Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

The Greek philosophy knew nothing of all this, and the result is that even in the atheism which sprang from the East, and in its harshest and lowest 'tinctures,' we find a something nobler and less selfish than is to be found in the school of Plato himself. And however this may be, the reader will admit, in examining the six skeptics set forth by Scott, that each is a character firmly based in historical truth; that all, with the exception of 'Bletson,' are sketched with remarkable brevity; and that a careful comparative analysis of the whole gives us a deeper insight into the secret tendencies of the author's mind, and at the same time into the springs of his genius, than the world has been wont to take. And the study of the subject is finally interesting, since we may learn from it that even in the works of one who is a standard poetic authority among those who would, if possible, subject all men to feudalism, we may learn lessons of that highest social truth – republicanism.

A CHORD OF WOOD

Well, New York, you've made your pile
Of Wood, and, if you like, may smile:
Laugh, if you will, to split your sides,
But in that Wood pile a nigger hides,
With a double face beneath his hood:
Don't hurra till you're out of your Wood.

A MERCHANT'S STORY

'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

CHAPTER XIX

The moon and the stars were out, and the tall, dark pines cast long, gloomy shadows over the little rows of negro houses which formed the rearguard to Preston's mansion. They were nearly deserted. Not a solitary fire slumbered on the bare clay hearths, and not a single darky stood sentry over the loose pork and neglected hoecakes, or kept at bay the army of huge rats and prowling opossums which beleaguered the quarters. Silence – death's music – was over and around them. The noisy revelry of the dancers had died away in the distance, and even the hoarse song of the great trees had sunk to a low moan as they stood, motionless and abashed, in the presence of the grim giant who knocks alike at the palace and the cottage gate.

A stray light glimmered through the logs of a low hut, far off in the woods, and, making our way to it, we entered. A bright fire lit up the interior, and on a rude cot, in one corner, lay the old preacher. His eyes were closed; a cold, clammy sweat was on his forehead – he was dying. One of his skeleton hands rested on the tattered coverlet, and his weazened face was half buried in a dilapidated pillow, whose ragged casing and protruding plumage bespoke it a relic of some departed white sleeper.

An old negress, with gray hair and haggard visage, sat at the foot of the bed, wailing piteously; and Joe and half a dozen aged saints stood around, singing a hymn, doleful enough to have made even a sinner weep.

Not heeding our entrance, Joe took the dying man by the hand, and, in a slow, solemn voice, said:

'Brudder Jack, you'm dyin'; you'm gwine ter dat lan' whence no trabeller returns; you'm settin' out fur dat country which'm lit by de smile ob de Lord; whar dar ain't no sickness, no pain, no sorrer, no dyin'; fur dat kingdom whar de Lord reigns; whar trufh flows on like a riber; whar righteousness springs up like de grass, an' lub draps down like de dew, an' cobers de face ob de groun'; whar you woan't gwo 'bout wid no crutch; whar you woan't lib in no ole cabin like dis, an' eat hoecake an' salt pork in sorrer an' heabiness ob soul; but whar you'll run an' not be weary, an' walk an' not be faint; whar you'll hab a hous'n builded ob de Lord, an' sit at His table – you' meat an' drink de bread an' de water ob life!

'I knows you's a sinner, Jack; I knows you's lub'd de hot water too much, an' dat it make you forgit you' duty sometime, an' set a bad 'zample ter dem as looked up ter you fur better tings; but dar am mercy wid de Lord, Jack; dar am forgibness wid Him; an' I hopes you'm ready an' willin' ter gwo.'

Old Jack opened his eyes, and, in a low, peevish tone, said:

'Joe, none ob you' nonsense ter me! I'se h'ard you talk dis way afore. You can't preach – you neber could. You jess knows I ain't fit ter trabble, an' I ain't willin' ter gwo, nowhar.'

Joe mildly rebuked him, and again commenced expatiating on the 'upper kingdom,' and on the glories of 'the house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens;' but the old darky cut him short, with —

'Shet up, Joe! no more ob dat. I doan't want no oder hous'n but dis – dis ole cabin am good 'nuff fur me.'

Joe was about to reply, when Preston stepped to the bedside, and, taking the aged preacher's hand, said:

'My good Jack, master Robert has come to see you.'

The dying man turned his eyes toward his master, and, in a weak, tremulous voice, exclaimed:

'Oh! massa Robert, has you come? has you come ter see ole Jack? Bress you, massa Robert, bress you! Jack know'd you'd neber leab him yere ter die alone.'

'No, my good Jack; I would save you if I could.'

'But you can't sabe me, massa Robert; I'se b'yond dat. I'se dyin', massa Robert. I'se gwine ter de good missus. She tell'd me ter get ready ter foller har, an' I is. I'se gwine ter har now, massa Robert!'

'I know you are, Jack. I feel sure you are.'

'Tank you, massa Robert – tank you fur sayin' dat. An' woan't you pray fur me, massa Robert – jess a little pray? De good man's prayer am h'ard, you knows, massa Robert.'

All kneeling down on the rough floor, Preston prayed – a short, simple, fervent prayer. At its close, he rose, and, bending over the old negro, said:

'The Lord is good, Jack; His mercy is everlasting.'

'I knows dat; I feels dat,' gasped the dying man. 'I lubs you, massa Robert; I allers lub'd you; but I'se gwine ter leab you now. Bress you! de Lord bress you, massa Robert' I'll tell de good missus' —

He clutched convulsively at his master's hand; a wild light came out of his eyes; a sudden spasm passed over his face, and – he was 'gone whar de good darkies go.'

CHAPTER XX

On the following day Frank and I were to resume our journey; and, in the morning, I suggested that we should visit Colonel Dawsey, with whom, though he had for many years been a correspondent of the house in which I was a partner, I had no personal acquaintance.

His plantation adjoined Preston's, and his house was only a short half mile from my friend's. After breakfast, we set out for it through the woods. The day was cold for the season, with a sharp, nipping air, and our overcoats were not at all uncomfortable.

As we walked along I said to Preston:

'Dawsey's 'account' is a good one. He never draws against shipments, but holds on, and sells sight drafts, thus making the exchange.'

'Yes, I know; he's a close calculator.'

'Does he continue to manage his negroes as formerly?'

'In much the same way, I reckon.'

'Then he can't stand remarkably well with his neighbors.'

'Oh! people round here don't mind such things. Many of them do as badly as he. Besides, Dawsey is a gentleman of good family. He inherited his plantation and two hundred hands.'

'Indeed! How, then, did he become reduced to his present number?'

'He was a wild young fellow, and, before he was twenty-five, had squandered and gambled away everything but his land and some thirty negroes. Then he turned square round, and, from being prodigal and careless, became mean and cruel. He has a hundred now, and more ready money than any planter in the district.'

A half hour's walk took us to Dawsey's negro quarters – a collection of about thirty low huts in the rear of his house. They were not so poor as some I had seen on cotton and rice plantations, but they seemed unfit for the habitation of any animal but the hog. Their floors were the bare ground, hardened by being moistened with water and pounded with mauls; and worn, as they were, several inches lower in the centre than at the sides, they must have formed, in rainy weather, the beds of small lakes. So much water would have been objectionable to white tenants; but negroes, like their friends the alligators, are amphibious animals; and Dawsey's were never known to make complaint. The chimneys were often merely vent-holes in the roof, though a few were tumble-down structures of sticks and clay; and not a window, nor an opening which courtesy could have christened a window, was to be seen in the entire collection. And, for that matter, windows were useless, for the wide crevices in the logs, which let in the air and rain, at the same time might admit the light. Two or three low beds at one end, a small pine bench, which held half a dozen wooden plates and spoons, and a large iron pot, resting on four stones, over a low fire, and serving for both washtub and cook-kettle, composed the furniture of each interior.

No one of the cabins was over sixteen feet square, but each was 'home' and 'shelter' for three or four human beings. Walking on a short distance, we came to a larger hovel, in front of which about a dozen young chattels were playing. Seven or eight more, too young to walk, were crawling about on the ground inside. They had only one garment apiece – a long shirt of coarse linsey – and their heads and feet were bare. An old negress was seated in the doorway, knitting. Approaching her, I said:

'Aunty, are not these children cold?'

'Oh! no, massa; dey'm use' ter de wedder.'

'Do you take care of all of them?'

'In de daytime I does, massa. In de night dar mudders takes de small 'uns.'

'But some of them are white. Those two are as white as I am!'

'No, massa; dey'm brack. Ef you looks at dar eyes an' dar finger nails, you'll see dat.'