Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Clayton understood too well what he was about to make any such use of the interview as Uncle John had suggested. He knew perfectly that his best chance, with a nature so restless as Nina’s, was to keep up a sense of perfect freedom in all their intercourse; and, therefore, no grandfather could have been more collected and easy in a tête-à-tête drive than he. The last conversation at the camp-meeting he knew had brought them much nearer to each other than they had ever stood before, because both had spoken in deep earnestness of feeling of what lay deepest in their heart; and one such moment, he well knew, was of more binding force than a hundred nominal betrothals.

  The morning was one of those perfect ones which succeed a thunder-shower in the night; when the air, cleared of every gross vapor, and impregnated with moist exhalations from the woods, is both balmy and stimulating. The steaming air developed to the full the balsamic properties of the pine groves through which they rode; and where the road skirted the swampy land, the light fell slanting on the leaves of the deciduous trees, rustling and dripping with the last night’s shower. The heavens were full of those brilliant, island-like clouds, which are said to be a peculiarity of American skies, in their distinct relief above the intense blue. At a long distance they caught the sound of camp - meeting hymns. But before they reached the ground, they saw, in more than one riotous group, the result of too frequent an application to Abijah Skinflint’s department, and others of a similar character. They visited the quarters of Old Tiff, whom they found busy ironing some clothes for the baby, which he had washed and hung out the night before. The preaching had not yet commenced, and the party walked about among the tents. Women were busy cooking and washing dishes under the trees; and there was a great deal of good-natured gossiping.

  One of the most remarkable features of the day was a sermon from Father Dickson, on the sins of the church. It concluded with a most forcible and solemn appeal to all on the subject of slavery. He reminded both the Methodists and Presbyterians that their books of discipline had most pointedly and unequivocally condemned it; that John Wesley had denounced it as the sum of all villainies, and that the general assemblies of the Presbyterian Church had condemned it as wholly inconsistent with the religion of Christ, with the great law which requires us to love others as ourselves. He related the scene which he had lately witnessed in the slave-coffle. He spoke of the horrors of the interstate slave-trade, and drew a touching picture of the separation of families, and the rending of all domestic and social ties, which resulted from it, and alluding to the unknown speaker of the evening before, told his audience that he had discerned a deep significance in his words, and that he feared, if there was not immediate repentance and reformation, the land would yet be given up to the visitations of divine wrath. As he spoke with feeling, he awakened feeling in return. Many were affected even to tears; but when the sermon was over, it seemed to melt away, as a wave flows back again into the sea. It was far easier to join in a temporary whirlwind of excitement than to take into consideration troublesome, difficult, and expensive reforms.

  Yet, still, it is due to the degenerate Christianity of the slave states to say, that, during the long period in which the church there has been corrupting itself, and lowering its standard of right to meet a depraved institution, there have not been wanting, from time to time, noble confessors, who have spoken for God and humanity. For many years they were listened to with that kind of pensive tolerance which men give when they acknowledge their fault without any intention of mending. Of late years, however, the lines have been drawn more sharply, and such witnesses have spoken in peril of their lives; so that now seldom a voice arises except in approbation of oppression.

  The sermon was fruitful of much discussion in different parts of the camp-ground; and none, perhaps, was louder in the approbation of it than the Georgia trader, who, seated on Abijah Skinflint’s counter, declared: “That was a parson as was a parson, and that he liked his pluck; and, for his part, when ministers and church-members would give over buying, he should take up some other trade.”

  “That was a very good sermon,” said Nina, “and I believe every word of it. But then, what do you suppose we ought to do?”

  “Why,” said Clayton, “we ought to contemplate emancipation as a future certainty, and prepare our people in the shortest possible time.”

  This conversation took place as the party were seated at their nooning under the trees, around an unpacked hamper of cold provisions, which they were leisurely discussing.

  “Why, bless my soul, Clayton,” said Uncle John, “I don’t see the sense of such an anathema maranatha as we got to-day. Good Lord, what earthly harm are we doing? As to our niggers, they are better off than we are! I say it coolly — that is, as coolly as a man can say anything between one and two o’clock in such weather as this. Why, look at my niggers! Do I ever have any chickens, or eggs, or cucumbers? No, to be sure. All my chickens die, and the cut-worm plays the devil with my cucumbers; but the niggers have enough. Theirs flourish like a green bay-tree; and of course I have to buy of them. They raise chickens. I buy ’em and cook ‘em, and then they eat ‘em! That’s the way it goes. As to the slave-coffles, and slave-prisons, and the trade, why, that’s abominable, to be sure. But, Lord bless you, I don’t want it done! I’d kick a trader off my doorsteps forthwith, though I’m all eaten up with woolly-heads, like locusts. I don’t like such sermons, for my part.”

  “Well,” said Aunt Nesbit, “our Mr. Titmarsh preached quite another way when I attended church in E — . He proved that slavery was a Scriptural institution, and established by God.”

  “I should think anybody’s common sense would show that a thing which works so poorly for both sides couldn’t be from God,” said Nina.

  “Who is Mr. Titmarsh?” said Clayton to her, aside. “Oh, one of Aunt Nesbit’s favorites, and one of my aversions! He isn’t a man — he’s nothing but a theological dictionary with a cravat on! I can’t bear him!”

  “Now, people may talk as much as they please of the educated democracy of the North,” said Uncle John. “I don’t like ‘em. What do workingmen want of education?

  —— Ruins ‘em! I’ve heard of their learned blacksmiths bothering around, neglecting their work, to make speeches. I don’t like such things. It raises them above their sphere. And there’s nothing going on up in those northern states but a constant confusion and hubbub. All sorts of heresies come from the North, and infidelity, and the Lord knows what! We have peace, down here. To be sure, our poor whites are in a devil of a fix; but we haven’t got ’em under yet. We shall get ’em in, one of these days, with our niggers, and then all will be contentment.”

  “Yes,” said Nina, “there’s Uncle John’s view of the millennium!”

  “To be sure,” said Uncle John, “the lower classes want governing — they want care; that’s what they want. And all they need to know is, what the Episcopal Church catechism says, ‘to learn and labor truly to get their own living in the state wherein it has pleased God to call them.’ That makes a well-behaved lower class, and a handsome, gentlemanly, orderly state of society. The upper classes ought to be instructed in their duties. They ought to be considerate and condescending, and all that. That’s my view of society.”

  “Then you are no republican,” said Clayton.

  “Bless you, yes I am! I believe in the equality of gentlemen, and the equal rights of well-bred people. That’s my idea of a republic.”

  Clayton, Nina, and Anne laughed.

  “Now,” said Nina, “to see uncle so jovial and free, and ‘Hail fellow well met’ with everybody, you’d think he was the greatest democrat that ever walked. But, you see, it’s only because he’s so immeasurably certain of his superior position — that’s all. He isn’t afraid to kneel at the altar with Bill Dakin, or Jim Sykes, because he’s so sure that his position can’t be compromised.”

  “Besides that, chick,” said Uncle John, “I have the sense to know that, in my Maker’s presence, all human differences a
re child’s play.” And Uncle John spoke with a momentary solemnity which was heartfelt.

  It was agreed by the party that they would not stay to attend the evening exercises. The novelty of the effect was over, and Aunt Nesbit spoke of the bad effects of falling dew and night air. Accordingly, as soon as the air was sufficiently cooled to make riding practicable, the party were again on their way home.

  The woodland path was streaked with green and golden bands of light thrown between the tree-trunks across the way, and the trees reverberated with the evening song of birds. Nina and Clayton naturally fell into a quiet and subdued train of conversation.

  “It is strange,” said Nina, “these talkings and searchings about religion. Now, there are people who have something they call religion, which I don’t think does them any good. It isn’t of any use — it doesn’t make them better — and it makes them very disagreeable. I would rather be as I am than to have what they call religion. But then, there are others that have something which I know is religion; something that I know I have not; something that I’d give all the world to have, and don’t know how to get. Now, there was Livy Ray — you ought to have seen Livy Ray — there was something so superior about her; and what was extraordinary is, that she was good without being stupid. What do you suppose the reason is that good people are generally so stupid?”

  “A great deal,” said Clayton, “is called goodness which is nothing but want of force. A person is said to have self-government simply because he has nothing to govern. They talk about self-denial, when their desires are so weak that one course is about as easy to them as another. Such people easily fall into a religious routine, get by heart a set of phrases, and make, as you say, very stupid, good people.”

  “Now, Livy,” said Nina, “was remarkable. She had that kind of education that they give girls in New England, stronger and more like a man’s than ours. She could read Greek and Latin as easily as she could French and Italian. She was keen, shrewd, and witty, and had a kind of wild grace about her, like these grapevines; yet she was so strong! Well, do you know, I almost worship Livy? And I think, the little while she was in our school, she did me more good than all the teachers and studying put together. Why, it does one good to know that such people are possible. Don’t you think it does?”

  “Yes,” said Clayton; “all the good in the world is done by the personality of people. Now, in books, it isn’t so much what you learn from them, as the contact it gives you with the personality of the writer, that improves you. A real book always makes you feel that there is more in the writer than anything that he has said.”

  “That,” said Nina eagerly, “is just the way I feel toward Livy. She seems to me like a mine. When I was with her the longest, I always felt as if I hadn’t half seen her. She always made me hungry to know her more. I mean to read you some of her letters, some time. She writes beautiful letters; and I appreciate that very much because I can’t do it. I can talk better than I can write. Somehow my ideas will not take a course down through my arms; they always will run up to my mouth. But you ought to see Livy; such people always make me very discontented with myself. I don’t know what the reason is that I like to see superior people, and things, when they always make me realize what a poor concern I am. Now, the first time I heard Jenny Lind sing, it spoiled all my music and all my songs for me, — turned them all to trash at one stroke, — and yet I liked it. But I don’t seem to have got any further in goodness than just dissatisfaction with myself.”

  “Well,” said Clayton, “there’s where the foundation-stone of all excellence is laid. The very first blessing that Christ pronounced was on those who were poor in spirit. The indispensable condition to all progress in art, science, or religion, is to feel that we have nothing.”

  “Do you know,” said Nina, after something of a pause, “that I can’t help wondering what you took up with me for? I have thought very often that you ought to have Livy Ray.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged to you,” said Clayton, “for your consideration in providing for me. But supposing I should prefer my own choice, after all? We men are a little willful, sometimes, like you of the gentler sex.”

  “Well,” said Nina, “if you will have the bad taste, then, to insist on liking me, let me warn you that you don’t know what you are about. I’m a very unformed, unpractical person. I don’t keep accounts. I’m nothing at all of a housekeeper. I shall leave open drawers, and scatter papers, and forget the day of the month, and tear the newspaper, and do everything else that is wicked; and then, one of these days, it will be, ‘Nina, why haven’t you done this? and why haven’t you done that? and why don’t you do the other? and why do you do something else?’ Ah, I’ve heard you men talk before! And then, you see, I sha’n’t like it, and I sha’n’t behave well. Haven’t the least hope of it; won’t ever engage to! — So, now, won’t you take warning?”

  “No,” said Clayton, looking at her with a curious kind of smile, “I don’t think I shall.”

  “How dreadfully positive and self-willed men are!” said Nina, drawing a long breath, and pretending to laugh.

  “There’s so little of that in you ladies,” said Clayton, “we have to do it for both.”

  “So, then,” said Nina, looking round with a half-laugh and half-blush, “you will persist?”

  “Yes, you wicked little witch!” said Clayton, “since you challenge me, I will.” And as he spoke, he passed his arm round Nina firmly, and fixed his eyes on hers. “Come, now, my little Baltimore oriole, have I caught you?” And —

  But we are making our chapter too long.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  MILLY’S RETURN

  THE visit of Clayton and his sister, like all other pleasant things, had its end. Clayton was called back to his law office and books, and Anne went to make some summer visits previous to her going to Clayton’s plantation of Magnolia Grove, where she was to superintend his various schemes for the improvement of his negroes.

  Although it was gravely insisted to the last that there was no engagement between Nina and Clayton, it became evident enough to all parties that only the name was wanting. The warmest possible friendship existed between Nina and Anne; and notwithstanding that Nina almost every day said something which crossed Anne’s nicely adjusted views, and notwithstanding Anne had a gentle infusion of that disposition to sermonize which often exists in very excellent young ladies, still the two got on excellently well together.

  It is to be confessed that, the week after they left, Nina was rather restless and lonesome, and troubled to pass her time. An incident, which we shall relate, however, gave her something to think of, and opens a new page in our story.

  While sitting on the veranda, after breakfast, her attention was called by various exclamations from the negro department, on the right side of the mansion; and looking out, to her great surprise, she saw Milly standing amid a group, who were surrounding her with eager demonstrations. Immediately she ran down the steps to inquire what it might mean. Approaching nearer, she was somewhat startled to see that her old friend had her head bound up and her arm in a sling; and as she came towards her, she observed that she seemed to walk with difficulty, with a gait quite different from her usual firm, hilarious tread.

  “Why, Milly!” she said, running towards her with eagerness, “what is the matter?”

  “Not much, chile, I reckon, now I’s got home!” said Milly.

  “Well, but what’s the matter with your arm?”

  “No great! Dat ar man shot me; but, praise de Lord, he didn’t kill me! I don’t owe him no grudge; but I thought it wasn’t right and fit that I should be treated so; and so I just put?”

  “Why, come in the house this minute!” said Nina, laying hold of her friend, and drawing her towards the steps. “It’s a shame! Come in, Milly, come in! That man! I knew he wasn’t to be trusted. So, this is the good place he found for you, is it?”

  “Jes so,” said Tomtit, who, at the head of a dark stream of young juveniles, ca
me after, with a towel hanging over one arm, and a knife half cleaned in his hand, while Rose and Old Hundred, and several others, followed to the veranda.

  “Laws-a-me!” said Aunt Rose, “just to think on’t! Dat’s what ’tis for old fam’lies to hire der niggers out to common people!”

  “Well,” said Old Hundred, “Milly was allers too high feelin’; held her head up too much. Ain’t noways surprised at it!”

  “Oh, go ‘long, you old hominy-beetle!” said Aunt Rose. “Don’t know nobody dat holds up der head higher nor you does!”

  Nina, after having dismissed the special train of the juveniles and servants, began to examine into the condition of her friend. The arm had evidently been grazed by a bullet, producing somewhat of a deep flesh wound, which had been aggravated by the heat of the weather and the fatigue which she had undergone. On removing the bandage round her head, a number of deep and severe flesh cuts were perceived.

  “What’s all this?” said Nina.

  “It’s whar he hit me over de head! He was in drink, chile; he didn’t well know what he was ‘bout!”

  “What an abominable shame!” said Nina. “Look here,” turning round to Aunt Nesbit, “see what comes of hiring Milly out!”

  “I am sure I don’t know what’s to be done!” said Aunt Nesbit pitifully.

  “Done! why, of course, these are to be bandaged and put up, in the first place,” said Nina, bustling about with great promptness, tearing off bandages, and ringing for warm water. “Aunt Milly, I’ll do them up for you myself. I’m a pretty good nurse, when I set about it.”

  “Bless you, chile, but it seems good to get home ‘mong friends!”

  “Yes; and you won’t go away again in a hurry!” said Nina, as she proceeded rapidly with her undertaking, washing and bandaging the wound. “There, now,” she said, “you look something like; and now you shall lie down in my room, and take a little rest!”