The wilderness and solitary places are still glad for them, and their presence makes the desert to rejoice and blossom as the rose.
When Fanny and Teddy were both asleep, Old Tiff knelt down and addressed himself to his prayers; and, though he had neither prayer-book, nor cushion, nor formula, his words went right to the mark, in the best English he could command for any occasion; and, so near as we could collect from the sound of his words, Tiff’s prayer ran as follows: —
“O good Lord, now please do look down on dese yer chil’en. I started ’em out, as you telled me; and now whar we is to go, and whar we is to get any breakfast, I’s sure I don’ know. But, O good Lord, you has got everyting in de world in yer hands, and it’s mighty easy for you to be helping on us; and I has faith to believe dat you will. O bressed Lord Jesus, dat was carried off into Egypt for fear of de King Herod, do, pray, look down on dese yer por chil’en, for I’s sure dat ar woman is as bad as Herod any day. Good Lord, you’s seen how she’s been treating on ‘em; and now do pray open a way for us through de wilderness to de promised land. Everlasting —— Amen.”
The last two words Tiff always added to his prayers, from a sort of sense of propriety, feeling as if they rounded off the prayer, and made it, as he would have phrased it, more like a white prayer. We have only to say, to those who question concerning this manner of prayer, that, if they will examine the supplications of patriarchs of ancient times, they will find that, with the exception of the broken English and bad grammar, they were in substance very much like this of Tiff.
The Bible divides men into two classes: those who trust in themselves, and those who trust in God. The one class walk by their own light, trust in their own strength, fight their own battles, and have no confidence otherwise. The other, not neglecting to use the wisdom and strength which God has given them, still trust in his wisdom and his strength to carry out the weakness of theirs. The one class go through life as orphans; the other have a Father. Tiff’s prayer had at least this recommendation, that he felt perfectly sure that something was to come of it. Had he not told the Lord all about it? Certainly he had; and of course he would be helped. And this confidence Tiff took, as Jacob did a stone, for his pillow, as he lay down between his children and slept soundly.
How innocent, soft, and kind are all God’s works! From the silent shadows of the forest the tender and loving presence which our sin exiled from the haunts of men hath not yet departed. Sweet fall the moonbeams through the dewy leaves; peaceful is the breeze that waves the branches of the pines; merciful and tender the little wind that shakes the small flowers and tremulous wood-grasses fluttering over the heads of the motherless children. O thou who bearest in thee a heart hot and weary, sick and faint with the vain tumults and confusions of the haunts of men, go to the wilderness, and thou shalt find Him there who saith, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you. I will be as the dew to Israel. He shall grow as a lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon.”
Well, they slept there quietly all night long. Between three and four o’clock an oriole, who had his habitation in the vine above their heads, began a gentle twittering conversation with some of his neighbors; not a loud song, I would give you to understand, but a little, low inquiry as to what o’clock it was. And then, if you had been in a still room at that time, you might have heard, through all the trees of pine, beech, holly, sweet-gum, and larch, a little, tremulous stir and flutter of birds awaking and stretching their wings. Little eyes were opening in a thousand climbing vines, where soft, feathery habitants had hung, swinging breezily, all night. Low twitterings and chirpings were heard; then a loud, clear, echoing chorus of harmony answering from tree to tree, jubilant and joyous as if there never had been a morning before. The morning star had not yet gone down, nor were the purple curtains of the east undrawn; and the moon, which had been shining full all night, still stood like a patient, late-burning light in a quiet chamber. It is not everybody that wakes to hear this first chorus of the birds. They who sleep till sunrise have lost it, and with it a thousand mysterious pleasures, — strange, sweet communings, — which, like morning dew, begin to evaporate when the sun rises.
But, though Tiff and the children slept all night, we are under no obligations to keep our eyes shut to the fact that between three and four o’clock there came crackling through the swamps the dark figure of one whose journeyings were more often by night than by day. Dred had been out on one of his nightly excursions, carrying game, which he disposed of for powder and shot at one of the low stores we have alluded to. He came unexpectedly on the sleepers while making his way back. His first movement, on seeing them, was that of surprise; then, stooping and examining the group more closely, he appeared to recognize them. Dred had known Old Tiff before; and had occasion to go to him more than once to beg supplies for fugitives in the swamps, or to get some errand performed which he could not himself venture abroad to attend to. Like others of his race, Tiff, on all such subjects, was so habitually and unfathomably secret that the children, who knew him most intimately, had never received even a suggestion from him of the existence of any such person.
Dred, whose eyes, sharpened by habitual caution, never lost sight of any change in his vicinity, had been observant of that which had taken place in Old Tiff’s affairs. When, therefore, he saw him sleeping as we have described, he understood the whole matter at once. He looked at the children, as they lay nestled at the roots of the tree, with something of a softened expression, muttering to himself, “They embrace the Rock for shelter.”
He opened a pouch which he wore on his side, and took from thence one or two corn-dodgers and half a broiled rabbit, which his wife had put up for hunting-provision the day before, and, laying them down on the leaves, hastened on to a place where he liad intended to surprise some game in the morning.
The chorus of birds we have before described awakened Old Tiff, accustomed to habits of early rising. He sat up, and began rubbing his eyes and stretching himself. He had slept well, for his habits of life had not been such as to make him at all fastidious with regard to his couch.
“Well,” he said to himself, “anyway, dat ar woman won’t get dese yer chil’en dis yer day!” And he gave one of his old hearty laughs to think how nicely he had outwitted her.
“Laws,” he said to himself, “don’t I hear her now! (‘Tiff! Tiff! Tiff!’ she says. Holla away, old mist’! Tiff don’t hear yer! no, nor de chil’en eider, por blessed lambs!” Here, in turning to the children, his eye fell on the provisions. At first he stood petrified, with his hands lifted in astonishment. Had the angel been there? Sure enough, he thought.
“Well, now, bress de Lord, sure ‘nough, here’s de bery breakfast I’s asking for last night! Well, I knowed de Lord would do something for us; but I really didn’t know as’t would come so quick! Maybe ravens brought it, as dey did to’Lijah, — bread and flesh in de morning, and bread and flesh at night. Well, dis yer’s ‘couraging,—’t is so. I won’t wake up de por little lambs. Let ’em sleep. Dey’ll be mighty tickled when dey comes fur to see de breakfast; and, den, out here it’s so sweet and clean! None yer nasty ‘bacca spittin’s of folks dat doesn’t know how to be decent. Bress me, I’s rather tired myself. I spects I’d better camp down again till de chil’en wakes. Dat ar crittur’s kep me gwine till I’s got pretty stiff, wid her contraryways. Spect she’ll be as troubled as King Herod was, and all’Rusalem wid her!”
And Tiff rolled and laughed quietly, in the security of his heart.
“I say, Tiff, where are we?” said a little voice at his side. “Whar is we, puppit?” said Tiff, turning over; “why, bress yer sweet eyes, how does yer do, dis morning? Stretch away, my man! Neber be ‘fraid; we’s in de Lord’s diggin’s now, all safe. And de angel’s got a breakfast ready for us, too!” said Tiff, displaying the provision which he had arranged on some vine leaves.
“Oh, Uncle Tiff, did the angels bring that?” said Teddy. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I wanted to see them.
I never saw any angel in all my life!”
“Nor I neider, honey. Dey comes mostly when we’s ‘sleep. But stay, dere’s Miss Fanny a-waking up. How is ye, lamb? Is ye ‘freshed?”
“Oh, Uncle Tiff, I’ve slept so sound,” said Fanny; “and I dreamed such a beautiful dream!”
“Well, den, tell it right off, ‘fore breakfast,” said Tiff, “to make it come true.”
“Well,” said Fanny, “I dreamed I was in a desolate place, where I couldn’t get out, all full of rocks and brambles, and Teddy was with me; and while we were trying and trying, our ma came to us. She looked like our ma, only a great deal more beautiful; and she had a strange white dress on, that shone, and hung clear to her feet; and she took hold of our hands, and the rocks opened, and we walked through a path into a beautiful green meadow, full of lilies and wild strawberries; and then she was gone.”
“Well,” said Teddy, “maybe ’twas she who brought some breakfast to us. See here, what we’ve got!”
Fanny looked surprised and pleased, but after some consideration said, —
“I don’t believe mamma brought that. I don’t believe they have corncake and roast meat in heaven. If it had been manna, now, it would have been more likely.”
“Neber mind whar it comes from,” said Tiff. “It’s right good and we bress de Lord for it.”
And they sat down accordingly, and ate their breakfast with a good heart.
“Now,” said Tiff, “somewhar roun’ in dis yer swamp dere’s a camp o’ de colored people; but I don’t know rightly whar’t is. If we could get dar, we could stay dar a while, till something or nuder should turn up. Hark! what’s dat ar?”
‘T was the crack of a rifle reverberating through the dewy, leafy stillness of the forest.
“Dat ar ain’t fur off,” said Tiff.
The children looked a little terrified.
“Don’t you be ‘fraid,” he said. “I wouldn’t wonder but I knowed who dat ar was. Hark, now! ‘t is somebody coming dis yer way.”
A clear, exultant voice sung, through the leafy distance, —
“Oh, had I the wings of the morning, I’d fly away to Canaan’s shore.”
“Yes,” said Tiff to himself, “dat ar’s his voice. Now, chil’en,” he said, “dar’s somebody coming; and you mustn’t be ‘fraid on him, ‘cause I spects he’ll get us to dat ar camp I’s telling ‘bout.”
And Tiff, in a cracked and strained voice, which contrasted oddly enough with the bell-like notes of the distant singer, commenced singing part of an old song, which might, perhaps, have been used as a signal: —
“Hailing so stormily,
Cold, stormy weder;
I want my true love all de day.
Whar shall I find him? whar shall I find him?”
The distant singer stopped his song, apparently to listen, and, while Tiff kept on singing, they could hear the crackling of approaching footsteps. At last Dred emerged to view.
“So you’ve fled to the wilderness?” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said Tiff with a kind of giggle, “we had to come to it, dat ar woman was so aggravating on de chil’en. Of all de pizin critturs dat I knows on, dese yer mean white women is de pizinest! Dey ain’t got no manners, and no bringing up. Dey doesn’t begin to know how tings ought to be done ‘mong ‘spectable people. So we just tuck to de bush.”
“You might have taken to a worse place,” said Dred. “The Lord God giveth grace and glory to the trees of the wood. And the time will come when the Lord will make a covenant of peace, and cause the evil beast to cease out of the land; and they shall dwell safely in the wilderness, and shall sleep in the woods; and the tree of the field shall yield her fruit, and they shall be safe in the land, when the Lord hath broken the bands of their yoke, and delivered them out of the hands of those that serve themselves of them.”
“And you tink dem good times coming, sure ‘nough?” said Tiff.
“The Lord hath said it,” said the other. “But first the day of vengeance must come.”
“I don’t want no sich,” said Tiff. “I want to live peaceable.”
Dred looked upon Tiff with an air of acquiescent pity, which had in it a slight shade of contempt, and said, as if in soliloquy, —
“Issachar is a strong ass, couching down between two burdens; and he saw that rest was good, and the land that it was pleasant, and bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a servant unto tribute.”
“As to rest,” said Tiff, “de Lord knows I ain’t had much of dat ar, if I be an ass. If I had a good, strong pack-saddle, I’d like to trot dese yer chil’en ont in some good cleared place.”
“Well,” said Dred, “you have served him that was ready to perish, and not betrayed him who wandered; therefore the Lord will open for you a fenced city in the wilderness.”
“Jest so,” said Tiff; “dat ar camp o’ yourn is jest what I’s arter. I’s willing to lend a hand to most anyting dat’s good.”
“Well,” said Dred, “the children are too tender to walk where we must go. We must bear them as an eagle beareth her young. Come, my little man!”
And, as Dred spoke, he stooped down and stretched out his hands to Teddy. His severe and gloomy countenance relaxed into a smile, and, to Tiff’s surprise, the child went immediately to him, and allowed him to lift him in his arms.
“Now I’d thought he’d been skeered o’ you!” said Tiff.
“Not he! I never saw a child or dog that I couldn’t make come to me. Hold fast now, my little man!” he said, seating the boy on his shoulder. “Trees have long arms; don’t let them rake you off. Now, Tiff,” he said, “you take the girl and come after, and, when we come into the thick of the swamp, mind you step right in my tracks. Mind you don’t set your foot on a tussock if I haven’t set mine there before you, because the moccasons lie on the tussocks.”
And thus saying, Dred and his companion began making their way towards the fugitive-camp.
CHAPTER XLI
THE CLERICAL CONFERENCE
A FEW days found Clayton in the city of — , guest of the Rev. Dr. Cushing. He was a man in middle life, of fine personal presence, urbane, courtly, gentlemanly. Dr. Cushing was a popular and much-admired clergyman, standing high among his brethren in the ministry, and almost the idol of a large and flourishing church, a man of warm feelings, humane impulses, and fine social qualities; his sermons, beautifully written, and delivered with great fervor, often drew tears from the eyes of the hearers. His pastoral ministrations, whether at wedding or funeral, had a peculiar tenderness and unction. None was more capable than he of celebrating the holy fervor and self-denying sufferings of apostles and martyrs; none more easily kindled by those devout hymns which describe the patience of the saints; but, with all this, for any practical emergency, Dr. Cushing was nothing of a soldier. There was a species of moral effeminacy about him, and the very luxuriant softness and richness of his nature unfitted him to endure hardness. He was known, in all his intercourse with his brethren, as a peacemaker, a modifier, and harmonizer. Nor did he scrupulously examine how much of the credit of this was due to a fastidious softness of nature which made controversy disagreeable and wearisome. Nevertheless, Clayton was at first charmed with the sympathetic warmth with which he and his plans were received by his relative. He seemed perfectly to agree with Clayton in all his views of the terrible evils of the slave system, and was prompt with anecdotes and instances to enforce everything that he said. “Clayton was just in time,” he said; “a number of his ministerial brethren were coming to-morrow, some of them from the Northern States. Clayton should present his views to them.”
Dr. Cushing’s establishment was conducted on the footing of the most liberal hospitality; and that very evening the domestic circle was made larger by the addition of four or five ministerial brethren. Among these Clayton was glad to meet, once more, father Dickson. The serene, good man seemed to bring the blessing of the gospel of peace with him wherever he went.
Among others, was one whom we
will more particularly introduce as the Rev. Shubael Packthread. Dr. Shubael Packthread was a minister of a leading church in one of the Northern cities. Constitutionally he was an amiable and kindly man, with very fair natural abilities, fairly improved by culture. Long habits, however, of theological and ecclesiastical controversy had cultivated a certain species of acuteness of mind into such disproportioned activity, that other parts of his intellectual and moral nature had been dwarfed and dwindled beside it. What might, under other circumstances, have been agreeable and useful tact, became in him a constant and life-long habit of stratagem. While other people look upon words as vehicles for conveying ideas, Dr. Packthread regarded them only as mediums for concealment. His constant study, on every controverted topic, was so to adjust language that, with the appearance of the utmost precision, it should always be capable of a double interpretation. He was a cunning master of all forms of indirection; of all phrases by which people appear to say what they do not say, and not to say what they do say.
He was an adept, also, in all the mechanism of ecclesiastical debate; of the intricate labyrinths of heresy-hunting; of every scheme by which more simple and less advised brethren, speaking with ignorant sincerity, could be entrapped and deceived. He was au fait also in all compromise measures, in which two parties unite in one form of words, meaning by them exactly opposite ideas, and call the agreement a union. He was also expert in all those parliamentary modes, in synod or General Assembly, by which troublesome discussions could be avoided or disposed of, and credulous brethren made to believe they had gained points which they had not gained; by which discussions could be at will blinded with dusty clouds of misrepresentation, or trailed on through interminable marshes of weariness to accomplish some manœuvre of ecclesiastical tactics.
Dr. Packthread also was master of every means by which the influence of opposing parties might be broken. He could spread a convenient report on necessary occasions, by any of those forms which do not assert, but which disseminate a slander quite as certainly as if they did. If it was necessary to create a suspicion of the orthodoxy, or of the piety, or even of the morality, of an opposing brother, Dr. Packthread understood how to do it in the neatest and most tasteful manner. He was an infallible judge whether it should be accomplished by innocent interrogations, as to whether you had heard “so and so of Mr. — ;” or by “charitably expressed hopes that you had not heard so and so;” or by gentle suggestions whether it would not be as well to inquire; or by shakes of the head and lifts of the eyes, at proper intervals in conversation; or, lastly, by silence when silence became the strongest as well as safest form of assertion.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 110