle
and Christian spirit, to be tightened around the incautious captive,
while as much blood was sucked as the good of the cause demanded.

It is not to be supposed that the Rev. Dr. Packthread, so skilful and
adroit as we have represented him, failed in the necessary climax of
such skill--that of deceiving himself. Far from it. Truly and honestly
Dr. Packthread thought himself one of the hundred and forty and four
thousand, who follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth, in whose mouth is
found no guile. _Prudence_ he considered the chief of Christian graces.
He worshipped Christian prudence, and the whole category of
accomplishments which we have described he considered as the fruits of
it. His prudence, in fact, served him all the purposes that the stock of
the tree did to the ancient idolater. "With part thereof he eateth
flesh; he roasteth roast, and is satisfied; yea, he warmeth himself, and
saith, Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire: and the residue thereof he
maketh a god, even his graven image; he falleth down unto it, and
worshippeth it, and prayeth unto it, and saith, Deliver me; for thou art
my god."

No doubt, Dr. Packthread expected to enter heaven by the same judicious
arrangement by which he had lived on earth; and so he went on, from year
to year, doing deeds which even a political candidate would blush at;
violating the most ordinary principles of morality and honor; while he
sung hymns, made prayers, and administered sacraments, expecting, no
doubt, at last to enter heaven by some neat arrangement of words used in
two senses.

Dr. Packthread's cautious agreeableness of manner formed a striking
contrast to the innocent and almost child-like simplicity with which
father Dickson, in his threadbare coat, appeared at his side. Almost as
poor in this world's goods as his Master, father Dickson's dwelling had
been a simple one-story cottage, in all, save thrift and neatness, very
little better than those of the poorest; and it was a rare year when a
hundred dollars passed through his hands. He had seen the time when he
had not even wherewithal to take from the office a necessary letter. He
had seen his wife suffer for medicine and comforts, in sickness. He had
himself ridden without overcoat through the chill months of winter; but
all those things he had borne as the traveller bears a storm on the way
to his home; and it was beautiful to see the unenvying, frank, simple
pleasure which he seemed to feel in the elegant and abundant home of his
brother, and in the thousand appliances of hospitable comfort by which
he was surrounded. The spirit within us that lusteth to envy had been
chased from his bosom by the expulsive force of a higher love; and his
simple and unstudied acts of constant good-will showed that simple
Christianity can make the gentleman. Father Dickson was regarded by his
ministerial brethren with great affection and veneration, though wholly
devoid of any ecclesiastical wisdom. They were fond of using him much as
they did their hymn-books and testaments, for their better hours of
devotion; and equally apt to let slip his admonitions, when they came to
the hard, matter-of-fact business of ecclesiastical discussion and
management; yet they loved well to have him with them, as they felt
that, like a psalm or a text, his presence in some sort gave sanction to
what they did.

In due time there was added to the number of the circle our joyous,
out-spoken friend, father Bonnie, fresh from a recent series of
camp-meetings in a distant part of the state, and ready at a minute's
notice for either a laugh or a prayer. Very little of the stereotype
print of his profession had he; the sort of wild woodland freedom of his
life giving to his manners and conversation a tone of sylvan roughness,
of which Dr. Packthread evidently stood in considerable doubt. Father
Bonnie's early training had been that of what is called, in common
parlance, a "self-made man." He was unsophisticated by Greek or Latin,
and had rather a contempt for the forms of the schools, and a joyous
determination to say what he pleased on all occasions. There were also
present one or two of the leading Presbyterian ministers of the north.
They had, in fact, come for a private and confidential conversation with
Dr. Cushing concerning the reunion of the New School Presbyterian Church
with the Old.

It may be necessary to apprise some of our readers, not conversant with
American ecclesiastical history, that the Presbyterian Church of America
is divided into two parties in relation to certain theological points,
and that the adherents on either side call themselves _old_ or _new_
school. Some years since, these two parties divided, and each of them
organized its own general assembly.

It so happened that all the slaveholding interest, with some very
inconsiderable exceptions, went into the old school body. The great
majority of the new school body were avowedly anti-slavery men,
according to a solemn declaration, which committed the whole
Presbyterian Church to those sentiments in the year eighteen hundred and
eighteen. And the breach between the two sections was caused quite as
much by the difference of feeling between the northern and southern
branches on the subject of slavery, as by any differences of doctrine.

After the first jar of separation was over, thoughts of reunion began to
arise on both sides, and to be quietly discussed among leading minds.

There is a power in men of a certain class of making an organization of
any kind, whether it be political or ecclesiastical, an object of
absorbing and individual devotion. Most men feel empty and insufficient
of themselves, and find a need to ballast their own insufficiency by
attaching themselves to something of more weight than they are. They put
their stock of being out at interest, and invest themselves somewhere
and in something; and the love of wife or child is not more absorbing
than the love of the bank where the man has invested himself. It is
true, this power is a noble one; because thus a man may pass out of
self, and choose God, the great good of all, for his portion. But human
weakness falls below this; and, as the idolater worships the infinite
and unseen under a visible symbol till it effaces the memory of what is
signified, so men begin by loving institutions for God's sake, which
come at last to stand with them in the place of God.

Such was the Rev. Dr. Calker. He was a man of powerful though narrow
mind, of great energy and efficiency, and of that capability of abstract
devotion which makes the soldier or the statesman. He was earnestly and
sincerely devout, as he understood devotion. He began with loving the
church for God's sake, and ended with loving her better than God. And,
by the church, he meant the organization of the Presbyterian Church in
the United States of America. Her cause, in his eyes, was God's cause;
her glory, God's glory; her success, the indispensable condition of the
millennium; her defeat, the defeat of all that was good for the human
race. His devotion to her was honest and unselfish.

Of course Dr. Calker estimated all interests by their influence on the
Presbyterian Church. He weighed every cause in the balance of her
sanctuary. What promised extension and power to her, _that_ he
supported. What threatened defeat or impediment, _that_ he was ready to
sacrifice. He would, at any day, sacrifice himself and all his interests
to that cause, and he felt equally willing to sacrifice others and
their interests. The anti-slavery cause he regarded with a simple eye to
this question. It was a disturbing force, weakening the harmony among
brethren, threatening disruption and disunion. He regarded it,
therefore, with distrust and aversion. He would read no facts on that
side of the question. And when the discussions of zealous brethren would
bring frightful and appalling statements into the general assembly, he
was too busy in seeking what could be said to ward off their force, to
allow them to have much influence on his own mind. Gradually he came to
view the whole subject with dislike, as a pertinacious intruder in the
path of the Presbyterian Church. That the whole train of cars, laden
with the interests of the world for all time, should be stopped by a
ragged, manacled slave across the track, was to him an impertinence and
absurdity. What was he, that the Presbyterian Church should be divided
and hindered for him? So thought the exultant thousands who followed
Christ, once, when the blind beggar raised his importunate clamor, and
they bade him hold his peace. So thought not HE, who stopped the tide of
triumphant success, that he might call the neglected one to himself, and
lay his hands upon him.

Dr. Calker had from year to year opposed the agitation of the slavery
question in the general assembly of the Presbyterian Church, knowing
well that it threatened disunion. When, in spite of all his efforts,
disunion came, he bent his energies to the task of reuniting; and he was
the most important character in the present caucus.

Of course a layman, and a young man also, would feel some natural
hesitancy in joining at once in the conversation of those older than
himself. Clayton, therefore, sat at the hospitable breakfast-table of
Dr. Cushing rather as an auditor than as a speaker.

"Now, brother Cushing," said Dr. Calker, "the fact is, there never was
any need of this disruption. It has crippled the power of the church,
and given the enemy occasion to speak reproachfully. Our divisions are
playing right into the hands of the Methodists and Baptists; and ground
that we might hold, united, is going into their hands every year."

"I know it," said Dr. Cushing, "and we southern brethren mourn over it,
I assure you. The fact is, brother Calker, there's no such doctrinal
division, after all. Why, there are brethren among us that are as new
school as Dr. Draper, and we don't meddle with them."

"Just so," replied Dr. Calker; "and we have true-blue old school men
among us."

"I think," said Dr. Packthread, "that, with suitable care, a document
might be drawn up which will meet the views on both sides. You see, we
must get the extreme men on both sides to agree to hold still. Why, now,
I am called new school; but I wrote a set of definitions once, which I
showed to Dr. Pyke, who is as sharp as any body on the other side, and
he said, 'He agreed with them entirely.' Those N---- H---- men are
incautious."

"Yes," said Dr. Calker, "and it's just dividing the resources and the
influence of the church for nothing. Now, those discussions as to the
time when moral agency begins are, after all, of no great account in
practical workings."

"Well," said Dr. Cushing, "it's, after all, nothing but the tone of your
abolition fanatics that stands in the way. These slavery discussions in
general assembly have been very disagreeable and painful to our people,
particularly those of the western brethren. They don't understand us,
nor the delicacy of our position. They don't know that we need to be let
alone in order to effect anything. Now, I am for trusting to the
softening, meliorating influences of the Gospel. The kingdom of God
cometh not with observation. I trust that, in his mysterious providence,
the Lord will see fit, in his own good time, to remove this evil of
slavery. Meanwhile, brethren ought to possess their souls in patience."

"Brother Cushing," said father Dickson, "since the assembly of eighteen
hundred and eighteen, the number of slaves has increased in this country
four-fold. New slave states have been added, and a great, regular system
of breeding and trading organized, which is filling all our large cities
with trading-houses. The ships of our ports go out as slavers, carrying
loads of miserable creatures down to New Orleans; and there is a
constant increase of this traffic through the country. This very summer
I was at the death-bed of a poor girl, only seventeen or eighteen, who
had been torn from all her friends and sent off with a coffle; and she
died there in the wilderness. It does seem to me, brother Cushing, that
this silent plan does not answer. We are not half as near to
emancipation, apparently, as we were in eighteen hundred and eighteen."

"Has there ever been any attempt," said Clayton, "among the Christians
of your denominations, to put a stop to this internal slave-trade?"

"Well," said Dr. Cushing, "I don't know that there has, any further than
general preaching against injustice."

"Have you ever made any movement in the church to prevent the separation
of families?" said Clayton.

"No, not exactly. We leave that thing to the conscience of individuals.
The synods have always enjoined it on professors of religion to treat
their servants according to the spirit of the Gospel."

"Has the church ever endeavored to influence the legislature to allow
general education?" said Clayton.

"No; that subject is fraught with difficulties," said Dr. Cushing. "The
fact is, if these rabid northern abolitionists would let us alone, we
might, perhaps, make a movement on some of these subjects. But they
excite the minds of our people, and get them into such a state of
inflammation, that we cannot do anything."

During all the time that father Dickson and Clayton had been speaking,
Dr. Calker had been making minutes with a pencil on a small piece of
paper, for future use. It was always disagreeable to him to hear of
slave-coffles and the internal slave-trade; and, therefore, when
anything was ever said on these topics, he would generally employ
himself in some other way than listening. Father Dickson he had known of
old as being remarkably pertinacious on those subjects; and therefore,
when he began to speak, he took the opportunity of jotting down a few
ideas for a future exigency. He now looked up from his paper and
spoke:--

"Oh, those fellows are without any reason--perfectly wild and crazy!
They are monomaniacs! They cannot see but one subject anywhere. Now,
there's father Ruskin, of Ohio--there's nothing can be done with that
man! I have had him at my house hours and hours, talking to him, and
laying it all down before him, and showing him what great interests he
was compromising. But it didn't do a bit of good. He just harps on one
eternal string. Now, it's all the pushing and driving of these fellows
in the general assembly that made the division, in my opinion."

"We kept it off a good many years," said Dr. Packthread; "and it took
all our ingenuity to do it, I assure you. Now, ever since eighteen
hundred and thirty-five, these fellows have been pushing and crowding in
every assembly; and we have stood faithfully in our lot, to keep the
assembly from doing anything which could give offence to our southern
brethren. We have always been particular to put them forward in our
public services, and to show them every imaginable deference. I think
our brethren ought to consider how hard we have worked. We had to be
instant in season and out of season, I can tell you. I think I may claim
some little merit," continued the doctor, with a cautious smile
spreading over his face; "if I have any talent, it is a capacity in the
judicious use of language. Now, sometimes brethren will wrangle a whole
day, till they all get tired and sick of a subject; and then just let a
man who understands the use of terms step in, and sometimes, by omitting
a single word, he will alter the whole face of an affair. I remember one
year those fellows were driving us up to make some sort of declaration
about slavery. And we really had to do it, because it wouldn't do to
have the whole west split off; and there was a three days' fight, till
finally we got the thing pared down to the lowest terms. We thought we
would pass a resolution that slavery was a _moral evil_, if the southern
brethren liked that better than the old way of calling it a sin, and we
really were getting on quite harmoniously, when some of the southern
ultras took it up; and they said that moral evil meant the same as sin,
and that would imply a censure on the brethren. Well, it got late, and
some of the hottest ones were tired and had gone off; and I just quietly
drew my pen across the word _moral_, and read the resolution, and it
went unanimously. Most ministers, you see, are willing to call slavery
an _evil_--the trouble lay in that word _moral_. Well, that capped the
crater for that year. But, then, they were at it again the very next
time they came together, for those fellows never sleep. Well, then we
took a new turn. I told the brethren we had better get it on to the
ground of the reserved rights of presbyteries and synods, and decline
interfering. Well, then, that was going very well, but some of the
brethren very injudiciously got up a resolution in the assembly
recommending disciplinary measures for dancing. That was passed without
much thought, because, you know, there's no great interest involved in
dancing, and, of course, there's nobody to oppose such a resolution;
but, then, it was very injudicious, under the circumstances; for the
abolitionists made a handle of it immediately, and wanted to know why we
couldn't as well recommend a discipline for slavery; because, you see,
dancing isn't a sin, _per se_, any more than slavery is; and they
haven't done blowing their trumpets over us to this day."

Here the company rose from breakfast, and, according to the good old
devout custom, seated themselves for family worship. Two decent,
well-dressed black women were called in, and also a negro man. At father
Dickson's request, all united in singing the following hymn:--

     "Am I a soldier of the cross,
       A follower of the Lamb;
     And shall I fear to own his cause,
       Or blush to speak his name?
     Must I be carried to the skies
       On flowery beds of ease,
     While others fought to win the prize,
       And sailed through bloody seas?
     Sure I must fight if I would reign;
       Increase my courage, Lord!
     I'll bear the cross, endure the shame,
       Supported by thy word
     The saints, in all this glorious war,
       Shall conquer, though they die;
     They see the victory from afar,
       With faith's discerning eye.
     When that illustrious day shall rise,
       And all thine armies shine
     In robes of victory through the skies,
       The glory shall be thine."

Anybody who had seen the fervor with which these brethren now united in
singing these stanzas, might have supposed them a company of the
primitive martyrs and confessors, who, having drawn the sword and
thrown away the scabbard, were now ready for a millennial charge on the
devil and all his works. None sung with more heartiness than Dr.
Packthread, for his natural feelings were quick and easily excited; nor
did he dream he was not a soldier of the cross, and that the species of
skirmishes he had been describing were not all in accordance with the
spirit of the hymn. Had you interrogated him, he would have shown you a
syllogistic connection between the glory of God and the best good of the
universe, and the course he had been pursuing. So that, if father
Dickson had supposed the hymn would act as a gentle suggestion, he was
very much mistaken. As to Dr. Calker, he joined, with enthusiasm,
applying it all the while to the enemies of the Presbyterian Church, in
the same manner as Ignatius Loyola might have sung it, applying it to
Protestantism. Dr. Cushing considered the conflict described as wholly
an internal one, and thus all joined alike in swelling the chorus:--

     "A soldier for Jesus, hallelujah!
       Love and serve the Lord."

Father Dickson read from the Bible as follows:--

"Our rejoicing is this, the testimony of our consciences, that in
simplicity and godly sincerity, not with fleshly wisdom, but by the
grace of God, we have our conversation in the world."

Father Dickson had many gentle and quiet ways, peculiar to himself, of
suggesting his own views to his brethren. Therefore, having read these
verses, he paused, and asked Dr. Packthread "if he did not think there
was danger of departing from this spirit, and losing the simplicity of
Christ, when we conduct Christian business on worldly principles."

Dr. Packthread cordially assented, and continued to the same purpose in
a strain so edifying as entirely to exhaust the subject; and Dr. Calker,
who was thinking of the business that was before them, giving an uneasy
motion here, they immediately united in the devotional exercises, which
were led with great fervor by Dr. Cushing.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE RESULT.

After the devotional services were over, Dr. Calker proceeded
immediately with the business that he had in his mind. "Now, brother
Cushing," he said, "there never was any instrumentality raised up by
Providence to bring in the latter day equal to the Presbyterian Church
in the United States of America. It is the great hope of the world; for
here, in this country, we are trying the great experiment for all ages;
and, undoubtedly, the Presbyterian Church comes the nearest perfection
of any form of organization possible to our frail humanity. It is the
ark of the covenant for this nation, and for all nations. Missionary
enterprises to foreign countries, tract societies, home missionary,
seamen's friend societies, Bible societies, Sunday-school unions, all
are embraced in its bosom; and it grows in a free country, planted by
God's own right hand, with such laws and institutions as never were
given to mortal man before. It is carrying us right on to the
millennium; and all we want is _union_. United, we stand the most
glorious, the most powerful institution in the world. Now, there was no
need for you southern brethren to be so restive as you were. We were
doing all we could to keep down the fire, and keep things quiet, and you
ought not to have bolted so. Since you have separated from us, what have
we done? I suppose you thought we were going to blaze out in a regular
abolition fury; but you see we haven't done it. We haven't done any more
than when we were united. Just look at our minutes, and you'll see it.
We have strong and determined abolitionists among us, and they are
constantly urging and pushing. There have been great public excitements
on the subject of slavery, and we have been plagued and teased to
declare ourselves, but we haven't done it in a single instance--not one.
You see that Ruskin and his clique have gone off from us, because we
would hold still. It is true that now and then we had to let some
anti-slavery man preach an opening sermon, or something of that sort;
but, then, opening sermons are nothing; they don't commit anybody; they
don't show the opinion of anybody but the speaker. In fact, they don't
express any more than that declaration of eighteen hundred and eighteen,
which stands unrepealed on _your_ records, as well as on ours. Of
course, we are all willing to say that slavery is an evil, 'entirely
inconsistent with the spirit of the Gospel,' and all that, because
that's on your own books; we only agree to say nothing about it,
nowadays, in our public capacity, because what was said in eighteen
hundred and eighteen is all-sufficient, and prevents the odium and
scandal of public controversy now. Now, for proof that what I have just
said is true, look at the facts. We had three presbyteries in
slave-holding states when we started, and now we have over twenty, with
from fifteen to twenty thousand members. That must show you what our
hearts are on this subject. And have we not always been making overtures
for reunion--really humbling ourselves to you, brethren? Now, I say you
ought to take these facts into account; our slave-holding members and
churches are left as perfectly undisturbed, to manage in their own way,
as yours. To be sure, some of those western men will fire off a
remonstrance once a year, or something of that sort. Just let them do
that; it keeps them easy and contented. And, so long as there is really
no interfering in the way of discipline or control, what harm is done?
You ought to bear some with the northern brethren, unreasonable as they
are; and we may well have a discussion every year, to let off the
steam."

"For my part," said father Bonnie, "I want union, I'm sure. I'd tar and
feather those northern abolitionists, if I could get at them!"

"_Figuratively_, I suppose," said Dr. Packthread, with a gentle smile.

"Yes, figuratively and literally too," said father Bonnie, laughing.
"Let them come down here, and see what they'll get! If they will set the
country in a blaze, they ought to be the first ones to be warmed at the
fire. For my part, brethren, I must say that you lose time and strength
by your admissions, all of you. You don't hit the buck in the eye. I
thank the Lord that I am delivered from the bondage of thinking slavery
a sin, or an evil, in any sense. Our abolitionist brethren have done one
good thing; they have driven us up to examine the Scriptures, and there
we find that slavery is not only permitted but appointed, enjoined. It
is a divine institution. If a northern abolitionist comes at me now, I
shake the Bible at him, and say, 'Nay, but, oh man, who art thou that
repliest against God?' Hath not the potter power over the clay, to make
one lump to honor, and another to dishonor? I tell you, brethren, it
blazes from every page of the Scriptures. You'll never do anything till
you get on to that ground. A man's conscience is always hanging on to
his skirts; he goes on just like a bear with a trap on his legs--can't
make any progress that way. You have got to get your feet on the rock of
ages, I can tell you, and get the trap off your leg. There's nothing
like the study of the Scriptures to clear a fellow's mind."

"Well, then," said Clayton, "would it not be well to repeal the laws
which forbid the slaves to learn to read, and put the Scriptures into
their hands? These laws are the cause of a great deal of misery and
immorality among the slaves, and they furnish abolitionists with some of
their strongest arguments."

"Oh," said father Bonnie, "that will never do, in the world! It will
expose them to whole floods of abolition and incendiary documents,
corrupt their minds, and make them discontented."

"Well," said Dr. Cushing, "I have read Dr. Carnes' book, and I must say
that the scriptural argument lies, in my mind, on the other side."

"Hang Dr. Carnes' book!" said father Bonnie.

"Figuratively, I suppose," said Dr. Packthread.

"Why, Dr. Carnes' much learning has made him mad!" said father Bonnie.
"I don't believe anything that can't be got out of a plain English
Bible. When a fellow goes shuffling off in a Hebrew fog, in a Latin fog,
in a Greek fog, I say, 'Ah, my boy, you are treed! you had better come
down!' Why, is it not plain enough to any reader of the Bible, how the
apostles talked to the slaves? They didn't fill their heads with stuff
about the rights of man. Now, see here, just at a venture," he said,
making a dive at a pocket-Bible that lay on the table,--"now, just let
me read you, '_Masters, give unto your servants that which is just and
equal_.' Sho! sho! that isn't the place I was thinking of. It's here,
'_Servants, obey your masters!_' There's into them, you see! 'Obey your
masters that are in the flesh.' Now, these abolitionists won't even
allow that we are masters!"

"Perhaps," said Clayton, quietly, "if the slaves could read, they'd pay
more attention to the first passage that you favored us with."

"Oh, likely," said father Bonnie, "because, you see, their interests
naturally would lead them to pervert Scripture. If it wasn't for that
perverting influence of self-love, I, for my part, would be willing
enough to put the Scriptures into their hands."

"I suppose," said Clayton, "there's no such danger in the case of us
masters, is there?"

"I say," said father Bonnie, not noticing the interruption, "Cushing,
you ought to read Fletcher's book. That book, sir, is a sweater, I can
tell you; I sweat over it, I know; but it does up this Greek and Hebrew
work thoroughly, I promise you. Though I can't read Greek or Hebrew, I
see there's heaps of it there. Why, he takes you clear back to the
creation of the world, and drags you through all the history and
literature of the old botherers of all ages, and he comes down on the
fathers like forty. There's Chrysostom and Tertullian, and all the rest
of those old cocks, and the old Greek philosophers, besides,--Plato and
Aristotle, and all the rest of them. If a fellow wants learning, there
he'll get it. I declare, I'd rather cut my way through the Dismal Swamp
in dog-days! But I was determined to be thorough; so I off coat, and
went at it. And, there's no mistake about it, Cushing, you must get the
book. You'll feel so much better, if you'll settle your mind on that
point. I never allow myself to go trailing along with anything hanging
by the gills. I am an out-and-outer. Walk up to the captain's office and
settle! That's what I say."

"We shall all have to do that, one of these days," said father Dickson,
"and maybe we shall find it one thing to settle with the clerk, and
another to settle with the captain!"

"Well, brother Dickson, you needn't look at me with any of your solemn
faces! I'm settled, now."

"For my part," said Dr. Packthread, "I think, instead of condemning
slavery in the abstract, we ought to direct our attention to its
abuses."

"And what do you consider its abuses?" said Clayton.

"Why, the separation of families, for instance," said Dr. Packthread,
"and the forbidding of education."

"You think, then," said Clayton, "that the slave ought to have a legal
right to his family?"

"Yes."

"Of course, he ought to have the legal means of maintaining it?"

"Yes."

"Then, of course, he ought to be able to enter suit when this right is
violated, and to bear testimony in a court of justice?"

"Yes."

"And do you think that the master ought to give him what is just and
equal, in the way of wages?"

"Certainly, in one shape or another," said Dr. Packthread.

"And ought the slave to have the means of enforcing this right?"

"Certainly."

"Then the slave ought to be able to hold property?"

"Yes."

"And he should have the legal right to secure education, if he desires
it?"

"Yes."

"Well," said Clayton, "when the slave has a legal existence and legal
rights, can hold property and defend it, acquire education and protect
his family relations, he ceases to be a slave; for slavery consists in
the fact of legal incapacity for any of these things. It consists in
making a man a dead, inert substance in the hands of another, holding
men _pro nullis, pro mortuis_. What you call reforming abuses is
abolishing slavery. It is in this very way that I wish to seek its
abolition, and I desire the aid of the church and ministry in doing it.
Now, Dr. Packthread, what efforts has the church as yet made to reform
these abuses of slavery?"

There was a silence of some minutes. At last Dr. Cushing replied,--

"There has been a good deal of effort made in oral religious
instruction."

"Oh, yes," said father Bonnie, "our people have been at it with great
zeal in our part of the country. I have a class, myself, that I have
been instructing in the Assembly's Catechism, in the oral way; and the
synods have taken it up, and they are preaching the Gospel to them, and
writing catechisms for them."

"But," said Clayton, "would it not be best to give them a legal ability
to obey the Gospel? Is there any use in teaching the sanctity of
marriage, unless you obtain for husbands and wives the legal right to
live faithful to each other? It seems to me only cruelty to awaken
conscience on that subject, without giving the protection and assistance
of law."

"What he says is very true," said Dr. Cushing, with emphasis. "We
ministers are called to feel the necessity of that with regard to our
slave church-members. You see, we are obliged to preach unlimited
obedience to masters; and yet,--why, it was only last week, a very
excellent pious mulatto woman in my church came to me to know what she
should do. Her master was determined she should live with him as a
mistress; yet she has a husband on the place. How am I to advise her?
The man is a very influential man, and capable of making a good deal of
commotion; besides which, she will gain nothing by resistance, but to be
sold away to some other master who will do worse. Now, this is a very
trying case to a minister. I'm sure, if anything could be done, I'd be
glad; but the fact is, the moment a person begins to move in the least
to reform these abuses, he is called an abolitionist, and the whole
community is down on him at once. That's the state these northern
fanatics have got us into."

"Oh, yes," said Dr. Baskum, a leading minister, who had recently come
in. "Besides, a man can't do everything! We've got as much as we can
stagger under on our shoulders, now. We've got the building up of the
church to attend to. That's the great instrumentality which at last will
set everything straight. We must do as the apostles did,--confine
ourselves to preaching the Gospel, and the Gospel will bring everything
else in its train. The world can't be made over in a day. We must do one
thing at a time. We can't afford, just at present, to tackle in with all
our other difficulties the odium and misrepresentation of such a
movement. The minute we begin to do anything which looks like
restraining the rights of masters, the cry of church and state and
abolition will be raised, and we shall be swamped!"

"But," said father Dickson, "isn't it the right way first to find out
our duty and do it, and then leave the result with God? Ought we to take
counsel of flesh and blood in matters like these?"

"Of course not," said Dr. Packthread. "But there is a wise way and an
unwise way of doing things. We are to consider the times, and only
undertake such works as the movements of Divine Providence seem to
indicate. I don't wish to judge for brethren. A time may come when it
will be their duty to show themselves openly on this subject; but, in
order to obtain a foothold for the influences of the Gospel to work on,
it may be necessary to bear and forbear with many evils. Under the
present state of things, I hope many of the slaves are becoming
hopefully pious. Brethren seem to feel that education will be attended
with dangers. Probably it might. It would seem desirable to secure the
family relations of the slaves, if it could be done without too much
sacrifice of more important things. After all, the kingdom of our Lord
Jesus Christ is not of this world. The apostles entered no public
protest against the abuses of slavery, that we read of."

"It strikes me," said Clayton, "that there is a difference between our
position under a republican government,--in which we vote for our
legislators, and, in fact, make the laws ourselves, and have the
admitted right to seek their repeal,--and that of the apostles, who were
themselves slaves, and could do nothing about the laws. We make our own
laws, and every one of us is responsible for any unjust law which we do
not do our best to alter. We have the right to agitate, write, print,
and speak, and bring up the public mind to the point of reform; and,
therefore, we are responsible if unjust laws are not repealed."

"Well," said father Dickson, "God forgive me that I have been so remiss
in times past! Henceforth, whatever others may do, I will not confer
with flesh and blood; but I will go forth and declare the word of the
Lord plainly to this people, and show unto the house of Judah their
transgressions. And now I have one thing to say to our dear northern
brethren. I mourn over the undecided course which they take. Brethren in
slave states are beset with many temptations. The whole course of public
opinion is against them. They need that their northern brethren should
stand firm, and hold up their hands. Alas! how different has been their
course! Their apologies for this mighty sin have weakened us more than
all things put together. Public opinion is going back. The church is
becoming corrupted. Ministers are drawn into connivance with deadly sin.
Children and youth are being ruined by habits of early tyranny. Our land
is full of slave-prisons; and the poor trader--no man careth for his
soul! Our poor whites are given up to ignorance and licentiousness; and
our ministers, like our brother Bonnie, here, begin to defend this evil
from the Bible. Brother Calker, here, talks of the Presbyterian Church.
Alas! in her skirts is found the blood of poor innocents, and she is
willing, for the sake of union, to destroy them for whom Christ died.
Brethren, you know not what you do. You enjoy the blessings of living in
a land uncursed by any such evils. Your churches, your schools, and all
your industrial institutions, are going forward, while ours are going
backward; and you do not feel it, because you do not live among us. But
take care! One part of the country cannot become demoralized without, at
last, affecting the other. The sin you cherish and strengthen by your
indifference may at last come back in judgments that may visit even you.
I pray God to avert it! But, as God is just, I tremble for you and for
us! Well, good-by, brethren; I must be on my way. You will not listen to
me, and my soul cannot come into your counsels."

And father Dickson rose to depart.

"Oh, come, come, now, brother, don't take it so seriously!" said Dr.
Cushing. "Stay, at least, and spend the day with us, and let us have a
little Christian talk."

"I must go," said father Dickson. "I have an appointment to preach,
which I must keep, for this evening, and so I must bid you farewell. I
hoped to do something by coming here; but I see that it is all in vain.
Farewell, brethren; I shall pray for you."

"Well, father Dickson, I should like to talk more with you on this
subject," said Dr. Cushing. "Do come again. It is very difficult to see
the path of duty in these matters."

Poor Dr. Cushing was one of those who are destined, like stationary
ships, forever to float up and down in one spot, only useful in marking
the ebb and flood of the tide. Affection, generosity, devotion, he
had--everything but the power to move on.

Clayton, who had seen at once that nothing was to be done or gained,
rose, and said that his business was also pressing, and that he would
accompany father Dickson on his way.

"What a good fellow Dickson is!" said Cushing, after he returned to the
room.

"He exhibits a very excellent spirit," said Dr. Packthread.

"Oh, Dickson would do well enough," said Dr. Calker, "if he wasn't a
monomaniac. That's what's the matter with him! But when he gets to going
on this subject, I never hear what he says. I know it's no use to reason
with him--entirely time lost. I have heard all these things over and
over again."

"But I wish," said Dr. Cushing, "something could be done."

"Well, who doesn't?" said Dr. Calker. "We all wish something could be
done; but, if it can't, it can't; there's the end of it. So now let us
proceed, and look into business a little more particularly."

"After all," said Dr. Packthread, "you old school brethren have greatly
the advantage of us. Although you have a few poor good souls, like this
Dickson, they are in so insignificant a minority that they can do
nothing--can't even get into the general assembly, or send in a
remonstrance, or petition, or anything else; so that you are never
plagued as we are. We cannot even choose a moderator from the
slave-holding states, for fear of an explosion; but you can have
slave-holding moderators, or anything else that will promote harmony and
union."

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE SLAVE'S ARGUMENT.

On his return home, Clayton took from the post-office a letter, which we
will give to our readers:--

     "MR. CLAYTON: I am now an outcast. I cannot show my face in the
     world, I cannot go abroad by daylight; for no crime, as I can see,
     except resisting oppression. Mr. Clayton, if it were proper for
     your fathers to fight and shed blood for the oppression that came
     upon them, why isn't it right for us? They had not half the
     provocation that we have. Their wives and families were never
     touched. They were not bought, and sold, and traded, like cattle in
     the market, as we are. In fact, when I was reading that history, I
     could hardly understand what provocation they did have. They had
     everything easy and comfortable about them. They were able to
     support their families, even in luxury. And yet they were willing
     to plunge into war, and shed blood. I have studied the Declaration
     of Independence. The things mentioned there were bad and
     uncomfortable, to be sure; but, after all, look at the laws which
     are put over _us_! Now, if they had forbidden them to teach their
     children to read,--if they had divided them all out among masters,
     and declared them as incapable of holding property as the mule
     before the plough,--there would have been some sense in that
     revolution.

     "Well, how was it with our people in South Carolina? Denmark Vesey
     was a _man_! His history is just what George Washington's would
     have been, if you had failed. What set him on in his course? The
     Bible and your Declaration of Independence. What does your
     Declaration say? 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that
     _all men are created equal_; that they are endowed by their Creator
     with certain _inalienable_ rights: that among these are life,
     liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That _to secure these
     rights_ governments are instituted among men. That _whenever any
     form of government becomes destructive of any of these ends, it is
     the right of the people to alter or to abolish it_. Now, what do
     you make of that? This is read to us every Fourth of July. It was
     read to Denmark Vesey and Peter Poyas, and all those other brave,
     good men, who dared to follow your example and your precepts. Well,
     they failed, and your people hung them. And they said they couldn't
     conceive what motive could have induced them to make the effort.
     They had food enough, and clothes enough, and were kept very
     comfortable. Well, had not your people clothes enough, and food
     enough? and wouldn't you still have had enough, even if you had
     remained a province of England to this day,--much better living,
     much better clothes, and much better laws, than we have to-day? I
     heard your father's interpretation of the law; I heard Mr. Jekyl's;
     and yet, when men rise up against such laws, you wonder what in the
     world could have induced them! That's perfectly astonishing!

     "But, of all the injuries and insults that are heaped upon us,
     there is nothing to me so perfectly maddening as the assumption of
     your religious men, who maintain and defend this enormous injustice
     by the Bible. We have all the right to rise against them that they
     had to rise against England. They tell us the Bible says,
     'Servants, obey your masters.' Well, the Bible says, also, 'The
     powers that be are ordained of God, and whoso resisteth the power,
     resisteth the ordinance of God.' If it was right for them to resist
     the ordinance of God, it is right for us. If the Bible does justify
     slavery, why don't they teach the slave to read it? And what's the
     reason that two of the greatest insurrections came from men who
     read scarcely anything else but the Bible? No, the fact is, they
     don't believe this themselves. If they did, they would try the
     experiment fairly of giving the Bible to their slaves. I can assure
     you the Bible looks as different to a slave from what it does to a
     master, as everything else in the world does.

     "Now, Mr. Clayton, you understand that when I say _you_, along
     here, I do not mean you personally, but the generality of the
     community of which you are one. I want you to think these things
     over, and, whatever my future course may be, remember my excuse for
     it is the same as that on which your government is built.

     "I am very grateful to you for all your kindness. Perhaps the time
     may come when I shall be able to show my gratitude. Meanwhile, I
     must ask one favor of you, which I think you will grant for the
     sake of that angel who is gone. I have a sister, who, as well as
     myself, is the child of Tom Gordon's father. She was beautiful and
     good, and her owner, who had a large estate in Mississippi, took
     her to Ohio, emancipated and married her. She has two children by
     him, a son and a daughter. He died, and left his estate to her and
     her children. Tom Gordon is the heir-at-law. He has sued for the
     property, and obtained it. The act of emancipation has been
     declared null and void, and my sister and her children are in the
     hands of that man, with all that absolute power; and they have no
     appeal from him for any evil whatever. She has escaped his hands,
     so she wrote me once; but I have heard a report that he has taken
     her again. The pious Mr. Jekyl will know all about it. Now, may I
     ask you to go to him, and make inquiries, and let me know? A letter
     sent to Mr. James Twitchel, at the post-office near Canema, where
     our letters used to be taken, will get to me. By doing this favor,
     you will secure my eternal gratitude.

     "HARRY GORDON."

Clayton read this letter with some surprise, and a good deal of
attention. It was written on very coarse paper, such as is commonly sold
at the low shops. Where Harry was, and how concealed, was to him only a
matter of conjecture. But the call to render him any assistance was a
sacred one, and he determined on a horseback excursion to E., the town
where Mr. Jekyl resided.

He found that gentleman very busy in looking over and arranging papers
in relation to that large property which had just come into Tom Gordon's
hands. He began by stating that the former owner of the servants at
Canema had requested him, on her death-bed, to take an interest in her
servants. He had therefore called to ascertain if anything had been
heard from Harry.

"Not yet," said Mr. Jekyl, pulling up his shirt-collar. "Our
plantations in this vicinity are very unfortunate in their proximity to
the swamp. It's a great expense of time and money. Why, sir, it's
inconceivable the amount of property that's lost in that swamp! I have
heard it estimated at something like three millions of dollars! We
follow them up with laws, you see. They are outlawed regularly, after a
certain time, and then the hunters go in and chase them down; sometimes
kill two or three a day, or something like that. But on the whole, they
don't effect much."

"Well," said Clayton, who felt no disposition to enter into any
discussion with Mr. Jekyl, "so you think he is there?"

"Yes, I have no doubt of it. The fact is, there's a fellow that's been
seen lurking about this swamp, off and on, for years and years.
Sometimes he isn't to be seen for months; and then again he is seen or
heard of, but never so that anybody can get hold of him. I have no doubt
the niggers on the plantation know him; but, then, you can never get
anything out of them. Oh, they are deep! They are a dreadfully corrupt
set!"

"Mr. Gordon has, I think, a sister of Harry's, who came in with this new
estate," said Mr. Clayton.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Jekyl. "She has given us a good deal of trouble,
too. She got away, and went off to Cincinnati, and I had to go up and
hunt her out. It was really a great deal of trouble and expense. If I
hadn't been assisted by the politeness and kindness of the marshal and
brother officers, it would have been very bad. There is a good deal of
religious society, too, in Cincinnati; and so, while I was waiting, I
attended anniversary meetings."

"Then you did succeed," said Clayton. "I came to see whether Mr. Gordon
would listen to a proposition for selling her."

"Oh, he has sold her!" said Mr. Jekyl. "She is at Alexandria, now, in
Beaton & Burns' establishment."

"And her children, too?"

"Yes, the lot. I claim some little merit for that, myself. Tom is a
fellow of rather strong passions, and he was terribly angry for the
trouble she had made. I don't know what he would have done to her, if I
hadn't talked to him. But I showed him some debts that couldn't be put
off any longer without too much of a sacrifice; and, on the whole, I
persuaded him to let her be sold. I have tried to exert a good influence
over him, in a quiet way," said Mr. Jekyl. "Now, if you want to get the
woman, like enough she may not be sold, as yet."

Clayton, having thus ascertained the points which he wished to know,
proceeded immediately to Alexandria. When he was there, he found a
considerable excitement.

"A slave-woman," it was said, "who was to have been sent off in a coffle
the next day, had murdered her two children."

The moment that Clayton heard the news, he felt an instinctive certainty
that this woman was Cora Gordon. He went to the magistrate's court,
where the investigation was being held, and found it surrounded by a
crowd so dense that it was with difficulty he forced his way in. At the
bar he saw seated a woman dressed in black, whose face, haggard and wan,
showed yet traces of former beauty. The splendid dark eyes had a
peculiar and fierce expression. The thin lines of the face were settled
into an immovable fixedness of calm determination. There was even an air
of grave, solemn triumph on her countenance. She appeared to regard the
formalities of the court with the utmost indifference. At last she
spoke, in a clear, thrilling, distinct voice,--

"If gentlemen will allow me to speak, I'll save them the trouble of that
examination of witnesses. It's going a long way round to find out a very
little thing."

There was an immediate movement of curiosity in the whole throng, and
the officer said.--

"You are permitted to speak."

She rose deliberately, untied her bonnet-strings, looked round the whole
court, with a peculiar but calm expression of mingled triumph and power.

"You want to know," she said, "who killed those children! Well, I will
tell you;" and again her eyes travelled round the house, with that same
strong, defiant expression; "I killed them!"

There was a pause, and a general movement through the house.

"Yes," she said, again, "I killed them! And, oh, how glad I am that I
have done it! Do you want to know what I killed them for? Because I
loved them!--loved them so well that I was willing to give up my soul to
save theirs! I have heard some persons say that I was in a frenzy,
excited, and didn't know what I was doing. They are mistaken. I was not
in a frenzy; I was not excited; and I did know what I was doing! and I
bless God that it is done! I was born the slave of my own father. Your
old proud Virginia blood is in my veins, as it is in half of those you
whip and sell. I was the lawful wife of a man of honor, who did what he
could to evade your cruel laws, and set me free. My children were born
to liberty; they were brought up to liberty, till my father's son
entered a suit for us, and made us _slaves_. Judge and jury helped
him--all your laws and your officers helped him--to take away the rights
of the widow and the fatherless! The judge said that my son, being a
slave, could no more hold property than the mule before his plough; and
we were delivered into Tom Gordon's hands. I shall not say what he is.
It is not fit to be said. God will show at the judgment-day. But I
escaped, with my children, to Cincinnati. He followed me there, and the
laws of your country gave me back to him. To-morrow I was to have gone
in a coffle and leave these children--my son a slave for life--my
daughter"-- She looked round the court-room with an expression which
said more than words could have spoken. "So I heard them say their
prayers and sing their hymns, and then, while they were asleep and
didn't know it, I sent them to lie down in green pastures with the Lord.
They say this is a dreadful sin. It may be so. I am willing to lose my
soul to have _theirs saved_. I have no more to hope or fear. It's all
nothing, now, where I go or what becomes of me. But, at any rate, they
are safe. And, now, if any of you mothers, in my place, wouldn't have
done the same, you either don't know what slavery is, or you don't love
your children as I have loved mine. This is all."

She sat down, folded her arms, fixed her eyes on the floor, and seemed
like a person entirely indifferent to the further opinions and
proceedings of the court.

She was remanded to jail for trial. Clayton determined, in his own
mind, to do what he could for her. Her own declaration seemed to make
the form of a trial unnecessary. He resolved, however, to do what he
could to enlist for her the sympathy of some friends of his in the city.

The next day he called with a clergyman, and requested permission to see
her. When they entered her cell, she rose to receive them with the most
perfect composure, as if they had called upon her in a drawing-room.
Clayton introduced his companion as the Rev. Mr. Denton. There was an
excited flash in her eyes, but she said, calmly,--

"Have the gentlemen business with me?"

"We called," said the clergyman, "to see if we could render you any
assistance."

"No, sir, you cannot!" was the prompt reply.

"My dear friend," said the clergyman, in a very kind tone, "I wish it
were in my power to administer to you the consolations of the Gospel."

"I have nothing to do," she answered, firmly, "with ministers who
pretend to preach the Gospel, and support oppression and robbery! Your
hands are defiled with blood!--so don't come to me! I am a prisoner,
here, and cannot resist. But, when I tell you that I prefer to be left
alone, perhaps it may have some effect, even if I am a slave!"

Clayton took out Harry's letter, handed it to her, and said:--

"After you have read this, you will, perhaps, receive me, if I should
call again to-morrow, at this hour."

The next day when Clayton called, he was conducted by the jailer to the
door of the cell.

"There is a lady with her now, reading to her."

"Then I ought not to interrupt her," said Clayton, hesitating.

"Oh, I suspect it would make no odds," said the jailer.

Clayton laid his hand on his to stop him. The sound that came
indistinctly through the door was the voice of prayer. Some woman was
interceding, in the presence of eternal pity, for an oppressed and
broken-hearted sister. After a few moments the door was partly opened,
and he heard a sweet voice, saying:--

"Let me come to you every day, may I? I know what it is to suffer."

A smothered sob was the only answer; and then followed words,
imperfectly distinguished, which seemed to be those of consolation. In a
moment the door was opened, and Clayton found himself suddenly face to
face with a lady in deep mourning. She was tall, and largely
proportioned; the outlines of her face strong, yet beautiful, and now
wearing the expression which comes from communion with the highest and
serenest nature. Both were embarrassed, and made a momentary pause. In
the start she dropped one of her gloves. Clayton picked it up, handed it
to her, bowed, and she passed on. By some singular association, this
stranger, with a serious, radiant face, suggested to him the sparkling,
glittering beauty of Nina; and it seemed for a moment, as if Nina was
fluttering by him in the air, and passing away after her. When he
examined the emotion more minutely afterwards, he thought, perhaps, it
might have been suggested by the perception, as he lifted the glove, of
a peculiar and delicate perfume, which Nina was fond of using. So
strange and shadowy are the influences which touch the dark, electric
chain of our existence.

When Clayton went into the cell, he found its inmate in a softened mood.
There were traces of tears on her cheek, and an open Bible on the bed;
but her appearance was calm and self-possessed, as usual. She said:--

"Excuse my rudeness, Mr. Clayton, at your last visit. We cannot always
command ourselves to do exactly what we should. I thank you very much
for your kindness to us. There are many who are kindly disposed towards
us; but it's very little that they can do."

"Can I be of any assistance in securing counsel for you?" said Clayton.

"I don't need any counsel. I don't wish any," said she. "I shall make no
effort. Let the law take its course. If you ever should see Harry, give
my love to him--that's all! And, if you can help him, pray do! If you
have time, influence, or money to spare, and can get him to any country
where he will have the common rights of a human being, pray do, and the
blessing of the poor will come on you! That's all I have to ask."

Clayton rose to depart. He had fulfilled the object of his mission. He
had gained all the information, and more than all, that he wished. He
queried with himself whether it were best to write to Harry at all. The
facts that he had to relate were such as were calculated to kindle to a
fiercer flame the excitement which was now consuming him. He trembled,
when he thought of it, lest that excitement should blaze out in forms
which should array against him, with still more force, that society with
which he was already at war. Thinking, however, that Harry, perhaps,
might obtain the information in some less guarded form, he sat down and
wrote him the following letter:

     "I have received your letter. I need not say that I am sorry for
     all that has taken place--sorry for your sake, and for the sake of
     one very dear both to me and to you. Harry, I freely admit that you
     live in a state of society which exercises a great injustice. I
     admit your right, and that of all men, to life, liberty, and the
     pursuit of happiness. I admit the right of an oppressed people to
     change their form of government, _if they can_. I admit that your
     people suffer under greater oppression than ever our fathers
     suffered. And, if I believed that they were capable of obtaining
     and supporting a government, I should believe in their right to
     take the same means to gain it. But I do not, at present; and I
     think, if you reflect on the subject, you will agree with me. I do
     not think that, should they make an effort, they would succeed.
     They would only embitter the white race against them, and destroy
     that sympathy which many are beginning to feel for their oppressed
     condition. I know it seems a very unfeeling thing for a man who is
     at ease to tell one, who is oppressed and suffering, to be patient;
     and yet I must even say it. It is my place, and your place, to seek
     repeal of the unjust laws which oppress you. I see no reason why
     the relation of master and servants may not be continued through
     our states, and the servants yet be free men. I am satisfied that
     it would be for the best interests of master as well as slave. If
     this is the truth, time will make it apparent, and the change will
     come. With regard to you, the best counsel I can give is, that you
     try to escape to some of the northern states; and I will furnish
     you with means to begin life there under better auspices. I am very
     sorry that I have to tell you something very painful about your
     sister. She was sold to a trading-house in Alexandria, and, in
     desperation, has killed both her children! For this she is now in
     prison, awaiting her trial! I have been to see her, and offered
     every assistance in my power. She declines all. She does not wish
     to live, and has already avowed the fact; making no defence, and
     wishing none to be made for her. Another of the bitter fruits of
     this most unrighteous system! She desired her love and kind wishes
     to you. Whatever more is to be known, I will tell you at some
     future time.

     "After all that I have said to you in this letter, I cannot help
     feeling, for myself, how hard, and cold, and insufficient it must
     seem to you! If I had such a sister as yours, and her life had been
     so wrecked, I feel that I might not have patience to consider any
     of these things; and I am afraid you will not. Yet I feel this
     injustice to my heart. I feel it like a personal affliction; and,
     God helping me, I will make it the object of my life to remedy it!
     Your sister's trial will not take place for some time; and she has
     friends who do all that can be done for her."

Clayton returned to his father's house, and related the result of his
first experiment with the clergy.

"Well, now," said Mrs. Clayton, "I must confess I was not prepared for
this."

"I was," said Judge Clayton. "It's precisely what I expected. You have
tried the Presbyterians, with whom our family are connected; and now you
may go successively to the Episcopalians, the Methodists, the Baptists,
and you will hear the same story from them all. About half of them
defend the thing from the Bible, in the most unblushing, disgusting
manner. The other half acknowledge and lament it as an evil; but they
are cowed and timid, and can do nothing."

"Well," said Clayton, "the greatest evidence to my mind of the
inspiration of the Scriptures is, that they are yet afloat, when every
new absurdity has been successively tacked to them."

"But," said Mrs. Clayton, "are there no people that are faithful?"

"None in this matter that I know of," said Judge Clayton, "except the
Covenanters and the Quakers among us, and the Free-will Baptists and a
few others at the north. And their number and influence is so small,
that there can be no great calculation made on them for assistance. Of
individuals, there are not a few who earnestly desire to do something;
but they are mostly without faith or hope, like me. And from the
communities--from the great organizations in society--no help whatever
is to be expected."

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE DESERT.

There's no study in human nature more interesting than the aspects of
the same subject seen in the points of view of different characters. One
might almost imagine that there were no such thing as absolute truth,
since a change of situation or temperament is capable of changing the
whole force of an argument. We have been accustomed, even those of us
who feel most, to look on the arguments for and against the system of
slavery with the eyes of those who are at ease. We do not even know how
fair is freedom, for we were always free. We shall never have all the
materials for absolute truth on this subject, till we take into account,
with our own views and reasonings, the views and reasonings of those who
have bowed down to the yoke, and felt the iron enter into their souls.
We all console ourselves too easily for the sorrows of others. We talk
and reason coolly of that which, did we feel it ourselves, would take
away all power of composure and self-control. We have seen how the
masters feel and reason; how good men feel and reason, whose public
opinion and Christian fellowship support the master, and give him
confidence in his position. We must add, also, to our estimate, the
feelings and reasonings of the slave; and, therefore, the reader must
follow us again to the fastness in the Dismal Swamp.

It is a calm, still, Indian-summer afternoon. The whole air is flooded
with a golden haze, in which the tree-tops move dreamily to and fro, as
if in a whispering reverie. The wild climbing grape-vines, which hang in
thousand-fold festoons round the inclosure, are purpling with grapes.
The little settlement now has among its inmates Old Tiff and his
children, and Harry and his wife. The children and Tiff had been
received in the house of the widow whose husband had fallen a victim to
the hunters, as we mentioned in one of our former chapters. All had
united in building for Harry and Lisette a cabin contiguous to the
other.

Old Tiff, with his habitual industry, might now be seen hoeing in the
sweet-potato patch, which belonged to the common settlement. The
children were roaming up and down, looking after autumn flowers and
grapes.

Dred, who had been out all the night before, was now lying on the ground
on the shady side of the clearing, with an old, much-worn, much-thumbed
copy of the Bible by his side. It was the Bible of Denmark Vesey, and in
many a secret meeting its wild, inspiring poetry had sounded like a
trumpet in his youthful ear.

He lay with his elbow resting on the ground, his hands supporting his
massive head, and his large, gloomy, dark eyes fixed in reverie on the
moving tree-tops as they waved in the golden blue. Now his eye followed
sailing islands of white cloud, drifting to and fro above them. There
were elements in him which might, under other circumstances, have made
him a poet.

His frame, capacious and energetic as it was, had yet that keenness of
excitability which places the soul _en rapport_ with all the great
forces of nature. The only book which he had been much in the habit of
reading--the book, in fact, which had been the nurse and forming power
of his soul--was the Bible, distinguished above all other literature for
its intense sympathy with nature. Dred, indeed, resembled in
organization and tone of mind some of those men of old who were dwellers
in the wilderness, and drew their inspirations from the desert.

It is remarkable that, in all ages, communities and individuals who have
suffered under oppression have always fled for refuge to the Old
Testament, and to the book of Revelation in the New. Even if not
definitely understood, these magnificent compositions have a wild,
inspiring power, like a wordless yet impassioned symphony played by a
sublime orchestra, in which deep and awful sub-bass instruments mingle
with those of ethereal softness, and wild minors twine and interlace
with marches of battles and bursts of victorious harmony.

They are much mistaken who say that nothing is efficient as a motive
that is not definitely understood. Who ever thought of understanding the
mingled wail and roar of the Marseillaise? Just this kind of indefinite
stimulating power has the Bible to the souls of the oppressed. There is
also a disposition, which has manifested itself since the primitive
times, by which the human soul, bowed down beneath the weight of mighty
oppressions, and despairing, in its own weakness, seizes with avidity
the intimations of a coming judgment, in which the Son of Man, appearing
in his glory, and all his holy angels with him, shall right earth's
mighty wrongs.

In Dred's mind this thought had acquired an absolute ascendency. All
things in nature and in revelation he interpreted by this key.

During the prevalence of the cholera, he had been pervaded by a wild and
solemn excitement. To him it was the opening of a seal--the sounding of
the trumpet of the first angel. And other woes were yet to come.

He was not a man of personal malignity to any human being. When he
contemplated schemes of insurrection and bloodshed, he contemplated them
with the calm, immovable firmness of one who felt himself an instrument
of doom in a mightier hand. In fact, although seldom called into
exercise by the incidents of his wild and solitary life, there was in
him a vein of that gentleness which softens the heart towards children
and the inferior animals. The amusement of his vacant hours was
sometimes to exercise his peculiar gifts over the animal creation, by
drawing towards him the birds and squirrels from the coverts of the
forest, and giving them food. Indeed, he commonly carried corn in the
hunting-dress which he wore, to use for this purpose. Just at this
moment, as he lay absorbed in reverie, he heard Teddy, who was near him,
calling to his sister,--

"Oh, Fanny, do come and see this squirrel, he is so pretty!"

Fanny came running, eagerly. "Where is he?" she said.

"Oh, he is gone; he just went behind that tree."

The children, in their eagerness, had not perceived how near they were
to Dred. He had turned his face towards them, and was looking at them
with a pleased expression, approaching to a smile.

"Do you want to see him?" he said. "Stop a few minutes."

He rose and scattered a train of corn between him and the thicket, and,
sitting down on the ground, began making a low sound, resembling the
call of the squirrel to its young. In a few moments Teddy and Fanny were
in a tremor of eager excitement, as a pair of little bright eyes
appeared among the leaves, and gradually their owner, a brisk little
squirrel, came out and began rapidly filling its chops with the corn.
Dred still continued, with his eyes fixed on the animal, to make the
same noise. Very soon two others were seen following their comrade. The
children laughed when they saw the headmost squirrel walk into Dred's
hand, which he had laid upon the ground, the others soon following his
example. Dred took them up, and, softly stroking them, they seemed to
become entirely amenable to his will; and, to amuse the children, he let
them go into his hunting-pouch to eat the corn that was there. After
this, they seemed to make a rambling expedition over his whole person,
investigating his pockets, hiding themselves in the bosom of his shirt,
and seeming apparently perfectly fearless, and at home.

Fanny reached out her hand, timidly. "Won't they come to me?" she said.

"No, daughter," said Dred, with a smile, "they don't know you. In the
new earth the enmity will be taken away, and then they'll come."

"I wonder what he means by the new earth!" said Fanny.

Dred seemed to feel a kind of pleasure in the admiration of the
children, to which, perhaps, no one is wholly insensible. He proceeded,
therefore, to show them some other of his accomplishments. The wood was
resounding with the afternoon song of birds, and Dred suddenly began
answering one of the songsters with an exact imitation of his note. The
bird evidently heard it, and answered back with still more spirit; and
thus an animated conversation was kept up for some time.

"You see," he said, "that I understand the speech of birds. After the
great judgment, the elect shall talk with the birds and the beasts in
the new earth. Every kind of bird has a different language, in which
they show why men should magnify the Lord, and turn from their
wickedness. But the sinners cannot hear it, because their ear is waxed
gross."

"I didn't know," said Fanny, hesitating, "as that was so. How did you
find it out?"

"The Spirit of the Lord revealed it unto me, child."

"What is the Spirit?" said Fanny, who felt more encouraged, as she saw
Dred stroking a squirrel.

"It's the Spirit that spoke in the old prophets," he said.

"Did it tell you what the birds say?"

"I am not perfected in holiness yet, and cannot receive it. But the
birds fly up near the heavens, wherefore they learn droppings of the
speech of angels. I never kill the birds, because the Lord hath set them
between us and the angels for a sign."

"What else did the Spirit tell you?" said Teddy.

"He showed me that there was a language in the leaves," said Dred. "For
I rose and looked, and, behold, there were signs drawn on the leaves,
and forms of every living thing, with strange words, which the wicked
understand not, but the elect shall read them. And, behold, the signs
are in blood, which is the blood of the Lamb, that descendeth like dew
from heaven."

Fanny looked puzzled. "Who are the elect?" she said.

"They?" said Dred. "They are the hundred and forty and four thousand,
that follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth. And the angels have charge,
saying, 'Hurt not the earth till these are sealed in their forehead.'"

Fanny instinctively put her hand to her forehead. "Do you think they'll
seal me?" she said.

"Yes," said Dred; "such as you are of the kingdom."

"Did the Spirit tell you that?" said Fanny, who felt some considerable
anxiety.

"Yea, the Spirit hath shown me many such things," said Dred. "It hath
also revealed to me the knowledge of the elements, the revolutions of
the planets, the operations of the tide, and changes of the seasons."

Fanny looked doubtfully, and, taking up her basket of wild grapes,
slowly moved off, thinking that she would ask Tiff about it.

At this moment there was a rustling in the branches of the oak-tree
which overhung a part of the clearing near where Dred was lying, and
Harry soon dropped from the branches on to the ground. Dred started up
to receive him.

"How is it?" said he. "Will they come?"

"Yes; by midnight to-night they will be here. See here," he added,
taking a letter from his pocket, "what I have received."

It was the letter which Clayton had written to Harry. It was remarkable,
as Dred received it, how the wandering mystical expression of his face
immediately gave place to one of shrewd and practical earnestness. He
sat down on the ground, laid it on his knee, and followed the lines with
his finger. Some passages he seemed to read over two or three times with
the greatest attention, and he would pause after reading them, and sat
with his eyes fixed gloomily on the ground. The last part seemed to
agitate him strongly. He gave a sort of suppressed groan.

"Harry," he said, turning to him, at last, "behold the day shall come
when the Lord shall take out of our hand the cup of trembling, and put
it into the hand of those that oppress us. Our soul is exceedingly
filled now with the scorning of them that are at ease, and with the
contempt of the proud. The prophets prophesy falsely, the rulers bear
rule by their means, and the people love to have it so. But what will it
be in the end thereof? Their own wickedness shall reprove them, and
their backsliding shall correct them. Listen to me, Harry," he said,
taking up his Bible, "and see what the Lord saith unto thee. 'Thus saith
the Lord my God, Feed the flock of the slaughter; whose possessors slay
them, and hold themselves not guilty, and they that sell them say,
blessed be the Lord for I am rich. And their own shepherds pity them
not. For I will no more pity the inhabitants of the land, saith the
Lord. But, lo, I will deliver the men, every one into his neighbor's
hand, and into the hand of his king. And they shall smite the land, and
out of their hand I will not deliver them. And I will feed the flock of
slaughter, even you, O ye poor of the flock. And I took unto me two
staves: the one I called beauty, and the other I called bands. And I fed
the flock. And I took my staff, even beauty, and cut it asunder, that I
might break my covenant which I had made with all the people. And it was
broken in that day, so the poor of the flock that waited on me knew it
was the word of the Lord. Then I cut asunder mine other stave, even
bands, that I might break the brotherhood between Judah and Israel. The
burden of the word of the Lord for Israel, saith the Lord, which
stretcheth forth the heavens, and layeth the foundations of the earth,
and formeth the spirit of man within him. Behold, I will make Jerusalem
a cup of trembling to all the people round about. Also in that day I
will make Jerusalem a burdensome stone for all people. All that burden
themselves with it shall be cut to pieces. In that day, saith the Lord,
I will smite every horse with astonishment, and every rider with
madness. And I will open mine eyes on the house of Judah, and will smite
every horse of the people with blindness. In that day I will make the
governors of Judah like a hearth of fire among the wood, and like a
torch of fire in a sheaf, and they shall devour all the people on the
right and the left.'

"Harry," said he, "these things are written for our learning. We will go
up and take away her battlements, for they are not the Lord's!"

The gloomy fervor with which Dred read these words of Scripture,
selecting, as his eye glanced down the prophetic pages, passages whose
images most affected his own mind, carried with it an overpowering
mesmeric force.

Who shall say that, in this world, where all things are symbolic, bound
together by mystical resemblances, and where one event is the archetype
of thousands, that there is not an eternal significance in these old
prophecies? Do they not bring with them "_springing_ and _germinant_
fulfilments" wherever there is a haughty and oppressive nation, and a
"flock of the slaughter?"

"Harry," said Dred, "I have fasted and prayed before the Lord, lying all
night on my face, yet the token cometh not! Behold, there are prayers
that resist me! The Lamb yet beareth, and the opening of the second seal
delayeth! Yet the Lord had shown unto me that we should be up and doing,
to prepare the way for the coming of the Lord! The Lord hath said unto
me. 'Speak to the elders, and to the prudent men, and prepare their
hearts.'"

"One thing," said Harry, "fills me with apprehension. Hark, that brought
me this letter, was delayed in getting back; and I'm afraid that he'll
get into trouble. Tom Gordon is raging like a fury over the people of
our plantation. They have always been held under a very mild rule, and
every one knows that a plantation so managed is not so immediately
profitable as it can be made for a short time by forcing everything up
to the highest notch. He has got a man there for overseer--Old
Hokum--that has been famous for his hardness and meanness; and he has
delivered the people, unreservedly, into his hands. He drinks, and
frolics, and has his oyster-suppers, and swears he'll shoot any one that
brings him a complaint. Hokum is to pay him so much yearly, and have to
himself all that he makes over. Tom Gordon keeps two girls, there, that
he bought for himself and his fellows, just as he wanted to keep my
wife!"

"Be patient, Harry! This is a great christianizing institution!" said
Dred, with a tone of grave irony.

"I am afraid for Hark," said Harry. "He is the bravest of brave fellows.
He is ready to do anything for us. But if he is taken, there will be no
mercy."

Dred looked on the ground, gloomily. "Hark was to be here to-night," he
said.

"Yes," said Harry, "I wish we may see him."

"Harry," said Dred, "when they come, to-night, read them the Declaration
of Independence of these United States, and then let each one judge of
our afflictions, and the afflictions of their fathers, and the Lord
shall be judge between us. I must go and seek counsel of the Lord."

Dred rose, and, giving a leap from the ground, caught on the branch of
the oak, which overhung their head, and, swinging himself on the limb,
climbed in the thickness of the branches, and disappeared from view.
Harry walked to the other side of the clearing, where his lodge had been
erected. He found Lisette busy within. She ran to meet him, and threw
her arms around his neck.

"I am so glad you've come back, Harry! It is so dreadful to think what
may happen to you while you are gone! Harry, I think we could be very
happy here. See what a nice bed I have made in this corner, out of
leaves and moss! The women are both very kind, and I am glad we have got
Old Tiff and the children here. It makes it seem more natural. See, I
went out with them, this afternoon, and how many grapes I have got!
What have you been talking to that dreadful man about? Do you know,
Harry, he makes me afraid? They say he is a prophet. Do you think he
is?"

"I don't know, child," said Harry, abstractedly.

"Don't stay with him too much!" said Lisette. "He'll make you as gloomy
as he is."

"Do I need any one to make me gloomy?" said Harry. "Am I not gloomy
enough? Am I not an outcast? And you, too, Lisette?"

"It isn't so very dreadful to be an outcast," said Lisette. "God makes
wild grapes for us, if we are outcasts."

"Yes, child," said Harry, "you are right."

"And the sun shines so pleasant, this afternoon!" said Lisette.

"Yes," said Harry; "but by and by cold storms and rain will come, and
frosty weather!"

"Well," said Lisette, "then we will think what to do next. But don't let
us lose this afternoon, and these grapes, at any rate."

CHAPTER XLV.

JEGAR SAHADUTHA.

At twelve o'clock, that night, Harry rose from the side of his sleeping
wife, and looked out into the darkness. The belt of forest which
surrounded them seemed a girdle of impenetrable blackness. But above,
where the tree-tops fringed out against the sky, the heavens were seen
of a deep, transparent violet, blazing with stars. He opened the door,
and came out. All was so intensely still that even the rustle of a leaf
could be heard. He stood listening. A low whistle seemed to come from a
distant part of the underwood. He answered it. Soon a crackling was
heard, and a sound of cautious, suppressed conversation. In a few
moments a rustling was heard in the boughs overhead. Harry stepped
under.

"Who is there?" he said.

"The camp of the Lord's judgment!" was the answer, and a dark form
dropped on the ground.

"Hannibal?" said Harry.

"Yes, Hannibal!" said the voice.

"Thank God!" said Harry.

But now the boughs of the tree were continually rustling, and one after
another sprang down to the ground, each one of whom pronounced his name,
as he came.

"Where is the prophet?" said one.

"He is not here," said Harry. "Fear not, he will be with us."

The party now proceeded to walk, talking in a low voices.

"There's nobody from the Gordon place, yet," said Harry, uneasily.

"They'll be along," said one of them. "Perhaps Hokum was wakeful,
to-night. They'll give him the slip, though."

The company had now arrived at the lower portion of the clearing, where
stood the blasted tree, which we formerly described, with its
funeral-wreaths of moss. Over the grave which had recently been formed
there Dred had piled a rude and ragged monument of stumps of trees, and
tufts of moss, and leaves. In the top of one of the highest stumps was
stuck a pine-knot, to which Harry now applied a light. It kindled, and
rose with a broad, red, fuliginous glare, casting a sombre light on the
circle of dark faces around. There were a dozen men, mulatto, quadroon,
and negro. Their countenances all wore an expression of stern gravity
and considerate solemnity.

Their first act was to clasp their hands in a circle, and join in a
solemn oath never to betray each other. The moment this was done, Dred
emerged mysteriously from the darkness, and stood among them.

"Brethren," he said, "this is the grave of your brother, whose wife they
would take for a prey! Therefore he fled to the wilderness. But the
assembly of the wicked compassed him about, and the dogs tore him, and
licked up his blood, and here I buried him! Wherefore, this heap is
called JEGAR SAHADUTHA! For the God of Abraham and Nahor, the God of
their fathers, shall judge betwixt us. He that regardeth not the oath of
brethren, and betrayeth counsel, let his arm fall from his
shoulder-blade! Let his arm be broken from the bone! Behold, this heap
shall be a witness unto you; for it hath heard all the words that ye
have spoken!"

A deep-murmured "Amen" rose solemnly among them.

"Brethren," said Dred, laying his hand upon Harry, "the Lord caused
Moses to become the son of Pharaoh's daughter, that he might become
learned in the wisdom of the Egyptians, to lead forth his people from
the house of bondage. And, when he slew an Egyptian, he fled into the
wilderness, where he abode certain days, till the time of the Lord was
come. In like manner hath the Lord dealt with our brother. He shall
expound unto you the laws of the Egyptians; and for me, I will show you
what I have received from the Lord."

The circle now sat down on the graves which were scattered around, and
Harry thus spoke:--

"Brothers, how many of you have been at Fourth of July celebrations?"

"I have! I have! All of us!" was the deep response, uttered not
eagerly, but in low and earnest tones.

"Brethren, I wish to explain to you to-night the story that they
celebrate. It was years ago that this people was small, and poor, and
despised, and governed by men sent by the King of England, who, they
say, oppressed them. Then they resolved that they would be free, and
govern themselves in their own way and make their own laws. For this
they were called rebels and conspirators; and, if they had failed, every
one of their leaders would have been hung, and nothing more said about
it. When they were agreeing to do this, they met together and signed a
paper, which was to show to all the world the reason why. You have heard
this read by them when the drums were beating and the banners flying.
Now hear it here, while you sit on the graves of men they have
murdered!"

And, standing by the light of the flaring torch, Harry read that
document which has been fraught with so much seed for all time. What
words were those to fall on the ears of thoughtful bondmen!

"Governments derive their just power from the consent of the governed."
"When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the
same object, evinces a determination to reduce them under absolute
despotism, it is their _right_ and their _duty_ to throw off such
government."

"Brothers," said Harry, "you have heard the grievances which our masters
thought sufficient to make it right for them to shed blood. They rose up
against their king, and when he sent his armies into the country, they
fired at them from the windows of the houses, and from behind the barns,
and from out of the trees, and wherever they passed, till they were
strong enough to get together an army, and fight them openly."

"Yes," said Hannibal, "I heard my master's father tell of it. He was one
of them."

"Now," said Harry, "the Lord judge between us and them, if the laws that
they put upon us be not worse than any that lay upon them. They
complained that they could not get justice done to them in the courts.
But how stands it with us, who cannot even come into a court to plead?"

Harry then, in earnest and vehement language, narrated the abuse which
had been inflicted upon Milly; and then recited, in a clear and solemn
voice, that judicial decision which had burned itself into his memory,
and which had confirmed and given full license to that despotic power.
He related the fate of his own contract--of his services for years to
the family for which he had labored, all ending in worse than nothing.
And then he told his sister's history, till his voice was broken by
sobs. The audience who sat around were profoundly solemn; only
occasionally a deep, smothered groan seemed to rise from them
involuntarily.

Hannibal rose. "I had a master in Virginny. He was a Methodist preacher.
He sold my wife and two children to Orleans, and then sold me. My next
wife was took for debt, and she's gone."

A quadroon young man rose. "My mother was held by a minister in
Kentucky. My father was a good, hard-working man. There was a man set
his eye on her, and wanted her; but she wouldn't have anything to do
with him. Then she told her master, and begged him to protect her; but
he sold her. Her hair turned all white in that year, and she went crazy.
She was crazy till she died!"

"I's got a story to tell, on that," said a middle-aged negro man, of low
stature, broad shoulders, and a countenance indicative of great
resolution, who now rose. "I's got a story to tell."

"Go on, Monday," said Harry.

"You spoke 'bout de laws. I's seen 'bout dem ar. Now, my brother Sam, he
worked with me on de great Morton place, in Virginny. And dere was going
to be a wedding dere, and dey wanted money, and so some of de colored
people was sold to Tom Parker, 'cause Tom Parker he was a buying up
round, dat ar fall; and he sold him to Souther, and he was one o' yer
drefful mean white trash, dat lived down to de bush. Well, Sam was nigh
'bout starved, and so he had to help hisself de best way he could; and
he used fur to trade off one ting and 'nother fur meal to Stone's store,
and Souther he told him 'dat he'd give him hell if he caught him.' So,
one day, when he missed something off de place, he come home and he
brought Stone with him, and a man named Hearvy. He told him dat he was
going to cotch it. I reckon dey was all three drunk. Any how, dey tied
him up, and Souther he never stopped to cut him, and to slash him, and
to hack him; and dey burned him with chunks from de fire, and dey
scalded him with boiling water. He was strong man, but dey worked on him
dat way all day, and at last he died. Dey hearn his screeches on all de
places round. Now, brethren, you jest see what was done 'bout it. Why,
mas'r and some of de gen'lemen round said dat Souther 'wasn't fit to
live,' and it should be brought in de courts; and sure 'nough it was;
and, 'cause he is my own brother, I listened for what dey would say.
Well, fust dey begun with saying dat it wan't no murder at all, 'cause
slaves, dey said, wan't people, and dey couldn't be murdered. But den de
man on t'oder side he read heaps o' tings to show dat dey _was_
people--dat dey _was_ human critturs. Den de lawyer said dat dere wan't
no evidence dat Souther meant fur to kill him, any how. Dat it was de
right of de master to punish his slave any way he thought fit. And how
was he going to know dat it would kill him? Well, so dey had it back and
forth, and finally de jury said 'it was murder in de second degree.'
Lor! if dat ar's being murdered in de second degree, I like to know what
de fust is! You see, dey said he must go to de penitentiary for five
years. But, laws, he didn't, 'cause dere's ways enough o' getting out of
dese yer tings; 'cause he took it up to de upper court, and dey said
'dat it had been settled dat dere couldn't be noting done agin a mas'r
fur no kind of beating or 'busing of der own slaves. Dat de master must
be protected, even if 'twas ever so cruel.'[2]

"So, now, brethren, what do you think of dat ar?"

At this moment another person entered the circle. There was a general
start of surprise and apprehension, which immediately gave place to a
movement of satisfaction and congratulation.

"You have come, have you, Henry?" said Harry.

But at this moment the other turned his face full to the torch-light,
and Harry was struck with its ghastly expression.

"For God's sake, what's the matter, Henry? Where's Hark?"

"Dead!" said the other.

As one struck with a pistol-shot leaps in the air, Harry bounded, with a
cry, from the ground.

"Dead?" he echoed.

"Yes, dead, at last! Dey's all last night a killing of him."

"I thought so! Oh, I was afraid of it!" said Harry. "Oh, Hark! Hark!
Hark! God do so to me, and more also, if I forget this!"

The thrill of a present interest drew every one around the narrator, who
proceeded to tell how "Hark having been too late on his return to the
plantation, had incurred the suspicion of being in communication with
Harry. How Hokum, Tom Gordon, and two of his drunken associates, had
gathered together to examine him by scourging. How his shrieks the night
before had chased sleep from every hut of the plantation. How he died,
and gave no sign." When he was through, there was dead and awful
silence.

Dred, who had been sitting, during most of these narrations, bowed, with
his head between his knees, groaning within himself, like one who is
wrestling with repressed feeling, now rose, and, solemnly laying his
hand on the mound, said:--

"_Jegar Sahadutha!_ The God of their fathers judge between us! If they
had a right to rise up for their oppressions, shall they condemn us? For
judgment is turned away backward, and justice standeth afar off! Truth
is fallen in the street, and equity cannot enter! Yea, truth faileth,
and he that departeth from evil maketh himself a prey! They are not
ashamed, neither can they blush! They declare their sin as Sodom, and
hide it not! The mean man boweth down, and the great man humbleth
himself! Therefore, forgive them not, saith the Lord!"

Dred paused a moment, and stood with his hands uplifted. As a
thunder-cloud trembles and rolls, shaking with gathering electric fire,
so his dark figure seemed to dilate and quiver with the force of mighty
emotions. He seemed, at the moment, some awful form, framed to symbolize
to human eye the energy of that avenging justice which all nature
shudderingly declares.

He trembled, his hands quivered, drops of perspiration rolled down his
face, his gloomy eyes dilated with an unutterable volume of emotion. At
last the words heaved themselves up in deep chest-tones; resembling the
wild, hollow wail of a wounded lion, finding vent in language to him so
familiar, that it rolled from his tongue in a spontaneous torrent, as if
he had received their first inspiration.

"Hear ye the word of the Lord against this people! The harvest groweth
ripe! The press is full! The vats overflow! Behold, saith the
Lord--behold, saith the Lord, I will gather all nations, and bring them
down to the valley of Jehoshaphat, and will plead with them for my
people, whom they have scattered among the nations! Woe unto them, for
they have cast lots for my people, and given a boy for a harlot, and
sold a girl for wine, that they may drink! For three transgressions of
Israel, and for four, I will not turn away the punishment thereof, saith
the Lord! Because they sold the righteous for silver, and the needy for
a pair of shoes! They pant after the dust on the head of the poor, and
turn aside the way of the meek! And a man and his father will go in unto
the same maid, to profane my holy name! Behold, saith the Lord, I am
pressed under you, as a cart is pressed full of sheaves!

"The burden of the beasts of the South! The land of trouble and anguish,
from whence cometh the young and old lion, the viper, and fiery, flying
serpent! Go write it upon a table, and note it in a book, that it may be
for time to come, for ever and ever, that this is a rebellious people,
lying children--children that will not hear the law of the Lord! Which
say to the seers, See not! Prophesy not unto us right things! Speak unto
us smooth things! Prophesy deceits! Wherefore, thus saith the Holy one
of Israel, Because ye despise his word, and trust in oppression, and
perverseness, and stay thereon; therefore, this iniquity shall be to you
as a breach ready to fall, swelling out in a high wall whose breaking
cometh suddenly in an instant! And he shall break it as the breaking of
a potter's vessel!"

Pausing for a moment, he stood with his hands tightly clasped before
him, leaning forward, looking into the distance. At last, with the
action and energy of one who beholds a triumphant reality, he broke
forth:--

"Who is this that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments, from Bozrah?
This, that is glorious in his apparel, travelling in the greatness of
his strength?"

He seemed to listen, and, as if he had caught an answer, he repeated:--

"I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save!"

"Wherefore art thou red in thine apparel, and thy garments like him that
treadeth in the wine-press? I have trodden the wine-press alone, and of
the people there was none with me; for I will tread them in my anger,
and trample them in my fury, and their blood shall be sprinkled on my
garments, and I will stain all my raiment! For the day of vengeance is
in my heart, and the year of my redeemed is come! And I looked, and
there was none to help! And I wondered that there was none to uphold!
Therefore mine own arm brought salvation, and my fury it upheld me! For
I will tread down the people in mine anger, and make them drunk in my
fury!"

Gradually the light faded from his face. His arms fell. He stood a few
moments with his head bowed down on his breast. Yet the spell of his
emotion held every one silent. At last, stretching out his hand, he
broke forth in passionate prayer:

"How long, O Lord, how long? Awake! Why sleepest thou, O Lord? Why
withdrawest thou thy hand? Pluck it out of thy bosom! We see not the
sign! There is no more any prophet, neither any among us, that knoweth
how long! Wilt thou hold thy peace forever? Behold the blood of the poor
crieth unto thee! Behold how they hunt for our lives! Behold how they
pervert justice, and take away the key of knowledge! They enter not in
themselves, and those that are entering in they hinder! Behold our wives
taken for a prey! Behold our daughters sold to be harlots! Art thou a
God that judgest on the earth? Wilt thou not avenge thine own elect,
that cry unto thee day and night? Behold the scorning of them that are
at ease, and the contempt of the proud! Behold how they speak wickedly
concerning oppression! They set their mouth against the heavens, and
their tongue walketh through the earth! Wilt thou hold thy peace for all
these things, and afflict us very sore?"

The energy of the emotion which had sustained him appeared gradually to
have exhausted itself. And, after standing silent for a few moments, he
seemed to gather himself together as a man waking out of a trance, and,
turning to the excited circle around him, he motioned them to sit down.
When he spoke to them in his ordinary tone:--

"Brethren," he said, "the vision is sealed up, and the token is not yet
come! The Lamb still beareth the yoke of their iniquities; there be
prayers in the golden censers which go up like a cloud! And there is
silence in heaven for the space of half an hour! But hold yourselves in
waiting, for the day cometh! And what shall be the end thereof?"

A deep voice answered Dred. It was that of Hannibal.

"We will reward them as they have rewarded us! In the cup that they have
filled to us we will measure to them again!"

"God forbid," said Dred, "that the elect of the Lord should do that!
When the Lord saith unto us, Smite, then will we smite! We will not
torment them with the scourge and fire, nor defile their women, as they
have done with ours! But we will slay them utterly, and consume them
from off the face of the earth!"

At this moment the whole circle were startled by the sound of a voice
which seemed to proceed deep in from among the trees, singing, in a wild
and mournful tone, the familiar words of a hymn:--

     "Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,
       And did my Sovereign die?
     Would he devote that sacred head
       For such a wretch as I?"

There was a dead silence as the voice approached still nearer, and the
chorus was borne upon the night air:--

     "Oh, the Lamb, the loving Lamb,
       The Lamb of Calvary!
     The Lamb that was slain, but liveth again,
       To intercede for me!"

And as the last two lines were sung, Milly emerged and stood in the
centre of the group. When Dred saw her, he gave a kind of groan, and
said, putting his hand out before his face:--

"Woman, thy prayers withstand me!"

"Oh, brethren," said Milly, "I mistrusted of yer councils, and I's been
praying de Lord for you. Oh, brethren, behold de Lamb of God! If dere
must come a day of vengeance, pray not to be in it! It's de Lord's
strange work. Oh, brethren, is we de fust dat's been took to de
judgment-seat? dat's been scourged, and died in torments? Oh, brethren,
who did it afore us? Didn't He hang bleeding three hours, when dey
mocked Him, and gave Him vinegar? Didn't He sweat great drops o' blood
in de garden?"

And Milly sang again, words so familiar to many of them, that,
involuntarily, several voices joined her:--

     "Agonizing in the garden,
       On the ground your Maker lies;
     On the bloody tree behold Him,
       Hear Him cry, before He dies,
       It is finished! Sinners, will not this suffice?"

"Oh, won't it suffice, brethren!" she said. "If de Lord could bear all
dat, and love us yet, shan't we? Oh, brethren, dere's a better way. I's
been whar you be. I's been in de wilderness! Yes, I's heard de sound of
dat ar trumpet! Oh, brethren! brethren! dere was blackness and darkness
dere! But I's come to Jesus, de Mediator of de new covenant, and de
blood of sprinkling, which speaketh better tings than dat of Abel.
Hasn't _I_ suffered? My heart has been broke over and over for every
child de Lord give me! And, when dey sold my poor Alfred, and shot him,
and buried him like a dog, oh, but didn't my heart burn? Oh, how I hated
her dat sold him! I felt like I'd kill her! I felt like I'd be glad to
see mischief come on her children! But, brethren, de Lord turned and
looked upon me like he done on Peter. I saw him with de crown o' thorns
on his head, bleeding, bleeding, and I broke down and forgave her. And
de Lord turned her heart, and he was our peace. He broke down de middle
wall 'tween us, and we come together, two poor sinners, to de foot of de
cross. De Lord he judged her poor soul! She wan't let off from her sins.
Her chil'en growed up to be a plague and a curse to her! Dey broke her
heart! Oh, she was saved by fire--but, bress de Lord, she _was_ saved!
She died with her poor head on my arm--she dat had broke my heart! Wan't
dat better dan if I'd killed her? Oh, brethren, pray de Lord to give 'em
repentance! Leave de vengeance to him. Vengeance is mine--I will repay,
saith de Lord. Like he loved us when we was enemies, love yer enemies!"

A dead silence followed this appeal. The key-note of another harmony had
been struck. At last Dred rose up solemnly:--

"Woman, thy prayers have prevailed for this time!" he said. "The hour is
not yet come!"

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Lest any of our readers should think the dark witness who is
speaking mistaken in his hearing, we will quote here the words which
stand on the Virginia law records, in reference to this very case.

"It has been decided by this court, in Turner's case, that the owner of
a slave, for the _malicious, cruel, and excessive beating of his own
slave, cannot be indicted_.... It is the policy of the law in respect to
the relation of the master and slave and for the sake of securing proper
subordination and obedience on the part of the slave, to _protect the
master from prosecution even if the whipping and punishment be
malicious, cruel, and excessive_."--7 _Grattan_, 673, 1851, _Souther vs.
Commonwealth_.

Any one who has sufficiently strong nerves to peruse the records of this
trial will see the effect of the slave system on the moral sensibilities
of educated men.

CHAPTER XLVI.

FRANK RUSSEL'S OPINIONS.

Clayton was still pursuing the object which he had undertaken. He
determined to petition the legislature to grant to the slave the right
of seeking legal redress in cases of injury; and, as a necessary to
this, the right of bearing testimony in legal action. As Frank Russel
was candidate for the next state legislature, he visited him for the
purpose of getting him to present such a petition.

Our readers will look in on the scene, in a small retired back room of
Frank's office, where his bachelor establishment as yet was kept.
Clayton had been giving him an earnest account of his plans and designs.

"The only safe way of gradual emancipation," said Clayton, "is the
reforming of law; and the beginning of all legal reform must of course
be giving the slave legal personality. It's of no use to enact laws for
his protection in his family state, or in any other condition, till we
open to him an avenue through which, if they are violated, his
grievances can be heard, and can be proved. A thousand laws for his
comfort, without this, are only a dead letter."

"I know it," said Frank Russel; "there never was anything under heaven
so atrocious as our slave-code. It's a bottomless pit of oppression.
Nobody knows it so well as we lawyers. But, then, Clayton, it's quite
another thing what's to be done about it."

"Why, I think it's very plain what's to be done," said Clayton. "Go
right forward and enlighten the community. Get the law reformed. That's
what I have taken for my work; and, Frank, you must help me."

"Hum!" said Frank. "Now, the fact is, Clayton, if I wore a stiff white
neckcloth, and had a _D. D._ to my name, I should tell you that the
interests of Zion stood in the way, and that it was my duty to preserve
my influence, for the sake of being able to take care of the Lord's
affairs. But, as I am not so fortunate, I must just say, without further
preface, that it won't do for me to compromise Frank Russel's interests.
Clayton, I can't afford it--that's just it. It won't do. You see, our
party can't take up that kind of thing. It would be just setting up a
fort from which our enemies could fire on us at their leisure. If I go
in to the legislature, I have to go in by my party. I have to represent
my party, and, of course, I can't afford to do anything that will
compromise them."

"Well, now, Frank," said Clayton, seriously and soberly, "are you going
to put your neck into such a noose as this, to be led about all your
life long--the bond-slave of a party?"

"Not I, by a good deal!" said Russel. "The noose will change ends, one
of these days, and I'll drag the party. But we must all stoop to
conquer, at first."

"And do you really propose nothing more to yourself than how to rise in
the world?" said Clayton. "Isn't there any great and good work that has
beauty for you! Isn't there anything in heroism and self-sacrifice?"

"Well," said Russel, after a short pause, "may be there is; but, after
all, Clayton, _is_ there? The world looks to me like a confounded
humbug, a great hoax, and everybody is going in for grub; and, I say,
hang it all, why shouldn't I have some of the grub, as well as the
rest?"

"Man shall not live by bread alone!" said Clayton.

"Bread's a pretty good thing, though, after all," said Frank shrugging
his shoulders.

"But," said Clayton, "Frank, I am in earnest, and you've got to be. I
want you to go with me down to the depths of your soul, where the water
is still, and talk to me on honor. This kind of half-joking way that you
have isn't a good sign, Frank; it's too old for you. A man that makes a
joke of everything at your age, what will he do before he is fifty? Now,
Frank, you do know that this system of slavery, if we don't reform it,
will eat out this country like a cancer."

"I know it," said Frank. "For that matter, it has eaten into us pretty
well."

"Now," said Clayton, "if for nothing else, if we had no feeling of
humanity for the slave, we must do something for the sake of the whites,
for this is carrying us back into barbarism, as fast as we can go.
Virginia has been ruined by it--run all down. North Carolina, I believe,
has the unenviable notoriety of being the most ignorant and poorest
state in the Union. I don't believe there's any country in old, despotic
Europe where the poor are more miserable, vicious, and degraded, than
they are in our slave states. And it's depopulating us; our men of
ability, in the lower classes, who want to be respectable, won't stand
it. They will go off to some state where things _move on_. Hundreds and
hundreds move out of North Carolina, every year, to the Western States.
And it's all this unnatural organization of society that does it. We
have got to contemplate some mode of abolishing this evil. We have got
to take the first step towards progress, some time, or we ourselves are
all undone."

"Clayton," said Frank, in a tone now quite as serious as his own, "I
tell you, as a solemn fact, that we can't do it. Those among us who have
got the power in their hands are determined to keep it, and they are
wide awake. They don't mean to let the _first_ step be taken, because
they don't mean to lay down their power. The three fifths vote that they
get by it is a thing they won't part with. They'll die first. Why, just
look at it! There is at least twenty-four millions of property held in
this way. What do you suppose these men care about the poor whites, and
the ruin of the state, and all that? The poor whites may go to the
devil, for all them; and as for the ruin of the state, it won't come in
_their_ day; and 'after us the deluge,' you know. That's the talk! These
men are our masters; they are yours; they are mine; they are masters of
everybody in these United States. They can crack their whips over the
head of any statesman or clergyman, from Maine to New Orleans, that
disputes their will. They govern the country. Army, navy, treasury,
church, state, everything is theirs, and whoever is going to get up must
go up on their ladder. There isn't any other ladder. There isn't an
interest, not a body of men, in these whole United States, that they
can't control; and I tell you, Clayton, you might as well throw ashes
into the teeth of the north wind, as undertake to fight their influence.
Now, if there was any hope of doing any good by this, if there was the
least prospect of succeeding, why, I'd join in with you; but there
isn't. The thing is a fixed fact, and why shouldn't I climb up on it, as
well as everybody else?"

"Nothing is fixed," said Clayton, "that isn't fixed in right. God and
nature fight against evil."

"They do, I suppose; but it's a long campaign," said Frank, "and I must
be on the side that will win while I'm alive. Now, Clayton, to you I
always speak the truth; I won't humbug you. I worship _success_. I am of
Frederick the Great's creed, 'that Providence goes with the strongest
battalions.'

"I wasn't made for defeat. I must have power. The preservation of this
system, whole and entire, is to be the policy of the leaders of this
generation. The fact is, they stand where it _must_ be their policy.
They _must_ spread it over the whole territory. They _must_ get the
balance of power in the country, to build themselves up against the
public opinion of mankind.

"Why, Clayton, moral sentiment, as you call it, is a humbug! The whole
world acquiesces in _what goes_--they always have. There is a great
outcry about slavery now, but let it _succeed_, and there won't be. When
they can outvote the Northern States, they'll put _them_ down. They have
kept them subservient by intrigue so far, and by and by they'll have the
strength to put them down by force. England makes a fuss now; but let
them only succeed, and she'll be civil as a sheep. Of course, men always
make a fuss about injustice, when they have nothing to gain by holding
their tongues; but England's mouth will be stopped with cotton--you'll
see it. They love trade, and hate war. And so the fuss of anti-slavery
will die out in the world. Now, when you see what a poor hoax human
nature is, what's the use of bothering? The whole race together aren't
worth a button, Clayton, and self-sacrifice for such fools is a humbug.
That's my programme!"

"Well, Frank, you have made a clean breast; so will I. The human race,
as you say, may be a humbug, but it's every man's duty to know for
himself that _he_ isn't one. _I_ am not. I do _not_ worship success, and
_will_ not. And if a cause is a right and honorable one, I will labor in
it till I die, whether there is any chance of succeeding or not."

"Well, now," said Frank Russel, "I dare say it's so. I respect your
sort of folks; you form an agreeable heroic poem, with which one can
amuse the tediousness of life. I suppose it won't do you any good to
tell you that you are getting immensely unpopular, with what you are
doing."

"No," said Clayton, "it won't."

"I am really afraid," said Russel, "that they'll mob you, some of these
bright days."

"Very well," said Clayton.

"Oh, of course. I knew it would be very well; but say, Clayton, what do
you want to get up a petition on _that_ point for? Why don't you get up
one to prevent the separation of families? There 's been such a muss
made about that in Europe, and all round the world, that it's rather the
fashion to move about that a little. Politicians like to appear to
intend to begin to do something about it. It has a pleasing effect, and
gives the northern editors and ministers something to say, as an apology
for our sins. Besides, there are a good many simple-hearted folks, who
don't see very deep into things, that really think it possible to do
something effective on this subject. If you get up a petition for that,
you might take the tide with you; and I'd do something about it,
myself."

"You know very well, Frank, for I told you, that it's no use to pass
laws for that, without giving the slaves power to sue or give evidence,
in case of violation. The improvement I propose touches the root of the
matter."

"That's the fact--it surely does!" said Russel. "And, for that very
reason, you'll never carry it. Now, Clayton, I just want to ask you one
question. Can you fight? _Will_ you fight? Will you wear a bowie-knife
and pistol, and shoot every fellow down that comes at you?"

"Why, no, of course, Frank. You know that I never was a fighting man.
Such brute ways are not to my taste."

"Then, my dear sir, you shouldn't set up for a reformer in Southern
States. Now, I'll tell you one thing, Clayton, that I've heard. You made
some remarks at a public meeting, up at E., that have staked a mad-dog
cry, which I suppose came from Tom Gordon. See here; have you noticed
this article in the _Trumpet of Liberty_?" said he, looking over a
confused stack of papers on his table. "Where's the article? Oh, here
it is."

At the same time he handed Clayton a sheet bearing the motto "Liberty