CHAPTER IX. A QUIET SUNDAY IN LOCUST STREET

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      IF the truth were known where Virginia got the opinions which she expressed so freely to her aunt and cousin, it was from Colonel Carvel himself. The Colonel would rather have denounced the Dred Scott decision than admit to Judge Whipple that one of the greatest weaknesses of the South lay in her lack of mechanical and manufacturing ability. But he had confessed as much in private to Captain Elijah Brent. The Colonel would often sit for an hour or more, after supper, with his feet tucked up on the mantel and his hat on the back of his head, buried in thought. Then he would saunter slowly down to the Planters' House bar, which served the purposes of a club in those days, in search of an argument with other prominent citizens. The Colonel had his own particular chair in his own particular corner, which was always vacated when he came in at the door. And then he always had three fingers of the best Bourbon whiskey, no more and no less, every evening.

      He never met his bosom friend and pet antagonist at the Planters' House bar. Judge Whipple, indeed, took his meals upstairs, but he never descended—it was generally supposed because of the strong slavery atmosphere there. However, the Judge went periodically to his friend's for a quiet Sunday dinner (so called in derision by St. Louisans), on which occasions Virginia sat at the end of the table and endeavored to pour water on the flames when they flared up too fiercely.

      The Sunday following her ride to Bellegarde was the Judge's Sunday, Certain tastes which she had inherited had hitherto provided her with pleasurable sensations while these battles were in progress. More than once had she scored a fair hit on the Judge for her father—to the mutual delight of both gentlemen. But to-day she dreaded being present at the argument. Just why she dreaded it is a matter of feminine psychology best left to the reader for solution.

      The argument began, as usual, with the tearing apart limb by limb of the unfortunate Franklin Pierce, by Judge Whipple.

      “What a miserable exhibition in the eyes of the world,” said the Judge. “Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire” (he pronounced this name with infinite scorn) “managed by Jefferson Davis of Mississippi!”

      “And he was well managed, sir,” said the Colonel.

      “What a pliant tool of your Southern slaveholders! I hear that you are to give him a plantation as a reward.”

      “No such thing, sir.”

      “He deserves it,” continued the Judge, with conviction. “See the magnificent forts he permitted Davis to build up in the South, the arsenals he let him stock. The country does not realize this. But the day will, come when they will execrate Pierce before Benedict Arnold, sir. And look at the infamous Kansas-Nebraska act! That is the greatest crime, and Douglas and Pierce the greatest criminals, of the century.”

      “Do have some more of that fried chicken, Judge,” said Virginia.

      Mr. Whipple helped himself fiercely, and the Colonel smiled.

      “You should be satisfied now,” said he. “Another Northern man is in the White House.”

      “Buchanan!” roared the Judge, with his mouth full.

      “Another traitor, sir. Another traitor worse than the first. He swallows the Dred Scott decision, and smirks. What a blot on the history of this Republic! O Lord!” cried Mr. Whipple, “what are we coming to? A Northern man, he could gag and bind Kansas and force her into slavery against the will of her citizens. He packs his Cabinet to support the ruffians you send over the borders. The very governors he ships out there, his henchmen, have their stomachs turned. Look at Walker, whom they are plotting against in Washington. He can't stand the smell of this Lecompton Constitution Buchanan is trying to jam down their throats. Jefferson Davis would have troops there, to be sure that it goes through, if he had his way. Can't you see how one sin leads to another, Carvel? How slavery is rapidly demoralizing a free people?”

      “It is because you won't let it alone where it belongs, sir,” retorted the Colonel. It was seldom that he showed any heat in his replies. He talked slowly, and he had a way of stretching forth his hand to prevent the more eager Judge from interrupting him.

      “The welfare of the whole South, as matters now stand, sir, depends upon slavery. Our plantations could not exist a day without slave labor. If you abolished that institution, Judge Whipple, you would ruin millions of your fellow-countrymen—you would reduce sovereign states to a situation of disgraceful dependence. And all, sir,” now he raised his voice lest the Judge break in, “all, sir, for the sake of a low breed that ain't fit for freedom. You and I, who have the Magna Charta and the Declaration of Independence behind us, who are descended from a race that has done nothing but rule for ten centuries and more, may well establish a Republic where the basis of stability is the self-control of the individual—as long as men such as you and I form its citizens. Look at the South Americans. How do Republics go there? And the minute you and I let in niggers, who haven't any more self-control than dogs, on an equal basis, with as much of a vote as you have—niggers, sir, that have lived like wild beasts in the depths of the jungle since the days of Ham—what's going to become of our Republic?”

      “Education,” cried the Judge.

      But the word was snatched out of his mouth.

      “Education isn't a matter of one generation. No, sir, nor two, nor three, nor four. But of centuries.”

      “Sir,” said the Judge, “I can point out negroes of intelligence and learning.”

      “And I reckon you could teach some monkeys to talk English, and recite the catechism, and sing emotional hymns, if you brought over a couple of million from Africa,” answered the Colonel, dryly, as he rose to put on his hat and light a cigar.

      It was his custom to offer a cigar to the Judge, who invariably refused, and rubbed his nose with scornful violence.

      Virginia, on the verge of leaving, stayed on, fascinated by the turn the argument had taken.

      “Your prejudice is hide-bound, sir,” said Mr. Whipple.

      “No, Whipple,” 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