Part 39 (1/2)

I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are; whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country.

I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves.

No; I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We, who are now a.s.sembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May G.o.d speed them and theirs. May he who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy, and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth as well as of poetry, exclaim, that here is still his country.

OLD UNCLE JAKE.

He was bowed by many a year of service; he was white-woolled, thick-lipped, and a true son of Africa, yet a grand and knightly soul animated that dusky breast--a soul that many a scion of the blood royal might envy.

The children loved him, the neighbors respected him, his own color looked up to him as a superior being, and they whose goods and chattels he had formerly been, were sure to heed his counsels in all important family matters. Aye, he had an honorable record. If his skin was black, his soul was white as the whitest and from l.u.s.ty boyhood to the present there had been no need of ”stripes” for Uncle Jake.

He had been the playmate of ”young marster,” the boon companion in all 'possum hunts and fis.h.i.+ng frolics, and when each had arrived at man's estate the goodfellows.h.i.+p contracted in youth knew no surcease.

When the tocsin of war resounded through the South, and the call for volunteers was made, ”marster” was one of the first to buckle on his armor and hasten to the front--doing so with greater heart as Uncle Jake was left in charge of those dearer than life to him.

And royally did the poor unlettered African fulfil the trust committed to his keeping. He took upon himself the burden of all plantation matters and sooner than one hair on the heads of ”missus or chillun” should be injured, he would have sacrificed his life freely any day. And when the war was over he positively refused to join in the hegira of his brethren, preferring rather to live on in the same old place that had witnessed his birth and the strength of his manhood's prime.

In grateful recognition of his long servitude a comfortable cottage was built for him in a secluded nook of the plantation, in which, with his faithful old wife, he lived a peaceful and contented life, tilling the few acres which had been granted him and doing all sorts of odd jobs out of the pure love he bore old ma.r.s.e.

But Uncle Jake was getting old now--more and more heavily the weight of years fell upon him--the whiter grew his locks until at last the time came when he could no longer pursue his accustomed duties, and all reluctant and unwilling he took to his bed never to rise again.

For weeks and months he lingered on the ”Border Land,” attended by loving hands, and his slightest wish was gratified; indeed, so long he hovered between life and death, that those who loved him best began to cherish a faint hope that he would be spared to them.

But the fiat had gone forth--Uncle Jake must die.

One evening, just as the setting sun was flooding the fair landscape with his golden beams, a tearful group were a.s.sembled at his bedside, who had been hastily summoned thither to bid farewell to one who had been so true a friend to them all.

There were marster and missus and their children and Jake's own wife and children, with a few of his fellow servants, all united in a democracy of grief that knew no distinction of caste in the supreme moment.

No sound was heard save a half-suppressed sob now and then--the tick-tick of the clock on the rude mantel and the labored breathing of the dying man.

For hours he had lain in a sort of stupor, broken only at intervals by delirious mutterings, when suddenly his eyes, in which was a preternatural brightness, opened and fixed themselves long and earnestly in turn upon each one of the faces bent so sorrowfully over him.

Then in a feeble, fluttering voice, like the last effort of an expiring taper, he addressed his master, who was tenderly wiping the moisture from his brow:

”Ole ma.r.s.e, I'se been a good and faithful servant to yer all dese years, has I not?”

”Yes, Jake.”

”Ebber since we was boys togedder I'se lubed yer, and stuck to yer through thick and thin, and now dat Jake is goin' home yer doan' treasure up nothin' agin me, do yer, ma.r.s.e?”

”No, no, Jake.”

”Old missus, come nearer, honey, Jake's eyes is gettin' mighty dim now, and he kan't see yer. Yer'll nebber forgit how Jake tuk keer of yer an' de chilluns when ole marster gone to de war? An' yer'll be kind to my wife and chilluns for my sake, won't yer?”

”Yes, yes, Jake, I'll be kind to them, and I will never forget your fidelity, old friend.”

”T'ank de Lawd! I kin die happy now, when I'se know dat yer an' master will 'member me an' be kind to dem I'se leaving behind. An' de chillun--whar's de chillun? I'se wants ter tell 'em all goodby an' say a las' few words to dem, too.”