The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ said the Colonel, “when God washed off this wicked earth, and started new, He saw fit to put the sons of Ham in subjection. They're slaves of each other in Africa, and I reckon they're treated no better than they are here. Abuses can't be helped in any system, sir, though we are bettering them. Were the poor in London in the days of the Edwards as well off as our niggers are to-day?”

      The Judge snorted.

      “A divine institution!” he shouted. “A black curse! Because the world has been a wicked place of oppression since Noah's day, is that any reason why it should so continue until the day of Judgment?”

      The Colonel smiled, which was a sign that he was pleased with his argument.

      “Now, see here, Whipple,” said he. “If we had any guarantee that you would let us alone where we are, to manage our slaves and to cultivate our plantations, there wouldn't be any trouble. But the country keeps on growing and growing, and you're not content with half. You want everything—all the new states must abolish slavery. And after a while you will overwhelm us, and ruin us, and make us paupers. Do you wonder that we contend for our rights, tooth and nail? They are our rights.”

      “If it had not been for Virginia and Maryland and the South, this nation would not be in existence.”

      The Colonel laughed.

      “First rate, Jinny,” he cried. “That's so.”

      But the Judge was in a revery. He probably had not heard her.

      “The nation is going to the dogs,” he said, mumbling rather to himself than to the others. “We shall never prosper until the curse is shaken off, or wiped out in blood. It clogs our progress. Our merchant marine, of which we were so proud, has been annihilated by these continued disturbances. But, sir,” he cried, hammering his fist upon the table until the glasses rang, “the party that is to save us was born at Pittsburgh last year on Washington's birthday. The Republican Party, sir.”

      “Shucks!” exclaimed Mr. Carvel, with amusement, “The Black Republican Party, made up of old fools and young Anarchists, of Dutchmen and nigger-worshippers. Why, Whipple, that party's a joke. Where's your leader?”

      “In Illinois,” was the quick response.

      “What's his name?”

      “Abraham Lincoln, sir,” thundered Mr. Whipple. “And to my way of thinking he has uttered a more significant phrase on the situation than any of your Washington statesmen. 'This government,' said he to a friend of mine, 'cannot exist half slave and half free.'”

      So impressively did Mr. Whipple pronounce these words that Mr. Carvel stirred uneasily, and in spite of himself, as though he were listening to an oracle. He recovered instantly.

      “He's a demagogue, seeking for striking phrases, sir. You're too intelligent a man to be taken in by such as he.”

      “I tell you he is not, sir.”

      “I know him, sir,” cried the Colonel, taking down his feet. “He's an obscure lawyer. Poor white trash! Torn down poor! My friend Mr. Richardson of Springfield tells me he is low down. He was born in a log cabin, and spends most of his time in a drug-store telling stories that you would not listen to, Judge Whipple.”

      “I would listen to anything he said,” replied the Judge. “Poor white trash, sir! The greatest men rise from the people. A demagogue!” Mr. Whipple fairly shook with rage. “The nation doesn't know him yet. But mark my words, the day will come when it will. He was ballotted for Vice-President in the Philadelphia convention last year. Nobody paid any attention to that. If the convention had heard him speak at Bloomington, he would have been nominated instead of Fremont. If the nation could have heard him, he would be President to-day instead of that miserable Buchanan. I happened to be at Bloomington. And while the idiots on the platform were drivelling, the people kept calling for Lincoln. I had never heard of him then. I've never forgot him since. He came ambling out of the back of the hall, a lanky, gawky looking man, ridiculously ugly, sir. But the moment he opened his mouth he had us spellbound. The language which your low-down lawyer used was that of a God-sent prophet, sir. He had those Illinois bumpkins all worked up—the women crying, and some of the men, too. And mad! Good Lord, they were mad—'We will say to the Southern disunionists,' he cried—'we will say to the Southern disunionists, we won't go out of the Union, and you shan't.'”

      There was a silence when the Judge finished. But presently Mr. Carvel took a match. And he stood over the Judge in his favorite attitude—with his feet apart—as he lighted another cigar.

      “I reckon we're going to have war, Silas,” said he, slowly; “but don't you think that your Mr. Lincoln scares me into that belief. I don't count his bluster worth a cent. No sirree! It's this youngster who comes out here from Boston and buys a nigger with all the money he's got in the world. And if he's an impetuous young fool; I'm no judge of men.”

      “Appleton Brice wasn't precisely impetuous,” remarked Mr. Whipple. And he smiled a little bitterly, as though the word had stirred a memory.

      “I like that young fellow,” Mr. Carvel continued. “It seems to be a kind of fatality with me to get along with Yankees. I reckon there's a screw loose somewhere, but Brice acted the man all the way through. He goa a fall out of you, Silas, in your room, after the show. Where are you going, Jinny?”

      Virginia had risen, and she was standing very erects with a flush on her face, waiting for her father to finish.

      “To see Anne Brinsmade,” she said. “Good-by, Uncle Silas.”

      She had called him so from childhood. Hers was the one voice that seemed to soften him—it never failed. He turned to her now with a movement that was almost gentle. “Virginia, I should like you to know my young Yankee,” said he.

      “Thank you, Uncle Silas,” said the girl, with dignity, “but I scarcely think that he would care to know me. He feels so strongly.”

      “He feels no stronger than I do,” replied the Judge.

      “You have gotten used to me in eighteen years, and besides,” she flashed, “you never spent all the money you had in the world for a principle.”

      Mr. Whipple smiled as she went out of the door.

      “I have spent pretty near all,” he said. But more to himself than to the Colonel.

      That evening, some young people came in to tea, two of the four big Catherwood boys, Anne Brinsmade and her brother Jack, Puss Russell and Bert, and Eugenie Renault. But Virginia lost her temper. In an evil moment Puss Russell started the subject of the young Yankee who had deprived her of Hester. Puss was ably seconded by Jack Brinsmade, whose reputation as a tormentor extended far back into his boyhood. In vain; did Anne, the peacemaker, try to quench him, while the big Catherwoods and Bert Russell laughed incessantly. No wonder that Virginia was angry. She would not speak to Puss as that young lady bade her good night. And the Colonel, coming home from an evening with Mr. Brinsmade, found his daughter in an armchair, staring into the sitting-room fire. There was no other light in the room Her chin was in her hand, and her lips were pursed.

      “Heigho!” said the Colonel, “what's the trouble now?”

      “Nothing,” said Virginia.

      “Come,” he insisted, “what have they been doing СКАЧАТЬ