by Twain, Mark
And she was able to accommodate a slave—even accommodate the whim of a slave, against her own personal interest and desire. A woman who had been “mammy”—that is, nurse—to several of us children, took a notion that she would like to change masters. She wanted to be sold to a Mr. B., of our town. That was a sore trial, for the woman was almost like one of the family; but she pleaded hard—for that man had been beguiling her with all sorts of fine and alluring promises—and my mother yielded, and also persuaded my father.
It is commonly believed that an infallible effect of slavery was to make such as lived in its midst hard-hearted. I think it had no such effect—speaking in general terms. I think it stupefied everybody’s humanity, as regarded the slave, but stopped there. There were no hard-hearted people in our town—I mean there were no more than would be found in any other town of the same size in any other country; and in my experience hard-hearted people are very rare everywhere. Yet I remember that once when a white man killed a negro man for a trifling little offence everybody seemed indifferent about it—as regarded the slave—though considerable sympathy was felt for the slave’s owner, who had been bereft of valuable property by a worthless person who was not able to pay for it.
My father was a humane man; all will grant this who knew him. Still, proof is better than assertion, and I have it at hand. Before me is a letter, near half a century old, dated January 5, 1842, and written by my father to my mother. He is on a steamboat, ascending the Mississippi, and is approaching Memphis. He has made a hard and tedious journey, in mid winter, to hunt up a man in the far south who has been owing him $470 for twenty years. He has found his man, has also found that his man is solvent and able to pay, but—
—“it seemed so very hard upon him these hard times to pay such a sum, that I could not have the conscience to hold him to it. On the whole I consented to take his note, payable 1st March next, for $250 and let him off at that. I believe I was quite too lenient, and ought to have had at least that amount down.”
Is not this a humane, a soft-hearted man? If even the gentlest of us had been plowing through ice and snow, horseback and per steamboat, for six weeks to collect that little antiquity, wouldn’t we have collected it, and the man’s scalp along with it? I trust so. Now, lower down on the same page, my father—proven to be a humane man—writes this:
“I still have Charley; the highest price I was offered for him in New Orleans was $50, and in Vicksburg $40. After performing the journey to Tennessee I expect to sell him for whatever he will bring when I take water again, viz., at Louisville or Nashville.”
And goes right on, then, about some indifferent matter, poor Charley’s approaching eternal exile from his home, and his mother, and his friends, and all things and creatures that make life dear and the heart to sing for joy, affecting him no more than if this humble comrade of his long pilgrimage had been an ox—and somebody else’s ox. It makes a body homesick for Charley, even after fifty years. Thank God I have no recollection of him as house servant of ours; that is to say, playmate of mine; for I was playmate to all the niggers, preferring their society to that of the elect, I being a person of low-down tastes from the start, notwithstanding my high birth, and ever ready to forsake the communion of high souls if I could strike anything nearer my grade.
She was of a sunshiny disposition, and her long life was mainly a holiday to her. She was a dancer, from childhood to the end, and as capable a one as the Presbyterian church could show among its communicants. At eighty-seven she would trip through the lively and graceful figures that had been familiar to her more than seventy years before. She was very bright, and was fond of banter and playful duels of wit; and she had a sort of ability which is rare in men and hardly existent in women—the ability to say a humorous thing with the perfect air of not knowing it to be humorous. Whenever I was in her presence, after I was grown, a battle of chaff was going on all the time, but under the guise of serious conversation. Once, under pretence of fishing for tender and sentimental reminiscences of my childhood—a sufficiently annoying childhood for other folk to recal, since I was sick the first seven years of it and lived altogether on expensive allopathic medicines—I asked her how she used to feel about me in those days. With an almost pathetic earnestness she said, “All along at first I was afraid you would die”—a slight, reflective pause, then this addition, spoken as if talking to herself—“and after that I was afraid you wouldn’t.” After eighty her memory failed, and she lived almost entirely in a world peopled by carefree mates of her young girlhood whose voices had fallen silent and whose forms had mouldered to dust many and many a year gone by; and in this gracious companionship she walked pleasantly down to the grave unconscious of her gray head and her vanished youth. Only her memory was stricken; otherwise her intellect remained unimpaired. When I arrived, late at night, in the earliest part of her last illness, she had been without sleep long enough to have worn a strong young person out, but she was as ready to talk, as ready to give and take, as ever. She knew me perfectly, but to her disordered fancy I was not a gray-headed man, but a school-boy, and had just arrived from the east on vacation. There was a deal of chaff, a deal of firing back and forth, and then she began to inquire about the school and what sort of reputation I had in it—and with a rather frankly doubtful tone about the questions, too. I said that my reputation was really a wonder; that there was not another boy there whose morals were anywhere near up to mine; that whenever I passed by, the citizens stood in reverent admiration, and said: “There goes the model boy.” She was silent a while, then she said, musingly: “Well, I wonder what the rest are like.”
She was married at twenty; she always had the heart of a young girl; and in the sweetness and serenity of death she seemed somehow young again. She was always beautiful.
Villagers of 1840–3
Judge Draper, dead without issue.
Judge Carpenter. Wife, Joanna. Sons: Oscar, Burton, Hartley, Simon. Daughter, Priscella.
Dr. Meredith. Sons, Charley and John. Two old-maid sisters. He had been a sailor, and had a deep voice. Charley went to California and thence to hell; John, a meek and bashful boy, became the cruelest of bushwhacker-leaders in the war-time.
Dr. Fife. Dr. Peake.
Lawyer Lakenan.
Captain Robards. Flour mill. Called rich. George (flame, Mary Moss,) an elder pupil at Dawson’s, long hair, Latin, grammar, etc. Disappointed, wandered out into the world, and not heard of again for certain. Floating rumors at long intervals that he had been seen in South America (Lima) and other far places. Family apparently not disturbed by his absence. But it was known that Mary Moss was.
John Robards. When 12, went to California across the plains with his father. Gone a year. Returned around Cape Horn. Rode in the Plains manner, his long yellow hair flapping. He said he was appointed to West Point and couldn’t pass because of a defect in his eye. Probably a lie. There was always a noticeable defect in his veracity. Was a punctual boy at the Meth. Sunday school, and at Dawson’s; a good natured fellow, but not much to him. Became a lawyer. Married a Hurst—new family. Prominent and valued citizen, and well-to-do. Procreated a cloud of children. Superintendent of the Old Ship of Zion Sunday school.
Clay Robards. A good and daring rebel soldier. Disappeared from view.
Sally Robards. Pupil at Dawson’s. Married Bart Bowen, pilot and captain. Young widow.
Russell Moss. Pork-house. Rich. Mary, very sweet and pretty at 16 and 17. Wanted to marry George Robards. Lawyer Lakenan the rising stranger, held to be the better match by the parents, who were looking higher than commerce. They made her engage herself to L. L. made her study hard a year to fit herself to be his intellectual company; then married her, shut her up, the docile and heart-hurt young beauty, and continued her education rigorously. When he was ready to trot her out in society 2 years later and exhibit her, she had become wedded to her seclusion and her melancholy broodings, and begged to be left alone. He compelled her—that is, commanded. She obeyed. Her
first exit was her last. The sleigh was overturned, her thigh was broken; it was badly set. She got well with a terrible limp, and forever after stayed in the house and produced children. Saw no company, not even the mates of her girlhood.
Neil Moss. The envied rich boy of the Meth. S. S. Spoiled and of small account. Dawson’s. Was sent to Yale—a mighty journey and an incomparable distinction. Came back in swell eastern clothes, and the young men dressed up the warped negro bell ringer in a travesty of him—which made him descend to village fashions. At 30 he was a graceless tramp in Nevada, living by mendicancy and borrowed money. Disappeared. The parents died after the war. Mary Lakenan’s husband got the property.
Dana Breed. From Maine. Clerk for old T. R. Selmes, an Englishman. Married Letititia Richmond. Collins and Breed—merchants. This lot all dead now.
Lot Southard. Clerk. Married Lucy Lockwood. Dead.
Jesse Armstrong. Clerk for Selmes. Married -------. After many years she fell in love with her physician. One night somebody entered the back door—A. jumped out of bed to see about it and was chopped to pieces with an axe brought from his own woodpile. The widow and the physician tried for the murder. Evidence insufficient. Acquitted, but Judge, jury and all the town believed them guilty. Before the year was out they married, and were at once and rigorously ostracised. The physician’s practice shrunk to nothing, but Armstrong left wealth, so it was no matter.
Bill Briggs. Drifted to California in ’50, and in ’65 was a handsome bachelor and had a woman. Kept a faro-table.
John Briggs. (Miss Torrey and Miss Newcomb and Mrs. Horr.) Worked as stemmer in Garth’s factory. Became a 6-footer and a capable rebel private.
Artemissa Briggs. (Miss Torrey, N. and Mrs. H.) Married Richmond the mason, Miss Torrey’s widower.
Miss Newcomb—old maid and thin. Married Davis, a day laborer.
Miss Lucy Davis. Schoolmarm.
Mrs. Hawkins. Widow about 1840. ’Lige—became rich merchant in St Louis and New York.
Ben. City marshal. Shot his thumb off, hunting. Fire marshal of Big 6 Company.
Jeff. Little boy. Died. Buried in the old graveyard on the hill.
Sophia. Married ----- the prosperous tinner.
Laura. Pretty little creature of 5 at Miss Torrey’s. At the Hill street school she and Jenny Brady wrote on the slate that day at the noon recess. Another time Laura fell out of her chair and Jenny made that vicious remark. Laura lived to be the mother of six 6-foot sons. Died.
Little Margaret Striker.
----- Striker the blacksmith.
McDonald the desperado (plasterer.)
Mrs. Holiday. Was a MacDonald, born Scotch. Wore her father’s ivory miniature—a British General in the Revolution. Lived on Holiday’s Hill. Well off. Hospitable. Fond of having parties of young people. Widow. Old, but anxious to marry. Always consulting fortune-tellers; always managed to make them understand that she had been promised 3 by the first fraud. They always confirmed the prophecy. She finally died before the prophecies had a full chance.
Old Stevens, jeweler. Dick, Upper Miss. pilot. Ed, neat as a new pin. Miss Newcomb’s. Tore down Dick Hardy’s stable. Insurrection-leader. Brought before Miss N., brickbats fell out of his pockets and J. Meredith’s. Ed was out with the rebel company sworn in by Col. Ralls of the Mexican war.
Ed. Hyde, Dick Hyde. Tough and dissipated. Ed. held his uncle down while Dick tried to kill him with a pistol which refused fire.
Eliza Hyde. “Last Link is Broken.” Married a stranger. Thought drifted to Texas. Died.
Old Selmes and his Wildcat store. Widower. His daughter married well—St Louis.
’Gyle Buchanan. Robert, proprietor of Journal. Shouting methodists. Young Bob and Little Joe, printers. Big Joe a fighter and steamboat engineer after apprenticeship as a moulder. Somebody hit young Bob over the head with a fire-shovel.
Sam Raymond—fire company, and editor of (Journal?) St Louis swell. Always affected fine city language, and said “Toosday.” Married Mary Nash?
Tom Nash. Went deaf and dumb from breaking through ice. Became a house-painter; and at Jacksonville was taught to talk, after a fashion. His 2 young sisters went deaf and dumb from scarlet fever.
Old Nash. Postmaster. His aged mother was Irish, had family jewels, and claimed to be aristocracy.
Blankenships. The parents paupers and drunkards; the girls charged with prostitution—not proven. Tom, a kindly young heathen. Bence, a fisherman. These children were never sent to school or church. Played out and disappeared.
Captain S. A. Bowen. Died about 1850. His wife later.
John, steamboat agent in St Louis; army contractor, later—rich.
Bart. Pilot and Captain. Good fellow. Consumptive. Gave $20, time of Pennsylvania disaster. Young McManus got it. Left young widow.
Mary. Married lawyer Green, who was Union man.
Eliza—stammered badly, and was a kind of a fool.
Will. Pilot. Diseased. Mrs. Horr and all the rest (including Cross?) Had the measles that time. Baptist family. Put cards in minister’s baptising robe. Trouble in consequence. Helped roll rock down that jumped over Simon’s dray and smashed into coopershop. He died in Texas. Family.
Sam. Pilot. Slept with the rich baker’s daughter, telling the adoptive parents they were married. The baker died and left all his wealth to “Mr. and Mrs. S. Bowen.” They rushed off to a Carondolet magistrate, got married, and bribed him to antedate the marriage. Heirs from Germany proved the fraud and took the wealth. Sam no account and a pauper. Neglected his wife; she took up with another man. Sam a drinker. Dropped pretty low. Died of yellow fever and whisky on a little boat with Bill Kribben the defaulting secretary. Both buried at the head of 82. In 5 years 82 got washed away.
Rev. Mr. Rice. Presbyterian. Died.
Rev. Tucker. Went east.
Roberta Jones. Scared old Miss ------ into the insane asylum with a skull and a doughface. Married Jackson. “Oh, on Long Island’s Sea-girt Shore.”
Jim Quarles. Tinner. Set up in business by his father—$3,000—a fortune, then. Popular young beau—dancer—flutist—serenader—envied—a great catch. Married a child of 14. Two babies the result. Father highly disapproved the marriage. Dissipation—often drunk. Neglected the business—and the child-wife and babies. Left them and went to California. The little family went to Jim’s father. Jim became a drunken loafer in California, and so died.
Jim Lampton. A popular beau, like the other. Good fellow, very handsome, full of life. Young doctor without practice, poor, but good family and considered a good catch. Captured by the arts of Ella Hunter, a loud vulgar beauty from a neighboring town—one of the earliest chipper and self-satisfied and idiotic correspondents of the back-country newspapers—an early Kate Field. Moved to St Louis. Steamboat agent. Young Dr. John McDowell boarded with them; followed them from house to house; an arrant scandal to everybody with eyes—but Jim hadn’t any, and believed in the loyalty of both of them. God took him at last, the only good luck he ever had after he met Ella. Left a red-headed daughter, Kate. Doctor John and Ella continued together.
In sixty years that town has not turned out a solitary preacher; not a U.S. Senator, only 2 congressmen, and in no instance a name known across the river. But one college-man.
Wales McCormick. J—s H. C.
Dick Rutter.
Pet McMurry. His medicine bottle—greasy auburn hair—Cuba sixes. Quincy. Family. Stove store.
Bill League. Married the gravestone-cutter’s daughter. “Courier.” Became its proprietor. Made it a daily and prosperous. Children. Died.
The two young sailors—Irish.
Urban E. Hicks. Saw Jenny Lind. Went to Oregon; served in Indian war.
Jim Wolf. The practical jokes. Died.
Letitia Honeyman. School. Married a showy stranger. Turned out to be a thief and swindler. She and her baby waited while he served a long term. At the end of it her youth was gone, and her cheery ways.
Sam. Lost an arm in the war. Became
a policeman.
Pavey. “Pigtail done.” A lazy, vile-tempered old hellion. His wife and daughters did all the work and were atrociously treated. Pole—went to St Louis. Gone six months—came back a striker, with wages, the envy of everybody. Drove his girl Sunday in buggy from Shoot’s stable, $1.50 a day. Introduced poker—cent ante. Became second engineer. Married a pretty little fat child in St. Louis. Got drowned.
Becky. Came up from St Louis a sweet and pretty young thing—caused many heart-breaks. Silver pencil—$1.50—she didn’t care for it. Davis a widower, married her sister Josephine, and Becky married Davis’s son. They went to Texas. Disappeared. The “long dog.”
The other sisters married—Mrs. Strong went to Peoria. One of them was Mrs. Shoot—married at 13, daughter (Mrs. Hayward) born at 14. Mrs. Hayward’s daughter tried the stage at home, then at Daly’s, didn’t succeed. Finally a pushing and troublesome London newspaper correspondent.
Jim Foreman. Clerk. Pomeroy Benton & Co. Handkerchief.
Mrs. Sexton (she pronounced it Saxton to make it finer, the nice, kind-hearted, smirky, smily dear Christian creature—Methodist.)
Margaret. Pretty child of 14. Boarders in 1844 house. Simon and Hartley, rivals. Mrs. S. talked much of N-Yorliuns; and hints and sighs of better days there, departed never to return. Sunday-school.
[Cloak of the time, flung back, lined with bright plaid. Worn with a swagger. Most rational garment that ever was.
Slouch hat, worn gallusly.
Hoop-skirts coming in.
Literature. Byron, Scott, Cooper, Marryatt, Boz. Pirates and knights preferred to other society. Songs tended to regrets for bygone days and vanished joys: Oft in the Stilly Night; Last Rose of Summer; The Last Link; Bonny Doon; Old Dog Tray; for the lady I love will soon be a bride; Gaily the Troubadour; Bright Alfarata.
