Kabanata Kabanata 11 · In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind

. In Which Property Gets into an Improper State of Mind

It was late in a drizzly afternoon that a traveler alighted at the door

of a small country hotel, in the village of N——, in Kentucky. In the

barroom he found assembled quite a miscellaneous company, whom stress

of weather had driven to harbor, and the place presented the usual

scenery of such reunions. Great, tall, raw-boned Kentuckians, attired

in hunting-shirts, and trailing their loose joints over a vast extent

of territory, with the easy lounge peculiar to the race,—rifles stacked

away in the corner, shot-pouches, game-bags, hunting-dogs, and little

negroes, all rolled together in the corners,—were the characteristic

features in the picture. At each end of the fireplace sat a long-legged

gentleman, with his chair tipped back, his hat on his head, and the

heels of his muddy boots reposing sublimely on the mantel-piece,—a

position, we will inform our readers, decidedly favorable to the turn

of reflection incident to western taverns, where travellers exhibit a

decided preference for this particular mode of elevating their

understandings.

Mine host, who stood behind the bar, like most of his country men, was

great of stature, good-natured and loose-jointed, with an enormous

shock of hair on his head, and a great tall hat on the top of that.

In fact, everybody in the room bore on his head this characteristic

emblem of man’s sovereignty; whether it were felt hat, palm-leaf,

greasy beaver, or fine new chapeau, there it reposed with true

republican independence. In truth, it appeared to be the characteristic

mark of every individual. Some wore them tipped rakishly to one

side—these were your men of humor, jolly, free-and-easy dogs; some had

them jammed independently down over their noses—these were your hard

characters, thorough men, who, when they wore their hats, _wanted_ to

wear them, and to wear them just as they had a mind to; there were

those who had them set far over back—wide-awake men, who wanted a clear

prospect; while careless men, who did not know, or care, how their hats

sat, had them shaking about in all directions. The various hats, in

fact, were quite a Shakespearean study.

Divers negroes, in very free-and-easy pantaloons, and with no

redundancy in the shirt line, were scuttling about, hither and thither,

without bringing to pass any very particular results, except expressing

a generic willingness to turn over everything in creation generally for

the benefit of Mas’r and his guests. Add to this picture a jolly,

crackling, rollicking fire, going rejoicingly up a great wide

chimney,—the outer door and every window being set wide open, and the

calico window-curtain flopping and snapping in a good stiff breeze of

damp raw air,—and you have an idea of the jollities of a Kentucky

tavern.

Your Kentuckian of the present day is a good illustration of the

doctrine of transmitted instincts and peculiarities. His fathers were

mighty hunters,—men who lived in the woods, and slept under the free,

open heavens, with the stars to hold their candles; and their

descendant to this day always acts as if the house were his camp,—wears

his hat at all hours, tumbles himself about, and puts his heels on the

tops of chairs or mantelpieces, just as his father rolled on the green

sward, and put his upon trees and logs,—keeps all the windows and doors

open, winter and summer, that he may get air enough for his great

lungs,—calls everybody “stranger,” with nonchalant _bonhommie_, and is

altogether the frankest, easiest, most jovial creature living.

Into such an assembly of the free and easy our traveller entered. He

was a short, thick-set man, carefully dressed, with a round,

good-natured countenance, and something rather fussy and particular in

his appearance. He was very careful of his valise and umbrella,

bringing them in with his own hands, and resisting, pertinaciously, all

offers from the various servants to relieve him of them. He looked

round the barroom with rather an anxious air, and, retreating with his

valuables to the warmest corner, disposed them under his chair, sat

down, and looked rather apprehensively up at the worthy whose heels

illustrated the end of the mantel-piece, who was spitting from right to

left, with a courage and energy rather alarming to gentlemen of weak

nerves and particular habits.

“I say, stranger, how are ye?” said the aforesaid gentleman, firing an

honorary salute of tobacco-juice in the direction of the new arrival.

“Well, I reckon,” was the reply of the other, as he dodged, with some

alarm, the threatening honor.

“Any news?” said the respondent, taking out a strip of tobacco and a

large hunting-knife from his pocket.

“Not that I know of,” said the man.

“Chaw?” said the first speaker, handing the old gentleman a bit of his

tobacco, with a decidedly brotherly air.

“No, thank ye—it don’t agree with me,” said the little man, edging off.

“Don’t, eh?” said the other, easily, and stowing away the morsel in his

own mouth, in order to keep up the supply of tobacco-juice, for the

general benefit of society.

The old gentleman uniformly gave a little start whenever his long-sided

brother fired in his direction; and this being observed by his

companion, he very good-naturedly turned his artillery to another

quarter, and proceeded to storm one of the fire-irons with a degree of

military talent fully sufficient to take a city.

“What’s that?” said the old gentleman, observing some of the company

formed in a group around a large handbill.

“Nigger advertised!” said one of the company, briefly.

Mr. Wilson, for that was the old gentleman’s name, rose up, and, after

carefully adjusting his valise and umbrella, proceeded deliberately to

take out his spectacles and fix them on his nose; and, this operation

being performed, read as follows:

“Ran away from the subscriber, my mulatto boy, George. Said George six

feet in height, a very light mulatto, brown curly hair; is very

intelligent, speaks handsomely, can read and write, will probably try

to pass for a white man, is deeply scarred on his back and shoulders,

has been branded in his right hand with the letter H.

“I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and the same sum

for satisfactory proof that he has been _killed.”_

The old gentleman read this advertisement from end to end in a low

voice, as if he were studying it.

The long-legged veteran, who had been besieging the fire-iron, as

before related, now took down his cumbrous length, and rearing aloft

his tall form, walked up to the advertisement and very deliberately

spit a full discharge of tobacco-juice on it.

“There’s my mind upon that!” said he, briefly, and sat down again.

“Why, now, stranger, what’s that for?” said mine host.

“I’d do it all the same to the writer of that ar paper, if he was

here,” said the long man, coolly resuming his old employment of cutting

tobacco. “Any man that owns a boy like that, and can’t find any better

way o’ treating on him, _deserves_ to lose him. Such papers as these is

a shame to Kentucky; that’s my mind right out, if anybody wants to

know!”

“Well, now, that’s a fact,” said mine host, as he made an entry in his

book.

“I’ve got a gang of boys, sir,” said the long man, resuming his attack

on the fire-irons, “and I jest tells ’em—‘Boys,’ says I,—‘_run_ now!

dig! put! jest when ye want to! I never shall come to look after you!’

That’s the way I keep mine. Let ’em know they are free to run any time,

and it jest breaks up their wanting to. More ’n all, I’ve got free

papers for ’em all recorded, in case I gets keeled up any o’ these

times, and they know it; and I tell ye, stranger, there an’t a fellow

in our parts gets more out of his niggers than I do. Why, my boys have

been to Cincinnati, with five hundred dollars’ worth of colts, and

brought me back the money, all straight, time and agin. It stands to

reason they should. Treat ’em like dogs, and you’ll have dogs’ works

and dogs’ actions. Treat ’em like men, and you’ll have men’s works.”

And the honest drover, in his warmth, endorsed this moral sentiment by

firing a perfect _feu de joi_ at the fireplace.

“I think you’re altogether right, friend,” said Mr. Wilson; “and this

boy described here _is_ a fine fellow—no mistake about that. He worked

for me some half-dozen years in my bagging factory, and he was my best

hand, sir. He is an ingenious fellow, too: he invented a machine for

the cleaning of hemp—a really valuable affair; it’s gone into use in

several factories. His master holds the patent of it.”

“I’ll warrant ye,” said the drover, “holds it and makes money out of

it, and then turns round and brands the boy in his right hand. If I had

a fair chance, I’d mark him, I reckon so that he’d carry it _one_

while.”

“These yer knowin’ boys is allers aggravatin’ and sarcy,” said a

coarse-looking fellow, from the other side of the room; “that’s why

they gets cut up and marked so. If they behaved themselves, they

wouldn’t.”

“That is to say, the Lord made ’em men, and it’s a hard squeeze gettin

’em down into beasts,” said the drover, dryly.

“Bright niggers isn’t no kind of ’vantage to their masters,” continued

the other, well entrenched, in a coarse, unconscious obtuseness, from

the contempt of his opponent; “what’s the use o’ talents and them

things, if you can’t get the use on ’em yourself? Why, all the use they

make on ’t is to get round you. I’ve had one or two of these fellers,

and I jest sold ’em down river. I knew I’d got to lose ’em, first or

last, if I didn’t.”

“Better send orders up to the Lord, to make you a set, and leave out

their souls entirely,” said the drover.

Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of a small

one-horse buggy to the inn. It had a genteel appearance, and a

well-dressed, gentlemanly man sat on the seat, with a colored servant

driving.

The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with which a

set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every newcomer. He was

very tall, with a dark, Spanish complexion, fine, expressive black

eyes, and close-curling hair, also of a glossy blackness. His

well-formed aquiline nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable

contour of his finely-formed limbs, impressed the whole company

instantly with the idea of something uncommon. He walked easily in

among the company, and with a nod indicated to his waiter where to

place his trunk, bowed to the company, and, with his hat in his hand,

walked up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butter,

Oaklands, Shelby County. Turning, with an indifferent air, he sauntered

up to the advertisement, and read it over.

“Jim,” he said to his man, “seems to me we met a boy something like

this, up at Beman’s, didn’t we?”

“Yes, Mas’r,” said Jim, “only I an’t sure about the hand.”

“Well, I didn’t look, of course,” said the stranger with a careless

yawn. Then walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish him

with a private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately.

The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes,

old and young, male and female, little and big, were soon whizzing

about, like a covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying, treading on each

other’s toes, and tumbling over each other, in their zeal to get

Mas’r’s room ready, while he seated himself easily on a chair in the

middle of the room, and entered into conversation with the man who sat

next to him.

The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the

stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy

curiosity. He seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted with

him somewhere, but he could not recollect. Every few moments, when the

man spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his eyes on him,

and then suddenly withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with

such unconcerned coolness. At last, a sudden recollection seemed to

flash upon him, for he stared at the stranger with such an air of blank

amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him.

“Mr. Wilson, I think,” said he, in a tone of recognition, and extending

his hand. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t recollect you before. I see you

remember me,—Mr. Butler, of Oaklands, Shelby County.”

“Ye—yes—yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a dream.

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that Mas’r’s room was

ready.

“Jim, see to the trunks,” said the gentleman, negligently; then

addressing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added—“I should like to have a few

moments’ conversation with you on business, in my room, if you please.”

Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; and they

proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made fire was

crackling, and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches

to the arrangements.

When all was done, and the servants departed, the young man

deliberately locked the door, and putting the key in his pocket, faced

about, and folding his arms on his bosom, looked Mr. Wilson full in the

face.

“George!” said Mr. Wilson.

“Yes, George,” said the young man.

“I couldn’t have thought it!”

“I am pretty well disguised, I fancy,” said the young man, with a

smile. “A little walnut bark has made my yellow skin a genteel brown,

and I’ve dyed my hair black; so you see I don’t answer to the

advertisement at all.”

“O, George! but this is a dangerous game you are playing. I could not

have advised you to it.”

“I can do it on my own responsibility,” said George, with the same

proud smile.

We remark, _en passant_, that George was, by his father’s side, of

white descent. His mother was one of those unfortunates of her race,

marked out by personal beauty to be the slave of the passions of her

possessor, and the mother of children who may never know a father. From

one of the proudest families in Kentucky he had inherited a set of fine

European features, and a high, indomitable spirit. From his mother he

had received only a slight mulatto tinge, amply compensated by its

accompanying rich, dark eye. A slight change in the tint of the skin

and the color of his hair had metamorphosed him into the

Spanish-looking fellow he then appeared; and as gracefulness of

movement and gentlemanly manners had always been perfectly natural to

him, he found no difficulty in playing the bold part he had

adopted—that of a gentleman travelling with his domestic.

Mr. Wilson, a good-natured but extremely fidgety and cautious old

gentleman, ambled up and down the room, appearing, as John Bunyan hath

it, “much tumbled up and down in his mind,” and divided between his

wish to help George, and a certain confused notion of maintaining law

and order: so, as he shambled about, he delivered himself as follows:

“Well, George, I s’pose you’re running away—leaving your lawful master,

George—(I don’t wonder at it)—at the same time, I’m sorry, George,—yes,

decidedly—I think I must say that, George—it’s my duty to tell you so.”

“Why are you sorry, sir?” said George, calmly.

“Why, to see you, as it were, setting yourself in opposition to the

laws of your country.”

“_My_ country!” said George, with a strong and bitter emphasis; “what

country have I, but the grave,—and I wish to God that I was laid

there!”

“Why, George, no—no—it won’t do; this way of talking is

wicked—unscriptural. George, you’ve got a hard master—in fact, he

is—well he conducts himself reprehensibly—I can’t pretend to defend

him. But you know how the angel commanded Hagar to return to her

mistress, and submit herself under the hand;[1] and the apostle sent

back Onesimus to his master.”[2]

[1] Gen. 16. The angel bade the pregnant Hagar return to her mistress

Sarai, even though Sarai had dealt harshly with her.

[2] Phil. 1:10. Onesimus went back to his master to become no longer a

servant but a “brother beloved.”

“Don’t quote Bible at me that way, Mr. Wilson,” said George, with a

flashing eye, “don’t! for my wife is a Christian, and I mean to be, if

ever I get to where I can; but to quote Bible to a fellow in my

circumstances, is enough to make him give it up altogether. I appeal to

God Almighty;—I’m willing to go with the case to Him, and ask Him if I

do wrong to seek my freedom.”

“These feelings are quite natural, George,” said the good-natured man,

blowing his nose. “Yes, they’re natural, but it is my duty not to

encourage ’em in you. Yes, my boy, I’m sorry for you, now; it’s a bad

case—very bad; but the apostle says, ‘Let everyone abide in the

condition in which he is called.’ We must all submit to the indications

of Providence, George,—don’t you see?”

George stood with his head drawn back, his arms folded tightly over his

broad breast, and a bitter smile curling his lips.

“I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should come and take you a

prisoner away from your wife and children, and want to keep you all

your life hoeing corn for them, if you’d think it your duty to abide in

the condition in which you were called. I rather think that you’d think

the first stray horse you could find an indication of

Providence—shouldn’t you?”

The little old gentleman stared with both eyes at this illustration of

the case; but, though not much of a reasoner, he had the sense in which

some logicians on this particular subject do not excel,—that of saying

nothing, where nothing could be said. So, as he stood carefully

stroking his umbrella, and folding and patting down all the creases in

it, he proceeded on with his exhortations in a general way.

“You see, George, you know, now, I always have stood your friend; and

whatever I’ve said, I’ve said for your good. Now, here, it seems to me,

you’re running an awful risk. You can’t hope to carry it out. If you’re

taken, it will be worse with you than ever; they’ll only abuse you, and

half kill you, and sell you down the river.”

“Mr. Wilson, I know all this,” said George. “I _do_ run a risk, but—”

he threw open his overcoat, and showed two pistols and a bowie-knife.

“There!” he said, “I’m ready for ’em! Down south I never _will_ go. No!

if it comes to that, I can earn myself at least six feet of free

soil,—the first and last I shall ever own in Kentucky!”

“Why, George, this state of mind is awful; it’s getting really

desperate George. I’m concerned. Going to break the laws of your

country!”

“My country again! Mr. Wilson, _you_ have a country; but what country

have _I_, or any one like me, born of slave mothers? What laws are

there for us? We don’t make them,—we don’t consent to them,—we have

nothing to do with them; all they do for us is to crush us, and keep us

down. Haven’t I heard your Fourth-of-July speeches? Don’t you tell us

all, once a year, that governments derive their just power from the

consent of the governed? Can’t a fellow _think_, that hears such

things? Can’t he put this and that together, and see what it comes to?”

Mr. Wilson’s mind was one of those that may not unaptly be represented

by a bale of cotton,—downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused. He

really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and

cloudy perception of the style of feeling that agitated him; but he

deemed it his duty to go on talking _good_ to him, with infinite

pertinacity.

“George, this is bad. I must tell you, you know, as a friend, you’d

better not be meddling with such notions; they are bad, George, very

bad, for boys in your condition,—very;” and Mr. Wilson sat down to a

table, and began nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella.

“See here, now, Mr. Wilson,” said George, coming up and sitting himself

determinately down in front of him; “look at me, now. Don’t I sit

before you, every way, just as much a man as you are? Look at my

face,—look at my hands,—look at my body,” and the young man drew

himself up proudly; “why am I _not_ a man, as much as anybody? Well,

Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you. I had a father—one of your

Kentucky gentlemen—who didn’t think enough of me to keep me from being

sold with his dogs and horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died. I

saw my mother put up at sheriff’s sale, with her seven children. They

were sold before her eyes, one by one, all to different masters; and I

was the youngest. She came and kneeled down before old Mas’r, and

begged him to buy her with me, that she might have at least one child

with her; and he kicked her away with his heavy boot. I saw him do it;

and the last that I heard was her moans and screams, when I was tied to

his horse’s neck, to be carried off to his place.”

“Well, then?”

“My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister. She

was a pious, good girl,—a member of the Baptist church,—and as handsome

as my poor mother had been. She was well brought up, and had good

manners. At first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near

me. I was soon sorry for it. Sir, I have stood at the door and heard

her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my naked heart,

and I couldn’t do anything to help her; and she was whipped, sir, for

wanting to live a decent Christian life, such as your laws give no

slave girl a right to live; and at last I saw her chained with a

trader’s gang, to be sent to market in Orleans,—sent there for nothing

else but that,—and that’s the last I know of her. Well, I grew up,—long

years and years,—no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul

that cared for me more than a dog; nothing but whipping, scolding,

starving. Why, sir, I’ve been so hungry that I have been glad to take

the bones they threw to their dogs; and yet, when I was a little

fellow, and laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn’t the hunger, it

wasn’t the whipping, I cried for. No, sir, it was for _my mother_ and

_my sisters_,—it was because I hadn’t a friend to love me on earth. I

never knew what peace or comfort was. I never had a kind word spoken to

me till I came to work in your factory. Mr. Wilson, you treated me

well; you encouraged me to do well, and to learn to read and write, and

to try to make something of myself; and God knows how grateful I am for

it. Then, sir, I found my wife; you’ve seen her,—you know how beautiful

she is. When I found she loved me, when I married her, I scarcely could

believe I was alive, I was so happy; and, sir, she is as good as she is

beautiful. But now what? Why, now comes my master, takes me right away

from my work, and my friends, and all I like, and grinds me down into

the very dirt! And why? Because, he says, I forgot who I was; he says,

to teach me that I am only a nigger! After all, and last of all, he

comes between me and my wife, and says I shall give her up, and live

with another woman. And all this your laws give him power to do, in

spite of God or man. Mr. Wilson, look at it! There isn’t _one_ of all

these things, that have broken the hearts of my mother and my sister,

and my wife and myself, but your laws allow, and give every man power

to do, in Kentucky, and none can say to him nay! Do you call these the

laws of _my_ country? Sir, I haven’t any country, anymore than I have

any father. But I’m going to have one. I don’t want anything of _your_

country, except to be let alone,—to go peaceably out of it; and when I

get to Canada, where the laws will own me and protect me, _that_ shall

be my country, and its laws I will obey. But if any man tries to stop

me, let him take care, for I am desperate. I’ll fight for my liberty to

the last breath I breathe. You say your fathers did it; if it was right

for them, it is right for me!”

This speech, delivered partly while sitting at the table, and partly

walking up and down the room,—delivered with tears, and flashing eyes,

and despairing gestures,—was altogether too much for the good-natured

old body to whom it was addressed, who had pulled out a great yellow

silk pocket-handkerchief, and was mopping up his face with great

energy.

“Blast ’em all!” he suddenly broke out. “Haven’t I always said so—the

infernal old cusses! I hope I an’t swearing, now. Well! go ahead,

George, go ahead; but be careful, my boy; don’t shoot anybody, George,

unless—well—you’d _better_ not shoot, I reckon; at least, I wouldn’t

_hit_ anybody, you know. Where is your wife, George?” he added, as he

nervously rose, and began walking the room.

“Gone, sir gone, with her child in her arms, the Lord only knows

where;—gone after the north star; and when we ever meet, or whether we

meet at all in this world, no creature can tell.”

“Is it possible! astonishing! from such a kind family?”

“Kind families get in debt, and the laws of _our_ country allow them to

sell the child out of its mother’s bosom to pay its master’s debts,”

said George, bitterly.

“Well, well,” said the honest old man, fumbling in his pocket: “I

s’pose, perhaps, I an’t following my judgment,—hang it, I _won’t_

follow my judgment!” he added, suddenly; “so here, George,” and, taking

out a roll of bills from his pocket-book, he offered them to George.

“No, my kind, good sir!” said George, “you’ve done a great deal for me,

and this might get you into trouble. I have money enough, I hope, to

take me as far as I need it.”

“No; but you must, George. Money is a great help everywhere;—can’t have

too much, if you get it honestly. Take it,—_do_ take it, _now_,—do, my

boy!”

“On condition, sir, that I may repay it at some future time, I will,”

said George, taking up the money.

“And now, George, how long are you going to travel in this way?—not

long or far, I hope. It’s well carried on, but too bold. And this black

fellow,—who is he?”

“A true fellow, who went to Canada more than a year ago. He heard,

after he got there, that his master was so angry at him for going off

that he had whipped his poor old mother; and he has come all the way

back to comfort her, and get a chance to get her away.”

“Has he got her?”

“Not yet; he has been hanging about the place, and found no chance yet.

Meanwhile, he is going with me as far as Ohio, to put me among friends

that helped him, and then he will come back after her.

“Dangerous, very dangerous!” said the old man.

George drew himself up, and smiled disdainfully.

The old gentleman eyed him from head to foot, with a sort of innocent

wonder.

“George, something has brought you out wonderfully. You hold up your

head, and speak and move like another man,” said Mr. Wilson.

“Because I’m a _freeman_!” said George, proudly. “Yes, sir; I’ve said

Mas’r for the last time to any man. _I’m free!”_

“Take care! You are not sure,—you may be taken.”

“All men are free and equal _in the grave_, if it comes to that, Mr.

Wilson,” said George.

“I’m perfectly dumb-founded with your boldness!” said Mr. Wilson,—“to

come right here to the nearest tavern!”

“Mr. Wilson, it is _so_ bold, and this tavern is so near, that they

will never think of it; they will look for me on ahead, and you

yourself wouldn’t know me. Jim’s master don’t live in this county; he

isn’t known in these parts. Besides, he is given up; nobody is looking

after him, and nobody will take me up from the advertisement, I think.”

“But the mark in your hand?”

George drew off his glove, and showed a newly-healed scar in his hand.

“That is a parting proof of Mr. Harris’ regard,” he said, scornfully.

“A fortnight ago, he took it into his head to give it to me, because he

said he believed I should try to get away one of these days. Looks

interesting, doesn’t it?” he said, drawing his glove on again.

“I declare, my very blood runs cold when I think of it,—your condition

and your risks!” said Mr. Wilson.

“Mine has run cold a good many years, Mr. Wilson; at present, it’s

about up to the boiling point,” said George.

“Well, my good sir,” continued George, after a few moments’ silence, “I

saw you knew me; I thought I’d just have this talk with you, lest your

surprised looks should bring me out. I leave early tomorrow morning,

before daylight; by tomorrow night I hope to sleep safe in Ohio. I

shall travel by daylight, stop at the best hotels, go to the

dinner-tables with the lords of the land. So, good-by, sir; if you hear

that I’m taken, you may know that I’m dead!”

George stood up like a rock, and put out his hand with the air of a

prince. The friendly little old man shook it heartily, and after a

little shower of caution, he took his umbrella, and fumbled his way out

of the room.

George stood thoughtfully looking at the door, as the old man closed

it. A thought seemed to flash across his mind. He hastily stepped to

it, and opening it, said,

“Mr. Wilson, one word more.”

The old gentleman entered again, and George, as before, locked the

door, and then stood for a few moments looking on the floor,

irresolutely. At last, raising his head with a sudden effort—“Mr.

Wilson, you have shown yourself a Christian in your treatment of me,—I

want to ask one last deed of Christian kindness of you.”

“Well, George.”

“Well, sir,—what you said was true. I _am_ running a dreadful risk.

There isn’t, on earth, a living soul to care if I die,” he added,

drawing his breath hard, and speaking with a great effort,—“I shall be

kicked out and buried like a dog, and nobody’ll think of it a day

after,—_only my poor wife!_ Poor soul! she’ll mourn and grieve; and if

you’d only contrive, Mr. Wilson, to send this little pin to her. She

gave it to me for a Christmas present, poor child! Give it to her, and

tell her I loved her to the last. Will you? _Will_ you?” he added,

earnestly.

“Yes, certainly—poor fellow!” said the old gentleman, taking the pin,

with watery eyes, and a melancholy quiver in his voice.

“Tell her one thing,” said George; “it’s my last wish, if she _can_ get

to Canada, to go there. No matter how kind her mistress is,—no matter

how much she loves her home; beg her not to go back,—for slavery always

ends in misery. Tell her to bring up our boy a free man, and then he

won’t suffer as I have. Tell her this, Mr. Wilson, will you?”

“Yes, George. I’ll tell her; but I trust you won’t die; take

heart,—you’re a brave fellow. Trust in the Lord, George. I wish in my

heart you were safe through, though,—that’s what I do.”

“_Is_ there a God to trust in?” said George, in such a tone of bitter

despair as arrested the old gentleman’s words. “O, I’ve seen things all

my life that have made me feel that there can’t be a God. You

Christians don’t know how these things look to us. There’s a God for

you, but is there any for us?”

“O, now, don’t—don’t, my boy!” said the old man, almost sobbing as he

spoke; “don’t feel so! There is—there is; clouds and darkness are

around about him, but righteousness and judgment are the habitation of

his throne. There’s a _God_, George,—believe it; trust in Him, and I’m

sure He’ll help you. Everything will be set right,—if not in this life,

in another.”

The real piety and benevolence of the simple old man invested him with

a temporary dignity and authority, as he spoke. George stopped his

distracted walk up and down the room, stood thoughtfully a moment, and

then said, quietly,

“Thank you for saying that, my good friend; I’ll _think of that_.”