We must again beg the reader's indulgence while accompanying us in a retrograde necessary to the connection of our narrative. When we left Mr. M'Fadden at the crossing, more than two years ago, he was labouring under the excitement of a wound he greatly feared would close the account of his mortal speculations.
On the morning following that great political gathering, and during the night Harry had so singularly disappeared, the tavern was rife with conjectures. On the piazza and about the "bar-room" were a few stupefied and half-insensible figures stretched upon benches, or reclining in chairs, their coarse garments rent into tatters, and their besotted faces resembling as many florid masks grouped together to represent some demoniacal scene among the infernals; others were sleeping soundly beside the tables, or on the lawn. With filthy limbs bared, they snored with painful discord, in superlative contempt of everything around. Another party, reeking with the fumes of that poisonous drug upon which candidates for a people's favours had built their high expectations, were leaning carelessly against the rude counter of the "bar-room," casting wistful glances at the fascinating bottles so securely locked within the lattice-work in the corner. Oaths of touching horror are mingling with loud calls for slave attendants, whose presence they wait to quench their burning thirst. Reader! digest the moral. In this human menagerie-in this sink of besotted degradation-lay the nucleus of a power by which the greatest interests of state are controlled.
A bedusted party of mounted men have returned from a second ineffectual attempt to recover the lost preacher: the appearance of responsibility haunts mine host. He assured Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden that his property would be perfectly secure under the lock of the corn-shed. And now his anxiety exhibits itself in the readiness with which he supplies dogs, horses, guns, and such implements as are necessary to hunt down an unfortunate minister of the gospel. What makes the whole thing worse, was the report of M'Fadden having had a good sleep and awaking much more comfortable; that there was little chance of the fortunate issue of his death. In this, mine host saw the liability increasing two-fold.
He stands his important person, (hat off, face red with expectancy, and hands thrust well down into his breeches pocket), on the top step of the stairs leading to the veranda, and hears the unfavourable report with sad discomfiture. "That's what comes of making a preacher of a slave! Well! I've done all I can. It puts all kinds of deviltry about runnin' away into their heads," he ventures to assert, as he turns away, re-enters the "bar-room," and invites all his friends to drink at his expense.
"Mark what I say, now, Squire Jones. The quickest way to catch that ar' nigger 's just to lay low and keep whist. He's a pious nigger; and a nigger can't keep his pious a'tween his teeth, no more nor a blackbird can his chattering. The feller 'll feel as if he wants to redeem somebody; and seeing how 'tis so, if ye just watch close some Sunday ye'll nab the fellow with his own pious bait. Can catch a pious runaway nigger 'most any time; the brute never knows enough to keep it to himself," says a flashily dressed gentleman, as he leaned against the counter, squinted his eye with an air of ponderous satisfaction, and twirled his tumbler round and round on the counter. "'Pears to me," he continues, quizzically, "Squire, you've got a lot o' mixed cracker material here, what it'll be hard to manufactor to make dependable voters on, 'lection day:" he casts a look at the medley of sleepers.
"I wish the whole pack on 'em was sold into slavery, I do! They form six-tenths of the voters in our state, and are more ignorant, and a great deal worse citizens, than our slaves. Bl-'em, there is'nt one in fifty can read or write, and they're impudenter than the Governor."
"Hush! hush! squire. 'Twon't do to talk so. There ain't men nowhere stand on dignity like them fellers; they are the very bone-and-siners of the unwashed, hard-fisted democracy. The way they'd pull this old tavern down, if they heard reflections on their honour, would be a caution to storms. But how's old iron-sided M'Fadden this morning? Begins to think of his niggers, I reckon," interrupts the gentleman; to which mine host shakes his head, despondingly. Mine host wishes M'Fadden, nigger, candidates and all, a very long distance from his place.
"I s'pose he thinks old Death, with his grim visage, ain't going to call for him just now. That's ollers the way with northerners, who lives atween the hope of something above, and the love of makin' money below: they never feel bad about the conscience, until old Davy Jones, Esq., the gentleman with the horns and tail, takes them by the nose, and says-'come!'"
"I have struck an idea," says our worthy host, suddenly striking his hand on the counter. "I will put up a poster. I will offer a big reward. T'other property's all safe; there's only the preacher missing."
"Just the strike! Give us yer hand, squire!" The gentleman reaches his hand across the counter, and smiles, while cordially embracing mine host. "Make the reward about two hundred, so I can make a good week's work for the dogs and me. Got the best pack in the parish; one on 'em knows as much as most clergymen, he does!" he very deliberately concludes, displaying a wonderful opinion of his own nigger-catching philosophy.