Belford's Magazine, Volume II, No. 8, January, 1889

And not to us only, was Uncle Scipio the stay and comfort in those dark days, but to our mother also. He had been the guardian, playmate, and tyrant of two eager boys, my brothers, through infancy, and through the sunny college days, when, with the school boy’s profanation of the classics, they had stumbled on the story of his great prototype, and laughingly called him “Scipio Africanus.” Through tear-dimmed spectacles he watched them march away, two boy soldiers, with no premonition of misfortune on their faces, and minds full of great Shakespearian thoughts of “all the pomp and circumstance of glorious war.” And last of all, he stood by my father’s stirrup when he mounted to ride on his last journey, and took his final orders concerning us.

About this time, I remember, there was quite a disturbance among the negroes; some were for following in the wake of the first Union troops that should pass, as the only sure means of gaining their promised freedom. These, we knew, had been trying to persuade Uncle Scipio to join them. To us this was a thing too preposterous to think of; but I think that mother and grandmother really had some doubts on the subject. So one day the latter asked him what he should do if the opportunity should be offered him to go. I was balancing on the rockers of her chair at the time, and I shall never forget the look he gave her in reply.

“I can’t go, ole missus,” he said, shaking his gray head, as he rose from emptying an armful of lightwood knots into the wood box, and dusted the splinters from his sleeve. “I can’t go, nohow, and leave young missus and de chillun in dese yere times. Mars Ben he done die, and lef’ me to take care o’ dese yere darlins o’ hisen, and no kind o’ proclamation, dis side de Jordan o’ def, gwine to free ole Scipio from dat charge.”

“But don’t you want to be free if the rest are?”

“Yes, ole missus, but ef de Lord mean to bring freedom to dis ole nigger, he kin fin’ him here. Ef He mean to fetch our people dry shod tru dis Red Sea o’ blood, outen de house o’ bondage, den when I hears de soun’ o’ dem timbrels, and de dancin’, an’ de shoutin’, I praise Him too; but I don’t tink He gwine to be angry kase one ole man love his home so much ’til he got to stay behind and weep wid dem in de house where de eldest born am slain.”

And faithfully he kept his promise to the slain. But see! I began to tell you the story of that memorable Christmas-time, and am letting the shadows of the intervening years crowd between me and the Yule-log. Avaunt! ye ghosts of bitter days of want, of hatred and contention; the spirit of peace and good-will exorcise ye from the hearth of Christmas memories!

I was going to tell you how Uncle Scipio undertook to save us from despair in that terrible time.

We, the much abused community of infants, had submitted with tolerable fortitude to taking our rye substitute for coffee, sweetened with sorghum, and similar hardships; but now, as the holidays approached, and we saw no signs of festivity, we began to feel great apprehensions.

We resolved to confide our fears to Scipio.

“Do you think,” I asked him one evening, as we sat in our usual evening attitudes before the fire, “that old ‘Santy’ will forget us this year because it is so cold and dark, and because everybody is so sad, and? – ”

Here my griefs overcame utterance: I could say no more.

“Now, Lawd o’ messy!” cried the dear old creature, taking a closer look at my tearful face. “What dat yer sayin’, chile? Ole Santy Claus forgit yer, honey? What make yer tink he gwine to forgit yer? Well, well! You’s a funny little chile, sho’ – yer makes me laugh ’til I cries; sho’ yer do.”

I noticed that he did take off his “specs” and wipe them with his yellow bandana, but I didn’t see anything to laugh at. He gazed sadly enough, I thought, into the embers for awhile, and smoothed my hair in a thoughtful way. Then an inspiration seized him; he saw his way through the dilemma. He straightened himself in his chair, and readjusted his glittering ornaments across his nose. He assumed the air which all the country ’round knew as the precursor of something oracular, for he was “not ’zactly a preacher, no sah! but sort of a ’zorter ’mongst de breren.”

“Now, my dear little chillun,” he began, “I dunno who tuk an’ turned in an’ put dat funny notion in yer heads ’bout ole Santa Claus forgitten yer, but pay ’tickler extension to what I’se gwine to say to yer. You mustn’t go to kalklatin’ on none o’ dem high-falutin’ tings what he used to fotch here fo’ de wah sot in, fur de times is mighty hard, and de ole feller’ll have to run de blockade to git yere t’all – sho’ he will. But ef you sez you’ll be powerful good til’ dat time, an’ don’t go to pesterin’ yer ma ’bout it, I’ll promise yer dat he aint gwine to forgit yer altogedder.”

This was surely consolation; but it required all our faith in Uncle Scipio to keep our courage alive until the great day. It drew near and nearer, and still we saw no unusual stir in the house, and our hearts began to sink a little. At last it wanted but one day, and I shall never forget that Christmas eve.

Uncle Scipio was very much preoccupied, and could not be disturbed by any means, that day; so we betook ourselves to the society of our elders. But there matters were worse. There was little of privation and bad news that we had not become pretty familiar with by this time, and war, I remember, seemed to me the normal condition of things. But it soon became clear to me that something a little worse than usual was apprehended that day.

There were whispered conversations going on above our heads, but we caught enough of it to know that a piece of terrible news had arrived. A party of refugees had passed through our town in the early morning. They were a company of fragile women and children, with a few faithful negroes, fleeing from their homes as from a pestilence. They told us that a large company of Yankees had made their appearance a few miles above us, and if they followed the most direct route to the railroad, would, in all probability, reach us that night or the following day. Our little town being on the line of the railroad, rarely escaped the military visitations. Besides, it was at this time the depository of a great deal of cotton, which it was feared might be the occasion of its being burned.

I have heard mother say that this day before Christmas there were just three able-bodied men in the town – the hospital doctor, the miller, and the conscript officer; not a very formidable defence against a hostile invasion. But I suppose those two lonely women, my mother and grandmother, must have looked for help in this extremity, towards the everlasting hills where the twelve legions of angels lay encamped, for they bore their anxiety like Spartans.

The day dragged through, however, and the last sun rays showed us no blue coats on the western road towards which aching eyes had turned through the heavy hours. Things began to look a little more hopeful. We began to feel that reaction from anxiety which is almost sure to come when the candles are lighted.

We sat close together in the sitting-room, and took our very frugal supper there in quite a hysterical sort of cheerfulness.

The day had passed without disaster, and we had been told that in case the “Yankees” should make their appearance during the night, and our garrison of three be obliged to evacuate the town, the village church-bell would be rung to apprize the citizens of the situation.

No, we felt sure the enemy could not come on Christmas eve. We even ventured to hang up our stockings in the accustomed place.

We knelt, my brother and I, by dear old grandmother’s knee, and said our prayers to Him who, she told us, knew what it was to spend His first Christmas days here under the shadow of the sword, and would not that one of His little ones should perish. Then tossed by hope and fear, we slept.

It was a notable fact, but one which escaped comment in the general anxiety of that night, that Uncle Scipio had not appeared as usual, after his out-of-door tasks were finished. It had gone pretty hard with us all not to be able to confide everything to this faithful old friend; but the strictest injunctions had been laid upon us to keep the whole matter a secret from the negroes, for many reasons. So he knew nothing, and went about his tasks all day, singing his most dirge-like tunes, which meant some pleasant preoccupation of mind. We had learned that. We knew soon after what it was that occupied his heart and head that day.

I do not know how long we had slept in our trundle bed, but I know I had travelled in my dreams over many leagues of fairy land, walking under endless avenues of lighted Christmas trees, when suddenly, I thought, from some unseen source, the deep tones of a bell struck discord on the radiant air. It seemed so out of place in that enchanted region; and at the sound all the lights on the trees flickered and went out, and we were lost in the dark. Louder and nearer the bell still sounded; and then we awoke and our hearts stood still with terror.

We knew it was the village church-bell, proclaiming its story to the sleeping town. The enemy were upon us, and our Christmas fires would be the light of blazing homes. Oh, such awakening after such dreams! So eloquent was every face, of horrible certainty, that scarcely a word was spoken. It was only about midnight, but I was dressed by trembling hands – mother had not been undressed at all. And then we waited – for what? We could not have told precisely. But after a little the bell ceased to ring, and then we listened for the tramp of horses and the quick Northern voices speaking words of command to the men. We had heard it before, and knew the sound well. Once before I had awakened from sleep and seen the distorted shadows of horsemen chase one another across the strip of moonlight just over my bed, and looked from my window to see the moonlight glittering on the sabres and gun barrels of an armed host surrounding our house. That is not a sight to be forgotten, let me tell you, children who are born and reared in the lap of peace and plenty.

For quite a while – it seemed ages to me – we sat in silence looking at one another. But though the lights twinkled in all the neighboring windows, telling of other anxious watchers, no unusual sound disturbed the air.

What could it mean? Surprise began to succeed to alarm. It occurred to some one to call up Uncle Scipio, and get him to investigate. But it was wonder on top of wonder – he was not to be found; neither had his bed been disturbed during the night. Had he deserted us and gone over to the enemy, then? No, we could not really doubt him, even yet; but his absence was too significant; there must be some plot hatching somewhere in the dark.

There was nothing for us to do but wait. But we had not to wait much longer; for presently in walked the absentee, clothed in his most majestic air, but a little non-plussed to see us all up and dressed.

“Oh, Scipio! where have you been?” we exclaimed indignantly. “How could you leave us at such a time and the town full of soldiers? Which way are they coming? What shall we do?”

“Well, I clar,” he answered, in a bewildered sort of way, “dis yere proceedin’ clean tops my cotton! Is you all clar outen yer minds, or what’s de matter wid yer? I aint seed nary a Yankee dis night, and I jes bin way up to de Mef’dis chache, ringing de Christmas chimes fur to cheer you up a little. Did’n ole Scip tell you, honeys, dat dis was gwine to be de boss Christmas? And he done kep his word. I met ole Santy out yonder, sittin’ on de pump and he sez he’s comin’ here soon’s iver he kin; so you better git to bed ’mejitly, ef not sooner; ef you don’t he’ll be here and ketch you ‘Christmas gif’ fust, sho’ he will.”

And so this was the end of it all. The dear old soul had taken it into his funny old head to give us a surprise and ring the Christmas chimes as in the old times.

Well, we tried to soften the blow, when we told him what a blunder he had made; but we knew it would be a long time ere he would recover from his chagrin. He had long been a terror to the idle young darkies about town, and they were only too glad to get something to use against him. Of course there was general indignation among the citizens when they learned that they had suffered a false alarm; but when they considered the beautiful motive that prompted the action, the tide of reproach was turned aside, and it all ended in a general laugh at Uncle Scipio’s expense.

It still wanted several hours till day, when our fears were relieved by his appearance, and we went to bed again.

With the first streak of light, however, we were up with bare feet and frowzy heads to find Uncle Scipio’s promise had not failed us. The Christmas saint had been upon our hearthstone and left his footprints there. The stockings were as fantastically distended as ever in the palmiest times.

I suppose the children of the present day would not covet the wonderful objects that we hauled forth from heel and toe. Yet I have spent many Christmas holidays amid the gayeties of the metropolis since then, and its richest gifts wax poor when I remember that morning. What did it matter to us that both toys and confections bore the stamp of home manufacture – little wooden dolls, like Chinese deities, carved out of wood by Uncle Scipio’s jack knife – strange people baked in sweet bread with coffee grains for eyes? What did it matter that the war cloud hovered around us; that to-morrow might renew the scenes of yesterday? We were happy in our treasures. We know, now, what the charm was that made them precious, for we know that

“The painted vellum hallows not the prayer,Nor ivory and gold the crucifix.”

Ah! that will ever be the day of days to me. And with it are enshrined in fadeless green, the names of many whose eyes have long been closed upon the wars and joys of this earth. Not the least dear among these will ever be old Scipio, who loved us better than his own freedom; who stood by us in the day of trial, and was faithful till death to the charge of a master who could never return to take account of his stewardship.

He was grandiloquent, insisted on spectacles, though he generally read the hymns upside down; wore a collar on Sundays that would put our modern dudes to naught; but he was a prophet, for all that, and saw farther than most men into the future.

We trust he has honor now in his own country; while in our hearts his memory will yearly ring the chimes of Christmas bells.

Celine McCay.

THE RESULT

(November 6th, 1888.)We have no longer Uncle Sam, Nor yet our Yankee-doodle;The first is but an Uncle Sham, The last is Yankee-boodle.James McCarroll.

SILK CULTURE

“There are so many persons thirsting for information,” I says to Mrs. Wrigglesniff, “let’s tell them all about it.” It was always my way to stir in something useful with what was agreeable; and here was an opportunity, while pursuing an avocation that was at once pleasant and lucrative, to bring forward at the same time, an illustration of those great economic and philosophic principles, that lie at the foundation of all government and are the ground-work of the social fabric. The tariff, although an intricate subject, I felt was one that could be elucidated by simple exemplification in practical life; and so I opened up to her one day, by remarking upon the great importance of fostering our “infant industries.” That most efficient mother was nursing the baby at the time. The baby was four weeks old, weighed sixteen pounds, and could partake of more nourishment at nature’s fountain, than any two ordinary pair of twins.

“Infant industry! here’s one now,” observed Mrs. W., gazing with maternal fondness upon the lusty native American in her lap, who was tugging away with a zeal quite amazing.

You should first understand, however, that Mrs. W. is a superior woman “as has got intellect into her,” as her uncle John Fetherly Brown was wont to say. Her father’s second cousin was a half-brother to Noah Webster, and she has, therefore, inherited some of the qualities of that distinguished philosopher. I proposed the subject to her one day, in a genial sort of a way, and she said, “W.,” says she, “You’re a fool! Silk indeed!” She always calls me “W.,” as the whole of it makes it too long, and being a practical woman, she is aware that life is short. I could not help admiring the promptness with which Mrs. W. arrived at her conclusions; and as she is a most excellent judge of human nature, I changed the subject, not wishing to exasperate her.

The way it came about was this. I had read all about it in the papers and books and things, and was thinking over it one day and all of a sudden I spoke up, and says I:

“Mrs. W., let’s have worms.”

She looked at me just that way for a minute, I thought there was going to be a funeral. So I said, says I, “We can get the eggs from Washington for nothing; then we can have the stands in the attic, and there’s the osage-orange hedge, that does nothing in the world but keep the boys from stealing apples, and we have no apples to steal; the children can feed them, so that the total cost will be nothing. We can sell the cocoons at $1.50 a pound; and suppose we raise five hundred pounds only the first season; there’s $750, which is absolutely clear profit, the whole of it. We can then buy a carriage, and we will give a ball, and ‘ye shall walk in silk attire.’”

Mrs. W. turned up her nose. In using that expression, I do not mean that she actually inverted that feature of her countenance, but the expression of her face indicated the idea which usually finds utterance in the word ‘Rats.’ At this point I took occasion to explain to Mrs. W. the relations of this most beautiful and fascinating industry to the principles of political economy. My amiable lady had frequently said it was all “bosh;” that to try to raise silk in this country was mere gammon. I explained to her that her position, as a philosophical proposition, would be true, were it not for the fostering care of a paternal government, which had inaugurated the American system of protection. That this great principle of protection was the source of our national wealth, that the tariff on silk was sixty per cent, and —

“Tariff!” inquired Mrs. W., “what is tariff?”

“Tariff, my dear,” said I, “I am surprised. I had supposed that such an intellect as yours would have familiarized itself with the great economic questions of the day.” But I did not wish to be too severe with her, as I remembered that the sphere of woman did not bring her into contact with these rugged issues that are the theme of philosophers and statesmen; so I explained briefly, but still kindly:

“My dear, a tariff is a tax paid by the importer.”

To this she made the very singular reply: “But how is taxing a people going to make them rich, and be the source of national wealth? I know when tax day comes around, you are always groaning and saying that it keeps your nose flat on the grindstone, to raise money enough to pay your taxes.” I told her she still failed to see the point, as she was referring to mere state taxes, while I, upon a higher plane, was viewing the comprehensive bearings of national institutions.

“W.,” she said, “you don’t know any more about it than Horace Greeley did.” Such a reference to the great apostle of American protection, I confess, shocked me; but I suppressed my feelings in consideration of her sex.

I have said that Mrs. W. is a woman of intellect; but she has no enthusiasm. With me it is different. I am all enthusiasm and no – I was about to say no intellect; but I mean no such intellect as has Mrs. W.

So she says: “That’s the way you’re always doing, W.; going into something you don’t know anything about, throwing away your money; and that’s about all you’re fit for.”

“But, my love!” I exclaimed, “there’s no chance to lose money in silk worms. You get them for nothing, feed them for nothing; and how is it possible to lose money on them, with the tariff at sixty per cent ad valorem?”

“W.,” she interrupted, “when you talk Latin to me, please explain yourself.”

Some people have thought that there was an asperity in Mrs. W.’s nature, that occasionally found expression in words, but it is not so. She is of most amiable disposition, and I never knew her to – if I may coin a word – to asperse. I, therefore, said that in the tariff laws, duties were levied upon the value of articles, as stated in the importer’s invoice.

“But,” said she, “won’t the importers value too low?”

“Oh, my dear,” I said, “that would be dishonest, and importers are never dishonest; indeed it is upon the virtue and integrity of the people that the welfare of our institutions depends.” As I was about to expand upon this theme, my wife checked me with the remark that we would take the American eagle and the rest of it, at another time, but just now we would hear about the silk worms. I told her I had made all necessary arrangements, and would that day write to the “Department” at Washington, and secure the necessary supply of eggs to commence a flourishing business. I did so and in due time I received from the capital of the nation, a nice little wooden box, and inside of that another little tin box, and inside of that were the eggs. They were about as big as pin’s heads and it looked as though there were millions, but I don’t suppose there were that many.

I exhibited them with pride to the partner of my bosom, exclaiming, “Such is the fostering care of a paternal government, it raises these eggs at vast expense, and bestows them liberally upon those who ask.” I then explained to Mrs. W. how it was that our glorious republic nursed those infant industries that were so delicate they could not stand alone; supporting them with great assiduity, inasmuch as they could not support themselves. I showed her how employment was thus furnished to thousands of persons, who would otherwise be idle, or engaged in some other occupation that was able to take care of itself; of course, therefore, making wages lower. I contrasted the condition of the American laborer, with that of the European serf, trodden under the iron heel of despotism, at ten cents a day, and satisfied her that the laboring man in the United States was the best paid, and therefore the happiest and most contented being on earth, owing to the fact of a protective tariff, ever since 1789.

“W.,” exclaimed that angelic creature, “why is it, then, that the workingmen are always striking and marching around town with brass bands? First shoemakers, then carpenters and railroad men, and stone-masons, and iron-molders, and hod-carriers – all wanting higher wages. Where does the happiness and content come in? I heard you say, yourself, the other day, that the disorganized system of labor was such in this country, that it was degenerating into socialism and anarchy and was ruining every branch of business.”

I hated to do it, but I crushed her with the reply: “Ah! my dear, that is begging the question.”

But that sweet creature, unruffled as a summer sea, preserved an equanimity that astounded me, as she said: “Why is it, W., that whenever a woman corners a man in argument, he simply ends the discussion by telling her she is ‘begging the question?’” Seeing that she did not exactly catch the drift of my logic, I adroitly turned the subject to silk-worms again, and how we should proceed in our enterprise.

“Now,” said I to Mrs. W., “I will procure the necessary lumber, at usual market rates, and make a stand on which to lay the frames.”

She observed: “You know, W., you never made anything in your life and can’t do it. Go up to the carpenter and he will do what you want for fifty cents, and you can’t buy the lumber for that.”

“Mrs. W.,” I replied, “I scorn your words. I propose that this undertaking shall be absolutely inexpensive, except, perhaps, the outlay for the raw material.”

“Very well,” she observed, “try it.” My! what a head that woman has. I took a book that had a picture of the stand I wanted, and took the dimensions carefully down; went to the lumber yard, selected the pieces, and they cost only $1.25; went home, measured, planned, and figured, and found that I had ordered the upright cut the length of the cross pieces, and vice-versa, so that the whole was useless. My disposition, however, is to take cheerful views of things, and I explained to Mrs. W. that I could still use the stuff for pickets on the front fence, some of which were missing. Mrs. W. quietly observed: “How are you going to use four-foot pickets on a six-foot fence?”