The bugle sounded,—the soft notes of "Home, sweet Home!" followed: the party, forming into double file, gay and grotesque, marched through the grove to the barge. Servants, old and young, were in high glee; some joining in chorus with the music; some preparing the barge, others strewing branches and flowers in the pathway, to the delight of young "mas'r" and "missus,"-all singing. Aunt Rachel, high above her minions in authority, is poised on the bank, giving directions at the very top of her voice. Daddy Bob, Harry, and Dandy-the latter named after "mas'r's" fleetest horse-are freighting their young "missusses" in their arms to the boat, shielding their feet from the damp.
"Now, mas'r, Old Boss," Bob says, directing himself to Marston, after completing his charge with the young ladies, "Jus' lef' 'um tote, old mas'r safe da'? So 'e don' mus e' foot." And forthwith he shoulders Marston, lands him like a bale of cotton on one of the seats, much to the amusement of those on board, sending forth shouts of applause. The party are on board; all is quiet for a minute; again the music strikes up, the barge is gliding over the still bosom of the fairy-like stream.
The sun has just sunk into a fiery cloud that hangs its crimson curtains high in the heavens, shedding refulgent beauty over the dark jungle lining the river's banks. And then, twilight, as if stealing its way across the hills, follows, softening the scene. Soon it has gone, the landscape sleeps, tranquilly arched by the serene vault of a southern sky. Everything seems peaceful, reposing, and serene; the air breathes warm and balmy, distributing its invigorating influence. The music has ceased, nothing but the ripple of the water is heard; then the stars, like pearls suspended over the dark surface, begin to glimmer and shine. Above all is the moon, like a silver goddess, rising stealthily and shedding her pale light upon the calm glow.
Onward, onward, onward, over the still stream, winding its way to the great deep, they move; and again the music echoes and re-echoes through the forest, over the lawn; dying away in chimes that faintly play around us. The sudden changes in the heavens,—monitor of things divine,—call up in Lorenzo's feelings the reverses of fortune that will soon take place on the plantation. He had never before recognised the lesson conveyed by heavenly bodies; and such was the effect at that moment that it proved a guardian to him in his future career.
It was near midnight when the barge reached the plantation. Fires were lighted on the bank, negroes were here and there stretched upon the ground, sleeping with such superlative comfort that it landed ere they awoke. One by one the parties returned for their homes; and, after shaking hands with Marston, taking an affectionate adieu of Franconia (telling her he would call on the morrow), lisping a kind word to the old negroes, Lorenzo ordered a horse, and left for the city. He took leave of the plantation, of its dearest associations, like one who had the conflict of battle before him, and the light of friendship behind.
CHAPTER VI. — ANOTHER SCENE IN SOUTHERN LIFE.
IN the city, a few miles from the plantation, a scene which too often affords those degrading pictures that disgrace a free and happy country, was being enacted. A low brick building, standing in an area protected by a high fence, surmounted with spikes and other dangerous projectiles, formed the place. The upper and lower windows of this building were strongly secured with iron gratings, and emitted the morbid air from cells scarcely large enough to contain human beings of ordinary size. In the rear, a sort of triangular area opened, along which was a line of low buildings, displaying single and double cells. Some had iron rings in the floor; some had rings in the walls; and, again, others had rings over head. Some of these confines of misery-for here men's souls were goaded by the avarice of our natures-were solitary; and at night, when the turmoil of the day had ceased, human wailings and the clank of chains might be heard breaking through the walls of this charnel-house. These narrow confines were filled with living beings-beings with souls, souls sold according to the privileges of a free and happy country,—a country that fills us with admiration of its greatness. It is here, O man, the tyrant sways his hand most! it is here the flesh and blood of the same Maker, in chains of death, yearns for freedom.
We walk through the corridor, between narrow arches containing the abodes of misery, while our ears drink the sad melancholy that sounds in agitated throbs, made painful by the gloom and darkness. Touching an iron latch, the door of a cell opens, cold and damp, as if death sat upon its walls; but it discloses no part of the inmate's person, and excites our sympathies still more. We know the unfortunate is there,—we hear the murmuring, like a death-bell in our ears; it is mingled with a dismal chaos of sound, piercing deep into our feelings. It tells us in terror how gold blasts the very soul of man-what a dark monster of cruelty he can become,—how he can forget the grave, and think only of his living self,—how he can strip reason of its right, making himself an animal with man for his food. See the monster seeking only for the things that can serve him on earth-see him stripping man of his best birth-right, see him the raving fiend, unconscious of his hell-born practices, dissevering the hope that by a fibre hangs over the ruins of those beings who will stand in judgment against him. His soul, like their faces, will be black, when theirs has been whitened for judgment in the world to come!