Джон Рой

          Небо затянули густые туманные тучи; раскаты грома вдалеке
раздавались все ближе и ближе, пока не слились в один протяжный рёв
прямо над грохочущей старой почтовой каретой, медленно пробиравшейся по
грязным дорогам почтового тракта Вирджинии, кучер беспрестанно щелкал
своим длинным хлыстом по спинам пассажиров. своих измученных лошадей и
криками и восклицаниями подгонял их ускорить бег. Эта сцена происходит на территории нынешней Западной Вирджинии. Это к западу от горного хребта, но там, где со всех сторон - хмурые пропасти, глубокие ущелья и стремительные потоки. Справа выступающие мысы увенчаны огромными старыми валунами, едва выглядывающими из зарослей
вечнозеленых растений и ползучих лиан, которые их окружают. Хотя эту страну и не называют горной, её живописные высоты и тенистые
долины вызвали бы определенный энтузиазм в сердце любителя
прекрасного. Внизу, в этих уединенных долинах, почти скрытые в их
лиственных рощах, находились дома многих старых виргинских аристократов.
Огромный сучковатый дуб, стоящий на краю какой-то миниатюрной пропасти
и угрюмо нависающий сквозь пелену дождя, кажется всего лишь частью какой
-то нарисованной сцены. Далеко вдалеке, слабо очерченные на фоне туманного
неба, вздымаются мысы, кажущиеся огромными, вокруг них темная
масса облаков, похожих на одеяние какого-то великана, зацепившееся за вершины и
развевающееся на ветру.  Весь день шел дождь, и кучеру почтовой кареты
не терпится добраться до места назначения.

- Ну и дела! Если мы не доберемся до Ландерс-Хилл до наступления темноты, пусть меня повесят, если мы не останемся там на ночь", - воскликнул он.

Почтовая карета медленно движется вперед, и сгущаются вечерние сумерки. Внутри сидят шесть или семь пассажиров, и они чувствуют себя примерно так же неуютно, как могли бы чувствовать себя путешественники в дилижансах. Среди них есть только одна леди, и рыцарский дух южан отвел ей самое удобное место в карете. Нас интересует только один из этих путешественников, мужчина лет сорока пяти-пятидесяти, чуть выше среднего роста, чья внешность выдавала в нём зажиточного плантатора из Виргинии.
Его лицо было гладко выбрито, а
волосы, когда-то темные, посеребрились с годами. У него было
красивое лицо, на которое приятно было смотреть; в выражении его было что-то
приятное и притягательное, а в кротких серых глазах
не горело ни честолюбивых замыслов, ни пламенных страстей; одет он был в простую
серую домотканую одежду, которую обычно носили южане в
то время, о котором мы рассказываем. пиши. На нем была шляпа из тончайшего шелка,
с широкими полями и низкой тульей, какие неизменно
носили южные плантаторы. Несмотря на ненавязчивые манеры, он, очевидно, был человеком, привыкшим
к разнообразным удобствам южной жизни. Более того, он был человеком,
привыкшим рассматривать вопрос с обеих сторон и
делать выводы без предвзятости. Его фигура являла собой прекрасный образец
мужественности, а мускулистые руки свидетельствовали о том, что он обладал более чем
обычной силой.

Этот человек единственный из всех пассажиров сохранял молчаливое и задумчивое
настроение, пока карета ехала дальше.
**
CHAPTER I.

IN THE STAGE-COACH AND AT THE INN.


Thick, misty clouds overcast the sky; peals of thunder in the distance
came rolling nearer and nearer, until they burst into one prolonged roar
just above a lumbering old stage-coach slowly making its way over the
muddy roads of a Virginia post route, the driver incessantly cracking
his long whip over the backs of his jaded horses, and urging them, with
shouts and exclamations, to accelerate their speed.

This scene occurs in what is now West Virginia. It is west of the
mountain range, but where, on every hand, are frowning precipices, deep
gorges and swift-flowing torrents. On the right, the jutting headlands
are crowned with huge old bowlders, just peeping out from the thicket of
evergreens and creeping vines which surround them. Although not called
mountainous, it is a country whose picturesque heights and umbrageous
valleys would excite a degree of enthusiasm in the bosom of a lover of
the beautiful. Down in those lonely valleys, almost hidden in their
leafy groves, was the home of many an old Virginia aristocrat. The
great, gnarled oak standing upon the verge of some miniature precipice,
and glooming sullenly through the misty rain, seems but part of some
pictured scene. Far in the distance, faintly penciled against the misty
sky, rise headlands to what seems an enormous height, about them a dark
mass of clouds, like some giant's garment caught upon the peaks and
blown about at the will of the wind. It envelops and conceals the
highest peaks, leaving the imagination to add to the belief in their
stupendous height.

It has been raining all day, and the driver of the stage-coach is
anxious to reach his destination.

"Gee-up! If we don't git to Lander's Hill before dark, I be hanged if we
don't stick there for the night," he exclaimed.

The stage-coach moves slowly along, and the shades of evening are
closing in. Six or seven passengers are seated within, and are about as
uncomfortable as stage-coach travelers could well be. There is but a
single lady among them, and the chivalric spirit of the Southron has
assigned to her the most comfortable place in the coach. We are
interested in but one of these travelers, a man about forty-five or
fifty years of age, something over medium size, whose appearance stamped
him as a well-to-do Virginia planter. His face was smooth-shaven, and
his hair, once dark, was silvered with the flight of years. His was a
handsome face, and a pleasant one to look upon; there was something
pleasing and attractive about its expression, and the mild gray eyes
burned with no ambitious designs or fiery passions; his dress was plain
gray homespun, commonly worn as the traveling dress of a Southerner at
the time of which we write. His hat was of the finest silk,
broad-brimmed and low-crowned, such as Southern planters invariably
wore. Though unostentatious in manner, he was evidently a man accustomed
to the manifold comforts of Southern life. He was, moreover, a man
accustomed to looking at both sides of a question, and arriving at
conclusions without bias or prejudice. His frame was a fine type of
manhood, and his muscular arms showed him possessed of more than an
ordinary degree of strength.

This man alone of all the passengers maintained a silent and thoughtful
mood as the coach passed on its way. A constant conversation was kept up
by the other passengers on the weather, the roads, the journey, its
termination, and last, but not least, the politics of the day. However,
while the gentleman whom we have more particularly described, and now
introduce to our readers as George W. Tompkins, of Virginia, sat moody
and silent, and seemingly utterly oblivious of the discomforts within
or the gloomy prospect without, his fellow passengers were continually
talking, and continually jostling against him, without rousing Mr.
Tompkins from his reverie.

His mind was clouded by a horror that made him careless of present
surroundings. He looked worn and weary, more so than any of the other
passengers, and occasionally, when the coach rolled over smooth ground,
he would lean back in his seat and close his eyes. No sooner done,
however, than a thousand fantastic shapes would glide before his mental
vision, that seemed to take delight in annoying him. Whenever he became
unconscious to his real surroundings, shrieks seemed to sound in his
ear, and he seemed to hear the cry:

"Search, search, search! Your task's not over, your task's not over!"

"And where shall I search?" he mentally asked.

"Ah, where?" the voice wailed.

Then the planter would rouse himself, and glance at the passengers and
out of the window in the endeavor to keep his mind free from the
annoyances. For a few moments he would succeed, but days and nights of
exertion, horror and excitement were telling upon him; once more he
would succumb and once more the fantastic shadows thronged about him,
and the voice, mingling strangely with the grating roar of the coach's
wheels, smote on his ear:

"Search, search, search! Your task's not over! Your task's not over!"

"Where shall I search?"

"Ah, where?"

"You don't seem to be well, friend," remarked a fellow-traveler,
observing the startled and restless manner of Mr. Tompkins.

"Yes, I am well; that is--no, I am not; I am somewhat wearied," Mr.
Tompkins answered.

"So are we all," rejoined the passenger. "This journey has been enough
to wear out men of iron, and the prospects for the night are far from
cheering."

"I had expected to reach home to-night," said the planter, "but I shall
fail by a good dozen miles."

"You live in this State?"

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Tompkins, settling himself in his corner.

The gentleman, evidently a Southern man, seeing that Mr. Tompkins was
indisposed to carry on any further conversation, relapsed into silence.
With another effort Mr. Tompkins conquered the stupor which, with all
its fantastic concomitants, was once more overcoming him, and sat bolt
upright in his seat.

"This has been a fearful week," he soliloquized, "but I have done all I
could."

The gentleman by his side, catching the last part of the remark, and
supposing it had reference to the present journey, remarked:

"Yes, it is not the fault of the passengers, but of the managers of this
line. They should be prepared for such emergencies, and have a supply of
fresh horses."

Observing that his exclamation, though misinterpreted, had arrested
attention, Mr. Tompkins, to guard against its recurrence, lest he should
divulge the subject of his disturbed thoughts, aroused himself and
resisted, with determination, the stupor that was overcoming him. It was
while thus combating the fatigue that weighed him down that the
stage-coach came to a very sudden stop.

The driver, pressing his face to the aperture at the top of the coach,
cried out:

"Here we are at Lander's Hill, and I be hanged if the hosses are able to
drag ye all up. They are completely fagged out, so I guess ye men
folks'll hev to hoof it to the top, an' occasionally give us a push, or
we'll stick here until mornin'."

"How far is it to where we can stop over night?" asked the passenger who
had endeavored to draw Mr. Tompkins into conversation.

"After we git on top of the hill it's only 'bout three miles to Jerry
Lycan's inn, where we'll stop for the night, an' it's down hill 'most
all the way," replied the driver.

With much grumbling and many imprecations on the heads of the managers
of the stage line, the passengers clambered out of the coach. A long,
muddy hill, in places quite steep, lay before them. It was nearly half a
mile to the top, and portions of the road were scarcely passable even
in good weather.

"These are public roads in Virginia!" exclaimed one gentleman, as he
alighted in the mud.

"We can't have railroads to every place," essayed a fellow-traveler,
evidently a Virginian; "but you will find our soil good."

"Yes, good for sticking purposes," said the first speaker, trying to
shake some of the mud from his boots; "I never saw soil with greater
adhesive qualities."

"Now look 'ee," said the driver, "we'll hev some purty smart jogs, where
the hosses 'll not be able to pull up, and you'll hev to put your
shoulders agin the coach an' give us a push."

"May I be blessed!" ejaculated the Southerner. "They are not even
content to make us walk, but want us to draw the coach."

"Better to do that an' hev a coach at the top to ride in than to walk
three miles," said the driver.

After allowing his horses a brief rest, the driver cracked his whip and
the lumbering coach moved on, the passengers slowly plodding along
behind. None seemed pleased with the prospect of a walk up the long,
muddy hill, but the grumbling Southerner manifested a more decided
repugnance than either of the others.

"This is worse than wading through Carolina swamps waist deep," he
exclaimed, as he trudged along, dragging his weary feet and
mud-freighted boots after him.

The coach had not proceeded more than a dozen rods when it came to one
of the "jogs" in the hill alluded to by the driver. "Now help here, or
we'll stick sure. Git up!" cried the driver, and the poor, tired horses
nerved themselves for the extra effort required of them. The ascent here
was both steep and slippery, and it required the united strength of
horses and passengers to pass the coach over the place.

Here the passengers discovered the prodigious strength which lay in the
broad shoulders of Mr. Tompkins. Not a murmur had escaped his lips when
required to walk up the hill, and he was the first to place his shoulder
to the wheel to push the coach over the difficult passage. To still
further increase the discomforts of their position they were thoroughly
drenched by a passing shower which overtook them before they reach the
summit of the hill. Here they again climbed into the coach, and resuming
their seats, were whirled along through the gathering darkness toward
the inn.

Old Jerry Lycan stood on the long porch of his old-fashioned Virginia
tavern, and peered down the road through the gloom. It had been dark but
a few moments. The old man's ears caught the sound of wheels coming down
the road, and he knew the stage was not far off.

"The roads are just awful," said the landlord, "and no wonder it is
belated."

The night was intensely dark; not a star was to be seen in the sky; an
occasional flash of lightning momentarily lit up surrounding objects,
only to render the blackness more complete. Far down the road the old
man's eyes caught a glimpse of the coach-lights bobbing up and down as
the ponderous vehicle oscillated over the rough roads. Approaching
slowly, like a wearied thing of life, the cumbrous stage at last
appeared, made visible only by its own lamps, which the driver had
lighted. The splashing of six horses along the miry roads and the dull
rolling of the huge wheels made the vehicle heard long before it was
seen.

"Rube haint no outside passengers to-night," said the landlord, seeing
that the top seats of the coach were vacant. "'Spose nobody'd want to
ride out in the rain."

"Here ye are at Lycan's inn," called out the driver to the inmates of
the coach as he reined in his weary horses in front of the roadside
tavern.

Uncle Jerry as he was called, with his old, perforated tin lantern, came
to open the stage door and show his guests into the house. Rube, the
driver, tossing the reins to the stable-boy, climbed down from his lofty
perch, and went into the bar-room to get "something hot" to warm his
benumbed body.

The landlord brought the wet and weary men into the room, where a great
fire was blazing, and promised that supper should be ready by the time
they were dry. The Southerner declared that he was much too dry within,
though he was dripping wet without. Uncle Jerry smiling invited him
into the bar-room. The Southerner needed no second invitation, and soon
returned, saying that Virginia inns were not so bad after all.

The lady had been shown to a private apartment, while the gentlemen were
attempting to dry their clothing by the fire in the public room. The
Southerner, who had been in much better humor since his visit to the
bar, seemed now to look very philosophically upon his soaking and other
inconveniences of travel.

Our planter, Mr. Tompkins, sat in front of the pile of blazing logs,
gazing at the bright, panoramic pictures constantly forming there.
Sleeping or waking, darkness of the stage-coach and in those glowing
embers, he saw but one picture, and its horrors were constantly haunting
his mind.

The other guests talked and laughed while their soaked clothes were
drying, but Mr. Tompkins was silent, whether sitting or standing. Almost
before their clothes were dry supper was announced, and they all
repaired to the long, low dining room and seated themselves at the
table. The supper, plain and substantial, was just suited to the needs
of the hungry guests.

The evening meal over, they returned to the sitting room. The Southerner
had lit a cigar, and kept up a constant flow of conversation.

"Virginia is too near the Free-soilers," he said, evidently directing
his remarks to Mr. Tompkins; "don't they come over here and steal your
niggers?"

"They never have," Mr. Tompkins answered.

"I take it for granted you own slaves?"

"Yes, sir; I have a number on my plantation, and never have had one
stolen yet."

"Don't the 'Barnburners,' 'Wooly Heads' and Abolitionists from Ohio and
Pennsylvania come over here and steal them away?"

"They have never taken any from me."

"Well, that's a wonder. I know a number of good men on the border who
find it impossible to keep niggers at all."

"Perhaps they are not good masters," said Mr. Tompkins.

"They were the best of masters, and they lost their niggers, though
they guarded them with watchful overseers and bloodhounds."

"But do you think that a good master needs to guard his slaves with
armed overseers and dogs?" said Mr. Tompkins.

"Of course," the Carolinian answered; "how else would you keep the black
rascals in subjection? Are we not horrified almost every week by reports
of some of their outrages? Swamps and canebrakes have become the haunts
of runaway blacks, who, having murdered their master, seek to wreck
vengeance on innocent children or women."

Mr. Tompkins started at these assertions, as though he felt a pang at
his heart.

"My friend, what you say is true, too true," he said; "but is the master
always blameless? The negro possesses feelings, and even a beast may be
goaded to madness. Is it not an unrighteous system which is crushing and
cursing our beloved country?"

"What system?"

"Slavery."

"Why, sir, you are a singular slave-holder," cried the Southerner. "Are
you going to turn a Martin Van Buren and join the Free-soilers?"

"There is a great deal in that question, sir, outside of politics. I
believe in slavery, else I would not own a slave; but, if our slaves are
to be treated as animals, it were better if the institution were
abolished."

"How would you treat them?"

"Discharge the overseers, to begin with."

"I am sure, you would fail."

"The plan has succeeded well on my plantation," said Mr. Tompkins, "and
I do not own a single negro who would not die for me."

Here were met two men, both believing in the institution of human
slavery, but carrying out its principles, how differently! The one with
cool Northern blood and kindly feelings, advocating a humane mode of
ruling the helpless being in his power. The other, representing the
extreme type of refined cruelty and oppression. The mind of the one grew
more and more in harmony with the idea of abolition, while the other
came to hate, with all the fierceness of his Southern heart, the idea of
universal freedom; became willing, even, to strike at that flag which
had failed to protect his interests and his opinions.

The date at which we write was directly after the election and
inauguration of Taylor as President of the United States. The opposition
to human slavery had steadily been gaining ground, regardless of taunts
and sneers, and the ranks of the Abolitionists were hourly on the
increase. Slavery was peculiarly a selfish institution. It is folly to
say that only men born and reared in the South could be numbered among
the upholders of this "peculiar institution," for many Northern men went
South and purchased plantations and slaves, and in 1861 many of these
enlisted on the Confederate side, and fought under the Confederate flag,
not from principle, but from self-interest.

Mr. Tompkins, who was Northern born, believed in slavery simply because
he owned slaves, and not from any well defined principle. Even now the
same conflict that later convulsed the Nation was raging in his
heart--the conflict between self-interest and the right. Press and
pulpit, the lecturer's rostrum and the novelist's pen, had almost
wrought out the doom of slavery, when the politician took up the stormy
dispute.

The discussion in the Virginia inn was warm but friendly, the Carolinian
declaring that God and Nature had ordained the negro for slavery; that
his diet should be the ash-cake, his stimulant the whip, his reward for
obedience a blanket and a hut, his punishment for rebellion chains and
death. Doubtless his passion over-reached his judgment in the heat of
argument, and his brain, perhaps, was not so cool since his visit to the
bar-room.

"My dear sir," Mr. Tompkins finally said, hoping to end the discussion,
which was drawing to them the attention of all, "the policy you suggest
will, I fear, plunge our whole country into trouble. Few men are born
rulers, and history has never shown one successful who ruled by harsh
measures only. Admitting that a negro is not a rational being, kindness
with a beast can accomplish more than harshness. It is cruel masters who
make runaway slaves. The parting of parent and child, husband and wife,
torn ruthlessly asunder, never to see each other again, will make even a
negro furious. I fear, sir, that slavery is a bad institution, but it is
firmly established among us, and I see no way at present to get rid of
it."

The other guests at Jerry Lycan's inn had gathered in groups of two and
three, and were listening silently to the differing views of these two
upholders of slavery, for there were factions in those days among the
slavery men. The landlord had entered the room, and, being a politician
himself, drank in the discussion with deepest interest.

Just as the argument was at its height the outer door of the inn opened
and a boy, wild-eyed, but handsome, entered. A glance at the strangely
wild eyes and disheveled hair convinced all present that he was insane.
He was about twelve years of age, with a slender figure and a
well-shaped head, but some great shock had unseated his reason. His
mania was of a mild, harmless type. Walking directly up to Mr. Tompkins,
he said:

"Have you seen my father? You look very much like my father, but I know
he has not yet come into Egypt."

The voice was so plaintive and sad that it touched at once the hearts of
all, and happily put an end to the conversation.

"Who is your father?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Jacob is my father. I am his favorite son. My brothers sold me a slave
into Egypt, and told my father I had been slain by wild beasts. Have you
seen my father?"

"He is crazy. Humor him, say something to him," whispered the landlord.

"Your father is not yet ready to come into Egypt," said Mr. Tompkins.

"And my brother Benjamin--did you see him?" the lad asked.

"Yes."

"Is the famine sore in the land where my father dwells?"

"Yes."

"And does he suffer--is he old? Oh, yes, I remember; my father must be
dead." He seated himself on a low stool by the fireside, and, bowing his
head in his hands, seemed lost in thought.

"He does that twenty times a day," said the landlord.

"Who is he?" asked one of the travelers, "and where does he come from?"

"He has been here only a few days, and I know nothing about him. His
first question was, 'Have you seen my father Jacob?'"

"Have you tried to find out about him?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Yes, but to no purpose," answered Uncle Jerry. "He came one morning and
said he was fleeing from Potiphar's wrath. After inquiring for his
father, he remained silent for some time. I tried to find where he came
from, but no one knows and he can not tell. I should judge by the
clothes he wore that he was from the South, and, from the worn condition
of his shoes, that he came a great way. He is of some respectable
family, for he has been well educated, and I fancy it's too much book
learning that has turned the boy's head. He talks of Plato and Socrates
and Aristotle, and all the ancient philosophers, and his familiarity
with historical events shows him to have been a student; but he always
imagines that he is Joseph."

"Where does he live?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Oh, he stays here at the inn, and shows no disposition to leave. He
makes himself useful by helping the stable-boy and carries in fuel,
imagining himself a servant of the high priest."

"Has he lucid intervals?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"No, not what could be called lucid intervals. Once he said to a girl in
the kitchen that it was books that made his head dizzy, and said
something of a home a great ways off, from which he had fled to escape
great violence. They hoped then to clear up the mystery, but the next
moment his mind wandered again and he was Joseph sold into Egypt,
bewailing his father Jacob and his brother Benjamin."

"What is his name?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"We can't get any other name than Joseph, and the boys here call him
Crazy Joe."

"His malady may be curable; have you consulted a physician about it?"
inquired the Californian, who was very much interested in the strange
case.

"Yes, sir; a doctor from the State Lunatic Asylum was here day before
yesterday, but he pronounced him incurable."

"Could not the doctor tell how long he had been in this condition?"
asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Not with certainty, but thought it only a few weeks or months. He said
he had probably escaped from his guard and ran away."

At this moment the subject of conversation rose from the low stool and
looked about with a vacant stare.

"Do you want to go home to your parents?" Mr. Tompkins asked.

"When the famine is sore in the land they will come for me."

"Why did you run away?"

"My brothers sold me to the merchants with their camels. They made my
father believe I was killed, and brought me here and sold me; but I know
it is written that my brother Benjamin will come and bring my father to
me."

"Is it not written that Jacob did go down into Egypt with his whole
family, and that he wept on Joseph's neck, and said he was willing to
die?" said Mr. Tompkins, to lead him out of this strange hallucination.

"Yes, yes--oh, yes!" the boy cried, eagerly.

"Did not Moses deliver the children of Israel from bondage long after
Jacob's death?"

"I remember now that he did," said Joe.

"Then how can you be Joseph, when he died three or four thousand years
ago?"

The boy reflected a moment, and then said:

"Who can I be, if I am not Joseph?"

"Some one who imagines himself Joseph," said Mr. Tompkins. "Now, try to
think who you really are and where you came from."

"I am not Socrates, for he drank the hemlock and died, nor am I Julius
Caesar, for he was killed by Brutus," the poor lunatic replied.

"Try to think what was your father's name," persisted Mr. Tompkins,
hoping to discover something.

"My father's name was Jacob, and I was sold a slave into Egypt by my
brothers; but there must be something wrong; my father must be dead."

Again he seated himself on the low stool and buried his face in his
hands.

"It's no use," said the landlord; "that's as near as you'll ever come to
knowing who he is from him. I have advertised him in the Pittsburg
daily, but no one has come yet to claim him."

"A very strange hallucination," said the Carolinian. "Is he always
mild?"

"Yes; he is never cross or sullen, and seems delighted with children. He
answers them in many ways."

It was growing late, and the weary travelers were ready to go to bed.
The landlord assisted by Crazy Joe and another boy, took lighted candles
to the various rooms for the guests.

By the combined aid of a good supper, a warm discussion on slavery, and
his interest in the insane boy, Mr. Tompkins had succeeded in fighting
away the legion of gloomy thoughts that harassed his mind, and a few
minutes after retiring was sleeping peacefully.




CHAPTER II.

A NEW ARRIVAL.


Forty years ago a Virginia planter was a king, his broad acres his
kingdom, his wife his queen, his children heirs to his throne, and his
slaves his subjects. True, it was a petty kingdom and he but a petty
monarch; but, as a rule, petty monarchs are tyrannical, and the Southern
planter was not always an exception. In those days men were measured,
not by moral worth, mental power, or physical stature, but by the number
of acres and slaves they owned. The South has never possessed that
sturdy class of yeomanry that has achieved wonders in the North. Before
the war labor was performed by slaves, now it is done by hired help, the
farmer himself there seldom cultivating his soil.

The home of Mr. George W. Tompkins, our acquaintance, was a marvel of
beauty and taste. Located in the Northwestern portion of the State,
before its division, it was just where the heat of the South was
delightfully tempered by the cool winds of the North. No valley in all
Virginia was more lovely. To the east were hills which might delight any
mountain lover, all clothed and fringed with delicate evergreens,
through which could be caught occasional glimpses of precipitous bald
rocks. Over the heights the sun climbed every morning to illuminate the
valley below with a radiance of glory. Mountain cascades came tumbling
and plunging from mossy retreats to swell a clear pebble-strewn stream
which afforded the finest trout to be found in the entire State.

The great mansion, built after the old Virginia plan, with a long stone
piazza in front, stood on an eminence facing the post-road, which ran
within a few rods of it. The house was substantial, heavy columns,
painted white as marble, supporting the porch, and quaint, old-fashioned
gables, about which the swallows twittered, breaking the lines of the
roof. In the front yard grew the beech and elm and chestnut tree, their
wide-spreading branches indicating an existence for centuries. A little
below the structure, and south-west from it, was a colony of low, small
buildings, where dwelt the slaves of Mr. Tompkins. One or two were
nearer, and in these the domestics lived. These were a higher order of
servants than the field-hands, and they never let an opportunity pass to
assert their superiority over their fellow slaves.

Socially, as well as geographically, Mr. Tompkins' home combined the
extremes of the North and South. He, with his calm face and mild gray
eyes, was a native of the green hills of New Hampshire, while his
dark-eyed wife was a daughter of sunny Georgia.

Mrs. Tompkins was the only child of a wealthy Georgia planter. Mr.
Tompkins had met her first in Atlanta, where he was spending the Winter
with a class-mate, both having graduated at Yale the year before. Their
meeting grew into intimacy, from intimacy it ripened into love. Shortly
after the marriage of his daughter, his only child, the planter
exchanged his property for more extensive possessions in Virginia, but
he never occupied this new home. He and his wife were in New Orleans,
when the dread malady, yellow-fever, seized upon them, and they died
before their daughter or her husband could go to them.

Mr. Tompkins, a man who had always been opposed to slavery, thus found
himself the owner of a large plantation in Virginia, and more than a
hundred slaves. There seemed to be no other alternative, and he accepted
the situation, and tried, by being a humane master, to conciliate his
wounded conscience for being a master at all.

He and his only brother, Henry, had inherited a large and valuable
property from their father, in their native State. His brother, like
himself, had gone South and married a planter's daughter, and become a
large slave-holder. He was a far different man from his brother.
Naturally overbearing and cruel, he seemed to possess none of the
other's kindness of heart or cool, dispassionate reason. He was a hard
task-master, and no "fire-eating" Southerner ever exercised his power
more remorselessly than he, and no one hated the Abolition party more
cordially. But it is not with Henry Tompkins we have to deal at present.

It was near noon the day after the travelers reached Jerry Lycan's inn.
Mrs. Tompkins sat on the piazza, looking down the road that led to the
village. She was one of those Southern beauties who attract at a first
glance; her eyes large, and dark, and brilliant; her hair soft and
glossy, like waves of lustrous silk. Of medium height, though not quite
so slender as when younger, her form was faultless. Her cheek had the
olive tint of the South, and as she reclined with indolent grace in her
easy chair, one little foot restlessly tapping the carpet on which it
rested, she looked a very queen.

The Tompkins mansion was the grandest for many miles around, and the
whole plantation bore evidence of the taste and judgment of its owner.
There seemed to be nothing, from the crystal fountain splashing in front
of the white-pillared dwelling to the vast fields of corn, wheat and
tobacco stretching far into the back-ground, which did not add to the
beauty of the place.

On the north were barns, immense and well filled granaries and stables.
Then came tobacco houses, covering acres of ground. One would hardly
have suspected the plain, unpretentious Mr. Tompkins as being the
possessor of all this wealth. But his house held his greatest
treasures--two bright little boys, aged respectively nine and seven
years.

Abner, the elder, had bright blue eyes and the clear Saxon complexion of
his father. Oleah, the younger, was of the same dark Southern type as
his mother. They were two such children as even a Roman mother might
have been proud to call her jewels. Bright and affectionate, they
yielded a quick obedience to their parents, and--a remarkable thing for
boys--were always in perfect accord.

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" cried Oleah, following close after his brother, and
quite as much excited.

"Well, what is the matter?" the mother asked, with a smile.

"It's coming! it's coming! it's coming!" cried Oleah.

"He's coming! he's coming!" shouted Abner.

"Who is coming?" asked the mother.

"Papa, papa, papa!" shouted both at the top of their voices. "Papa is
coming down the big hill on the stage-coach."

Mrs. Tompkins was now looking for herself. Sure enough there was the
great, old-fashioned stage-coach lumbering down the hill, and her
husband was an outside passenger, as the sky was now clear and the sun
shone warm and bright. The clumsy vehicle showed the mud-stains of its
long travel, and the roads in places were yet filled with water.

The winding of the coachman's horn, which never failed to set the boys
dancing with delight, sounded mellow and clear on the morning air.

"It's going to stop! it's going to stop!" cried Oleah, clapping his
little hands.

"It's going to stop! it's going to stop!" shouted Abner, and both kept
up a frantic shouting, "Whoa, whoa!" to the prancing horses as they drew
near the house.

It paused in front of the gate, and Mrs. Tompkins and her two boys
hurried down the walk.

Mr. Tompkins' baggage had just been taken from the boot and placed
inside the gate, and the stage had rolled on, as his wife and two boys
came up to the traveler.

"Mamma first, and me next," said Oleah, preparing his red lips for the
expected kiss.

"And I come after Oleah," said Abner.

Mr. Tompkins called to a negro boy who was near to carry the baggage to
the house, and the happy group made their way to the great piazza, the
two boys clinging to their father's hands and keeping up a torrent of
questions. Where had he been? What had he seen? What had he brought home
for them? The porch reached, Mrs. Tompkins drew up the arm-chair for her
tired husband.

"Rest a few minutes," she said, "and then you can take a bath and change
your clothes, and you will feel quite yourself once more."

The planter took the seat, with a bright-faced child perched on each
side of him.

"You were gone so long without writing that I became uneasy," said his
wife, drawing her chair close to his side.

"I had a great deal to do," he answered, shaking his head sadly, "and it
was terrible work, I assure you. The memory of the past three weeks, I
fear, will never leave my mind."

"Was it as terrible as the message said?" asked Mrs. Tompkins, with a
shudder.

"Yes, the horrible story was all true. The whole family was murdered."

"By whom?"

"That remains a mystery, but it is supposed to have been done by one of
the slaves, as two or three ran away about that time."

"How did it happen? Tell me all."

The little boys were sent away, for this story was not for children to
hear, and Mr. Tompkins proceeded.

"We could hardly believe the news the dispatch brought us, my dear, but
it did not tell us the worst. The roads between here and North Carolina
are not the best, and I was four or five days making it, even with the
aid of a few hours occasionally by rail. I found my brother's next
neighbor, Mr. Clayborne, at the village waiting for me. On the way he
told all that he or any one seemed to know of the affair. My brother had
a slave who was half negro and part Indian, with some white blood in his
veins. This slave had a quadroon wife, whom he loved with all his wild,
passionate heart. She was very beautiful, and a belle among the negroes.
But Henry, for some disobedience on the part of the husband, whose
Indian and white blood revolted against slavery, sold the wife to a
Louisiana sugar planter. The half breed swore he would be revenged, and
my brother, unfortunately possessing a hasty temper, had him tied up and
severely whipped--"

"Served the black rascal quite right," interrupted the wife, who, being
Southern born, could not endure the least self-assertion on the part of
a slave.

"I think not, my dear, though we will not argue the question. After his
punishment the black hung about for a week or two, sullen and silent.
Several friends cautioned my brother to beware of him, but Henry was
headstrong and took no man's counsel. Suddenly the slave disappeared,
and although the woods, swamps and cane-breaks were scoured by
experienced hunters and dogs he could not be found. Three weeks had
passed, and all thought of the runaway had passed from the minds of the
people. Late one night the man who told me this was passing my brother's
house, when he saw flames shooting about the roof and out of the
windows. He gave the alarm, and roused the negroes. As he ran up the
lawn toward the house a bloody ax met his view. On entering the front
door my brother Henry was found lying in the hall, his skull cleft in
twain. I cannot repeat all that met the man's horror-stricken gaze. They
had only time to snatch away the bodies of my brother, his wife and two
of the children when the roof fell in."

"And the other two children?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.

"Were evidently murdered also, but their bodies could not be found. It
is supposed they were burned to ashes amid the ruins."

"Did you cause any extra search to be made?"

"I did, but it was useless. I have searched, searched,
searched--mountain, plain and swamp. The rivers were dragged, the wells
examined, the ruins raked, but in vain. The oldest and the youngest of
the children could not be found. A skull bone was discovered among the
ruins, but so burned and charred that it was impossible to tell whether
it belonged to a human being or an animal. I have done everything I
could think of, and yet something seems to tell me my task is not
over--my task is not over."

"What has been done with the plantation?" Mrs. Tompkins asked.

"The father of my brother's wife is the administrator of the estate, and
he will manage it."

"And the murderer?"

"No trace of him whatever. It seems as though, after performing his
horrible deed, he must have sank into the earth."

Mrs. Tompkins now, remembering that her husband needed a bath and a
change of clothes, hurried him into the house. The recital of that
horrible story had cast a shadow over her countenance, which she tried
in vain to drive away, and had reawakened in Mr. Tompkins' soul a
longing for revenge, though his better reason compelled him to admit
that the half-breed was goaded to madness and desperation.

The day passed gloomily enough after the first joy of the husband and
father's return. The next morning, just as the sun was peeping over the
gray peaks of the eastern mountains and throwing floods of golden light
into the valley below, dancing upon the stream of silver which wound
beneath, or splintering its ineffectual lances among the branches and
trunks of the grand old trees surrounding the plantation, Mr. Tompkins
was awakened from the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

"What was that?" he asked of his wife.

Both waited a moment, listening, when again the feeble wail of an infant
reached their ears.

"It is a child's voice," said Mrs. Tompkins; "but why is it there?"

"Some of the negro children have strayed from the quarters; or, more
likely, it is the child of one of the house servants," said Mr.
Tompkins.

"The house servants have no children," answered Mrs. Tompkins, "and I
have cautioned the field women not to allow their children to come here
especially in the early morning, to annoy us."

Mr. Tompkins, whose morning nap was not yet over, closed his eyes again.
The melodious horn of the overseer, calling the slaves to the labors of
the day, sounded musical in the early morning air, and seemed only to
soothe the wearied master to sleep again. Footsteps were heard upon the
carpeted hallway, and then three or four light taps on the door of the
bedroom.

"Who is there?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.

"It's me, missus, if you please." The door was pushed open and a dark
head, wound in a red bandana handkerchief, appeared in the opening.

"What is the matter, Dinah?" Mrs. Tompkins asked, for she saw by the
woman's manner that something unusual had occurred. Dinah was her
mistress' handmaid and the children's nurse.

"If you please, missus," she said, "there is a queerest little baby on
the front porch in the big clothes-basket."

"A baby!" cried the astonished Mrs. Tompkins.

"Yes'm, a white baby."

"Where is its mother?"

"I don't know, missus. It must a been there nearly all night, an' I
suppose they who ever left it there wants you to keep it fur good."

"Bring the poor little thing here," said Mrs. Tompkins, rising to a
sitting position in the bed.

In a few minutes Dinah returned with a baby about six months old,
dressed in a faded calico gown, and hungrily sucking its tiny fist,
while its dark brown eyes were filled with tears.

"It was in de big basket among some ole clothes," said Dinah.

"Poor, dear little thing! it is nearly starved and almost frozen.
Prepare it some warm milk at once, Dinah," said the kind-hearted
mistress.

The girl hurried away to do her bidding, leaving the baby with Mrs.
Tompkins, who held the benumbed child in her arms and tried to still its
cries.

Mr. Tompkins was wide awake now, and his mind busy with conjecture how
the child came to be left on their piazza.

"What is that?" called Oleah, from the next room.

"Why, it's a baby," answered Abner, and a moment later two pairs of
little bare feet came pattering into their mother's room.

"Oh, the sweet little thing!" cried Oleah; "I want to kiss it."

His mother held it down for him to kiss.

"Isn't it pretty!" said Abner. "Its eyes are black, just like Oleah's.
Let me kiss it, too."

The little stranger looked in wonder at the two children, who, in their
joy over this treasure-trove, were dancing frantically about the room.

"Oh, mamma, where did you get it?" asked Oleah.

"Dinah found it on the porch," the mother answered.

"Who put it there?"

"I don't know, dear."

"Why, Oleah," said Abner, "it's just like old Mr. Post. Don't you know
he found a baby at his door? for we read about it in our First reader."

"Oh, yes; is this the same baby old Mr. Post found?" asked Oleah.

"No," answered the mother; "this is another."

"Oh, isn't it sweet?" said Oleah, as the child cried and stretched out
its tiny hands.

"It's just as pretty as it can be," said Abner.

"Mamma, oh, mamma!" said Oleah, shaking his mother's arm, as she did not
pay immediate attention to his call.

"What, dear?" she asked.

"Are we goin' to keep it?"

"Yes, dear; if some one who has a better right to it does not come to
claim it."

"They shan't have it," cried Oleah, stamping his little, bare foot on
the carpet.

"No," added Abner; "it's ours now. They left it there to starve and

"You think, then, that the real owner has lost his title by his
neglect?" said the father, with a smile.

"Yes, that's it," the boy answered.

"It's a very good common law idea, my son."

Dinah now came in with warm milk for the baby, and Mrs. Tompkins told
her to take the two boys to their room and dress them; but they wanted
to wait first and see the baby eat.

"Oh, don't it eat; don't it eat!" cried the boys.

"The poor little thing is almost starved," said the mother.

"Missus, how d'ye reckin it came on the porch?" Dinah asked.

"I cannot think who would have left it," answered Mrs. Tompkins.

"That is not a very young baby," said Mr. Tompkins, watching the little
creature eat greedily from the spoon, for Dinah had now taken it and was
feeding it.

"No, marster, not berry, 'cause it's got two or free teef," said the
nurse. "Spect it's 'bout six months old."

As soon as the little stranger had been fed, Dinah wrapped it in a warm
blanket and laid it on Mrs. Tompkin's bed, where it soon fell asleep,
showing it was exhausted as well as hungry. Dinah then led the two boys
to the room to wash and dress them.

"Strange, strange!" said Mrs. Tompkins, beginning to dress. "Who can the
little thing belong to, and what are we to do with it?"

"Keep it, I suppose," said Mr. Tompkins; and, stumbling over a
boot-jack, he exclaimed in the same breath, "Oh, confound it!"

"What, the baby?"

"No, the boot-jack. I've stubbed my toe on it."

"We have no right to take upon ourselves the rearing of other people's
children," said Mrs. Tompkins, paying no attention to her husband's
trifling injury.

"But it's our Christian duty to see that the little thing does not die
of cold and hunger," said Mr. Tompkins, caressing his aching toe.

Soon the boys came in, ready for breakfast, and inquired for the baby;
when told that it was sleeping, they wanted to see it asleep, and stole
on tiptoe to the bed, where the wearied little thing lay, and nothing
would satisfy them until they were permitted to touch the pale,
pinched, tear-stained cheek with their fresh, warm lips.

The breakfast bell rang, and they went down to the dining-room, where
awaiting them was a breakfast such as only Aunt Susan could prepare.
They took their places at the table, while a negro girl stood behind
each, to wait upon them and to drive away flies with long brushes of
peacock feathers. The boys were so much excited by the advent of the
strange baby that they could scarcely keep quiet long enough to eat.

"I am going to draw it on my wagon," said Oleah.

"I'm going to let it ride my pony," said Abner.

"Don't think too much of the baby yet, for some one may come and claim
it," said their mother.

"They shan't have it, shall they, papa?" cried Oleah.

"No, it is our baby now."

"And we are going to keep it, ain't we, Aunt Susan!" he asked the cook,
as she entered the dining-room.

"Yes, bress yo' little heart; dat baby am yours," said Aunt Susan.

"It's a Christmas gift, ain't it, Maggie?" he asked the waiter behind
him. Oleah was evidently determined to array everyone's opinion against
his mother's supposition.

"Yes, I reckin it am," the negro girl answered with a grin.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Abner. "Why, Oleah, this ain't Christmas."

Seeing his mistake, Oleah joined in the laugh, but soon commenced again.

"We're goin' to make the baby a nice, new play-house, ain't we, Abner?"

"Yes, and a swing."

The baby slept nearly all the forenoon. When she woke (for it was a
girl) she was washed, and dressed in some of Master Oleah's clothes, and
Mrs. Tompkins declared the child a marvel of beauty, and when the little
thing turned her dark eyes on her benefactor with a confiding smile the
lady resolved that no sorrow that she could avert should cloud the
sweet, innocent face.

When the boys came in they began a war dance, which made the baby
scream with delight. Impetuous Oleah snatched her from his mother's lap,
and both boy and baby rolled over on the floor, fortunately not hurting
either. His mother scolded, but the baby crowed and laughed, and he
showered a hundred kisses on the little white face.

A boy about twelve years of age was coming down the lane. He entered the
gate and was coming towards the house. Mr. Tompkins, who was in the
sitting-room, in a moment recognized the boy as Crazy Joe, and told his
wife about the unfortunate lad. He met the boy on the porch.

"How do you do, Joe?" he asked, extending his hand.

"I am well," Joe answered. "Have you seen my father Jacob or my brother
Benjamin?"

"No, they have not yet come," answered the planter.

For several years after, Joe was a frequent visitor. There was no
moment's lapse of his melancholy madness, which yet seemed to have a
peculiar method in it, and the mystery that hid his past but deepened
and intensified.




CHAPTER III.

DINNER TALK.


America furnishes to the world her share of politicians. The United
States, with her free government, her freedom of thought, freedom of
speech and freedom of press, is prolific in their production. One who
had given the subject but little thought, and no investigation, would be
amazed to know their number. Nearly every boy born in the United States
becomes a politician, with views more or less pronounced, and the
subject is by no means neglected by the feminine portion of the
community. That part of Virginia, the scene of our story, abounded with
"village tavern and cross-roads politicians." Snagtown, on Briar creek,
was a village not more than three miles from Mr. Tompkins'. It boasted
of two taverns and three saloons, where loafers congregated to talk
about the weather, the doings in Congress, the terrible state of the
country, and their exploits in catching "runaway niggers." A large per
cent of our people pay more attention to Congressional matters than to
their own affairs. We do not deny that it is every man's right to
understand the grand machinery of this Government, but he should not
devote to it the time which should be spent in caring for his family.
Politics should not intoxicate men and lead them from the paths of
honest industry, and furnish food for toughs to digest at taverns and
street corners.

Anything which affords a topic of conversation is eagerly welcomed by
the loafer; and it is little wonder that politics is a theme that rouses
all his enthusiasm. It not only affords him food, but drink as well,
during a campaign. Many are the neglected wives and starving children
who, in cold and cheerless homes, await the return of the husband and
father, who sits, warm and comfortable, in some tavern, laying plans for
the election of a school director or a town overseer.

Snagtown could tell its story. It contained many such neglected homes,
and the thriftless vagabonds who constituted the voting majority never
failed to raise an excitement, to provoke bitter feelings and foment
quarrels on election day.

Plump, and short, and sleek was Mr. Hezekiah Diggs, the justice of the
peace of Snagtown. Like many justices of the peace, he brought to the
performance of his duties little native intelligence, and less acquired
erudition; but what he lacked in brains he made up in brass. He was one
of the foremost of the political gossipers of Snagtown, and had filled
his present position for several years.

'Squire Diggs was hardly in what might be termed even moderate
circumstances, though he and his family made great pretension in
society. He was one of that rare class in Virginia--a poor man who had
managed by some inexplicable means, to work his way into the better
class of society. His wife, unlike himself, was tall, slender and sharp
visaged. Like him, she was an incessant talker, and her gossip
frequently caused trouble in the neighborhood. Scandal was seized on as
a sweet morsel by the hungry Mrs. Diggs, and she never let pass an
opportunity to spread it, like a pestilence, over the town.

They had one son, now about twelve years of age, the joy and pride of
their hearts, and as he was capable of declaiming, "The boy stood on the
burning deck," his proud father discovered in him the future orator of
America, and determined that Patrick Henry Diggs should study law and
enter the field of politics. The boy, full of his father's conviction,
and of a conceit all his own, felt within his soul a rising greatness
which one day would make him the foremost man of the Nation. He did not
object to his father's plan; he was willing to become either a statesman
or a lawyer, but having read the life of Washington, he would have
chosen to be a general, only that there were now no redcoats to fight.
Poor as Diggs' family was, they boasted that they associated only with
the _elite_ of Southern society.

'Squire Diggs had informed Mr. Tompkins that he and his family would pay
him a visit on a certain day, as he wished to consult him on some
political matters, and Mr. Tompkins and his hospitable lady, setting
aside social differences, prepared to make their visitors welcome. On
the appointed day they were driven up in their antiquated carriage,
drawn by an old gray horse, and driven by a negro coachman older than
either. Mose was the only slave that the 'Squire owned, and though sixty
years of age, he served the family faithfully in a multiform capacity.
He pulled up at the door of the mansion, and climbing out somewhat
slowly, owing to age and rheumatism, he opened the carriage door and
assisted the occupants to alight.

Though Mrs. Tompkins felt an unavoidable repugnance for the gossiping
Mrs. Diggs, she was too sensible a hostess to treat an uninvited guest
otherwise than cordially.

"I've been just dying to come and see you," said Mrs. Diggs, as soon as
she had removed her wraps and taken her seat in an easy chair, with a
bottle of smelling salts in her hand and her gold-plated spectacles on
her nose, "you have been having so many strange things happen here; and
I told the 'Squire we must come over, for I thought the drive might do
me good, and I wanted to hear all about the murder of your husband's
brother's family, and see that strange baby and the crazy boy. Isn't it
strange, though? Who could have committed that awful murder? Who put
that baby on your piazza, and who is this crazy boy?"

Mrs. Tompkins arrested this stream of interrogatories by saying that it
was all a mystery, and they had as yet been unable to find a clew.
Baffled at the very onset in the chief object of her visit, Mrs. Diggs
turned her thoughts at once into new channels, and, graciously
overlooking Mrs. Tompkins' inability to gratify her curiosity, began to
recount the news and gossip and small scandals of the neighborhood.

'Squire Diggs was in the midst of an animated conversation on his
favorite theme, the politics of the day. The slavery question was just
assuming prominence. Henry Clay, Martin Van Buren, and others, had at
times hinted at emancipation, while John Brown and Jared Clarkson, and a
host of lesser lights, were making the Nation quake with the thunders of
their eloquence from rostrum and pulpit. 'Squire Diggs was bitter in his
denunciations of Northerners, believing that they intended "to take our
niggers from us." He invariably emphasized the pronoun, and always spoke
of _niggers_ in the plural, as though he owned a hundred instead of one.
'Squire Diggs was one of a class of people in the South known as the
most bitter slavery men, the small slaveholders--a class that bewailed
most loudly the freedom of the negro, because they had few to free. At
dinner he said:

"Slavery is of divine origin, and all John Brown and Jared Clarkson can
say will never convince the world otherwise."

"I sometimes think," said Mr. Tompkins, "that the country would be
better off with the slaves all in Siberia."

"What? My dear sir, how could we exist?" cried 'Squire Diggs, his small
eyes growing round with wonder. "If the slaves were taken from us, who
would cultivate these vast fields?"

"Do it ourselves, or by hired help," answered the planter.

"My dear sir, the idea is impracticable," said the 'Squire, hotly. "We
cannot give up our slaves. Slavery is of divine origin. The niggers,
descending from Ham, were cursed into slavery. The Bible says so, and no
nigger-loving Abolitionist need deny it."

"I believe my husband is an emancipationist," said Mrs. Tompkins, with
a smile.

"I am," said Mr. Tompkins; "not so much for the slaves' good as for the
masters'. Slavery is a curse to both white and black, and more to the
white than to the black. The two races can never live together in
harmony, and the sooner they are separated the better."

"How would you like to free them and leave them among us?" asked the
'Squire.

"That even would be better than to keep them among us in bondage."

"But Henry Clay, in his great speech on African colonization in the
House of Representatives, says: 'Of all classes of our population, the
most vicious is the free colored.' And, my dear sir, were this horde of
blacks turned loose upon us, without masters or overseers to keep them
in restraint, our lives would not be safe for a day. Domineering niggers
would be our masters, would claim the right to vote and hold office.
Imagine, my dear sir, an ignorant nigger holding an important office
like that of justice of the peace. Consider for a moment, Mr. Tompkins,
all of the horrors which would be the natural result of a lazy, indolent
race, incapable of earning their own living, unless urged by the lash,
being turned loose to shift for themselves. Slavery is more a blessing
to the slave than to the master. What was the condition of the negro in
his native wilds? He was a ruthless savage, hunting and fighting, and
eating fellow-beings captured in war. He knew no God, and worshiped
snakes, the sun and moon, and everything he could not understand. Our
slave-traders found him in this state of barbarism and misery. They
brought him here, and taught him to till the soil, and trained him in
the ways of peace, and led him to worship the true and living God. _Our_
niggers now have food to eat and clothes to wear, when in their native
country they were hungry and naked. They now enjoy all the blessings of
an advanced civilization, whereas they were once in the lowest
barbarism. Set them free, and they will drift back into their former
state."

"A blessing may be made out of their bondage," replied Mr. Tompkins.
"As Henry Clay said in the speech from which you have quoted, 'they will
carry back to their native soil the rich fruits of religion,
civilization, law and liberty. And may it not be one of the great
designs of the Ruler of the universe (whose ways are often inscrutable
by short-sighted mortals) thus to transform original crime into a single
blessing to the most unfortunate portions of the globe? But I fear we
uphold slavery rather for our own mercenary advantages than as a
blessing either to our country or to either race."

"Why, Mr. Tompkins, you are advocating Abolition doctrine," said Mrs.
Diggs.

"I believe I am, and that abolition is right."

"Would you be willing to lose your own slaves to have the niggers
freed?" asked the astonished 'Squire.

"I would willingly lose them to rid our country of a blighting curse."

"I would not," said Mrs. Tompkins, her Southern blood fired by the
discussion. "My husband is a Northern man, and advocates principles that
were instilled into his mind from infancy; but I oppose abolition from
principle. Slaves should be treated well and made to know their place;
but to set them free and ruin thousands of people in the South is the
idea of fanatics."

"I'm mamma's Democrat," said Oleah, who, seated at his mother's side,
concluded it best to approve her remarks by proclaiming his own
political creed.

"And I am papa's Whig," announced Abner, who was at his father's side.

"That's right, my son. You don't believe that people, because they are
black, should be bought and sold and beaten like cattle, do you?" asked
the father, looking down, half in jest and half in earnest, at his
eldest born.

"No; set the negroes free, and Oleah and I will plow and drive wagons,"
he replied, quickly.

"You don't believe it's right to take people's property from them for
nothing and leave people poor, do you, Oleah?" asked the mother, in
laughing retaliation.

"No, I don't," replied the young Southern aristocrat.

"You are liable to have both political parties represented in your own
family," said 'Squire Diggs. "Here's a difference of opinion already."

"Their differences will be easy to reconcile, for never did brothers
love each other as these do," returned Mr. Tompkins, little dreaming
that this difference of opinion was a breach that would widen, widen and
widen, separating the loving brothers, and bringing untold misery to his
peaceful home.

"What are you in favor of, Patrick Henry?" Mrs. Diggs asked, in her
shrill, sharp tones, of her own hopeful son.

"I'm in favor of freedom and the Stars and Stripes," answered Patrick
Henry, gnawing vigorously at the chicken bone he held in his hand.

"He is a patriot," exclaimed the 'Squire. "He talks of nothing so much
as Revolutionary days and Revolutionary heroes. He has such a taste for
military life that I'd send him to West Point, but his mother objects."

"Yes, I do object," put in the shrill-voiced, cadaverous Mrs. Diggs,
"They don't take a child of mine to their strict military schools. Why,
what if he was to get sick, away off there, and me here? I wouldn't stop
day or night till I got there."

Dinner over, the party repaired to the parlor, and 'Squire Diggs asked
his son to speak "one of his pieces" for the entertainment of the
company.

"What piece shall I say?" asked Patrick Henry, as anxious to display his
oratorical talents as his father was to have him.

"The piece that begins, 'I come not here to talk,'" said Mrs. Diggs, her
sallow features lit up with a smile that showed the tips of her false
teeth.

Several of the negroes, learning that a show of some kind was about to
begin in the parlor, crowded about the room, peeping in at the doors and
windows. Patrick Henry took his position in the centre of the room,
struck a pompous attitude, standing high as his short legs would permit,
and, brushing the hair from his forehead, bowed to his audience and, in
a high, loud monotone, began:


     "I come not to talk! You know too well
     The story of our thraldom. We--we--"


He paused and bowed his head.

"We are slaves," prompted the mother, who was listening with eager
interest. Mrs. Diggs had heard her son "say his piece" so often that she
had learned it herself, and now served as prompter. Patrick Henry
continued:


                "We are slaves.
     The bright moon rises----"


"No, sun," interrupted his mother.


     "The bright sun rises in the East and lights
     A race of slaves. He sets--and the--last thing"--


The young orator was again off the track.

"And his last beam falls on a slave," again the fond mother prompted.

By being frequently prompted, Patrick Henry managed to "speak his piece
through."

While the mother, alert and watchful, listened and prompted, the father,
short, and sleek, and fat, leaned back in his chair, one short leg just
able to reach across the other, listening with satisfied pride to his
son's display.

"The poor child has forgotten some of it," said the mother, at the
conclusion.

"Yes," added the father; "he don't speak much now, and so has forgotten
a great deal that he knew."

Mr. Tompkins and his wife, inwardly regretting that he had not forgotten
all, willingly excused Patrick Henry from any further efforts. And
though they had welcomed and entertained their guests with the cordial
Southern hospitality, they felt somewhat relieved when the Diggs
carriage, with its ancient, dark-skinned coachman, rolled away over the
hills towards Snagtown.




CHAPTER IV.