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Updated: June 17, 2025
Poor Ceal's back, always scantily clothed, was kept literally raw, by the lash of this religious man and gospel minister. The most notoriously wicked man so called in distinction from church members could hire hands more easily than this brute. When sent out to find a home, a slave would never enter the gates of the preacher Weeden, while a sinful sinner needed a hand.
Felix," he went on at length, "jest messes about all over the place at once, because 'e sees signs everywhere and don't know what to foller in partickler for fear of losin' hisself." Come-Back Stumper chuckled audibly, but Uncle Felix asked at once "And you, WEEDEN? What about yourself, I wonder?" The Gardener replied without his usual hesitation.
Alone, perhaps, Weeden's lost optic, wandering ubiquitously and enjoying the bird's-eye view, possessed the coveted power. But, like the stars, though somewhat about, it was invisible. WEEDEN made no reference to it. He attended to one thing at a time, he lived in the present; one eye was gone; he just looked for truffles with the other.
A small kerosene lamp sat on a table lighting up a room scrupulously clean. Uncle Bisco was very old. His head was, in truth, a cotton plant full open. His face was intelligent, grave such a face as Howard Weeden only could draw from memory.
"It's a lovely day," remarked Uncle Felix presently. "I want my luncheon." He picked up Maria and moved on across the bridge. "It's the Extra Day," Maria whispered in his ear. "It's my adventure, but you all can have it." The others followed with Come-Back Stumper, and in the lane they saw the figures of Weeden, Thompson and Mrs. Horton in front of them, coming home from church.
Thompson was flabbergasted as if all the old-fashioned families of the world had suddenly praised him. All his life he had never done anything but his ordinary duty. "It's 'oliday time," said Weeden, coming next, "and all my flowers and vegitubles is a-growin' nicely." He too seemed singing, dancing. Something had happened. The whole world seemed out and playing.
It was apparently crackling that she heard. Thompson went after her, a willing alacrity in his movements that yet showed no sign of undignified hurry. "I'll be at the door in no time," he was heard to say, "before it's stopped ringing, I should not wonder!" There was a solemn joy in him, he spoke as though he heard a bell. WEEDEN turned very quietly and watched their disappearing figures.
It was my unhappy lot not only to belong to a religious slaveholder, but to live in a community of such religionists. Very near Mr. Freeland lived the Rev. Daniel Weeden, and in the same neighborhood lived the Rev. Rigby Hopkins. These were members and ministers in the Reformed Methodist Church. Mr. Weeden owned, among others, a woman slave, whose name I have forgotten.
Stumper, faithful to his scouting passion, disappeared into all kinds of undesirable places no one else would have dreamed of looking in, yet invariably came back; and while Uncle Felix tried a little of everything and found "copy" in a puddle or a dandelion, Weeden carried his empty sack without a murmur, knowing it would be filled with truffles at the end.
He went in his own litter, and carried one of his own coaches with him, and five sumpters, covered with his own sumpter cloths. His retinue were: Mr. Fanshawe, Chief Secretary; Mr. Price, gone before to Lisbon; Mr. Cooper, Gentleman of the Horse; Mr. Bagshawe, Chaplain; Mr. Ashburnham, Mr. Parry, Mr. Creighton, Mr. Eyres, Steward; Mr. Weeden, Mr. Jemmet, Mr.
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