Let us try, during the year, upon whose threshold we are now standing, to do as much good, and as little harm, as possible. I respectfully recommend to all old men and women, who are as grey and grizzly as I am, to make themselves as agreeable as they can; and remember, that old age is proverbially peevish and exacting. In the presence of children, do not forget the wise sayings of Parson Primrose, who candidly confessed, when solicited to join in some childish pastime, that he complied, for he was tired of being always wise. Pray allow all you can for the vivacity and waywardness of youth. Nine young ladies, in ten, may find a clever fit, in Pope’s shrewd line—
“Brisk as a flea, and ignorant as dirt.”
All, that can be said about it, lies in a filbert shell, ita lex scripta est, ita rerum natura. You will not mend the matter, by scowling and growling, from morning to night. Can you not remember, that you yourself, when a boy, were saluted now and then, with the title of “proper plague”—“devil’s bird”—or “little Pickle?” I can. Some years ago, my very worthy friend, the Rev. John S. C. Abbott, did me the kindness to give me one of his excellent works, the Path of Peace. The preface contains a very short and clever incident, of whose applicability, you can judge for yourself.
“Mother,” said a little boy, “I do not wish to go to Heaven.”
“And why not, my son?”
“Why, grandfather will be there, will he not?”
“Yes, my son, I hope he will.”
“Well, as soon as he sees us, he will come, scolding along, and say, ‘Whew, whew, whew! what are these boys here for?’ I am sure I do not wish to go to Heaven, if grandfather is to be there.”
This is a short tale of a grandfather, but it is a very significant story, for its length; and calculated, I fear, for many meridians.
Well, here we are, in the very midst of bells and bonfires, screaming for joy, in honor of the new year, with our spandy new weepers on, for the old one.
No. XXXIV.
Viewed in every possible relation, the most melancholy and distressing funerals, of which I have any knowledge, were a series of interments, which occurred in Charleston, South Carolina, not very many years ago, and of which, in 1840, I received, while sojourning there, a particular account, from an inhabitant of that hospitable city. These funerals were among the blacks; and, as there was no epidemic at the time, their frequency, at length, attracted observation. Every day or two, the colored population were seen, bearing, apparently, one of their number to the place, appointed for all living. Suspicion was, at last, awakened—a post mortem examination was resolved on—the graves, which proved to be uncommonly shallow, were opened—the coffins lifted out, and examined—and found to be filled, not with corpses, but with muskets, swords, pistols, pikes, knives, hatchets, and such other weapons, as might be necessary, for the perfection of a deadly work, which had been long projected, and was then not far from its consummation.
These, I say, were the most melancholy funerals, of which I have any knowledge. This was burying the hatchet, in a novel sense. In 1840, the tumult of mind, resulting from immediate apprehension, had, in a great degree, subsided; yet a rigorous system of espionage continued, in full operation—the spirit of vigilance was still on tiptoe—the arsenal was in excellent working order, and capable, at any moment, of turning its iron shower, in every direction—the separate gathering of the blacks, for religious worship, had been, and still was, prohibited; for it was believed, that the little tabernacle, in which, before this alarming discovery, the colored people were in the habit of assembling, had been used, in some sort, for the purpose of holding insurrectionary conclaves; perhaps for the purpose also of muttering prayers, between their teeth, to the bondman’s God, to give him strength to break his fetters.
At the time, to which I refer, the slaves, who attended religious services, on the Sabbath, entered the same temples with their masters, who paid their vows, on cushions, while many of the slaves worshipped, squatting in the aisles. At this time, slaves, ex cautela, were forbidden, under penalty of imprisonment and the lash, from being present at any conflagration. Under a like penalty, they were commanded to retire instantly, upon the very first stroke of the curfew bell, to their homes and cabins. At every quarter of an hour, through the whole night, the cry of all’s well was sent forth by the armed sentinel, from the top of St. Michael’s tower. Such was the state of things, in 1840, in the city of Charleston.
Melancholy as were these funerals, the undertakers were quite as ingenious, as those cunning Greeks, who contrived the Trojan horse, divinâ Palladis arte. Melancholy and ominous funerals were they—for they were incidents of slavery, the CURSE COLOSSAL—that huge, unsightly cicatrice, upon the very face of our heritage. Well may we say to the most favored nation of the earth, in Paul’s proud words—would to God ye were not only almost, but altogether such as we are, saving these bonds.
After taking a mental and moral coup d’œil of these matters, I remember that I lay long, upon my pillow, not consigning my Southern friends and brethren, votively, to the devil; but thanking God, for that blessed suggestion, which led good, old Massachusetts, and the other states of the North, to abolish slavery, within their own domains.
Slavery is a curse, not only to the long-suffering slave, but to the mortified master. This chivalry of the South—what is it? Every man of the South, or the North, who comes to the blessed conclusion, that, while others own jackasses, horses, and horned cattle, he actually owns men—what a thought!—will soon become filled with this very chivalry. It is the lordly consciousness of dominion over one’s fellow-man—a sort of Satrap-like feeling of power—a sentiment extremely oriental, which begets that important and consequential air of superiority, that marks the Southern man and the Southern boy—Mr. Calhoun, diving, like one of Pope’s heroes, after first principles, and fetching up, for a fact, the pleasant fancy, that man is not born of a woman—or the young, travelling gentleman, full of “Suth Cralina,” who comes hither, to sojourn awhile, and carries in every look, that almost incomprehensible mixture of pride and sensitiveness, which is equally repulsive and ridiculous.
The bitterness of sectional feeling is a necessary incident of slavery. Civil and servile wars are among its terrible contingencies. Slavery cannot endure in our land, though the end be not yet. I had rather the cholera should spread, than this moral scourge, over our new domains—not, upon my honor, because the former would be a help to our profession, but because a dead is more bearable, than a living curse.
Of all the sciolists, who have offered their services, to remedy this evil, the conscience party is the most remarkable. A self-consecrated party, with their phlogistic system, would deal with the whole South, which, on this topic, is a perfect hornet’s nest already, precisely as an intelligent farmer, in Vermont, dealt with a hornet’s nest, under the eaves of his dwelling—he applied the actual cautery; his practice was successful—he destroyed the nest, and with it his entire mansion. There are men, of this party, to whom the constitution and laws of the Union are objects of infinite contempt; who despise the Bible; who would overthrow the civil magistrate; and unfrock the clergy. But there are many others, who abjure such doctrines—a species of conscience comeouters—who intend, after they have unkennelled the whirlwind, to appoint a committee of three, from every county, to hold it by the tail, ne quid detrimenti respublica caperet. These are to be selected from the most careful and judicious, who, when the firebrand is thrown into the barrel of gunpowder, will have a care, that not more than a moderate quantity shall be ignited.
The constitution is a contract, made by our fathers, and binding on their children. Who shall presume to say that contract is void, for want of consideration, or because the subject is malum in se? Who shall decide the question of nudum pactum or not? Not one of the parties, nor two, nor any number, short of the whole, can annul this solemn contract; nor can a decision of the question of constitutionality come from any other tribunal, than