Part 5

The watchword was quickly passed, and when the case was opened the small room was densely packed and it was made evident to the commissioner that considerable excitement prevailed. He therefore judged it best to delay further trial until 2 P. M., at which hour the court would sit in the large hall just around the corner, by Independence Square, and it was there that aunt took me.

Friend J. and his wife, Elizabeth C. and two sons, and four or five other “plain bonnets and broad brims,” entered the room about the same time that we did. A. L., whom thee remembers, was present and arranged comfortable seats for us, some having benches, others chairs, while a large table in the middle of the hall was surrounded with the roughest looking men I ever saw! They were armed with pistols and bowie knives and handled their weapons too freely to make me comfortable. And yet how cowardly I felt when I glanced at the poor slave face so full of terrible anticipation!

The room was fast filling up with Southern sympathizers when Lucretia Mott quietly took her place beside the colored man, and after speaking kindly with him drew forth her knitting work! I never saw anything so diabolical as the countenances of the company about the table, as they commented to each other upon her appearance there. Evidently they resolved to render her situation as trying as possible, which, I assure thee, they never failed to do during the whole session.

Of course thee knows I had never been in a court room before, and so I am afraid I shall not be able to give thee anything more than a very meager account of the regular proceedings. It seems that the identity of the slave had first to be proved, with the date of his escape. Then the poor man brought what testimony he could quickly gather as to his having lived near Lancaster for a greater length of time than his would-be owner asserted. The evidence was given under great difficulties because the strong Southern bias of the crowd broke forth in wild cries and oaths, whenever the adverse testimony came on. Sometimes the noise was deafening. The commissioner is a frail man of middle age, and by the way, a descendant of Friends. He made great exertion to maintain order, but frequently looked as if he feared the result of interference.

Hour after hour went on. The twilight had grown into darkness and midnight finally drew near. None of the anti-slavery party had been allowed to leave the room, or rather having left it, to return. Everyone was getting hungry, yet I think we all thought especially of the good woman who sat so calmly beside the not over cleanly colored man, but I am bound to add, with a group of tried and true friends close around her.

In one of the pauses loud voices were heard outside, and a rush toward the door gave us fear that a measure was on foot to seize the prisoner and carry him off under the very eye of the law, but we found the trouble arose from a young man insisting upon being allowed to enter with refreshments for Lucretia Mott. He was actually driven away by force, and only after a hazardous entry, by means of a water pipe and window, was he able to present the modest supper to her. Thee will not be surprised to know that she at once shared it with other Friends in attendance.

Soon after daylight the commissioner announced that the testimony had all been taken and he found himself too much fatigued to continue the sitting, therefore the court was adjourned until 2 P. M. of that day. I had grown very restless, as thee may imagine, and turning to aunt I said, “I scarcely dare breathe for fear the poor man must go back to his chains.” A. L., who sat near, touched me lightly on the shoulder, and replied: “Prepare thyself calmly for the worst in life, and thus thee will not be overwhelmed when disaster comes, and should the best be realized thy joy will be proportionate.”

I think I shall never forget his remark. The whole scene is so vivid before me. I cannot close my eyes without seeing every detail of the crowded room, dimly lighted, and the shadowy figures in the shady corners leaning anxiously forward to catch the expression as well as the words of an earnest old black man, who was questioned and cross-questioned for hours on the witness stand. I know, mother, that had it been I, I should certainly have made some mistake, but he did not get greatly confused, only wandered slowly over and over again in his statements and settled down upon what proved to be the absolute truth.

It seems he was a small gardener in the neighborhood where the prisoner worked, and had written down in his rough notebook the date of the stranger’s arrival. This book was the only direct testimony in favor of freedom, for all the other witnesses became confused, or else exhibited clearly the falsity of their statements. As it turned out, the good, conscientious gardener had made a mistake in his date, and the commissioner suspected it, but as A. L. told us they could not go behind the written facts and we all thought he was, indeed, greatly harassed by the situation and was glad enough to be able “to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt,” which I suppose is a formal phrase that applies to causes decided upon suspicious evidence, and thee knows, it is often said that English law leans toward mercy.

Alas! that it should not always be based upon justice! And, mother dear, thee will recall here a great deal that I have written thee about the young men of New England with whom I have been thrown during the year. I cannot bring myself back to the old thought that I bore concerning them. I expected the H. and A. families were as eager for the abolition of slavery as their forefathers were to found a “free and independent nation,” and behold! they jeer at Garrison and Phillips and hesitate to do any thing that will hurt Southern pride.

Thee has ever taught me to “judge not,” yet I would that the youth of distinguished patriot families now enjoying every educational advantage at the great seat of learning--Harvard College--might also feel the throb of sympathy for the oppressed. But we must turn back to the terrible slave trial.

At times, toward dawn especially, when the men grew weary, I suppose, the pistols were flourished as if they were harmless things. I drew very near to dear aunt once, but she quietly pointed to Lucretia Mott, whose age required rest, but whose motion betrayed neither her weariness nor deep concern. It was a relief when a little before nine o’clock the court was adjourned. It seems there was some thought of attempting a forcible capture of the man on trial, but his anti-slavery friends gathered close about him and thus remained until he was in the hands of the officers of the law.

Of course we were very tired, but nothing of small importance could have kept us from rejoining the throng, for such it had now become, when court opened again that afternoon.

What is called the “argument” began as soon as order was established. First the lawyer on one side, a much disfigured man named B. B., tried to show that all the evidence was in favor of the slaveholder. That is, that the man claimed was really the escaped slave, and this being so, the commissioner ought to give him up. Then the other, G. E., made a most satisfactory response, stating that the only evidence to be relied upon was the gardener’s account book, and that distinctly showed the man to have been free at the time he was said to have run away. Oh, mother! I wish thee could have heard him. I know it is dangerous to allow one’s enthusiasm too great liberty, but I never felt so well satisfied with any speaker before.

At last it was over and a long reading from the commissioner closed the matter. Even aunt, I think, was in doubt how it might end, until the very last sentence, and then--although I did not approve of the sentiment--I could not help a touch of sympathy with a man near me who shouted excitedly, “You have saved your soul, commissioner!”

_Such_ excitement! People shook hands and cried and--the slave had disappeared! No one saw him go, no one seemed to know where he went, but aunt whispered to me that it was all right, he was taken in charge by a friend and would be immediately out of harm’s way. I think it was an hour before we could get down to the street, so thronged was the staircase, and everyone seemed happy over the result.

I am inclined to think my mind dwelt as much on the awful responsibility of the commissioner as upon the released man. How _can_ one bind himself by an oath to serve a government that has made this iniquitous bond with the slaveholders? I _almost_ hope to learn later that this dreadful experience has led to the resignation of Commissioner L.

There was one other thing, mother dear, that gave me great joy. In the midst of the enthusiasm, someone seized my hand. I was not astonished at the movement for every heart seemed to be throbbing with sympathy and brother love, but I assure thee I was very happy when I lifted my eyes and saw bending over me the familiar face of Edward H.! What a fine face it is! And on this occasion burning with newborn devotion to principle! It is needless to say that he has since been to visit us, and that he is going to return to Pennsylvania during the summer and has kindly responded to my invitation to come to our home.

Thee cannot help loving him, I know, nor can dear father either, and you will both rejoice that--for Edward has so expressed it--through your simple Sallie’s teaching a strong man has been led to see the enormity of our national sin, and pledged himself to leave no stone unturned toward its abolishment.

In firm affection, I remain

THY DAUGHTER.

N. B.--I think perhaps I ought to tell thee about a letter I have recently had from F. A. A kind letter, but with a tone of flattery that I do not quite like, nor, indeed, understand. He speaks as if I was much in his thought and--can it be, dear mother, that I gave him a wrong impression of my friendship? My cheeks burn as I write this, but it is delightful to know good Edward H. was thoroughly inspired--through my mere suggestion that these are serious times--to do a great deal of honest thinking. I shall be right glad to welcome him within our home!

UNCLE JOSEPH.

One of the prominent figures in our meeting house for many years was that of Uncle Joseph--for thus was he known by the young and old who frequented our religious gatherings.

He occupied the second seat in the men’s gallery--and it was with him that the Elder shook hands in sign that Friends should separate, when it seemed likely that the spirit would move no others to utter gentle words of blessing or stern warning against the wiles of the tempter.

As children we regarded Uncle Joseph in the light of a patriarch, although I now know that his years, at the time of which I write, had scarce reached the limit of a half century.

He was a comely man, straight and tall, his smooth-shaven face beaming with good nature, and his soft blue eye lighted with sympathy, but he was not intellectual. Slow of movement and uncertain in expression, his hearers were often troubled to follow his excellent thought, and it was no uncommon thing for my parents to refer to his ministrations as being “labored.” We had a consciousness, based perhaps upon accidental knowledge, that he was uncommonly well to do, and also that there was considerable feeling in the society that Sarah Sidney, with her clear insight and facile speech, would be a fit life companion for the good man. But time wore on and there seemed no likelihood of a realization of this desire.

I can remember one occasion when the subject really assumed the importance that is usually given to gossip, but it was so lovingly and conscientiously touched upon that I was greatly impressed.

My father and mother were in the way of inviting many friends to dine with them on monthly meeting day. Quarterly meeting brought even more persons from a distance, and among the children little unaccustomed duties were distributed. I was frequently desired to remain for a time in the front chamber and assist our women visitors in removing their wraps and adjusting the cap crowns that often met with disaster beneath the stiff bonnets. It was always a pleasurable duty, for Friends never forget the young, and as each one grasped my little palm, she did not neglect to speak an encouraging word.

On the occasion to which I have alluded, meeting broke up somewhat later than usual. I hurried home, warmed my chilled fingers, and ran upstairs, where a bright fire was burning on the hearth. I glanced about to see that the wood box was full, and looked out of the window where my eye rested upon a short line of carriages all bent in the direction of our home. First came father and mother, grandfather and the three younger children; then a vehicle well known to me as that of Elias Chase from Derry Quarter; and thus I counted them off, as one by one they drew up beside the horse-block.

I missed Sarah Sidney, who generally came with Theophilus Baldwin’s family, and having seen her placid face in its usual place on the seat beneath the gallery, fronting the meeting, I was at a loss to explain her absence. She was tenderly attached to mother, and I could not believe any light matter would take her to another’s table.

A gentle voice called me to my duties:

“Why, Katherine dear, thee must have been very spry to get home before us. I was pleased to see thy interest in the meeting to-day.”

The good woman kissed me and thanked me for the little aid I was able to give in unpinning her great shawl.

Directly afterward, sweet Jane Spencer came tripping up the stairs. She was frequently spoken of as exhibiting “overmuch ardor” in all her good works, but we children loved the enthusiastic little woman.

“O Katherine, I am glad to make use of thy quick fingers. My cap strings are sadly awry. I have been most uncomfortable in them all through meeting. Our breakfast was a trifle late this morning, and we had far to drive.”

One and another arrived, each with a thought of me. “How thee grows, child,” or “Thy mother is blessed in her little helpers.”

The room was well-nigh full, when someone asked the question that had been trembling on my lips.

“Where is Sarah Sidney?”

No one directly replied, but after a moment’s reflection nearly all had a suggestion or a little interest in her to express.

“Methought her face bore traces of anxiety this morning. I trust she has met with no further financial disaster. Thee knows, Rhoda, she is benevolent to a surprising degree in one whose purse is not lengthy, and it is therefore a serious matter to be forced to curtail in her giving.”

“Sarah is too true a follower of the Great Teacher to be long afflicted by the things of this world,” replied an aged friend.

“Ah, Hannah dear,” answered the first speaker, “thee has never had the bread and butter trouble, and therefore thee can hardly compass its misery.”

I think we all felt the force of this argument, for Hannah was richly dowered. Presently Jane Spencer sighed:

“I cannot help wishing that Uncle Joseph would recognize that the hand of the Lord is pointing him to Sarah Sidney.”

“If such be the will of our Heavenly Father, I doubt not it will be revealed in due time,” and Hannah spoke with great deliberation.

“That is quite true, and undoubtedly it is only those among us who are a trifle worldly minded, that show a disposition to hasten these things.” Jane Spencer was always very meek under reproof, and I felt glad that others sustained her desire that Uncle Joseph should be a little less deliberate in his action.

“I can hardly think that he realizes Sarah’s worth,” said a late comer.

“On the contrary,” it was Rhoda Longstreet’s voice, “I am sometimes inclined to believe that his doubt rests upon his own merit. If he were one of the world’s people I should say he was bashful. As it is, I shall call him slow in perceiving his adaptation to any peculiar calling.”

“Thee may be right,” responded Jane Spencer, and I was struck with the note of merrymaking that accompanied her words. “If so, I can only wish that somebody would give him a hint, for I really believe that Sarah has perceived their true relationship, and that her spirit is troubled with doubt since no sign is given unto her.”

“Ah,” interrupted Hannah, “shall we never learn that God does not wish us to call upon him for _signs_?”

Now it had chanced, although none of those present were at that time conscious of it, that Sarah Sidney had given up her seat in a friend’s carriage to a person who was suffering from a weak limb, and had walked briskly along the frozen road toward our house.

Uncle Joseph, too, had chosen to leave his vehicle at home, and seeing in the distance a familiar plump little figure, he made haste to overtake her.

For a few moments they talked together of the lesser things of life. Then they fell into silence, which was at last broken by Uncle Joseph’s voice.

“My mind has dwelt much to-day upon the Bible teaching of the relation of Ruth and Boaz.”

I am sure the throbbing heart beneath the clear muslin kerchief of Sarah Sidney must have bounded a little at this. He went on: “Has thee ever thought it over, and applied the test to our own lives?”

It certainly was not strange that the good woman hesitated before she answered:

“If thee means to ask whether it has been shown to me that I am chosen of the Lord to be thy companion, I will admit that it has; but, Joseph, thee is not an old man, nor am I a young hand-maiden.”

Uncle Joseph stopped short in his walk, and catching a frightened look upon the honest face beside him, he gravely said:

“It was not upon _that_ relation my mind ran. I thought rather of the increased duty in this day and generation which must belong to the husbandman and his gleaners; or in other words the responsibility of him upon whom the benefits of this world have been showered, and the loud call that is ever sounding in my ear to extend help to those who need; and it has been whispered to me that thy material goods have been slipping from thee, and--and, I wished to offer my aid.”

Could one marvel if a feeling of faintness crept over the gentle Sarah, or that a beseeching look set the seal upon the awful stillness that followed? Her face grew first scarlet, then very, very white. Uncle Joseph’s voice sounded strange in her ear. She feared she should fall, but as the tones grew clearer, something else impressed her.

“Sarah, thee has a more receptive spirit than my own. I have sometimes longed to see aright in regard to the formation of a closer bond with thee, and I rejoice that through my own ill-chosen speech thee has been led to point the way.”

He took her trembling hand between his own, and smiled down upon the sweet but tearful face; then her lips were opened, the pain went forever out of her heart, and she whispered only:

“Dear Joseph.”

But her trial was not quite over. We were already summoned to the dining room when Uncle Joseph and Sarah Sidney entered the door together. I glanced about me, and was certain that I saw more than one look of satisfaction exchanged by the company present.

The moment of silent blessing was past. My mother moved as if to begin serving the soup, but she caught Uncle Joseph’s eye, and awaited his slow words:

“Dear friends,” he said with a little tremor in his voice, “rejoice with me, for to-day has our beloved Sarah Sidney revealed to me the message that the Lord has given into her keeping.”

He paused, and with a flush brightening her soft cheeks Sarah asked calmly:

“Joseph, will thee kindly explain thyself?”

I never knew him to do anything so well as he now related to us the manner in which he had obtained an insight into the secret knowledge of Sarah Sidney’s heart.

As he ceased speaking, her own rhythmic tones filled the room in tender thanksgiving to the Lord for his gift of companionship, and this has evermore remained in my memory as one of the most beautiful supplications I have been privileged to hear.

MY GRANDAME’S SECRET.

Almost a hundred years ago, there was born into a staid Quaker household a child whose very physique set at defiance all the rules of the orderly family.

The father, Daniel, and the mother, Lucretia Chester, were fair, colorless persons, and the brown hair of the latter was severely banded beneath her clear muslin cap. One can imagine the tinge of dismay that must have clouded the fatherly affection for his firstborn, when Daniel perceived that the babe was a dimpled, dark-eyed daughter, whose wealth of raven locks fell into soft rings about her brow.

As she grew into recognition of her immediate surroundings, her abounding vivacity made her singularly attractive. Her great eyes sparkled as she cooed in sympathy with the soft-toned stroke of the tall clock that had rung out the hour of her mother’s birth, and the play of the firelight on the pale wall inspired her to feverish exhibitions of delight. At such times Daniel laid his hand tenderly on the refractory curls, and vainly smoothing away their pretty curves, he said, “Alas, Lucretia, a very worldling has been given to our charge. It behooves thee and me to keep an untiring watch over the little one.” “She is the Lord’s own, is she not?” was the gentle reply. But to guide and to guard her after the fashion of the stern orthodox rule was the unrelenting training that the father practiced. More than once as the years went on, he took the scissors from the hand of his wife, with a strange misgiving lest she harbored a secret pleasure in the child’s ringlets, and severely he cut away so much of the crowning glory as scissors could cut, only to find an immediate renewal of nature’s willfulness, and it was with something like reproach that he spoke of her brilliant color.

“I wish, Dorcas, thee had more of the mother’s tint about thee,” he said, emphasizing the plain Quaker name they had given the girl, as if to counteract the impression of her brilliant beauty which increased with time.

One day as she sat at dinner, flushed by a wild scamper across the lawn with her playfellow, a soft-eyed collie, straight before her hung a looking-glass which served her father in his frequent shaving trials, and the child, catching the reflection of her bright face, cried out:

“I do not see, dear father, why thee should wish me to be pale like mother. Mine is far the prettier color. She is a snowdrop, but I am the rose.”

The pain Daniel felt darkened his brow. “Dorcas,” he said, “thee speaks as the daughter of sin; thy words reveal the wiles of the devil.”

The sensitive girl trembled, then her brave spirit rose and despite her tears she had answer:

“Did not our Heavenly Father make us _all_, and why may I not admire myself, if I am his handiwork, as much as thee admires dear mother?”

Her innocence touched Lucretia, who made haste to forestall a severe reproof from her husband:

“The love of the flesh is unholy, my daughter. We are bidden to strive with all the might which the Lord vouchsafes against the things of this world. To purify the heart through the working of the Holy Spirit, this is the highest good.”

“I think I do not understand thee, mother. Is the rose blushing for its sin in not being made like snowdrops?”

“Dorcas, restrain thy tongue; and, Lucretia, perhaps we are in error not to take the child more persistently to meeting. That she is restless and disturbing to the meditations of others must not be allowed to have too much weight.”