Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  After about an hour of steady traveling, Dred arrived at the outskirts of the island which we have described. For about twenty paces before he reached it, he waded waist-deep in water. Creeping out, at last, and telling the other one to follow him, he began carefully coursing along on his hands and knees, giving, at the same time, a long, shrill, peculiar whistle. It was responded to by a similar sound, which seemed to proceed through the bushes. After a while, a crackling noise was heard, as of some animal, which gradually seemed to come nearer and nearer to them, till finally a large water-dog emerged from the underbrush, and began testifying his joy at the arrival of the newcomer, by most extravagant gambols.

  “So, ho! Buck! quiet, my boy!” said Dred. “Show us the way in!”

  The dog, as if understanding the words, immediately turned into the thicket, and Dred and his companion followed him, on their hands and knees. The path wound up and down the brushwood, through many sharp turnings, till at last it ceased altogether, at the roots of a tree; and while the dog disappeared among the brushwood, Dred climbed the tree, and directed his companion to follow him, and proceeding out on to one of the longest limbs, he sprang nimbly on to the ground in the cleared space which we have before described.

  His wife was standing waiting for him, and threw herself upon him with a cry of joy. “Oh, you’ve come back! I thought, sure enough, dey’d got you dis time!”

  “Not yet! I must continue till the opening of the seals — till the vision cometh! Have ye buried him?”

  “No; there’s a grave dug down yonder, and he’s been carried there.”

  “Come, then!” said Dred.

  At a distant part of the clearing was a blasted cedar-tree, all whose natural foliage had perished. But it was veiled from head to foot in long wreaths of the tillandsia, the parasitic moss of these regions, and in the dim light of the approaching dawn, might have formed no unapt resemblance to a gigantic spectre dressed in mourning weeds. Beneath this tree Dred had interred, from time to time, the bodies of fugitives which he had found dead in the swamps, attaching to this disposition of them some peculiar superstitious idea.

  The widow of the dead, the wife of Dred, and the newcomer were now gathered around the shallow grave; for the soil was such as scarcely gave room to make a place deep enough for a grave without its becoming filled with water. The dawn was just commencing a dim foreshadowing in the sky. The moon and stars were still shining. Dred stood and looked up, and spoke in a solemn voice: —

  “Seek him that maketh Arcturus and Orion — that turneth the shadow of death into morning! Behold those lights in the sky — the lights in his hands pierced for the sins of the world, and spread forth as on a cross! But the day shall come that he shall lay down the yoke, and he will bear the sin of the world no longer. Then shall come the great judgment. He will lay righteousness to the line and judgment to the plummet, and the hail shall sweep away the refuges of lies.”

  He stooped, and lifting the body, laid him in the grave, and at this moment the wife broke into a loud lament.

  “Hush, woman!” said Dred, raising his hand. “Weep ye not for the dead, neither bewail him; but weep ye sore for the living! He must rest till the rest of his brethren be killed; for the vision is sealed up for an appointed time. If it tarry, wait for it. It shall surely come, and shall not tarry!”

  CHAPTER XXV

  MORE SUMMER TALK

  A GLORIOUS morning, washed by the tears of last night’s shower, rose like a bride upon Canema. The raindrops sparkled and winked from leaf to leaf, or fell in showery diamonds in the breeze. The breath of numberless roses, now in full bloom, rose in clouds to the windows. The breakfast-table, with its clean damask, glittering silver, and fragrant coffee, received the last evening’s participants of the camp-meeting in fresh morning spirits, ready to discuss, as an every-day affair, what, the evening before, they had felt too deeply, perhaps, to discuss.

  On the way home, they had spoken of the scenes of the day, and wondered and speculated on the singular incident which closed it. But of all the dark circle of woe and crime, — of all that valley of vision which was present to the mind of him who spoke, — they were as practically ignorant as the dwellers of the curtained boudoirs of New York are of the fearful mysteries of the Five Points.

  The aristocratic nature of society at the South so completely segregates people of a certain position in life from any acquaintance with the movements of human nature in circles below them, that the most fearful things may be transacting in their vicinity unknown or unnoticed. The horrors and sorrows of the slave-coffle were a sealed book to Nina and Anne Clayton. They had scarcely dreamed of them; and Uncle John, if he knew their existence, took very good care to keep out of their way, as he would turn from any other painful and disagreeable scene.

  All of them had heard something of negro-hunters, and regarded them as low, vulgar people, but troubled their heads little further on the subject; so that they would have been quite at a loss for the discovery of any national sins that could have appropriately drawn down the denunciations of Heaven.

  The serious thoughts and aspirations which might have risen in any of the company, the evening before, assumed, with everything else, quite another light under the rays of morning.

  All of us must have had experience, in our own histories, of the great difference between the night and the morning view of the same subject. What we have thought and said in the august presence of witnessing stars, or beneath the holy shadows of moonlight, seems with the hot, dry light of next day’s sun to take wings, and rise to heaven with the night’s clear drops. If all the prayers and good resolutions which are laid down on sleeping pillows could be found there on awaking, the world would be better than it is.

  Of this Uncle John Gordon had experience, as he sat himself down at the breakfast-table. The night before, he realized, in some dim wise, that he, Mr. John Gordon, was not merely a fat, elderly gentleman, in blue coat and white vest, whose great object in existence was to eat well, drink well, sleep well, wear clean linen, and keep out of the way of trouble. He had within him a tumult of yearnings and aspirings, — uprisings of that great, lifelong sleeper, which we call soul, and which, when it wakes, is an awfully clamorous, craving, exacting, troublesome inmate, and which is therefore generally put asleep again in the shortest time, by whatever opiates may come to hand. Last night, urged on by this troublesome guest, stimulated by the vague power of such awful words as judgment and eternity, he had gone out and knelt down as a mourner for sin and a seeker for salvation, both words standing for very real and awful facts; and this morning, although it was probably a more sensible and appropriate thing than most of the things he was in the habit of doing, he was almost ashamed of it. The question arose, at table, whether another excursion should be made to the camp-ground.

  “For my part,” said Aunt Maria, “I hope you’ll not go again, Mr. Gordon. I think you had better keep out of the way of such things. I really was vexed to see you in that rabble of such very common people!”

  “You’ll observe,” said Uncle John, “that, when Mrs. G. goes to heaven, she’ll notify the Lord, forthwith, that she has only been accustomed to the most select circles, and requests to be admitted at the front door.”

  “It isn’t because I object to being with common people,” said Anne Clayton, “that I dislike this custom of going to the altar; but it seems to me an invasion of that privacy and reserve which belong to our most sacred feelings. Besides, there are in a crowd coarse, rude, disagreeable people, with whom it isn’t pleasant to come in contact.”

  “For my part,” said Mrs. John Gordon, “I don’t believe in it at all! It’s a mere temporary excitement. People go and get wonderfully wrought up, come away, and are just what they were before.”

  “Well,” said Clayton, “isn’t it better to be wrought up once in a while, than never to have any religious feelings? Isn’t it better to have a vivid impression of the vastness and worth of the soul, — of the power of an endless
life, —— for a few hours once a year, than never to feel it at all? The multitudes of those people, there, never hear or think a word of these things at any other time in their lives. For my part,” he added, “I don’t see why it’s a thing to be ashamed of, if Mr. Gordon or I should have knelt at the altar last night, even if we do not feel like it this morning. We are too often ashamed of our better moments; — I believe Protestant Christians are the only people on earth who are ashamed of the outward recognition of their religion. The Mahometan will prostrate himself in the street, or wherever he happens to be, when his hour for prayer comes. The Roman Catholic sailor or soldier kneels down at the sound of the vesper bell. But we rather take pride in having it understood that we take our religion moderately and coolly, and that we are not going to put ourselves much out about it.”

  “Well, but, brother,” said Anne, “I will maintain, still, that there is a reserve about these things which belongs to the best Christians. And did not our Saviour tell us that our prayers and alms should be in secret?”

  “I do not deny at all what you say, Anne,” said Clayton; “but I think what I said is true, notwithstanding; and both being true, of course, in some way they must be consistent with each other.”

  “I think,” said Nina, “the sound of the singing at these camp-meetings is really quite spirit-stirring and exciting.”

  “Yes,” said Clayton, “these wild tunes, and the hymns with which they are associated, form a kind of forest liturgy, in which the feelings of thousands of hearts have been embodied. Some of the tunes seem to me to have been caught from the song of birds, or from the rushing of wind among the branches. They possess a peculiar rhythmical energy, well suited to express the vehement emotions of the masses. Did camp-meetings do no other good than to scatter among the people these hymns and tunes, I should consider them to be of inestimable value.”

  “I must say,” said Anne, “I always had a prejudice against that class both of hymns and tunes.”

  “You misjudge them,” said Clayton, “as you refined, cultivated women always do, who are brought up in the kid-slipper and carpet view of human life. But just imagine only the old Greek or Roman peasantry elevated to the level of one of these hymns. Take, for example, a verse of one I heard them sing last night: —

  ‘The earth shall be dissolved like snow,

  The sun shall cease to shine,

  But God, who called me here below,

  Shall be forever mine.’

  What faith is there! What confidence in immortality! How could a man feel it, and not be ennobled? Then, what a rough hearty heroism was in that first hymn! It was right manly!”

  “Ah, but,” said Anne, “half the time they sing them without the slightest perception of their meaning, or the least idea of being influenced by them.”

  “And so do the worshipers in the sleepiest and most aristocratic churches,” said Clayton. “That’s nothing peculiar to the camp-ground. But if it is true what a certain statesman once said, ‘Let me make the ballads of the people, and I care not who makes their laws,’ it is certainly a great gain to have such noble sentiments as many of these hymns contain circulating freely among the people.”

  “What upon earth,” said Uncle John, “do you suppose that last fellow was about, up in the clouds, there? Nobody seemed to know where he was, or who he was; and I thought his discourse seemed to be rather an unexpected addition. He put it into us pretty strong, I thought! Declare, such a bundle of woes and curses I never heard distributed! Seemed to have done up all the old prophets into one bundle, and tumbled it down upon our heads! Some of them were quite superstitious about it, and began talking about warnings, and all that.”

  “Pooh!” said Aunt Maria, “the likelihood is that some itinerant poor preacher has fallen upon this trick for pro ducing a sensation. There is no end to the trickeries and the got-up scenes in these camp-meetings, just to produce effect. If I had had a pistol, I should like to have fired into the tree, and see whether I couldn’t have changed his tune.”

  “It seemed to me,” said Clayton, “from the little that I did hear, that there was some method in his madness. It was one of the most singular and impressive voices I ever heard; and really, the enunciation of some of those latter things was tremendous. But then, in the universal license and general confusion of the scene, the thing was not so much to be wondered at. It would be the most natural thing in the world that some crazy fanatic should be heated almost to the point of insanity by the scene, and take this way of unburdening himself. Such excitements most generally assume the form of denunciation.”

  “Well, now,” said Nina, “to tell the truth, I should like to go out again to-day. It’s a lovely ride, and I like to be in the woods. And then, I like to walk around among the tents, and hear the people talk, and see all the different specimens of human nature that are there. I never saw such a gathering together in my life.”

  “Agreed!” said Uncle John. “I’ll go with you. After all, Clayton, here, has got the right of it, when he says a fellow oughtn’t to be ashamed of his religion, such as it is.”

  “Such as it is, to be sure!” said Aunt Maria sarcastically.

  “Yes, I say again, such as it is!” said Uncle John, bracing himself. “I don’t pretend it’s much. We’ll all of us bear to be a good deal better, without danger of being translated. Now, as to this being converted, hang me if I know how to get at it! I suppose that it is something like an electric shock — if a fellow is going to get it, he must go up to the machine!”

  “Well,” said Nina, “you do hear some queer things there. Don’t you remember that jolly, slashing-looking fellow, whom they called Bill Dakin, that came up there with his two dogs? In the afternoon, after the regular services, we went to one of the tents where there was a very noisy prayer-meeting going on, and there was Bill Dakin, on his knees, with his hands clasped, and the tears rolling down his cheeks; and Father Bonnie was praying over him with all his might. And what do you think he said? He said, ‘O Lord, here’s Bill Dakin; he is converted; now take him right to heaven, now he is ready, or he’ll be drunk again in two weeks!’”

  “Well,” said Anne Clayton, tossing her head indignantly, “that’s blasphemy, in my opinion.”

  “Oh, perhaps not,” said Clayton, “any more than the clownish talk of any of our servants is intentional rudeness.”

  “Well,” said Anne, “don’t you think it shows a great want of perception?”

  “Certainly, it does,” said Clayton. “It shows great rudeness and coarseness of fibre, and is not at all to be commended. But still we are not to judge of it by the rules of cultivated society. In well-trained minds every faculty keeps its due boundaries; but in this kind of wild-forest growth, mirthfulness will sometimes overgrow reverence, just as the yellow jessamine will completely smother a tree. A great many of the ordinances of the old Mosaic dispensation were intended to counteract this very tendency.”

  “Well,” said Nina, “did you notice poor old Tiff, so intent upon getting his children converted? He didn’t seem to have the least thought or reference to getting into heaven himself. The only thing with him was to get those children in. Tiff seems to me just like those mistletoes that we see on the trees in the swamps. He don’t seem to have any root of his own; he seems to grow out of something else.”

  “Those children are very pretty-looking, genteel children,” said Anne; “and how well they were dressed!”

  “My dear,” said Nina, “Tiff prostrates himself at my shrine, every time he meets me, to implore my favorable supervision as to that point; and it really is diverting to hear him talk. The old Caliban has an eye for color, and a sense of what is suitable, equal to any French milliner. I assure you, my dear, I always was reputed for having a talent for dress; and Tiff appreciates me. Isn’t it charming of him? I declare, when I see the old creature lugging about those children, I always think of an ugly old cactus with its blossoms. I believe he verily thinks they belong to him just as much. Their father
is entirely dismissed from Tiff’s calculations. Evidently all he wants of him is to keep out of the way, and let him work. The whole burden of their education lies on his shoulders.”

  “For my part,” said Aunt Nesbit, “I’m glad you’ve faith to believe in those children. I haven’t; they’ll be sure to turn out badly — you see if they don’t.”

  “And I think,” said Aunt Maria, “we have enough to do with our own servants, without taking all these miserable whites on our hands, too.”

  “I’m not going to take all the whites,” said Nina. “I’m going to take these children.”

  “I wish you joy!” said Aunt Maria.

  “I wonder,” said Aunt Nesbit, “if Harry is under concern of mind. He seems to be dreadfully down, this morning.”

  “Is he?” said Nina. “I hadn’t noticed it.”

  “Well,” said Uncle John, “perhaps he’ll get set up, to-day — who knows? In fact, I hope I shall myself. I tell you what it is, parson,” said he, laying his hand on Clayton’s shoulder, “you should take the gig, to-day, and drive this little sinner, and let me go with the ladies. Of course you know Mrs. G. engrosses my whole soul; but then, there’s a kind of insensible improvement that comes from such celestial bodies as Miss Anne, here, that oughtn’t to be denied to me. The clergy ought to enumerate female influence among the means of grace. I’m sure there’s nothing builds me up like it.”

  Clayton, of course, assented very readily to this arrangement; and the party was adjusted on this basis.

  “Look ye here, now, Clayton,” said Uncle John, tipping him a sly wink, after he had handed Nina in, “you must confess that little penitent! She wants a spiritual director, my boy! I tell you what, Clayton, there isn’t a girl like that in North Carolina. There’s blood, sir, there. You must humor her on the bit, and give her her head a while. Ah, but she’ll draw well at last! I always like a creature that kicks to pieces harness, wagon, and all, to begin with. They do the best when they are broken in.” With which profound remarks Uncle John turned to hand Anne Clayton to the carriage.