Ichabod Richardson Character Analysis

He took the candle from Mrs. Richardson’s outstretched hand and the plate of food she had ready for him, then he went across the grass to the hut that was Mr. Richardson’s workshop and would be Amos’ home all the years of his servitude. From the house, Ichabod Richardson and his wife heard the slave singing to himself long after he had blown out his candle to save the precious tallow.

Mrs. Richardson tilted her head to listen. “If you had a slave for no other reason than their singing, I often think it would be worth it,” she said. “And yet, so long as they’re not free their songs are like those of birds in a cage.”

“He’ll have his freedom in time, but not until he’s paid me well for the price I paid for him.”

It puzzled Amos that the white people put so much stress on Sunday. Yet it seemed somehow similar to the stress they put on the color of a man’s skin. To Amos, once he understood the Lord, every day was lived with Him. It was not in the Meeting House alone but in the tan yard that he took delight in being a Christian. It was not with his own people that he felt at his best but with all men. He was to go to the end of his days without fully understanding the white man’s attitude to the color of a man’s skin. But it did not trouble or vex him the way it did some of the other slaves with whom he met and talked. It puzzled him. But then, there were many things to puzzle a man.

“Perhaps he thought he was white until he looked in the mirror.”

Mrs. Richardson shook her head. “Perhaps, but it’s more than that. There’s a yearning in him that has its roots in the land from which he came. Oh, it’ s a terrible thing we’ve done, Mr. Richardson, to bring these black people to our land and treat them as we do.”

“Their lot’s not too hard,” he remonstrated.

“Ah, but until they’re given their freedom they count no more than cattle.”

Ichabod Richardson sighed deeply. “They’re not the only ones to be thinking about freedom. Before many more years have passed we’ll be thinking about it too, and not as people but as a nation.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Richardson?”

“I mean that we’ve made others slaves readily enough but we’ll be slaves ourselves if we don’t keep watch.”

He watched swallows swooping in their flight, feeling as if he were one of them; his eyes dwelt on a tree that was a mass of white blossom.

It had been spring, too, when he had been free before […]. Yet that had been a lifetime ago; another life, perhaps, for now his life was beginning again. He was almost sixty years old and he was ready to live. He flexed his muscles; they were strong. He raised his head from the blossoming tree to the blue sky above and the thought of Moses came into his mind, of Moses who stood upon Mount Nebo seeing with his eyes the land that his feet might not tread upon.

“‘And Moses was an hundred and twenty years old when he died.’” Amos spoke the words as reverently as if he were reading them from the open book […]. “So there’s time for Amos, too.”

He took the candle from Mrs. Richardson’s outstretched hand and the plate of food she had ready for him, then he went across the grass to the hut that was Mr. Richardson’s workshop and would be Amos’ home all the years of his servitude. From the house, Ichabod Richardson and his wife heard the slave singing to himself long after he had blown out his candle to save the precious tallow.

Mrs. Richardson tilted her head to listen. “If you had a slave for no other reason than their singing, I often think it would be worth it,” she said. “And yet, so long as they’re not free their songs are like those of birds in a cage.”

“He’ll have his freedom in time, but not until he’s paid me well for the price I paid for him.”

It puzzled Amos that the white people put so much stress on Sunday. Yet it seemed somehow similar to the stress they put on the color of a man’s skin. To Amos, once he understood the Lord, every day was lived with Him. It was not in the Meeting House alone but in the tan yard that he took delight in being a Christian. It was not with his own people that he felt at his best but with all men. He was to go to the end of his days without fully understanding the white man’s attitude to the color of a man’s skin. But it did not trouble or vex him the way it did some of the other slaves with whom he met and talked. It puzzled him. But then, there were many things to puzzle a man.

“Perhaps he thought he was white until he looked in the mirror.”

Mrs. Richardson shook her head. “Perhaps, but it’s more than that. There’s a yearning in him that has its roots in the land from which he came. Oh, it’ s a terrible thing we’ve done, Mr. Richardson, to bring these black people to our land and treat them as we do.”

“Their lot’s not too hard,” he remonstrated.

“Ah, but until they’re given their freedom they count no more than cattle.”

Ichabod Richardson sighed deeply. “They’re not the only ones to be thinking about freedom. Before many more years have passed we’ll be thinking about it too, and not as people but as a nation.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Richardson?”

“I mean that we’ve made others slaves readily enough but we’ll be slaves ourselves if we don’t keep watch.”

He watched swallows swooping in their flight, feeling as if he were one of them; his eyes dwelt on a tree that was a mass of white blossom.

It had been spring, too, when he had been free before […]. Yet that had been a lifetime ago; another life, perhaps, for now his life was beginning again. He was almost sixty years old and he was ready to live. He flexed his muscles; they were strong. He raised his head from the blossoming tree to the blue sky above and the thought of Moses came into his mind, of Moses who stood upon Mount Nebo seeing with his eyes the land that his feet might not tread upon.

“‘And Moses was an hundred and twenty years old when he died.’” Amos spoke the words as reverently as if he were reading them from the open book […]. “So there’s time for Amos, too.”