A Romance of the Republic - Lydia Maria Francis Child
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"I stand by the Constitution," answered Mr. Bell, doggedly. "I don't
presume to be wiser than the framers of that venerable document."
"That is evading the question," responded Mr. Percival. "There is no
question before us concerning the framers of the Constitution. The
simple proposition is, whether it is right or safe for men to be
forcibly carried from Boston without process of law. Two strangers
_have_ been thus abducted; and you say it is your captain's business.
You know perfectly well that a single line from you would induce your
captain to give those men a chance for a fair trial. Is it not your
duty so to instruct him?"
A little thrown off his guard, Mr. Bell exclaimed: "And give an
Abolition mob a chance to rescue them? I shall do no such thing."
"It is not the Abolitionists who get up mobs," rejoined Francis
Jackson. "Garrison was dragged through the streets for writing against
slavery; but when Yancey of Alabama had the use of Faneuil Hall, for
the purpose of defending slavery, no Abolitionist attempted to disturb
his speaking."
A slight smile hovered about Mr. Percival's lips; for it was well
known that State Street and Ann Street clasped hands when mobs were
wanted, and that money changed palms on such occasions; and the common
rumor was that Mr. Bell's purse had been freely used.
The merchant probably considered it an offensive insinuation, for his
face, usually rubicund from the effects of champagne and oysters,
became redder, and his lips were tightly compressed; but he merely
reiterated, "I stand by the Constitution, sir."
"Mr. Bell, I must again urge it upon your conscience," said Mr.
Percival, "that you are more responsible than the captain in this
matter. Your captains, of course, act under your orders, and would
do nothing contrary to your expressed wishes. Captain Kane has,
doubtless, consulted you in this business."
"That's none of your concern, sir," retorted the irascible merchant.
"My captains know that I think Southern gentlemen ought to be
protected in their property; and that is sufficient. I stand by the
Constitution, sir. I honor the reverend gentleman who said he was
ready to send his mother or his brother into slavery, if the laws
required it. That's the proper spirit, sir. You fanatics, with your
useless abstractions about human rights, are injuring trade, and
endangering the peace of the country. You are doing all you can to
incite the slaves to insurrection. I don't pretend, to be wiser than
the framers of the Constitution, sir. I don't pretend to be wiser than
Daniel Webster, sir, who said in Congress that he; would support, to
the fullest extent, any law Southern gentlemen chose to frame for the
recovery of fugitive slaves."
"I wish you a better conscience-keeper," rejoined Francis Jackson,
rising as he spoke. "I don't see, my friend, that there's any use in
staying here to talk any longer. There's none so deaf as those that
_won't_ hear."
Mr. Percival rose at this suggestion, and "Good evening" was
exchanged, with formal bows on both sides. But sturdy Francis Jackson
made no bow, and uttered no "Good evening." When they were in the
street, and the subject was alluded to by his companion, he simply
replied: "I've pretty much done with saying or doing what I don't
mean. It's a pity that dark-complexioned grandson of his couldn't be
carried off as a slave. That might, perhaps, bring him to a realizing
sense of the state of things."
CHAPTER XXVII.
A few days past the middle of the following May, a carriage stopped
before the house of Mr. Joseph Bright, in Northampton, and Mrs.
Delano, with all the Blumenthal family, descended from it. Mr. Bright
received them at the gate, his face smiling all over. "You're welcome,
ladies," said he. "Walk in! walk in! Betsey, this is Mrs. Delano. This
is Mrs. Bright, ladies. Things ain't so stylish here as at your house;
but I hope you'll find 'em comfortable."
Mrs. Bright, a sensible-looking woman, with great moderation of
manner, showed them into a plainly furnished, but very neat parlor.
"O, how pleasant this is!" exclaimed Mrs. Blumenthal, as she looked
out of one of the side-windows.
The children ran up to her repeating: "How pleasant! What a nice
hedge, mamma! And see that wall all covered with pretty flowers!"
"Those are moss-pinks," said Mrs. Bright. "I think they are very
ornamental to a wall."
"Did you plant them?" inquired Rosa.
"O, no," said Mr. Bright, who was bringing in various baskets and
shawls. "That's not our garden; but we have just as much pleasure
looking at it as if it was. A great Southern nabob lives there. He
made a heap o' money selling women and children, and he's come North
to spend it. He's a very pious man, and deacon of the church." The
children began to laugh; for Mr. Bright drawled out his words in
solemn tones, and made his broad face look very comical by trying to
lengthen it. "His name is Stillham," added he, "but I call him Deacon
Steal'em."
As he passed out, Rosa whispered to her mother, "What does he mean
about a deacon's selling women and children?"
Before an answer could be given, Mr. Bright reappeared with a
bird-cage. "I guess this is a pretty old parrot," said he.
"Yes, she is quite old," replied Mrs. Delano. "But we are all attached
to her; and our house being shut up for the summer, we were unwilling
to trust her with strangers."
The parrot, conscious of being talked about, turned up her head
sideways, and winked her eye, without stirring from the corner of
the cage, where she was rolled up like a ball of feathers. Then she
croaked out an English phrase, which she had learned of the children,
"Polly wants a cacker."
"She shall have a cracker," said good-natured Mr. Bright; and Rosa and
little Lila were soon furnished with a cracker and a lump of sugar for
Poll.
In a short time they were summoned to tea; and after enjoying Mrs.
Bright's light bread and sweet butter, they saw no more of their host
and hostess for the evening. In the morning the whole family were up
before the hour appointed for breakfast, and were out in the garden,
taking a look at the environments of their new abode. As Mrs.
Blumenthal was walking among the bushes, Mr. Bright's beaming face
suddenly uprose before her, from where he was stooping to pluck up
some weeds.
"Good morning, ma'am," said he. "Do hear that old thief trying to come
Paddy over the Lord!"
As he spoke, he pointed his thumb backward toward Deacon Stillham's
house, whence proceeded a very loud and monotonous voice of prayer.
Mrs. Blumenthal smiled as she inquired, "What did you mean by saying
he sold women and children?"
"Made his money by slave-trading down in Carolina, ma'am. I reckon a
man has to pray a deal to get himself out of that scrape; needs to
pray pretty loud too, or the voice of women screaming for their babies
would get to the throne afore him. He don't like us over and above
well, 'cause we're Abolitionists. But there's Betsey calling me; I
mustn't stop here talking."
Mrs. Blumenthal amused her companions by a repetition of his remarks
concerning the Deacon. She was much entertained by their host's
original style of bubbling over, as she termed it. After breakfast
she said: "There he is in the garden. Let's go and talk with him,
Florimond."
And taking her parasol, she went out, leaning on her husband's arm.
"So you are an Abolitionist?" said Mr. Blumenthal, as they stopped
near their host.
Mr. Bright tossed his hat on a bush, and, leaning on his hoe, sang
in a stentorian voice: "I am an Abolitionist; I glory in the
name.--There," said he, laughing, "I let out _all_ my voice, that the
Deacon might hear. He can pray the loudest; but I reckon I can sing
the loudest. I'll tell you what first made me begin to think about
slavery. You see I was never easy without I could be doing something
in the musical way, so I undertook to teach singing. One winter, I
thought I should like to run away from Jack Frost, and I looked in the
Southern papers to see if any of 'em advertised for a singing-master.
The first thing my eye lighted on was this advertisement:--
"Ran away from the subscriber a stout mulatto slave, named Joe; has
light sandy hair, blue eyes, and ruddy complexion; is intelligent, and
will pass himself for a white man. I will give one hundred dollars'
reward to whoever will seize him and put him in jail.'
"'By George!' said I, 'that's a description of _me_. I didn't know
before that I was a mulatto. It'll never do for me to go _there_.'
So I went to Vermont to teach. I told 'em I was a runaway slave, and
showed 'em the advertisement that described me. Some of 'em believed
me, till I told 'em it was a joke. Well, it is just as bad for those
poor black fellows as it would have been for me; but that blue-eyed
Joe seemed to bring the matter home to me. It set me to thinking about
slavery, and I have kept thinking ever since."
"Not exactly such a silent thinking as the apothecary's famous owl, I
judge," said Mrs. Blumenthal.
"No," replied he, laughing. "I never had the Quaker gift of gathering
into the stillness, that's a fact. But I reckon even that 'pothecary's
owl wouldn't be silent if he could hear and understand all that Betsey
has told me about the goings-on down South. Before I married her, she
went there to teach; but she's a woman o' feeling, and she couldn't
stand it long. But, dear me, if I believed Deacon Steal'em's talk, I
should think it was just about the pleasantest thing in the world to
be sold; and that the niggers down South had nothing 'pon earth to do
but to lick treacle and swing on a gate. Then he proves it to be a
Divine institution from Scripture, chapter and verse. You may have
noticed, perhaps, that such chaps are always mighty well posted up
about the original designs of Providence; especially as to who's
foreordained to be kept down. He says God cussed Ham, and the niggers
are the descendants of Ham. I told him if there was an estate of Ham's
left unsettled, I reckoned 't would puzzle the 'cutest lawyer to hunt
up the rightful heirs."
"I think so," rejoined Mr. Blumenthal, smiling; "especially when
they've become so mixed up that they advertise runaway negroes with
sandy hair, blue eyes, and ruddy complexion."
"When the Deacon feels the ground a little shaky under him," resumed
Mr. Bright, he leans on his minister down in Carolina, who, he says,
is a Northern man, and so pious that folks come from far and near to
get him to pray for rain in a dry time; thinking the prayers of such
a godly man will be sure to bring down the showers. He says that man
preached a sermon that proved niggers were born to be servants of
servants unto their brethren. I told him I didn't doubt that part of
the prophecy was fulfilled about their serving their _brethren_; and
I showed him the advertisement about sandy hair and blue eyes. But
as for being servants of _servants_, I never heard of slaveholders
serving anybody except--a chap whose name it ain't polite to mention
before ladies. As for that preacher, he put me in mind of a minister
my father used to tell of. He'd been to a wedding, and when he come
home he couldn't light his lamp. After trying a long spell he found
out that the extinguisher was on it. I told the deacon that ministers
down South had put an extinguisher on their lamp, and couldn't be
expected to raise much of a light from it to guide anybody's steps."
"Some of the Northern ministers are not much better guides, I think,"
rejoined Mr. Blumenthal.
"Just so," replied his host; "'cause they've got the same extinguisher
on; and ain't it curious to see 'em puffing and blowing at the old
lamp? I get 'most tired of talking common sense and common feeling to
the Deacon. You can't get it into him, and it won't stay on him. You
might as well try to heap a peck o' flax-seed. He keeps eating his
own words, too; though they don't seem to agree with him, neither. He
maintains that the slaves are perfectly contented and happy; and the
next minute, if you quote any of their cruel laws, he tells you they
are obliged to make such laws or else they would rise and cut their
masters' throats. He says blacks and whites won't mix any more than
oil and water; and the next minute he says if the slaves are freed
they'll marry our daughters. I tell him his arguments are like the
Kilkenny cats, that ate one another up to the tip o' their tails. The
Deacon is sensible enough, too, about many other subjects; but he nor
no other man can saw straight with a crooked saw."
"It's an old saying," rejoined Blumenthal, "that, when men enter into
a league with Satan, he always deserts them at the tightest pinch; and
I've often observed he's sure to do it where arguments pinch."
"I don't wonder you are far from being a favorite with the Deacon,"
remarked Flora; "for, according to your own account, you hit him
rather hard."
"I suppose I do," rejoined Mr. Bright. "I'm always in earnest myself;
and when I'm sure I'm in the right, I always drive ahead. I soon get
out o' patience trying to twist a string that ain't fastened at nary
end, as an old neighbor of my father used to say. I suppose some of us
Abolitionists _are_ a little rough at times; but I reckon the coarsest
of us do more good than the false prophets that prophesy smooth
things."
"You said Mrs. Bright had been a teacher in the South. What part of
the South was it?" inquired Mrs. Blumenthal.
"She went to Savannah to be nursery governess to Mrs. Fitzgerald's
little girl," replied he. "But part of the time she was on an island
where Mr. Fitzgerald had a cotton plantation. I dare say you've heard
of him, for he married the daughter of that rich Mr. Bell who lives in
your street. He died some years ago; at least they suppose he died,
but nobody knows what became of him."
Flora pressed her husband's arm, and was about to inquire concerning
the mystery, when Mrs. Delano came, hand in hand with Rosa and Lila,
to say that she had ordered the carriage and wanted them to be in
readiness to take a drive.
They returned to a late dinner; and when they rose from a long chat
over the dessert, Mr. Bright was not to be found, and his wife was
busy; so further inquiries concerning Mr. Fitzgerald's fate were
postponed. Mr. Blumenthal proposed a walk on Round Hill; but the
children preferred staying at home. Rosa had a new tune she wanted to
practise with her guitar; and her little sister had the promise of a
story from Mamita Lila. So Mr. Blumenthal and his wife went forth on
their ramble alone. The scene from Round Hill was beautiful with the
tender foliage of early spring. Slowly they sauntered round from point
to point, pausing now and then to look at the handsome villages before
them, at the blooming peach-trees, the glistening river, and the
venerable mountains, with feathery crowns of violet cloud.
Suddenly a sound of music floated on the air; and they stood
spell-bound, with heads bowed, as if their souls were hushed in
prayer. When it ceased, Mr. Blumenthal drew a long breath, and said,
"Ah! that was our Mendelssohn."
"How exquisitely it was played," observed his wife, "and how in
harmony it was with these groves! It sounded like a hymn in the
forest."
They lingered, hoping again to hear the invisible musician. As they
leaned against the trees, the silver orb of the moon ascended from the
horizon, and rested on the brow of Mount Holyoke; and from the same
quarter whence Mendelssohn's "Song without Words" had proceeded, the
tones of "Casta Diva" rose upon the air. Flora seized her husband's
arm with a quick, convulsive grasp, and trembled all over. Wondering
at the intensity of her emotion, he passed his arm tenderly round her
waist and drew her closely to him. Thus, leaning upon his heart, she
listened with her whole being, from the inmost recesses of her soul,
throughout all her nerves, to her very fingers' ends. When the sounds
died away, she sobbed out: "O, how like Rosa's voice! It seemed as if
she had risen from the dead."
He spoke soothingly, and in a few minutes they descended the hill and
silently wended their way homeward. The voice that had seemed to
come from another world invested the evening landscape with mystical
solemnity. The expression of the moon seemed transfigured, like a
great clairvoyant eye, reflecting light from invisible spheres, and
looking out upon the external world with dreamy abstraction.
When they arrived at their lodgings, Flora exclaimed: "O Mamita Lila,
we have heard such heavenly music, and a voice so wonderfully like
Rosa's! I don't believe I shall sleep a wink to-night."
"Do you mean the Aunt Rosa I was named for?" inquired her daughter.
"Yes, Rosen Blumen," replied her mother; "and I wish you had gone with
us, that you might have an idea what a wonderful voice she had."
This led to talk about old times, and to the singing of various airs
associated with those times. When they retired to rest, Flora fell
asleep with those tunes marching and dancing through her brain; and,
for the first time during many years, she dreamed of playing them to
her father, while Rosabella sang.
The next morning, when the children had gone out to ramble in the
woods with their father, her memory being full of those old times,
she began to say over to the parrot some of the phrases that formerly
amused her father and Rosabella. The old bird was never talkative now;
but when urged by Flora, she croaked out some of her familiar phrases.
"I'm glad we brought _pauvre Manon_ with us," said Mrs. Blumenthal. "I
think she seems livelier since she came here. Sometimes I fancy she
looks like good Madame Guirlande. Those feathers on her head make me
think of the bows on Madame's cap. Come, _jolie Manon_, I'll carry you
out doors, where the sun will shine upon you. You like sunshine, don't
you, Manon?"
She took the cage, and was busy fastening it on the bough of a tree,
when a voice from the street said, "_Bon jour, jolie Manon_!"
The parrot suddenly flapped her wings, gave a loud laugh, and burst
into a perfect tornado of French and Spanish phrases: "_Bon jour!
Buenos dias! Querida mia! Joli diable! Petit blanc! Ha! ha_!"
Surprised at this explosion, Mrs. Blumenthal looked round to discover
the cause, and exclaiming, "_Oh ciel_!" she turned deadly pale, and
rushed into the house.
"What _is_ the matter, my child? inquired Mrs. Delano, anxiously.
"O Mamita, I've seen Rosa's ghost," she replied, sinking into a chair.
Mrs. Delano poured some cologne on a handkerchief, and bathed her
forehead, while she said, "You were excited last night by the tune you
used to hear your sister sing; and it makes you nervous, dear."
While she was speaking, Mrs. Bright entered the room, saying, "Have
you a bottle of sal volatile you can lend me? A lady has come in, who
says she is a little faint."
"I will bring it from my chamber," replied Mrs. Delano. She left
the room, and was gone some time. When she returned, she found Mrs.
Blumenthal leaning her head on the table, with her face buried in her
hands. "My child, I want you to come into the other room," said Mrs.
Delano. "The lady who was faint is the famous Mrs. King, from Boston.
She is boarding on Round Hill, and I suppose it was her voice you
heard singing. She said she had seen a lady come into this house who
looked so much like a deceased relative that it made her feel faint.
Now don't be excited, darling; but this lady certainly resembles the
sketch you made of your sister; and it is barely possible--"
Before she could finish the sentence, Flora started up, and flew into
the adjoining room. A short, quick cry, "O Floracita!" "O Rosabella!"
and they were locked in each other's arms.
After hugging and kissing, and weeping and laughing by turns, Mrs.
King said: "That must have been Madame's parrot. The sight of her made
me think of old times, and I said, '_Bon jour, jolie Manon_! Your back
was toward me, and I should have passed on, if my attention had not
been arrested by her wild outpouring of French and Spanish. I suppose
she knew my voice."
"Bless the dear old bird!" exclaimed Flora. "It was she who brought us
together again at last. She shall come in to see you."
They went out to bring in their old pet. But _jolie Manon_ was lying
on the floor of her cage, with eyes closed and wings outstretched. The
joyful surprise had been too much for her feeble old nerves. She was
dead.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"So you _are_ alive!" exclaimed Rosa, holding her sister back a
little, and gazing upon her face with all her soul in her eyes.
"Yes, very _much_ alive," answered Flora, with a smile that brought
out all her dimples.
"But do tell me," said Rosa, "how you came to go away so strangely,
and leave me to mourn for you as if you were dead."
The dimples disappeared, and a shadow clouded Flora's expressive eyes,
as she replied: "It would take a long while to explain all that,
_sistita mia_. We will talk it over another time, please."
Rosa sighed as she pressed her sister's hand, and said: "Perhaps I
have already conjectured rightly about it, Floracita. My eyes were
opened by bitter experiences after we were parted. Some time I will
explain to you how I came to run to Europe in such a hurry, with
Madame and the Signor."
"But tell me, the first thing of all, whether Tulee is dead," rejoined
Flora.
"You know Madame was always exceedingly careful about expense,"
responded Rosa. "Mrs. Duroy was willing to board Tulee for her work,
and Madame thought it was most prudent to leave her there till we got
established in Europe, and could send for her; and just when we were
expecting her to rejoin us, letters came informing us that Mr. and
Mrs. Duroy and Tulee all died of yellow-fever. It distresses me beyond
measure to think of our having left poor, faithful Tulee."
"When we found out that Mr. Fitzgerald had married another wife,"
replied Flora, "my new Mamita kindly volunteered to go with me
in search of you and Tulee. We went to the cottage, and to the
plantation, and to New Orleans. Everybody I ever knew seemed to be
dead or gone away. But Madame's parrot was alive, and her chattering
led me into a stranger's house, where I heard that you were lost at
sea on your way to Europe; and that Tulee, with a white baby she had
charge of, had died of yellow-fever. Was that baby yours, dear?"
Rosa lowered her eyes, and colored deeply, as she answered: "That
subject is very painful to me. I can never forgive myself for having
left Tulee and that poor little baby."
Flora pressed her sister's hand in silence for a moment, and then
said: "You told me Madame and the Signor were alive and well. Where
are they?"
"They lived with us in Provence," replied Rosa. "But when we concluded
to return to America, the Signor expressed a wish to end his days in
his native country. So Mr. King purchased an estate for them near
Florence, and settled an annuity upon them. I had a letter from Madame
a few days ago, and she writes that they are as happy as rabbits in
clover. The Signor is getting quite old; and if she survives him, it
is agreed that she will come and end her days with us. How it will
delight her heart to hear that you are alive! What a strange fortune
we have had! It seems that Mr. King always loved me, from the first
evening that he spent at our house. Do you remember how you laughed
because he offered to help us if ever we were in trouble? He knew more
about us then than we knew about ourselves; and he afterward did help
me out of very great troubles. I will tell you all about it some time.
But first I want to know about you. Who is this new Mamita that you
speak of?"
"O, it was wonderful how she came to me when I had the greatest need
of a friend," answered Flora. "You must know that she and Papasito
were in love with each other when they were young; and she is in love
with his memory now. I sometimes think his spirit led her to me. I
will show you a picture I have made of Papasito and Mamita as guardian
angels, placing a crown of violets and lilies of the valley on the
head of my new Mamita. When I had to run away, she brought me to live
with her in Boston; and there I met with an old acquaintance. Do you
remember Florimond Blumenthal?"
"The good German boy that Papasito took such an interest in?" inquired
Rosa. "To be sure I remember him."
"Well, he's a good German boy now," rejoined Flora; "and I'm Mrs.
Blumenthal."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Rosa. "You look so exactly as you did when
you were such a merry little elf, that I never thought to inquire
whether you were married. In the joy of this sudden meeting, I forgot
how many years had passed since we saw each other."
"You will realize how long it has been when you see my children,"
rejoined Flora. "My oldest, Alfred Royal, is fitting for college. He
is the image of _cher Papa_; and you will see how Mamita Lila doats
upon him. She must have loved Papasito very much. Then I had a
daughter that died in a few days; then I had my Rosen Blumen, and
you will see who she looks like; then some more came and went to
the angels. Last of all came little Lila, who looks just like her
father,--flaxen hair, pink cheeks, and great German forget-me-nots for
eyes."