Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science, Volume 26 December, 1880. by Various None (smart ebook reader .txt) 📕

Trade To The Others.

Within The Enclosures My Friend And Her People,  No Matter How

Enlightened Or Refined They May Be,  Are Herded,  And Under The Same

Rules,  As So Many Animals. They Cannot Leave The Enclosure Without

Passes,  Such As Were Granted To Our Slaves Before The War When They

Wished To Go Outside Of The Plantation. This Woman,  When Seated At

President Hayes'S Table,  The Equal In Mind And Breeding Of Any Of Her

Companions,  Was,  By The Laws Of Her Country,  A Runaway,  Legally Liable

To Be Haled By The Police Back To Her Enclosure,  And Shot If She

Resisted. She And Her People Are Absolutely Unprotected By Any Law. It

Is Indeed The Only Case,  So Far As I Know,  In any Christian Country,  In

Which A Single Class Are So Set Aside,  Unprotected By Any Law. When Our

Slaves Were Killed Or Tortured By Inhuman Masters,  There Was At Least

Some Show Of Justice For Them. The White Murderer Went Through Some Form

Of Trial And Punishment. The Slave,  Though A Chattel,  Was Still A Human

Being. But These People Are Not Recognized By The Law As Human Beings.

They Cannot Buy Nor Sell; They Cannot Hold Property: If With Their Own

Hands They Build A House And Gather About Them The Comforts Of

Civilization And The Wife And Children To Which The Poorest Negro,  The

Most Barbarous Savage,  Has A Right,  Any Man Of The Dominant Class Can,

Without Violating Any Law,  Take Possession Of The House,  Ravage The

Wife And Thrust The Children Out To Starve. The Wrong-Doer Is Subject To

No Penalty. The Victim Has No Right Of Appeal To The Courts. Hence Such

Outrages Are Naturally Of Daily Occurrence. Not Only Are They

Perpetrated On Individuals,  But Frequently There Is A Raid Made Upon The

Whole Of The Inmates Of One Enclosure--Whenever,  In Fact,  The People In

The Neighborhood Fancy They Would Like To Take Possession Of Their Land.

The Kinsmen Of My Friend,  With Their Clan Numbering Some Seven Hundred

Souls--A Peaceable,  Industrious Christian Community,  Living On Land

Which Had Belonged To Their Ancestors For Centuries--Were Swept Off Of

It A Few Years Ago At The Whim Of Two Of Their Rulers: Their Houses And

Poor Little Belongings Were All Left Behind,  And They Were Driven A

Thousand Miles Into A Sterile,  Malarious Region Where Nearly Half Of

Their Number Died. The Story Of Their Sufferings,  Their Homesickness And

Their Despair On The Outward Journey,  And Of How Still Later Some Thirty

Of Them Returned On Foot,  Carrying The Bones Of Those Who Had Died To

Lay Them In Their Old Homes,  Is One Of The Most Dramatic Pages In

History. De Quincey'S "Flight Of A Tartar Clan" Does Not Equal It In

Pathos Or As A Story Of Heroism And Endurance. At The End Of Their

Homeward Journey,  When Almost Within Sight Of Their Homes,  The Heroic

Little Band Were Seized By Order Of The Ruler Of Their Enclosure And

Committed To Prison. The Tribe Are Still In The Malarious Swamps To

Which They Were Exiled. Strangers Hold Their Farms And The Houses Which

They Built With Their Own Hands.

The Anomalous Condition Of A People Legally Ranking As Animals,  And Not

Human Beings,  Would Naturally Produce Unpleasant Consequences When They

Are Criminally The Aggressors. When They Steal Or Kill They Cannot Be

Tried,  Sent To Jail Or Hung As If They Were Human In The Eye Of The Law.

The Ruler Of Each Enclosure Is Granted Arbitrary Power In Such Cases To

Punish At His Discretion. He Is Judge,  Jury,  And Often Executioner. He

Has A Control Over The Lives Of These People More Absolute Than That Of

Any Christian Monarch Over His Subjects. If He Thinks Proper To Shoot

The Offender,  He Can Call Upon The Regular Army Of The Country To

Sustain Him. If The Individual Offender Escapes,  The Whole Of The

Inmates Of The Enclosure Are Held Responsible,  And Men,  Women And

Children Are Slaughtered By Wholesale And Without Mercy.

My Readers Understand My Little Fable By This Time. It Is No Fable,  But

A Disgraceful Truth.

The Government Under Which A People--Many Of Whom Are Educated,

Enlightened Christian Gentlemen--Are Denied The Legal Rights Of Human

Beings And All Protection Of Law Is Not The Absolute Despotism Of Siara

Or Russia,  But The United States,  The Republic Which Proclaims Itself

The Refuge For The Oppressed Of All Nations--The One Spot On Earth Where

Every Man Is Entitled Alike To Life,  Liberty And The Pursuit Of

Happiness. The Only People In The World To Whom It Denies These Rights

Are Not Its Quondam Slaves,  Not Pagans,  Not Runaway Convicts,  Not The

Offscourings Of Any Nation However Degraded,  But The Original Owners Of

The Country.

The Legal Disability Under Which The Indian Is Held Is As Much Of An

Outrage On Human Rights,  And As Bald A Contradiction Of The Doctrines On

Which Our Republic Is Based,  As Negro Slavery Was.

R.H.D.

A Little Ireland In america.

The Humorous Side Of Life Was Never More Vividly Brought Before Me Than

While Living A Few Years Ago In The Vicinity Of An Irish Settlement In

One Of The Suburbs Of New York. What We Call "Characters" Were To Be

Found In every Cottage--The Commonplace Was The Exception. Indeed,  I Do

Not Remember That It Existed At All In "The Lane," As This Locality Was

Called.

Perhaps Among The Inhabitants Of The Lane None More Deserved Distinction

Than Mary Magovern. The Grandmother Of A Numerous Family,  She United All

The Masculine And Feminine Virtues. About The Stiff,  Spotless And

Colossal Frill Of Her Cap Curled Wreaths Of Smoke From Her Stout

Dhudeen As She Sat Before The Door Blacking The Small Boots Of Her

Grandchildren,  Stopping From Time To Time To Remove The Pipe From Her

Mouth,  That She Might Deliver In Her Full Bass Voice A Peremptory Order

To The Large Yellow Dog That Lay At Her Feet. It Was Usually On The

Occasion Of A Carriage Passing,  When The Dog Would Growl And Rise. Very

Quickly Out Came The Pipe,  And Immediately Followed The Words,  "Danger,

Lay By Thim Intintions;" And The Pipe Was Used As An Indicator For The

Next Movement--Namely,  To Patiently Lie Down Again Upon The Ground.

Mary Magovern Kept A Drinking-Shop Behind The Living-Rooms Of Her

Cottage,  And The Immense Prestige She Had In The Lane Must Have Had Some

Foundation In The Power Which This Thriving Business Gave Her,  Many Of

Her Neighbors Being Under The Obligation Of Debt To Her.

Mike Quinlan Would Have Been Her Most Frequent Visitor Had It Not Been

For The Ever-Open Eye Of Mrs. Quinlan,  Which Caused Her Husband To Seek

His Delights By Stealth At A Village A Mile Away. Mike Was An Elderly

And Handsome Man,  But His Wits Had Ebbed Out As The Contents Of The

Wine-Cup Flowed In,  And The Beauty That Had Won So Remarkable A Person

As Mrs. Quinlan In Its First Glow Was Somewhat Marred. He Was The Owner

Of A Small Cart And A Mule,  And Those Who Had Stones Or Earth To Move

Usually Remembered To Employ Poor Mike. But It Was On Foot,  As A More

Inconspicuous Method Of Eluding The Watchfulness Of Mrs. Quinlan,  That

Mike Slipped Away To The Neighboring Village Of An Afternoon,  And It Was

On Foot That I One Night Saw Mrs. Quinlan Going Over The Same Road With

An Invincible Determination In Her Countenance And A Small Birch Rod In

Her Hand. Mrs. Quinlan Was Somewhat Younger Than Her Lord And Master:

She Had A Clear,  Bright-Blue Eye,  A Roseate Color In Her Little Slender

Face,  And Gray Hair Tidily Smoothed Back Beneath The Dainty Ruffles Of

Her Cap,  About Which A Black Ribbon Was Tied. She Wore Short Petticoats

And Low Shoes,  And As She Walked Briskly Along She Smoothed Her Apron

With The Disengaged Hand,  As If,  The Balance Of The Family

Respectability Having So Wholly Fallen Upon Her Own Shoulders,  She Would

Not Disturb It By Permitting A Disorderly Wrinkle. Half An Hour Later

She Passed Again Over The Road,  Her Face Turned Homeward And Wearing An

Even Greater Austerity,  The Birch Rod Grasped Firmly In Her Hand,  And

Her Worser Half Preceding Her With A Foolish Smile Upon His Lips,  Half

Of Concession,  Half Of Pride In The Power To Which He Stooped.

Another Of Mrs. Magovern'S Occasional Visitors Was Old Haley,  Who Had

Regular Employment Upon Our Own Place. Like Mike Quinlan,  He Rejoiced In

A Wife Who Was An Ornament To Her Sex--A Most Respectable,  Handsome And

Intelligent Woman,  Though Education Had Done Little To Sharpen Her Wits

Or Widen Her Experience. She Could Tell A One From A Five Dollar Bill,

As Her Husband Would Proudly Inform You,  And She Could Cook A Dinner,  Do

Up A Skirt Or A Frilled Cap,  Keep A House Or Tend A Sick Friend,  As Well

As Any Woman In The Land. "Maggie'S A Janeous!" Her Husband Would Remark

With A Look Of Intense Admiration.

One Evening Mrs. Haley Made Her Appearance At Our House,  Asking For An

Audience Of My Mother. The Object Was To Inform Her--These Sympathetic

People Like To Be Advised In all Their Affairs--That Being In Need Of

Various Household Supplies She Proposed On The Following Day To Go To

The City And Purchase Them At The Washington Market.

"I Suppose You Have Been To The City Before,  Mrs. Haley?" Remarked My

Mother.

"I Have Not,  Ma'Am," Said Mrs. Haley.

"Had You Not Better Take Some Friend With You Who Has Been There Before,

Lest You Should Get Lost?"

"Faith,  I Had,  Ma'Am: I Had A Right To Have Moor Sinse An' Think O'

That."

So Mrs. Haley Departed,  Returning Again In company With Mary Magovern:

"Here'S Mary Magovern,  Ma'Am: She'S Goin' Along Wid Me."

"Ah,  That'S Very Well.--You Know The City,  Mary? You'Ve Been There?"

"I Have Not,  Ma'Am."

"Why,  What,  Then,  Is The Use Of Your Going With Mrs. Haley?"

"We'Ll Make A Shtrict Inquiry,  Ma'Am."

The Next Morning They Started,  And At Four O'Clock Old Haley Came In

Much Anxiety Of Mind To Seek Comfort Of My Mother: "Maggie'S Not Come,

Ma'Am. Faith,  I'M Throubled,  For The City Is A Quare Place."

When It Grew Late Haley Returned Again