# Aunt Phillis's Cabin/Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXIV.
"The afternoon is so delightful," said Mr. Weston, "that we had better take our ride to the Congress burial ground. Your time is short, young ladies; you cannot afford to lose any of it, if all your plans are to be carried out."
The ladies gladly agreed to go, and were not long in their preparation. Mark was a perfect prince of a driver. When the ladies had occasion to go into the country, he entreated them to hire a carriage, but he was always ready to display his handsome equipage and horses in the city, especially on the Avenue.
He drove slowly this afternoon, and Mrs. Weston remembered, as she approached Harper's, that she had one or two purchases to make. Fearing it might be late on their return, she proposed getting out for a few moments.
A stream of gayly-dressed people crowded the pavements. The exquisite weather had drawn them out. Belles with their ringlets and sun-shades, and beaux with canes and curled moustaches. Irish women in tawdry finery, and ladies of color with every variety of ornament, and ridiculous imitation of fashion. Now and then a respectable-looking negro would pass, turning out of the way, instead of jostling along.
"Truly," said Mr. Weston, "Pennsylvania Avenue is ​the great bazaar of America. Here are senators and members--three and four walking arm in arm. Here are gay young men, dressed in the latest style; here is the army and navy button; old people and young children with their nurses; foreigners and natives; people of every shade and hue. There is our President, walking unattended, as a republican president should walk. And see! there are a number of Indians, noble-looking men, and a white boy throwing a stone at them. I wish I had the young rascal. On our right, in their carriages, are the wives and children of the rich; while, scattered about, right and left, are the representatives of the poor. But what is this, coming along the side-walk?"
The girls put their heads out of the window, and saw a colored man, sauntering along in an impudent, dont-carish manner. His dress--indeed his whole appearance--was absurd. He wore a stylish, shiny black hat; the rim slightly turned up in front, following the direction of the wearer's nose, which had "set its affections on things above." His whiskers were immense; so were his moustaches, and that other hairy trimming which it is the fashion to wear about the jaws and chin; and for which I know no better name than that which the children give--goatee; a tremendous shirt collar; brass studs in his bosom; a neck handkerchief of many colors, the ends of which stood out like the extended wings of a butterfly; a gorgeous watch chain; white kid gloves; pantaloons of a large-sized plaid, and fitting so very tightly that it was with the greatest difficulty he could put out his feet; patent leather gaiter-boots, and a cane that he flourished right and left with such determined strokes, that the children kept carefully out of his way. Several persons looked back to wonder and laugh at this strange figure, the drollery of which was greatly enhanced by his limber style of walking, and a certain expression of the whole outer man, which said, "Who says I am not as good ​as anybody on this avenue; Mr. Fillmore, or any one else?"
Now it happened, that walking from the other direction toward this representative of the much-injured colored race, was a stranger, who had come to Washington to look about him. He was from Philadelphia, but not thinking a great deal of what he saw in our capital on a former visit, he had quite made up his mind that there was nothing to make it worth his while to come again; but hearing of the convalescing turn the city had taken since the immortal supporters of the Compromise and the Fugitive Slave law had brought comparative harmony and peace, where there had been nought but disorder and confusion, he suddenly fancied to come and see for himself. He was not an Abolitionist, nor a Secessionist, nor one of those unfortunate, restless people, who are forever stirring up old difficulties. He had an idea that the Union ought to be preserved in the first place; and then, whatever else could be done to advance the interests of the human race in general, without injury to our national interests, should be attended to. He was always a good-tempered man, and was particularly pleasant this afternoon, having on an entire new suit of clothes, each article, even the shirt-collar, fitting in the most faultless manner.
As he walked along, he noticed the colored man advancing towards him, and observed, too, what I forgot to mention, that he held a cigar, and every now and then put it to his mouth, emitting afterwards a perfect cloud of smoke.
The thought occurred to him that the man did not intend to turn out of the way for anybody, and as they were in a line, he determined not to deviate one way or the other, but just observe what this favorite of fashion would do. They walked on, and in a minute came up to each other, the colored man not giving way in the least, but bumping, hat, goatee, cane, cigar, and all, against our ​Philadelphian, who, with the greatest coolness and presence of mind, doubled up his fist and giving the colored Adonis two blows with it, (precisely on the middle brass stud which confined his frilled shirt-bosom,) laid him full length upon the pavement.
"Now," said the Philadelphian, "you've had a lesson; the next time you see a gentleman coming along, turn out of the way for him, and you'll save your new clothes." Without another glance at the discomfited beau, who was brushing his plaid pantaloons with his pocket-handkerchief, and muttering some equivocal language that would not do here, he went on his way to see the improvements about the City Hall.
Mark's low laugh was heard from the driver's seat, and Bacchus, who was waiting to open the carriage door for Mr. Weston, stood on the first step, and touching his hat, said, with a broad grin, "Dat's de best thing we've seen sence we come to Washington. Dat beats Ole Virginny."
Mrs. Weston came from the store at the same moment, and Bacchus gallantly let down the steps, and, after securing the door, took his place beside Mark, with the agility of a boy of sixteen.
Mr. Weston, much amused, described the scene. Mrs. Weston declared "it served him right; for that the negroes were getting intolerable."
"I can hardly believe," she said, "the change that has been made in their appearance and conduct. They think, to obtain respect they must be impertinent. This is the effect of Abolition."
"Yes," said Mr. Weston, "this is Abolition. I have thought a great deal on the condition of the negroes in our country, of late. I would like to see every man and woman that God has made, free, could it be accomplished to their advantage. I see the evils of slavery, it is sometimes a curse on the master as well as the slave.
"When I purchased Sarah; when I saw those grieving, ​throbbing souls, my own was overwhelmed with sympathy for them. This is slavery, I said to myself. Poor creatures, though you have done wrong, how severe your punishment; to be separated from all that your life has had to make it pleasant, or even tolerable. This is slavery indeed, and where is the man, come from God, who will show us a remedy? I look at the free blacks of the North and South. I say again, this is Abolition! How worthless, how degraded they are, after they imbibe these ridiculous notions. When I behold the Southern country, and am convinced that it is impossible to manumit the slaves, I conclude that here, at least, they are in their natural condition. Heretofore, I feel that I have only done my duty in retaining mine, while I give them every means of comfort, and innocent enjoyment, that is in my power. Now I have seen the result of the Abolition efforts, I am more convinced that my duty has been, and will be, as I have said. Could they be colonized from Virginia, I would willingly consent to it, as in our climate, white labor would answer; but farther South, only the negro can labor, and this is an unanswerable objection to our Southern States becoming free. Those servants that are free, the benevolent and generous Abolitionists ought to take North, build them colleges, and make good to them all the promises they held out as baits to allure them from their owners and their duties."
Mr. Weston found he had not two very attentive listeners in the young ladies, for they were returning the many salutations they received, and making remarks on their numerous acquaintances. The carriage began slowly to ascend Capitol Hill, and they all remarked the beautiful prospect, to which Washingtonians are so much accustomed that they are too apt not to notice it. Their ride was delightful. It was one of those lovely spring days when the air is still fresh and balmy, and the promise of a summer's sun lights up nature so joyfully.
There were many visitors at the burial-ground, and there ​had been several funerals that day. A woman stood at the door of the house, at the entrance of the cemetery, with a baby in her arms; and another child of two years old was playing around a large bier, that had been left there until it should be wanted again.
Mrs. Weston met with an acquaintance, soon after they entered the ground, and they stopped to converse, while Mr. Weston and the younger ladies walked on. Near a large vault they stopped a moment, surprised to see two or three little boys playing at marbles. They were ruddy, healthy-looking boys, marking out places in the gravel path for the game; shooting, laughing, and winning, and so much occupied that if death himself had come along on his pale horse, they would have asked him to wait a while till they could let him pass, if indeed they had seen him at all. Mr. Weston tried to address them several times, but they could not attend to him until the game was completed, when one of them sprang upon the vault and began to count over his marbles, and the others sat down on a low monument to rest.
"Boys," said Mr. Weston, "I am very sorry to see you playing marbles in a burial-ground. Don't you see all these graves around you?"
"We don't go on the dead people," said an honest-faced little fellow. "You see the grass is wet there; we play here in the walk, where its nice and dry."
"But you ought to play outside," said Mr. Weston. "This is too sacred a place to be made the scene of your amusements."
"We don't hurt any body," said the largest boy. "When people are dead they don't hear nothin; where's the harm?"
"Well," said Mr. Weston, "there's one thing certain, none of you have any friends buried here. If you had, you would not treat them so unkindly."
"My mother is buried over yonder," said the boy on the ​vault; "and if I thought there was any thing unkind in it, I would never come here to play again."
"You are a good boy," said Mr. Weston. "I hope you will keep your word. If you were buried there, I am sure your mother would be very sad and quiet by your grave."
The boy drew the string to his bag, and walked off without looking back.
"I wish," said Mr. Weston, "you would all follow his example. We should always be respectful in our conduct, when we are in a burial-ground."
As soon as they were gone, the boys laughed and marked out another game.
Mrs. Weston joined her party, and they went towards the new portion of the cemetery that is so beautifully situated, near the river.
"I think," said Mr. Weston, "this scene should remind us of our conversation this morning. If Washington be the meeting-place of all living, it is the grand cemetery of the dead. Look around us here! We see monuments to Senators and Members; graves of foreigners and strangers; names of the great, the rich, the powerful, men of genius and ambition. Strewed along are the poor, the lowly, the unlearned, the infant, and the little child.
"Read the inscriptions--death has come at last, watched and waited for; or he has come suddenly, unexpected, and undesired. There lies an author, a bride, a statesman, side by side. A little farther off is that simple, but beautiful monument."
They approached, and Alice read the line that was inscribed around a cross sculptured in it, "Other refuge have I none!" Underneath was her name, "Angeline."
"How beautiful, how much more so in its simplicity than if it had been ornamented, and a labored epitaph written upon it," said Mr. Weston. "Here too are members of families, assembled in one great family. As we walk along, we pass mothers, and husbands, and children; ​but in life, they who lie here together, were possibly all strangers."
"What is that large vault open to-day for?" said Ellen, to a man who seemed to have some charge in the place.
"That is the public receptacle," said the man. "We are obliged to air it very often, else we could never go in and out with the coffins we put there. There's a good many in there now."
"Who is there?" said Mr. Weston.
"Well," said the man, "Mrs. Madison is there, for one, and there are some other people, who are going to be moved soon. Mrs. Madison, she's going to be moved, too, some time or another, but I don't know when."
Ellen stooped down and looked in, but arose quickly and turned away. Two gentlemen were standing near observing her, and one of them smiled as she stepped back from the vault. Mr. Weston knew this person by sight; he was a clergyman of great talent, and almost equal eccentricity, and often gave offence by harshness of manner, when he was only anxious to do good to the cause in which his heart was absorbed.
"Ah! young ladies," he said, looking kindly at them both, "this is a good place for you to come to. You are both beautiful, and it may be wealthy; and I doubt not, in the enjoyments of the passing season, you have forgotten all about death and the grave. But, look you! in there, lies the mortal remains of Mrs. Madison. What an influence she had in this gay society, which you have doubtless adorned. Her presence was the guarantee of propriety, as well as of social and fashionable enjoyment; the very contrast that she presented to her husband made her more charming. Always anxious to please, she was constantly making others happy. She gave assistance and encouragement to all, when it was in her power. She had more political influence than any woman in our country has had, before or since. But think of her now! You could not ​bear to approach the coffin that contains her remains. Where is her beauty—and her grace and talent? Ah! young ladies," he continued, "did she rightly use those talents?"
"It is hardly a fair question to ask now," said Mr. Weston. "Let us tread lightly o'er the ashes of the dead."
"Let the living learn a lesson from the dead," said the clergyman, sternly. "You are leading, it may be, a heartless life of pleasure, but, young ladies, forget not this grave. She could not escape it, nor will you. Pause from your balls, and your theatres, and your gay doings, and ask, what is the end of it all. Trifle not with the inestimable gift of life. Be not dead while you live. Anticipate not the great destroyer. Hear the appeal of one who was once the idol of every heart; she speaks to you from the grave, 'Even as I am, shalt thou be!'"
He turned from them, and wandered over the ground. Mr. Weston led the way to the carriage, and Ellen and Alice thought, that if a lesson of life was to be learned in the gay ball of the night before, a still more necessary one was found in the cemetery which they were now leaving, as the shadows of the evening were on the simple monument and the sculptured slab, and their silent tenants slept on, undisturbed by the gambols of thoughtless children, or the conversation of the many who came to visit their abode.
The next morning, Bacchus brought no letter for Mr. Weston, but one for each lady; for Ellen from her aunt, for Alice from Arthur, and Cousin Janet's handwriting was easily recognized on the outside of Mrs. Weston's. Hardly had the girls arisen from the table to take theirs' to their rooms for a quiet perusal, when an exclamation from Mrs. Weston, detained them.
"Is anything the matter at home, Anna?" said Mr. Weston, "Is Cousin Janet—?" ​
"Cousin Janet is well, my dear brother," said Mrs. Weston. "I was very thoughtless, but our dear neighbor, Mrs. Kent, is no more."
"Can it be possible?" said Mr. Weston, much agitated. "Read the letter aloud."
Mrs. Weston, turned to the beginning, and read aloud,
Bacchus entered in time to hear the latter part of this letter. He had his master's boots in his hands. When Mrs. Weston stopped reading, he said, "That's good; bound for Mister Kent. I'm glad he's gwine, like Judas, to his own place."