Hagars Daughter | Page 6

will solicit foreign re-enforcements; we will rise up before
this rail-splitting ignoramus a terrible power; we will overwhelm this
miserable apology for a gentleman and a statesman as a terrible
revolutionary power. Do you accept my proposition?"
"Yes, yes!" came as a unanimous shout from the soul of the vast
assembly.
"Our Northern friends make a great talk about free society. We sicken
of the name. What is it but a conglomeration of greasy mechanics,
filthy operatives, small-fisted farmers, and moonstruck Abolitionists?
All the Northern States, and particularly the New England States, are
devoid of society fitted for well-bred gentlemen. The prevailing class

one meets with is that of mechanics struggling to be genteel, and
farmers who do their own drudgery, and yet who are hardly fit for
association with a gentleman's slave.
We have settled this matter in the minds of the people of the South by
long years of practice and observation; and I believe that when our
principles shall have been triumphantly established over the entire
country--North, South, West--a long age of peace and prosperity will
ensue for the entire country. Under our jurisdiction wise laws shall be
passed for the benefit of the supreme and subordinate interests of our
communities. And when we have settled all these vexed questions I see
a season of calm and fruitful prosperity, in which our children's
children may enjoy their lives without a thought of fear or
apprehension of change."
Then the band played; there was more cheering and waving of
handkerchiefs, in the midst of which John C. Breckenridge arose and
gracefully proposed the health of the first President of the Confederate
States of America. It was drunk by every man, standing. Other speakers
followed, and the most intemperate sentiments were voiced by the
zealots in the great cause. The vast crowd went wild with enthusiasm.
St. Clair Enson, one of the most trusted delegates, and the slave-trader
Walker sat side by side at the table, and in the excitement of the
moment all the prejudices of the Maryland aristocrat toward the vile
dealer in human flesh were forgotten.
The convention had now passed the bounds of all calmness. Many of
the men stood on chairs, gesticulating wildly, each trying to be heard
above his neighbor. In vain the Chair rapped for order. Pandemonium
reigned. At one end of the long table two men were locked in deadly
embrace, each struggling to enforce his views upon the other by brute
strength.
One man had swept the dishes aside, and was standing upon the table,
demanding clamorously to be heard, and above all the band still
crashed its brazen notes of triumph in the familiar strains of "Dixie."

A Negro boy handed a letter to Mr. Enson. He turned it over in his
hand, curiously examining the postmark.
"When did this come, Cato?"
"More'n a munf, massa," was the reply.
Mr. Enson tore open the envelope and glanced over its contents with a
frowning face.
"Bad news?" ventured Walker, with unusual familiarity.
"The worst possible for me. My brother is married, and announces the
birth of a daughter."
"Well, daughters are born every day. I don't see how that can hurt you."
"It happens in this case, however, that this particular daughter will
inherit the Enson fortune," returned Enson with a short laugh.
Walker gave a long, low whistle. "Who was your brother's wife? Any
money?"
"Clark Sargeant's daughter. Money enough on both sides; but the
trouble is, it will never be mine." Another sharp, bitter laugh.
"Sargeant, Sargeant," said Walker, musingly. "'Pears to me I've had
business with a gentleman of the same name years ago, in St. Louis.
However, it can't be the same one, 'cause this man hadn't any children.
Leastways, I never heard on eny."
"Perhaps it is the same man. Clark Sargeant was from St. Louis; moved
to Baltimore when the little girl was five years old. Mr. and Mrs.
Sargeant are dead."
"Same man, same man. Um, um," saidWalker, scratching the flesh
beneath his sandy whiskers meditatively, as he gazed at the ceiling.
"Both dead, eh? Come to think of it, I moight be mistaken about the
little gal. Has she got black hair and eyes and a cream-colored skin, and

has she growed up to be a all-fired pesky fine woman?"
"Can't say," replied Enson, with a yawn as he rose to his feet. "I've
never had the pleasure of meeting my sister-in-law."
"When you going up to Baltimore?" asked Walker.
"Next week, on 'The Planter.'"
"Think I'll take a trip up with you. You don't mind my calling with you
on your brother's family, do you, Mr. Enson? I would admire to
introduce myself to Clark Sargeant's little gal. She moight not
remember me at first, but I reckon I could bring back recollections of