Clotel, William Wells Brown [i like reading books .txt] 📗

him to a sense of duty to his soul, but he had learned to bow to the shrine of Cupid. He found, weeks after he had been in her company, that when he met her at table, or alone in the drawing room, or on the piazza, he felt a shortness of breath, a palpitating of the heart, a kind of dizziness of the head; but he knew not its cause.

This was love in its first stage. Mr. Peck saw, or thought he saw, what would be the result of Carlton’s visit, and held out every inducement in his power to prolong his stay. The hot season was just commencing, and the young Northerner was talking of his return home, when the parson was very suddenly taken ill. The disease was the cholera, and the physicians pronounced the case incurable. In less than five hours John Peck was a corpse. His love for Georgiana, and respect for her father, had induced Carlton to remain by the bedside of the dying man, although against the express orders of the physician. This act of kindness caused the young orphan henceforth to regard Carlton as her best friend. He now felt it his duty to remain with the young woman until some of her relations should be summoned from Connecticut. After the funeral, the family physician advised that Miss Peck should go to the farm, and spend the time at the country seat; and also advised Carlton to remain with her, which he did.

At the parson’s death his negroes showed little or no signs of grief. This was noticed by both Carlton and Miss Peck, and caused no little pain to the latter. “They are ungrateful,” said Carlton, as he and Georgiana were seated on the piazza.

“What,” asked she, “have they to be grateful for?”

“Your father was kind, was he not?”

“Yes, as kind as most men who own slaves; but the kindness meted out to blacks would be unkindness if given to whites. We would think so, should we not?”

“Yes,” replied he.

“If we would not consider the best treatment which a slave receives good enough for us, we should not think he ought to be grateful for it. Everybody knows that slavery in its best and mildest form is wrong. Whoever denies this, his lips libel his heart. Try him! Clank the chains in his ears, and tell him they are for him; give him an hour to prepare his wife and children for a life of slavery; bid him make haste, and get ready their necks for the yoke, and their wrists for the coffle chains; then look at his pale lips and trembling knees, and you have nature’s testimony against slavery.”

“Let’s take a walk,” said Carlton, as if to turn the conversation. The moon was just appearing through the tops of the trees, and the animals and insects in an adjoining wood kept up a continued din of music. The croaking of bullfrogs, buzzing of insects, cooing of turtledoves, and the sound from a thousand musical instruments, pitched on as many different keys, made the welkin ring. But even all this noise did not drown the singing of a party of the slaves, who were seated near a spring that was sending up its cooling waters. “How prettily the negroes sing,” remarked Carlton, as they were wending their way towards the place from whence the sound of the voices came.

“Yes,” replied Georgiana; “master Sam is there, I’ll warrant you: he’s always on hand when there’s any singing or dancing. We must not let them see us, or they will stop singing.”

“Who makes their songs for them?” inquired the young man.

“Oh, they make them up as they sing them; they are all impromptu songs.”

By this time they were near enough to hear distinctly every word; and, true enough, Sam’s voice was heard above all others. At the conclusion of each song they all joined in a hearty laugh, with an expression of “Dats de song for me;” “Dems dems.”

“Stop,” said Carlton, as Georgiana was rising from the log upon which she was seated; “stop, and let’s hear this one.” The piece was sung by Sam, the others joining in the chorus, and was as follows:

Sam.

Come, all my brethren, let us take a rest,
While the moon shines so brightly and clear;
Old master is dead, and left us at last,
And has gone at the Bar to appear.
Old master has died, and lying in his grave,
And our blood will awhile cease to flow;
He will no more trample on the neck of the slave;
For he’s gone where the slaveholders go.

Chorus.

Hang up the shovel and the hoe
Take down the fiddle and the bow⁠—
Old master has gone to the slaveholder’s rest;
He has gone where they all ought to go.

Sam.

I heard the old doctor say the other night,
As he passed by the dining-room door
“Perhaps the old man may live through the night,
But I think he will die about four.”
Young mistress sent me, at the peril of my life,
For the parson to come down and pray,
For says she, “Your old master is now about to die,”
And says I, “God speed him on his way.”

Hang up the shovel, etc.

At four o’clock at morn the family was called
Around the old man’s dying bed;
And oh! but I laughed to myself when I heard
That the old man’s spirit had fled.
Mr. Carlton cried, and so did I pretend;
Young mistress very nearly went mad;
And the old parson’s groans did the heavens fairly rend;
But I tell you I felt mighty glad.

Hang up the shovel, etc.

We’ll no more be roused by the blowing of his horn,
Our backs no longer he will score;
He no more will feed us on cotton-seeds and corn;
For his reign of oppression now is o’er.
He no more will hang our children on the tree,
To be ate by the carrion crow;
He no more will send our wives to Tennessee;
For he’s gone where the slaveholders go.

Hang up the shovel and the hoe,
Take