SHE was standing one beautiful evening at the front gate of the house, leaning on the rail, and gazing listlessly up the street. She was thinking, perhaps, of that starry night when first she had heard of the name of God, or that other, when her faith had been so wonderfully built up in listening to the striking experiences and prayer of the memorable Lony. Perhaps she had wandered farther back to the time, when, under old Rosa's protection, she had fed the chickens and watered the flowers at Rosevale with childish content. Whatever it was, the tears would come, and several times she raised her hand and dashed them away. Then she turned her head and gazed the other way.
A large hotel stood nearly opposite the house, and across the narrow street she watched the mingling, busy crowd of black and white, young and old, coming and going, each intent on his own interests, each holding in his heart the secret of his own history. Who are they all? thought Tidy, what business are they all about? I wonder if they are all happy? not one of them knows or cares for poor, unhappy me,—when lo! there suddenly loomed up before her a familiar face. She watched it eagerly as it moved up and down in the throng, for she felt that she had seen it before. But it was some minutes before she could tell exactly where. At last it all came to her. It was Arthur Carroll, the son of the man who had owned her when a baby. She had often seen and played with him in her visits to her mother. Many years had passed since she last beheld him, and he had grown to be a young gentleman; but she was sure it was he. He stepped out of the hotel and came towards the house. She uttered a little, quick cry, "Why, Mass Arthur!" He turned and recognized her, and at once stopped to inquire into her condition and circumstances.
It was almost like a visit to old Virginia to see young Carroll; and as cold water to a thirsty soul was the news he brought her from that far country. Tidy drank in eagerly every word he could tell her of the Lees, and others whom she knew, and they were enjoying an animated conversation when Tidy's master passed that way. He saw his slave engaged in familiar talk with a stranger, and remembering the remark of the trader of whom he had bought her, that she had tried "the running-away game" once, and must be watched lest she should repeat the attempt, without waiting to inquire into the circumstances of the case, he resolved to administer a proper chastisement. Coming up behind, he struck her a violent blow on the side of the head that sent the frail girl reeling to the ground.
For a few minutes Tidy lay stunned upon the earth. When she came to herself, her head was smarting with pain and her heart burned like fire with indignation, and in a perfect frenzy of distress and mortification she rushed out of the gate and flew down the street. Up and down, through the streets and lanes of the city, she ran for hours, not knowing or caring whither she went, until finally, exhausted and bewildered, she dropped down upon the ground. Some one raised the panting girl and took her to the guard-house. There she lay until morning before she could give any distinct thought to what she had done, and what course she was now to pursue.
When she began to think clearly, she felt that she had acted very unwisely. For a slave to resist punishment, if it is ever so undeserved, or to attempt to escape it by running away, is only to provoke severer chastisement. That she well knew, and that there was nothing to be done now, but to walk back to her master's house and meet a fate she could not avoid. She only hoped that, when she acknowledged her fault, and frankly told her master that she did it under a wild and bewildering excitement, he would pardon her and let it pass.
She dragged her weary steps back to her master's house, fainting with fatigue and hunger, and presented herself before her mistress.
"I's right sorry I runned so," she said, "but I was kind o' scared like, and didn't know jest what I did. I knows I's no business to run away when massa cuffed me."
Her mistress made no reply but an angry look; but nothing was said by any one about what had happened, and Tidy felt that trouble was brewing. What it would be she could not tell, but her heart was heavy within her. Nothing occurred that day, but the next morning she was told to tie up her clothes and be ready to go up the river at ten o'clock. She knew what going up the river meant. Mr. Turner owned a large cotton plantation about twenty miles from Natchez, and the severest punishment dreaded by his servants in the city was to be sent there.
Tom, the coachman, accompanied Tidy, bearing in his pocket a note to the overseer of the plantation. Would you take a peep into it before she, whom it most concerned, learned its contents? It ran thus,—
"NATCHEZ, Wednesday, A. M.
"DIOSSY,—
"Give this wench a hundred lashes with the long whip this afternoon. Wash her down well, and when she is fit to work, put her into the cotton field.
"ABRAM TURNER."
Oh, let us weep, dear children, for the poor girl, who, for no crime at all, not even a misdeed, was made to bare her tender skin to such shameless cruelty. No friend was there to help her, to plead for her, to deliver her from the relentless, violent hand of the wicked oppressor. She was left all alone to her terrible suffering. Can we wonder that she felt that even the Lord had forgotten her?
That night there was scarcely an inch of flesh from her neck to her feet that was not torn, raw, and bleeding. The salt brine, which is used to heal the wounds, although when first applied it seems to aggravate the torture, was poured pitilessly over her, and writhing with agony, fainting, and almost dead, she was borne to a wretched hut, and laid on a hard pallet. Three weeks she lay there, sick and helpless; but she cried unto the Lord in her distress, and he heard her, and prepared to deliver her, though the time of her deliverance was not yet fully come. She had been brought low, but her eyes were not yet opened to her true needs, and she had not yet learned the prayer God would have her offer, "Be merciful to me, a SINNER."
Children, when you pray, do not be discouraged, if God does not answer you INSTANTLY. His way is not as our way; and though he hears us, and means to answer us, he may see that we are not yet ready to receive and appreciate the blessing we seek. Besides, there is no TIME with God as we count time. WE reckon by days and weeks, by months and years, but with him all is "one, eternal NOW;" and he goes steadily on, executing his purposes of love and mercy, without regard to those points and measures of time which seem so important to us. We must remember, too, that it takes longer to do some things than others. A praying woman whose faith was greatly tried, once asked her minister what this verse meant,—Luke xviii. 8: "I tell you that he will avenge them SPEEDILY." He replied, "If you make a loaf of bread in ten minutes, you think you have done your work speedily. Supposing a steam-engine is to be built. The pattern must be drafted, the iron brought, the parts cast, fitted, polished, tried,—it will take months to complete it, and then you may consider it SPEEDILY executed. So, when we ask God to do something for us, he may see a good deal of preparation to be necessary,—obstacles are to be removed, stepping-stones to be laid,—in the words of the Bible, the rough places are to be made plain, and the crooked ways straight, before the way of the Lord is prepared, and he can come directly with the thing we have asked."
It was thus with Tidy. She kept praying all the time to be free, but the Lord, who meant to give her a larger and better freedom than she asked, led her through such rough and crooked paths that she was quite discouraged, and nearly gave up all for lost.
This was her painful condition when she was driven, for the first time in her life, with a gang of men and women to work in the cotton-field.
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