Eliza Jane Character Analysis

She looked like a bit of the old plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a magician’s wand, as the poet’s fancy had called into being the gracious shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been reading.

“I’s be’n lookin’ fer ‘im eber sence,” she added simply, as though twenty-five years were but a couple of weeks, “an’ I knows he’s be’n lookin’ fer me. Fer he sot a heap er sto’ by me, Sam did, an’ I know he’s be’n huntin’ fer me all dese years,—‘less’n he’s be’n sick er sump’n, so he could n’ work, er out’n his head, so he could n’ ‘member his promise.”

“Do you really expect to find your husband? He may be dead long ago.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Oh no, he ain’ dead. De signs an’ de tokens tells me. I drempt three nights runnin’ on’y dis las’ week dat I foun’ him.”

“He may have married another woman. Your slave marriage would not have prevented him, for you never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage does n’t count.”

“Would n’ make no diff’ence wid Sam. He would n’ marry no yuther ‘oman ‘tel he foun’ out ‘bout me. I knows it,” she added. “Sump’n’s be’n tellin’ me all dese years dat I’s gwine fin’ Sam ‘fo I dies.”

“Perhaps he’s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he would n’t care to have you find him.”

“No, indeed, suh,” she replied, “Sam ain’ dat kin’ er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he wuz n’ much good ter nobody e’se, fer he wuz one er de triflin’es’ han’s on de plantation. I ‘spec’s ter haft er suppo’t ‘im w’en I fin’ ‘im, fer he nebber would work ‘less’n he had ter. But den he wuz free, an’ he did n’ git no pay fer his work, an’ I don’ blame ‘im much. Mebbe he’s done better sence he run erway, but I ain’ ‘spectin’ much.”

“You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the twenty-five years, and not have known him; time works great changes.”

She smiled incredulously. “I’d know ‘im ‘mongs’ a hund’ed men. Fer dey wuz n’ no yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an’ I could n’ be mistook. I’s toted his picture roun’ wid me twenty-five years.”

“May I see it?” asked Mr. Ryder. “It might help me to remember whether I have seen the original.”

“I don’t know of any man in town who goes by that name,” he said, “nor have I heard of any one making such inquiries. But if you will leave me your address, I will give the matter some attention, and if I find out anything I will let you know.”

She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away, after thanking him warmly.

He wrote the address on the fly-leaf of the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after her curiously. As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw several persons whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly amusement. When she had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his dressing-case, gazing thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face.

[Mr. Ryder] then related, simply but effectively, the story told by his visitor of the afternoon. He gave it in the same soft dialect, which came readily to his lips, while the company listened attentively and sympathetically. For the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts. There were some present who had seen, and others who had heard their fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of this past generation, and all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the shadow hanging over them.

“Suppose that this husband, soon after his escape, had learned that his wife had been sold away, and that such inquiries as he could make brought no information of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was young, and she much older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that their marriage was a slave marriage, and legally binding only if they chose to make it so after the war. Suppose, too, that he made his way to the North, as some of us have done, and there, where he had larger opportunities, had improved them, and had in the course of all these years grown to be as different from the ignorant boy who ran away from fear of slavery as the day is from the night. Suppose, even, that he had qualified himself, by industry, by thrift, and by study, to win the friendship and be considered worthy of the society of such people as these I see around me to-night, gracing my board and filling my heart with gladness; for I am old enough to remember the day when such a gathering would not have been possible in this land.”

“Suppose, too, that as the years went by, this man’s memory of the past grew more and more indistinct, until at last it was rarely, except in his dreams, that any image of his bygone period rose before his mind. And then suppose that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the wife of his youth, the wife he had left behind him,—not one who had walked by his side and kept pace with him in his upward struggle, but one upon whom advancing years and a laborious life had set their mark,—was alive and seeking him, but that he was absolutely safe from recognition or discovery, unless he chose to reveal himself. My friends, what would the man do? I will presume that he was one who loved honor, and tried to deal justly with all men. I will even carry the case further, and suppose that perhaps he had set his heart upon another, whom he had hoped to call his own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do, in such a crisis of a lifetime?”

It seemed to me that he might hesitate, and I imagined that I was an old friend, a near friend, and that he had come to me for advice; and I argued the case with him. I tried to discuss it impartially. After we had looked upon the matter from every point of view, I said to him, in words that we all know—

‘This above all: to thine own self be true

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.’

“Then, finally, I put the question to him, ‘Shall you acknowledge her?’”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends and companions, I ask you, what should he have done?”

There was something in Mr. Ryder’s voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. It was observed, too, that his look rested more especially upon Mrs. Dixon, with a mingled expression of renunciation and inquiry.

She had listened, with parted lips and streaming eyes. She was the first to speak: “He should have acknowledged her.”

“Yes,” they all echoed, “he should have acknowledged her.”

“My friends and companions,” responded Mr. Ryder, “I thank you, one and all. It is the answer I expected, for I knew your hearts.”

He came back in a moment, leading by the hand his visitor of the afternoon, who stood startled and trembling at the sudden plunge into this scene of brilliant gayety. She was neatly dressed in gray, and wore the white cap of an elderly woman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the woman, and I am the man, whose story I have just told you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my youth.”

She looked like a bit of the old plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a magician’s wand, as the poet’s fancy had called into being the gracious shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been reading.

“I’s be’n lookin’ fer ‘im eber sence,” she added simply, as though twenty-five years were but a couple of weeks, “an’ I knows he’s be’n lookin’ fer me. Fer he sot a heap er sto’ by me, Sam did, an’ I know he’s be’n huntin’ fer me all dese years,—‘less’n he’s be’n sick er sump’n, so he could n’ work, er out’n his head, so he could n’ ‘member his promise.”

“Do you really expect to find your husband? He may be dead long ago.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Oh no, he ain’ dead. De signs an’ de tokens tells me. I drempt three nights runnin’ on’y dis las’ week dat I foun’ him.”

“He may have married another woman. Your slave marriage would not have prevented him, for you never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage does n’t count.”

“Would n’ make no diff’ence wid Sam. He would n’ marry no yuther ‘oman ‘tel he foun’ out ‘bout me. I knows it,” she added. “Sump’n’s be’n tellin’ me all dese years dat I’s gwine fin’ Sam ‘fo I dies.”

“Perhaps he’s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he would n’t care to have you find him.”

“No, indeed, suh,” she replied, “Sam ain’ dat kin’ er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he wuz n’ much good ter nobody e’se, fer he wuz one er de triflin’es’ han’s on de plantation. I ‘spec’s ter haft er suppo’t ‘im w’en I fin’ ‘im, fer he nebber would work ‘less’n he had ter. But den he wuz free, an’ he did n’ git no pay fer his work, an’ I don’ blame ‘im much. Mebbe he’s done better sence he run erway, but I ain’ ‘spectin’ much.”

“You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the twenty-five years, and not have known him; time works great changes.”

She smiled incredulously. “I’d know ‘im ‘mongs’ a hund’ed men. Fer dey wuz n’ no yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an’ I could n’ be mistook. I’s toted his picture roun’ wid me twenty-five years.”

“May I see it?” asked Mr. Ryder. “It might help me to remember whether I have seen the original.”

“I don’t know of any man in town who goes by that name,” he said, “nor have I heard of any one making such inquiries. But if you will leave me your address, I will give the matter some attention, and if I find out anything I will let you know.”

She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away, after thanking him warmly.

He wrote the address on the fly-leaf of the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after her curiously. As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw several persons whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly amusement. When she had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his dressing-case, gazing thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face.

[Mr. Ryder] then related, simply but effectively, the story told by his visitor of the afternoon. He gave it in the same soft dialect, which came readily to his lips, while the company listened attentively and sympathetically. For the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts. There were some present who had seen, and others who had heard their fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of this past generation, and all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the shadow hanging over them.

“Suppose that this husband, soon after his escape, had learned that his wife had been sold away, and that such inquiries as he could make brought no information of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was young, and she much older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that their marriage was a slave marriage, and legally binding only if they chose to make it so after the war. Suppose, too, that he made his way to the North, as some of us have done, and there, where he had larger opportunities, had improved them, and had in the course of all these years grown to be as different from the ignorant boy who ran away from fear of slavery as the day is from the night. Suppose, even, that he had qualified himself, by industry, by thrift, and by study, to win the friendship and be considered worthy of the society of such people as these I see around me to-night, gracing my board and filling my heart with gladness; for I am old enough to remember the day when such a gathering would not have been possible in this land.”

“Suppose, too, that as the years went by, this man’s memory of the past grew more and more indistinct, until at last it was rarely, except in his dreams, that any image of his bygone period rose before his mind. And then suppose that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the wife of his youth, the wife he had left behind him,—not one who had walked by his side and kept pace with him in his upward struggle, but one upon whom advancing years and a laborious life had set their mark,—was alive and seeking him, but that he was absolutely safe from recognition or discovery, unless he chose to reveal himself. My friends, what would the man do? I will presume that he was one who loved honor, and tried to deal justly with all men. I will even carry the case further, and suppose that perhaps he had set his heart upon another, whom he had hoped to call his own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do, in such a crisis of a lifetime?”

It seemed to me that he might hesitate, and I imagined that I was an old friend, a near friend, and that he had come to me for advice; and I argued the case with him. I tried to discuss it impartially. After we had looked upon the matter from every point of view, I said to him, in words that we all know—

‘This above all: to thine own self be true

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.’

“Then, finally, I put the question to him, ‘Shall you acknowledge her?’”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends and companions, I ask you, what should he have done?”

There was something in Mr. Ryder’s voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. It was observed, too, that his look rested more especially upon Mrs. Dixon, with a mingled expression of renunciation and inquiry.

She had listened, with parted lips and streaming eyes. She was the first to speak: “He should have acknowledged her.”

“Yes,” they all echoed, “he should have acknowledged her.”

“My friends and companions,” responded Mr. Ryder, “I thank you, one and all. It is the answer I expected, for I knew your hearts.”

He came back in a moment, leading by the hand his visitor of the afternoon, who stood startled and trembling at the sudden plunge into this scene of brilliant gayety. She was neatly dressed in gray, and wore the white cap of an elderly woman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the woman, and I am the man, whose story I have just told you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my youth.”