Cabin and parlor; or, Slaves and masters

Front matter

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Preface

studying them occur. Thousands of persons will recognize the particular riots delineated in these pages. The black suburb still exists, so that any individual skeptical as to the fact, may visit it, and ascertain for himself that the pic ture is not overdrawn.

For what the author has said of the relative condition of the British operative and Southern slave, he quotes the authority of William Thom son, a Scotch weaver, who, in 1842, travelled through this country, supporting himself by ma nual labor. Mr. Thomson arrived here an abolitionist, but, after witnessing slavery in almost every State where it existed, and living for weeks among negroes on cotton plantations, he has asserted that he never saw one-fifth of the real suffering that he had beheld among the laboring poor of England. In addition he declares that, "the members of the same fa mily of negroes are not so much scattered as are those of working men in Scotland, whose necessities compel them to separate at an age when the American slave is running about ga thering health and strength."

The story of Horace Courtenay is no fiction. Those familiar with poverty in our Northern

PREFACE. 5 cities will be able to recall numerous similar instances. In both him and Isabel the pur pose of the author has been to exhibit the im portant fact, that many of what are popularly considered evils peculiar to slavery exist in all conditions of poverty.

The author has said nothing, in this volume, about " the compromises of the Constitution." Why? Because Washington and the other most influential framers of that instrument are known to have been God-fearing men, who must have had full assurance of right for all its provisions, or they would never have put their hands to it. It is but just to them to examine the grounds on which they acted. This has been attempted, in the present volume, though with out any direct reference to them personally. If the popular mind addresses itself honestly and seriously to this question, the Constitution is in no danger ; for what better could be done now for the interests of both races, if the Union had to be framed anew, than was done then ? All the trouble that has arisen on this subject has sprung from a few, who virtually say to nine-tenths of their fellow citizens, " Stand aside, I am holier than thou."

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PREFACE.

The remark attributed to Uncle Peter, on refusing to be emancipated, was made to the author by one, who though formerly a slave, is now free, and who is altogether the most intelligent and energetic African he ever knew. Generally the language put into the mouth of Uncle Peter and others is drawn from memory.

The author disclaims, in advance, the idea of having written this work for mercenary con siderations; as has been said of another, "to steal a part of the profits of a ladys hardearned reputation." Such disingenuous attempts to silence reply to "Uncle Tom s Cabin," surely cannot be countenanced by Mrs. Stowe.

The book has been written in the hope that it may lead to broad and correct views on the subject of slavery. No real friend to the progress of humanity can desire to see the great cause of mankind put back by pre mature action ; and if there is one truth more true than others, it is that social systems cannot be safely changed in a day.

Chapter I. The Unbidden Guest

THE ball was at its height. The floor shook beneath the crowd of dancers. The music was of the liveliest. Never, in her palmiest days, had the Old Dominion witnessed a gayer festival.

In and out, one bright couple pursuing another, pair succeeding pair like birds in rapid flight, appearing, dis appearing, re-appearing, now becoming involved appar ently inextricably, and now suddenly and gracefully un winding, with the wreathing of white arms and the flow of gossamer-like robes, went the gay dancers. And all this time moving with the music, and as it were in spired by it, till the spectacle assumed the aspect of a living personified harmony, for ever rising and falling, flashing and fading, advancing and receding, twisting and untwisting.

Suddenly the music stopped. But before the gentle men could lead their panting partners to seats, it struck up again livelier than ever. As the first notes of "Zip

Coon" reeled giddily from his violin, the sable leader of the orchestra stamped his foot, and cried, "gentle men to the right." Simultaneously, a score shot in the direction indicated, and the whole mass of dancers, as if started by an electric shock, were in laughing, giddy motion. Even the negroes, who had crowded to the back windows to look in, were carried away by the ex citement, so that one of them, forgetting time, place, and every thing, shouted aloud, "Dat s um, Tony, gib em glory."

The music grew livelier and more exhilarating. Every one appeared to have caught the contagion of the overflowing hilarity which Tony, the leader, so unc tuously imparted to his violin, and which came pouring intoxicatingly from it. Now the gentlemen were seen darting like a sudden flight of arrows, across the gay cotillion. Now the ladies swept around them like grace ful birds at play. Now the four double quadrilles rose and fell, rose and fell, like waves in a narrow tide-way flashing up in silver moonlight. And now, with his fiddle-bow flying over the strings, his jolly shining face perspiring, and his foot keeping time, Tony cried, "promenade all around." Yet, just as the almost exhausted couples were about to stop, though half re luctant, he shouted again stentoriously, "swing corners," and went off into a perfect frenzy of fun, with immor tal "Dan Tucker."

"Ki," said the negro, who had before spoken, again transported out of himself, "dat s de way, ole chile. Yer take de victory ! Courten y niggers 11 beat de world." And breaking from the crowd around the win dow, he dashed into a double-shuffle and swing corners on his own account, with any number of imaginary partners.

It was the birth-night ball of Isabel Courtenay, an only daughter, and just eighteen. The courtly man sion, in which the festivities were held, was a wide, double house, with a noble hall running through the centre, and had been built by the father of its present occupant, in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, at a cost that tradition declared to have been enormous. The magnificence of its staircase, said to have been copied from an ancient manorial hall in England, was the boast of the county. The furniture of the drawing-room had been purchased in Paris, and was still the most elegant in the neighborhood. The conservatory abounded with rare and costly plants. The library was a model, both for the arrangement of the apartment, and for the taste with which the books had been selected. The pictures in the dining-room, though few in number, were each a master piece. And the chambers, alike spacious in size, and beautiful in adornment, were the envy of all the matrons who saw them, and the terror of all the husbands ^ho feared being teased into imitating them.

This lordly dwelling stood in the midst of its hereditary acres, which stretched away, on every side, until the hills bounded the prospect. A noble avenue of trees, nearly a mile long, led up from the road to the house. This avenue had been planted three quarters of a century pre viously, and long before the existing dwelling was erected, by the great grand-father of the present heir, who had bequeathed a large fortune, which his only child, a son, had greatly increased. This son had, in time, an only heir, who, by a fortunate marriage, still further enlarged the family wealth. The Courtenays had, therefore, during quite a century, held a leading position among the aristoc racy of the Old Dominion.

It was not merely their reputation for wealth, however, which had given them this prominent rank. Few were as well descended as they, and none more so. A Courtenay had entered England with the Conqueror ; two several Courtenays had followed Richard of the Lion Heart to Palestine; Courtenays had fought in the wars of the Roses ; and Courtenays, known to be of the same stock, though now but remotely connected, were still found among the nobility of England. The first Courtenay, who had emi grated to Virginia, had been the son of an earl, who, hav ing offended his father, a bitter Hanoverian, by marrying into a Jacobite family, had left his native land and settled beyond the Blue Ridge, among the earliest pioneers of that region. The arms of the Courtenays, quartered with those of the gentry with whom they had intermarried, may yet be seen, carved on tomb-stones, in many an ancient grave-yard of the Old Dominion, though now corroded by time, and frequently half buried in rank weeds.

The present family consisted of Mr. Courtenay, his wife, and three children. Mr. Courtenay was yet in the prime of life. His person was still handsome, though exhibiting tendencies to corpulency. His frank, ruddy face was full of genial humor, and glowing with kindness of heart. And then his massive white hair; for the Courtenays early became grey, and, from father to son, their thick, snowy locks had been a hereditary pride and boast, for more than a century. To complete our picture of Mr. Courtenay, he usually wore a blue coat, with plain gilt buttons ; for he said it was in such a coat he had been married, and he could not better show how great a bless ing his wife had been, than by commemorating that auspi cious day, by wearing a coat of the same color as he wore on that morning. "Blue may be too old-fashioned for young bucks," he would say, "but it is dear to me from association, and I almost wish I could die in it." It may be supposed, without fear of a mistake, that such a man was hospitable, liked to see happy faces around him, and was adored equally by his more immediate family and by his dependents.

Mrs. Courtenay had possessed great beauty in her youth, and was still not without traces of it, though ill-health had destroyed her fine complexion, made her cheeks sunken, and given her a perceptible stoop. Her dispo sition had never been energetic, and sickness had ren dered it less so than ever. She took but little pleasure in company, though her husband was so fond of it ; yet all who came to Courtenay Hall were sure of a kind welcome. Of the world she knew little. She was, indeed, as simple, in this respect, as a child. Her delight was in the privacy of home, where, surrounded by her children, she was supremely happy.

The eldest, Isabel, had just returned from a northern boarding-school, accomplished and beautiful beyond a rival. The second was a bright, intelligent lad of thir teen, frank, loving, and full of energy, foreshadowing in manhood, a rare combination of all those qualities that win love, and those that command respect. The young est was a delicate boy just entering his fifth summer, the pet of the entire household, but the idol of his mother.

To celebrate his daughter s birth-day, Mr. Courtenay had thrown open his mansion to all the notabilities within a circuit of twenty miles. For months the ball had been the talk of the county. Not a few young ladies had actually teased their papas into taking them to Baltimore, that they might themselves purchase their new dresses, and have them made up, on the spot, by a fashionable milliner. And such a galaxy of loveliness now adorned the spacious rooms, and that loveliness heightened, wherever it was possible, by such aids of art, that even skeptical old bachelors, who never before had confessed to having seen a ball-room what it should be since the reign of Mrs. Madison, acknow ledged that, for once, the dream-land of their youth had come back.

In the midst of this brilliant circle Isabel Courtenay moved, the acknowledged queen of the evening. Attired in a robe of simple white, with no ornament in her dark hair but a Camilla, her rounded arms bare to the shoulder, and the delicate fabric of her dress hanging, like a cloud-wreath, about her graceful figure, she extorted admiration even from rival belles. Few, indeed, had a person and face to equal hers. Her forehead had the breadth, her eye-brows the ma jestic sweep of an antique statue. The small mouth and rounded chin were perfection. Unlike most of her sex, with a similar lofty style of beauty, she had a brilliant complexion. To crown all, her eyes were magnificent. The usual expression of her face was sweet and engaging. But if any thing awoke her scorn, her look had a haughty air indescribable. The carriage of her fine person was instinct with her high and heroic soul. No two women, indeed, struck the stranger as more dissimilar than Isabel and her mother. Mrs. Courtenay seemed a Desdemona. The daughter was now a Portia, and now a Queen Cath arine.

And yet Isabel, with all this elevation and firmness of character, had a heart that was made for every gentler feeling. To have seen her just before the last set, as she leaned on the arm of her partner, listen ing to his words, the rich color mantling over her cheek, and a soft dewy light melting from those glo rious eyes, any one would have thought her as weak as the weakest of her sex. Indeed it was the gossip of the neighborhood that she was already plighted to her companion ; and there were many reasons for be lieving the report. Two elderly spinsters in a cor ner had been, in fact, canvassing the question.

"What is his name ?" said one, in a whisper.

"Mr. Frederick Noble."

"And he followed her from the North?"

"Yes. She knew his sister at school, and once spent a short vacation at ; his father s, where, they say, he fell madly in love with her."

" It looks like it, don t it ? his following her here. Is he rich ?"

" Oh ! very. At least his father is one of the great Yankee manufacturers, who has more people at work in his mills than can be found on twenty plan tations,."-

" And pays em less, I warrant. But he seems a handsome and polite young man enough. Only he hasn t exactly the look I like."

"What is the matter with him?"

"It s a way he has of half shutting his eyes, as if he feared people would look down into his heart. He only does it occasionally, or when others are talking to him. There, that s the look, don t you see it ?"

"You re too severe. But, I recollect, you don t like the Yankees ; and Mr. Noble suffers for New Eng land in general. It is enough for me that Miss Courtenay loves him. He must be a superior person to h,ave won her affections ; for she is very discern ing for one so young ; and don t she look, to-night, like a princess ?"

" I was never so enthusiastic an admirer of her as you are," replied the less genial old maid. " She is proud, even to being haughty ; and too self-willed for a real lady. There s her mother now, what a model she is."

" I prefer Isabel s energy. Besides it is more like the Courtenays. There s Mr. Courtenay himself, mild as he is generally, let any one undertake to im pose on him and he becomes like a lion. And his son will resemble him, if I don t mistake Horace s charac ter. Oh ! I love to see resolution, and pride, and allconquering energy in a Courtenay : my mother was one, you know, and my heart warms to the old race."

" Then they really are engaged. Miss Wheaton?" said the other, returning to the subject.

" I don t know positively. At any rate it s not ac knowledged."

"But is it denied ?"

"Indeed," replied Miss Wheaton, smiling, "I have heard no one rude enough , to ask the question."

"Well," answered the other, in no way rebuffed, "it looks like an engagement. See, now they go out into the portico. Really," she continued, a little tartly, " I must say it is rude for the daughter of the house to neglect all her company in this way, and devote herself to one person, even though that one is a lover."

Miss Wheaton was saved the necessity of a reply, by the approach of the host himself, who coming for ward at the moment, his face beaming with kindliness, solicited the honor of her hand for the next set, if she was disengaged. Well he knew that she never had a partner, unless he, or some other elderly beau danced with her, for Miss Wheaton was now nearly at her grand climacteric ; but it was as natural for him to make others happy, as it was for him to seek happiness himself. He had just taken his partner s hand, when his eye fell on her companion, who had previously been concealed from his sight by the crowd.

" Ah ! Miss Honeywood, you ve come at last," he cried, stopping to shake hands with her. " We heard you were threatened with quite a serious illness, and feared we should lose the pleasure of your company. I m glad to see you. Are you entirely well ?"

Miss Honeywood kindled up with pleasure. The color came to her faded cheek, and she fanned herself ner vously.

" Quite well, sir, quite well. It was only a slight cold I caught; you heard altogether too exaggerated an ac count of it. But is your health good ? You re looking very well, allow me to say."

" Never was better in my life," replied Mr. Courtenay hi lariously, "that is as a general rule. But, to tell the truth, ladies," and here he dropped his voice, as if he was speaking confidentially, " my head has been in a buzz, these two days, with Mrs. Courtenay s preparations, and those of Isabel, for this ball."

Both ladies laughed, for they knew that their host was at the bottom of all, and had really more to do with the ball than either wife or daughter : but it was his pleasant way of putting such things.

" However," he continued, ".a good dance or two will settle down my excited brain. And to assist in my cure, I hope to have the pleasure of Miss Honeywood s hand for the next set, if she will honor me."

Miss Honeywood curtesied graciously ; and the music striking up at that moment, Mr. Courtenay had hurried

2* off with his partner ; and was now among the liveliest on the floor.

In and out, twisting and untwisting, appearing, disap pearing, re-appearing, the music becoming gayer and madder at every involution, Mr. Courtenay led the flying dance. His partner was almost ready to drop, yet still he kept up the shifting panorama, for he had not a little of the heartiness of " the old time," and when at the head of a cotillion, took pleasure in tiring out the young est. Those who at a house of less decided position, would have shrunk from such hilarity as vulgar, gave full vent to their natural joyousness in the Courtenay parlors. Thus, with their famous old host heading them, the three score of dancers flew in and out, laughing, jesting, sometimes almost leaping, wild with the giddy excitement of the ex ercise.

Isabel was not among them. She had strayed out, as we have seen, into the front portico. At first, her fine figure had been observed, every moment or two, crossing and recrossing the windows. Now and then she paused to gaze in on the dancers, or exchange a gay word with some couple near the casement; and now she had a smile, or a nod for some fair acquaintance some distance within. As the interest of the dance deepened, however, she and her companion had gradually become unnoticed. Every eye was now fixed on the quadrilles. No one thought of the two lovers outside.

This was the opportunity for which Mr. Noble had been waiting ever since he followed Isabel home. Circum stances had always prevented the tete-a-tete for which he longed. Though a guest at the house, Mr. Courtenay s attentions had been so assiduous, that the young man had found it impossible to be alone with Isabel. He de termined to seize the present opportunity.

Isabel s heart beat tumultuously as she listened to his avowal. It had not been unexpected indeed. But no woman, however much she may be prepared for it, hears a declaration without agitation. Isabel trembled all over. And this, though fascinated by her lover s fine person, his high-bred manners, and his apparent nobility of soul ; although not unwilling, by a little more perseverance on his part, to have a consent extorted from her.

She looked down, yet did not withdraw the hand he had taken ; and the lover, re-assured by this, began anew his protestations.

But at that moment a shriek, sudden, sharp, and heart rending, rose over all the noise of the dancers and music. He stopped abruptly. .

" It is my mother s voice," cried Isabel, recognizing it even in that scream of agony, and, breaking away, she rushed towards the drawing room.

All was confusion when she reached it. The quad rille sets had broken up, and were now all in chaos. People were inquiring of each other, by looks and words, what was the matter; others were hurrying out of the apartment, as if to call servants ; and others were shaking their heads, with looks of deep concern ; while one or two of the female portion of the company were in tears. At the further end of the room a dense group had gathered, and thither Isabel flew, pale as ashes, her eyes wild with terror. The crowd parted solemnly before her, and entering its precincts, she saw her father lying on the floor, his head supported in her mother s lap, his countenance inflamed, and his breathing loud and stertorous.

At first she could not comprehend the meaning of this. Flinging herself on her knees, by the side of her mother, she took her father s insensible hand.

"What is it?" she cried.

But Mrs. Courtenay answered only by a moan.

" Oh ! what is it ?" And now she appealed to the spectators. "Will no one tell me? I never saw any thing like it before."

"Your father, I regret to say, has had an attack of apoplexy," replied the formal, elderly gentleman pre sent. "We are about to have him bled. Let us hope it is nothing. Ah ! here comes Dr. Worthington."

Isabel rose passively to her feet, that the physician might take her place. It seemed as if she was moving in a dream, as if all around was unsubstantial shadows. In a moment the lancet was out. But no blood flow r ed.

" It s no use," said Dr. Worthington, despondingly, when all attempts to bleed his patient had failed. " He may live some hours yet, but I fear there is little hope."

At these words, Mrs. Courtenay went into violent hysterics, and was carried to her own room, where her maids, and a few intimate friends attended on her. Isa bel, though still stunned and paralyzed as it were, did not give way thus ; but following those who carried her beloved father s form, saw that it was properly disposed on the bed, and then remained to watch it. In vain she was urged to leave her painful post. She shook her head, but made no reply in words ; yet those who understood her best, knew she was inflexible.

One by one the guests departed, in silence, and many with tears; a few relatives alone remaining to comfort the family, in the great trial which impended Over them.

For no one, who saw the patient, or had conversed with the physician, doubted that the hours of Mr. Courtenay were numbered.

One guest had come unbidden to the festival. It was Death.

Chapter II. The Negro Quarter

THE morning after the ball was a melancholy one on the plantation. At day-break Mr. Courtenay died, and when the news spread among the servants, the lamentations were loud and prolonged.

The enquiries from the neighbors were early and con tinued. The answering of all such was assumed by Uncle Peter, the patriarch of the servants, and who had long had the almost entire management of the farm. Having been with his master till the final moment, and weeping, closed the venerated eyes, he now took his place in the portico, no one else being left to execute this melancholy duty ; for Charles, the body-servant of the deceased, a young mulatto, had gone to bed exhausted by grief and watching, almost as soon as Isabel had been led from the corpse.

Uncle Peter had scarcely seen the house decorously arranged as one of mourning, and assumed his sad post, when a colored servant, mounted on horseback, rode up and alighted. He was a respectable, solemn looking elderly negro, dressed in a neat dark suit, and with boots blacked to perfection.

"How s yer, ter day, Uncle Peter?" said the visitor, composing his features to a grave, woe-begone look.

Uncle Peter shook his head sadly, which was a suffi cient answer. In a moment he asked politely:

" How s yer ?"

Now the visitor was one of that class of negroes, by

22 T1IE CABIN AND PARLOR.

no means small, who are always complaining. He replied, sighing,

"Not berry well."

" And how s d ole woman ?"

"Not berry well; rheumatiz."

"And de chil en?"

" Dey s not berry well either. Dis world s a world ob trouble, Uncle Peter," he said, lugubriously shaking his head, " we should all ha* our lamps trimmed, for we don t know when de bridegroom 11 come."

Uncle Peter was a sincere Christian himself, and respected nothing so much as piety in others. But he had never been certain in his own mind that the speaker was not, what he called, " one of de sinners an hypocrites;" for while his visitor was the loudest at a camp-meeting, he was also foremost in getting tipsy at a Fourth of July celebration ; and Uncle Peter had no faith in professions that were not sustained by works.

So he made no reply to this bit of sententious piety. His own honest grief left him in no mood for any thing that was not real.

The visitor now proceeded to enquire after Uncle Peter s family, and then came, at last, to the real purpose of his visit.

"Missus sends compliments," he said, "an* wants to know, how Missus Courtenay and Miss Is bel bears dis fliction."

"Dey lyin down now," replied Uncle Peter. "Mis sus had stericks most all de night, an* Miss Is bel keep goin from one room ter todder till all was over. Missus now asleep, dey say."

" Wha de matter wid Massa Courtenay ? Missus say she reckon it a fit."

"Applepexy," answered Uncle Peter, repeating, as nearly as he could, a word which he had never heard before.

"Blessed Lord," ejaculated the visitor, utterly para lyzed by the hard word, which seemed to imply a dis ease of unknown awfulness and terror.

"Hush o blood to der brain," explained Uncle Peter. "Massa was allers a subject for appleplexy, Doctor Worthington says. He axed me if I d ebber heard him plain of a hummin in de ears ; an I se recollec dat I heard him say dat berry ting yesserday. Ah! dat ball," and he sighed. "Dat killed massa. He was dancin at de berry moment he fell."

The visitor again shook his head.

" Dat dyin at a ball terrible ting, Uncle Peter. De Lord allers cum, yer know, like a tief in de night. Poor Massa Courtenay !"

Uncle Peter, in spite of his grief, kindled up at this.

" Look he ar, nigger," he said, " don t yer cum a slanderin dis way. Massa was a Christian, if ebber dar one, only he Piscopalian, an dey low white folks as well as cullard ones to dance. Gen l Washington was a Piscopalian hisself. I se reckon dat massa an he singin before de throne, dis minnit, in de white robes of de Lamb. David, de great king, danced before der ark. Massa been ready for de summons, dese many year, as a good Christian allers should : and I a most seed shining angels, flyin wid him to Heaven, when he died last night, de Lord knows I did."

The rebuked listener stood awe-struck. He did not doubt Uncle Peter s assertion. For so vividly does the negro realize what to others is but imagination, that he believed, as faithfully as Uncle Peter himself, in the actual bodily presence of angels, at the death-bed.

"Did massa Courtenay ebber speak," said the visi tor, after a solemn pause, "after de fit seized him ?"

"Nebber," said Uncle Peter, and as the death-bed scene rose again to his memory, the tears rolled down his old cheeks. "Miss Is bel, she knelt by de bed, sayin , " If he d only speak one word, or jist bless his own chile. But death, de ugly skeleton, he stood at de oder side, and wouldn t let go his grip. I seed from de first, which was gwine to hab de victory."