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Aunt Phillis's Cabin; Or, Southern Life As It Is

by Mary H. Eastman · English · Gutenberg #16741 · 590,742 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Aunt Phillis's Cabin; Or, Southern Life As It Is

Author: Mary H. Eastman


        
Release date: September 24, 2005 [eBook #16741]
                Most recently updated: December 12, 2020

Language: English

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        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


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Produced by University of Michigan Digital Library,
Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net










AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN;

OR,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS.

BY

MRS. MARY H. EASTMAN.

PHILADELPHIA:
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
1852.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by

LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.


Transcriber's note: Minor typos in text corrected. Footnotes moved
to end of text.




PREFACE.


A writer on Slavery has no difficulty in tracing back its origin. There is
also the advantage of finding it, with its continued history, and the laws
given by God to govern his own institution, in the Holy Bible. Neither
profane history, tradition, nor philosophical research are required to
prove its origin or existence; though they, as all things must, come
forward to substantiate the truth of the Scriptures. God, who created the
human race, willed they should be holy like himself. Sin was committed, and
the curse of sin, death, was induced: other punishments were denounced for
the perpetration of particular crimes--the shedding of man's blood for
murder, and the curse of slavery. The mysterious reasons that here
influenced the mind of the Creator it is not ours to declare. Yet may we
learn enough from his revealed word on this and every other subject to
confirm his power, truth, and justice. There is no Christian duty more
insisted upon in Scripture than reverence and obedience to parents. "Honor
thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the
Lord thy God giveth thee." The relation of child to parent resembles
closely that of man to his Creator. He who loves and honors his God will
assuredly love and honor his parents. Though it is evidently the duty of
every parent so to live as to secure the respect and affection of his
child, yet there is nothing in the Scriptures to authorize a child
treating with disrespect a parent, though he be unworthy in the greatest
degree.

The human mind, naturally rebellious, requires every command and incentive
to submission. The first of the ten commandments, insisting on the duty
owing to the Creator, and the fifth, on that belonging to our parents, are
the sources of all order and good arrangement in the minor relations of
life; and on obedience to them depends the comfort of society.

Reverence to age, and especially where it is found in the person of those
who by the will of God were the authors of their being, is insisted upon in
the Jewish covenant--not indeed less required now; but as the Jews were
called from among the heathen nations of the earth to be the peculiar
people of God, they were to show such evidences of this law in their
hearts, by their conduct, that other nations might look on and say, "Ye are
the children of the Lord your God."

It was after an act of a child dishonoring an aged father, that the
prophecy entailing slavery as a curse on a portion of the human race was
uttered. Nor could it have been from any feeling of resentment or revenge
that the curse was made known by the lips of a servant of God; for this
servant of God was a parent, and with what sorrow would any parent, yea,
the worst of parents, utter a malediction which insured such punishment and
misery on a portion of his posterity! Even the blessing which was promised
to his other children could not have consoled him for the sad necessity. He
might not resist the Spirit of God: though with perfect submission he
obeyed its dictates, yet with what regret! The heart of any Christian
parent will answer this appeal!

We may well imagine some of the reasons for the will of God in thus
punishing Ham and his descendants. Prior to the unfilial act which is
recorded, it is not to be supposed he had been a righteous man. Had he been
one after God's own heart, he would not have been guilty of such a sin.
What must that child be, who would openly dishonor and expose an erring
parent, borne down with the weight of years, and honored by God as Noah had
been! The very act of disrespect to Noah, the chosen of God, implies wilful
contempt of God himself. Ham was not a young man either: he had not the
excuse of the impetuosity of youth, nor its thoughtlessness--he was himself
an old man; and there is every reason to believe he had led a life at
variance with God's laws. When he committed so gross and violent a sin, it
may be, that the curse of God, which had lain tranquil long, was roused and
uttered against him: a curse not conditional, not implied--now, as then, a
mandate of the Eternal.

Among the curses threatened by the Levites upon Mount Ebal, was the one
found in the 16th verse of the 27th chapter of Deuteronomy: "Cursed be he
that setteth light by his father or his mother." By the law of Moses, this
sin was punished with death: "Of the son which will not obey the voice of
his father or the voice of his mother," "all the men of his city shall
stone him with stones that he die." (Deut. xxi. 21.) God in his wisdom
instituted this severe law in early times; and it must convince us that
there were reasons in the Divine mind for insisting on the ordinance
exacting the most perfect submission and reverence to an earthly parent.

"When, after the deluge," says Josephus, "the earth was settled in its
former condition, Noah set about its cultivation; and when he had planted
it with vines, and when the fruit was ripe, and he had gathered the grapes
in the season, and the wine was ready for use, he offered a sacrifice and
feasted, and, being inebriated, fell asleep, and lay in an unseemly
manner. When Ham saw this, he came laughing, and showed him to his
brothers." Does not this exhibit the impression of the Jews as regards the
character of Ham? Could a man capable of such an act deserve the blessing
of a just and holy God?

"The fact of Noah's transgression is recorded by the inspired historian
with that perfect impartiality which is peculiar to the Scriptures, as an
instance and evidence of human frailty and imperfection. Ham appears to
have been a bad man, and probably he rejoiced to find his father in so
unbecoming a situation, that, by exposing him, he might retaliate for the
reproofs which he had received from his parental authority. And perhaps
Canaan first discovered his situation, and told it to Ham. The conduct of
Ham in exposing his father to his brethren, and their behaviour in turning
away from the sight of his disgrace, form a striking contrast."--_Scott's
Com._

We are told in Gen. ix. 22, "And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the
nakedness of his father, and told his two brethren without;" and in the
24th, 25th, 26th, and 27th verses we read, "And Noah awoke from his wine,
and knew what his younger son had done unto him; and he said, Cursed be
Canaan, a servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren. And he said,
Blessed be the Lord God of Shem, and Canaan shall be his servant. God shall
enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem, and Canaan shall
be his servant." Is it not preposterous that any man, any Christian, should
read these verses and say slavery was not instituted by God as a curse on
Ham and Canaan and their posterity?

And who can read the history of the world and say this curse has not
existed ever since it was uttered?

"The whole continent of Africa," says Bishop Newton, "was peopled
principally by the descendants of Ham; and for how many ages have the
better parts of that country lain under the dominion of the Romans, then of
the Saracens, and now of the Turks! In what wickedness, ignorance,
barbarity, slavery, misery, live most of the inhabitants! And of the poor
negroes, how many hundreds every year are sold and bought like beasts in
the market, and conveyed from one quarter of the world to do the work of
beasts in another!"

But does this curse authorize the slave-trade? God forbid. He commanded the
Jews to enslave the heathen around them, saying, "they should be their
bondmen forever;" but he has given no such command to other nations. The
threatenings and reproofs uttered against Israel, throughout the old
Testament, on the subject of slavery, refer to their oppressing and keeping
in slavery their own countrymen. Never is there the slightest imputation of
sin, as far as I can see, conveyed against them for holding in bondage the
children of heathen nations.

Yet do the Scriptures evidently permit slavery, even to the present time.
The curse on the serpent, ("And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because
thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle and above every beast
of the field,") uttered more than sixteen hundred years before the curse of
Noah upon Ham and his race, has lost nothing of its force and true meaning.
"Cursed is the ground for thy sake: in sorrow shalt thou eat of it, all the
days of thy life," said the Supreme Being. Has this curse failed or been
removed?

Remember the threatened curses of God upon the whole Jewish tribe if they
forsook his worship. Have not they been fulfilled?

However inexplicable may be the fact that God would appoint the curse of
continual servitude on a portion of his creatures, will any one _dare_,
with the Bible open in his hands, to say the fact does not exist? It is not
ours to decide _why_ the Supreme Being acts! We may observe his dealings
with man, but we may not ask, until he reveals it, Why hast thou thus done?

"Cursed is every one who loves not the Lord Jesus Christ." Are not all
these curses recorded, and will they not all be fulfilled? God has
permitted slavery to exist in every age and in almost every nation of the
earth. It was only commanded to the Jews, and it was with them restricted
to the heathen, ("referring entirely to the race of Ham, who had been
judicially condemned to a condition of servitude more than eighteen hundred
years before the giving of the law, by the mouth of Noah, the medium of the
Holy Ghost.") No others, at least, were to be enslaved "forever." Every
book of the Old Testament records a history in which slaves and God's laws
concerning them are spoken of, while, as far as profane history goes back,
we cannot fail to see proofs of the existence of slavery. "No legislator of
history," says Voltaire, "attempted to abrogate slavery. Society was so
accustomed to this degradation of the species, that Epictetus, who was
assuredly worth more than his master, never expresses any surprise at his
being a slave." Egypt, Sparta, Athens, Carthage, and Rome had their
thousands of slaves. In the Bible, the best and chosen servants of God
owned slaves, while in profane history the purest and greatest men did the
same. In the very nation over whose devoted head hung the curse of God,
slavery, vindictive, lawless, and cruel slavery, has prevailed. It is said
no nation of the earth has equalled the Jewish in the enslaving of negroes,
except the negroes themselves; and examination will prove that the
descendants of Ham and Canaan have, as God foresaw, justified by their
conduct the doom which he pronounced against them.

But it has been contended that the people of God sinned in holding their
fellow-creatures in bondage! Open your Bible, Christian, and read the
commands of God as regards slavery--the laws that he made to govern the
conduct of the master and the slave!

But again--_we_ live under the glorious and new dispensation of Christ; and
He came to establish God's will, and to confirm such laws as were to
continue in existence, to destroy such rules as were not to govern our
lives!

When there was but one family upon the earth, a portion of the family was
devoted to be slaves to others. God made a covenant with Abraham: he
included in it his slaves. "He that is born in thy house, and he that is
bought with thy money," are the words of Scripture. A servant of Abraham
says, "And the Lord has blessed my master greatly, and he is become great,
and he hath given him flocks and herds, and silver and gold, and
men-servants and maid-servants, and camels and asses."

The Lord has called himself the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob. These
holy men were slaveholders!

The existence of slavery then, and the sanction of God on his own
institution, is palpable from the time of the pronouncing of the curse,
until the glorious advent of the Son of God. When he came, slavery existed
in every part of the world.

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came from heaven and dwelt upon the earth:
his mission to proclaim the will of God to a world sunk in the lowest
depths of iniquity. Even the dear and chosen people of God had departed
from him--had forsaken his worship, and turned aside from his commands.

He was born of a virgin. He was called Emmanuel. He was God with us.

Wise men traveled from afar to behold the Child-God--they knelt before
him--they opened their treasures--they presented to them gifts. Angels of
God descended in dreams, to ensure the protection of his life against the
king who sought it. He emerged from infancy, and grew in favour with God
and man. He was tempted but not overcome--angels came again from heaven to
minister to him. He fulfilled every jot and tittle of the law, and entered
upon the duties for which he left the glories of heaven.

That mission was fulfilled. "The people which sat in darkness saw great
light, and to them which sat in the region and shadow of death light is
sprung up."

Look at his miracles--the cleansing of the leper, the healing of the sick,
the casting out unclean spirits, the raising of the dead, the rebuking of
the winds and seas, the control of those possessed with devils--and say,
was he not the Son of God--yea, was he not God?

Full of power and goodness he came into the world, and light and glory
followed every footstep. The sound of his voice, the glance of his eye, the
very touch of the garment in which his assumed mortality was arrayed, was a
medicine mighty to save. He came on an errand of mercy to the world, and he
was all powerful to accomplish the Divine intent; but, did he emancipate
the slave? The happiness of the human race was the object of his coming;
and is it possible that the large portion of them then slaves could have
escaped his all-seeing eye! Did he condemn the institution which he had
made? Did he establish universal freedom? Oh! no; he came to redeem the
world from the power of sin; his was no earthly mission; he did not
interfere with the organization of society. He healed the sick servant of
the centurion, but he did not command his freedom; nor is there a word that
fell from his sacred lips that could be construed into a condemnation of
that institution which had existed from the early ages of the world,
existed then, and is continued now. The application made by the
Abolitionist of the golden rule is absurd: it might then apply to the
child, who _would have_ his father no longer control him; to the
apprentice, who _would_ no longer that the man to whom he is bound should
have a right to direct him. Thus the foundations of society would be
shaken, nay, destroyed. Christ would have us deal with others, not as they
desire, but as the law of God demands: in the condition of life in which we
have been placed, we must do what we conscientiously believe to be our duty
to our fellow-men.

Christ alludes to slavery, but does not forbid it. "And the servant abideth
not in the house forever, but the son abideth ever. If the Son therefore
shall make you free, you are free indeed."

In these two verses of the Gospel of St. John, there is a manifest allusion
to the fact and condition of slaves. Of this fact the Saviour took
occasion, to illustrate, by way of similitude, the condition of a wicked
man, who is the slave of sin, and to show that as a son who was the heir in
a house _could_ set a bondman free, if that son were of the proper age, so
he, the Son of God, could set the enslaved soul free from sin, when he
would be "free indeed." Show me in the history of the Old Testament, or in
the life of Christ, authority to proclaim _as a sin_ the holding of the
race of Ham and Canaan in bondage.

In the times of the apostles, what do we see? Slaves are still in bondage,
the children of Ham are menials as they were before. Christ had come, had
died, had ascended to heaven, and slavery still existed. Had the apostles
authority to do it away? Had Christ left it to them to carry out, in this
instance, his revealed will?

"Art thou," said Paul, "called being a slave? care not for it; but if thou
mayest be made free, use it rather. Let every man abide in the same calling
wherein he is called." "Let as many servants as are under the yoke count
their own masters worthy of all honor, that the name of God and his
doctrines be not blasphemed. And they that have believing masters, let them
not despise them, because they are brethren, but rather do them service,
because they are faithful and beloved, partakers of the benefit."

It is well known and often quoted that the holy apostle did all he could to
restore a slave to his master--one whom he had been the means of making
free in a spiritual sense. Yet he knew that God had made Onesimus a slave,
and, when he had fled from his master, Paul persuaded him to return and to
do his duty toward him. Open your Bible, Christian, and carefully read the
letter of Paul to Philemon, and contrast its spirit with the incendiary
publications of the Abolitionists of the present day. St. Paul was not a
fanatic, and therefore _could not be_ an Abolitionist. The Christian age
advanced and slavery continued, and we approach the time when our fathers
fled from persecution to the soil we now call our own, when they fought for
the liberty to which they felt they had a right. Our fathers fought for it,
and our mothers did more when they urged forth their husbands and sons, not
knowing whether the life-blood that was glowing with religion and
patriotism would not soon be dyeing the land that had been their refuge,
and where they fondly hoped they should find a happy home. Oh, glorious
parentage! Children of America, trace no farther back--say not the crest of
nobility once adorned thy father's breast, the gemmed coronet thy mother's
brow--stop here! it is enough that they earned for thee a home--a free, a
happy home. And what did they say to the slavery that existed then and had
been entailed upon them by the English government? Their opinions are
preserved among us--they were dictated by their position and
necessities--and they were wisely formed. In the North, slavery was
useless; nay, more, it was a drawback to the prosperity of that section of
the Union--it was dispensed with. In other sections, gradually, our people
have seen their condition would be more prosperous without slaves--they
have emancipated them. In the South, they are necessary: though an evil, it
is one that cannot be dispensed with; and here they have been retained, and
will be retained, unless God should manifest his will (which never yet has
been done) to the contrary. Knowing that the people of the South still have
the views of their revolutionary forefathers, we see plainly that many of
the North have rejected the opinions of theirs. Slaves were at the North
and South considered and recognized as property, (as they are in
Scripture.) The whole nation sanctioned slavery by adopting the
Constitution which provides for them, and for their restoration (when
fugitive) to their owners. Our country was then like one family--their
souls had been tried and made pure by a united struggle--they loved as
brothers who had suffered together. Would it were so at the present day!

The subject of slavery was agitated among them; many difficulties occurred,
but they were all settled--and, they thought, effectually. They agreed
then, on the propriety of giving up runaway slaves, unanimously. Mr.
Sherman, of Connecticut, "saw no more impropriety in the public seizing and
surrendering a slave or servant than a horse!" (Madison's Papers.) This was
then considered a compromise between the North and South. Henry Clay and
Daniel Webster--the mantle of their illustrious fathers descended to them
from their own glorious times. The slave-trade was discontinued after a
while. As long as England needed the sons and daughters of Africa to do
her bidding, she trafficked in the flesh and blood of her fellow-creatures;
but our immortal fathers put an end to the disgraceful trade. They saw its
heinous sin, for they had no command to enslave the heathen; but they had
no command to emancipate the slave; therefore they wisely forbore farther
to interfere. They drew the nice line of distinction between an unavoidable
evil and a sin.

Slavery was acknowledged, and slaves considered as property all over our
country, at the North as well as the South--in Pennsylvania, New York, and
New Jersey. Now, has there been any law reversing this, except in the
States that have become free? Out of the limits of these States, slaves are
property, according to the Constitution. In the year 1798, Judge Jay, being
called on for a list of his taxable property, made the following
observation:--"I purchase slaves and manumit them at proper ages, when
their faithful services shall have afforded a reasonable retribution." "As
free servants became more common, he was gradually relieved from the
necessity of purchasing slaves." (See Jay's Life, by his son.)

Here is the secret of Northern emancipation: they were _relieved from the
necessity_ of slavery. Rufus King, for many years one of the most
distinguished statesmen of the country, writes thus to John B. Coles and
others:--"I am perfectly anxious not to be misunderstood in this case,
never having thought myself at liberty to encourage or assent to any
measure that would affect the security of property in slaves, or tend to
disturb the political adjustment which the Constitution has made respecting
them."

John Taylor, of New York, said, "If the weight and influence of the South
be increased by the representation of that which they consider a part of
their property, we do not wish to diminish them. The right by which this
property is held is derived from the Federal Constitution; we have neither
inclination nor power to interfere with the laws of existing States in this
particular; on the contrary, they have not only a right to reclaim their
fugitives whenever found, but, in the event of domestic violence, (which
God in his mercy forever avert!) the whole strength of the nation is bound
to be exerted, if needful, in reducing it to subjection, while we recognize
these obligations and will never fail to perform them."

How many more could be brought! opinions of great and good men of the
North, acknowledging and maintaining the rights of the people of the South.
Everett, Adams, Cambreleng, and a host of others, whose names I need not
give. "Time was," said Mr. Fletcher in Boston, (in 1835, at a great meeting
in that city,) "when such sentiments and such language would not have been
breathed in this community. And here, on this hallowed spot, of all places
on earth, should they be met and rebuked. Time was, when the British
Parliament having declared 'that they had a right to bind us in all cases
whatsoever,' and were attempting to bind our infant limbs in fetters, when
a voice of resistance and notes of defiance had gone forth from this hall,
then, when Massachusetts, standing for her liberty and life, was alone
breasting the whole power of Britain, the generous and gallant Southerners
came to our aid, and our fathers refused not to hold communion with
slaveholders. When the blood of our citizens, shed by a British soldiery,
had stained our streets and flowed upon the heights that surround us, and
sunk into the earth upon the plains of Lexington and Concord, then when he,
whose name can never be pronounced by American lips without the strongest
emotion of gratitude and love to every American heart,--when he, that
slaveholder, (pointing to a full-length portrait of Washington,) who, from
this canvass, smiles upon his children with paternal benignity, came with
other slaveholders to drive the British myrmidons from this city, and in
this hall our fathers did not refuse to hold communion with them.

"With slaveholders they formed the confederation, neither asking nor
receiving any right to interfere in their domestic relations: with them,
they made the Declaration of Independence."

To England, not to the United States, belongs whatever odium may be
attached to the introduction of slavery into our country. Our fathers
abolished the slave-trade, but permitted the continuation of domestic
slavery.

Slavery, authorized by God, permitted by Jesus Christ, sanctioned by the
apostles, maintained by good men of all ages, is still existing in a
portion of our beloved country. How long it will continue, or whether it
will ever cease, the Almighty Ruler of the universe can alone determine.

I do not intend to give a history of Abolition. Born in fanaticism,
nurtured in violence and disorder, it exists too. Turning aside the
institutions and commands of God, treading under foot the love of country,
despising the laws of nature and the nation, it is dead to every feeling of
patriotism and brotherly kindness; full of strife and pride, strewing the
path of the slave with thorns and of the master with difficulties,
accomplishing nothing good, forever creating disturbance.

The negroes are still slaves--"while the American slaveholders,
collectively and individually, ask no favours of any man or race that
treads the earth. In none of the attributes of men, mental or physical, do
they acknowledge or fear superiority elsewhere. They stand in the broadest
light of the knowledge, civilization, and improvement of the age, as much
favored of Heaven as any other of the sons of Adam."




AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN.




CHAPTER I.


There would be little to strike the eye of a traveler accustomed to
picturesque scenes, on approaching the small town of L----. Like most of
the settlements in Virginia, the irregularity of the streets and the want
of similarity in the houses would give an unfavorable first impression. The
old Episcopal church, standing at the entrance of the town, could not fail
to be attractive from its appearance of age; but from this alone. No
monuments adorn the churchyard; head-stones of all sizes meet the eye, some
worn and leaning against a shrub or tree for support, others new and white,
and glistening in the sunset. Several family vaults, unpretending in their
appearance, are perceived on a closer scrutiny, to which the plants usually
found in burial-grounds are clinging, shadowed too by large trees. The
walls where they are visible are worn and discolored, but they are almost
covered with ivy, clad in summer's deepest green. Many a stranger stopped
his horse in passing by to wonder at its look of other days; and some, it
may be, to wish they were sleeping in the shades of its mouldering walls.

The slight eminence on which the church was built, commanded a view of the
residences of several gentlemen of fortune who lived in the neighborhood.
To the nearest one, a gentleman on horseback was directing his way. The
horse required no direction, in truth, for so accustomed was he to the ride
to Exeter, and to the good fare he enjoyed on arriving there, that neither
whip nor spur was necessary; he traced the familiar road with evident
pleasure.

The house at Exeter was irregularly built; but the white stone wings and
the look-out over the main building gave an appearance of taste to the
mansion. The fine old trees intercepted the view, though adding greatly to
its beauty. The porter's lodge, and the wide lawn entered by its open
gates, the gardens at either side of the building, and the neatness and
good condition of the out-houses, all showed a prosperous state of affairs
with the owner. Soon the large porch with its green blinds, and the
sweetbrier entwining them, came in view, and the family party that occupied
it were discernible. Before Mr. Barbour had reached the point for alighting
from his horse, a servant stood in readiness to take charge of him, and
Alice Weston emerged from her hiding-place among the roses, with her usual
sweet words of welcome. Mr. Weston, the owner of the mansion and its
adjoining plantation, arose with a dignified but cordial greeting; and Mrs.
Weston, his sister-in-law, and Miss Janet, united with him in his kind
reception of a valued guest and friend.

Mr. Weston was a widower, with an only son; the young gentleman was at this
time at Yale College. He had been absent for three years; and so anxious
was he to graduate with honor, that he had chosen not to return to Virginia
until his course of study should be completed. The family had visited him
during the first year of his exile, as he called it, but it had now been
two years since he had seen any member of it. There was an engagement
between him and his cousin, though Alice was but fifteen when it was
formed. They had been associated from the earliest period of their lives,
and Arthur declared that should he return home on a visit, he would not be
able to break away from its happiness to the routine of a college life: he
yielded therefore to the earnest entreaties of his father, to remain at New
Haven until he graduated.

Mr. Weston will stand for a specimen of the southern gentleman of the old
school. The bland and cheerful expression of his countenance, the
arrangement of his soft fine hair, the fineness of the texture and the
perfect cleanliness of every part of his dress, the plaiting of his
old-fashioned shirt ruffles, the whiteness of his hand, and the sound of
his clear, well-modulated voice--in fact, every item of his appearance--won
the good opinion of a stranger; while the feelings of his heart and his
steady course of Christian life, made him honored and reverenced as he
deserved. He possessed that requisite to the character of a true gentleman,
a kind and charitable heart.

None of the present members of his family had any lawful claim upon him,
yet he cherished them with the utmost affection. He requested his brother's
widow, on the death of his own wife, to assume the charge of his house; and
she was in every respect its mistress. Alice was necessary to his
happiness, almost to his existence; she was the very rose in his garden of
life. He had never had a sister, and he regarded Alice as a legacy from his
only brother, to whom he had been most tenderly attached: had she been
uninteresting, she would still have been very dear to him; but her beauty
and her many graces of appearance and character drew closely together the
bonds of love between them; Alice returning, with the utmost warmth, her
uncle's affection.

Mrs. Weston was unlike her daughter in appearance, Alice resembling her
father's family. Her dark, fine eyes were still full of the fire that had
beamed from them in youth; there were strongly-marked lines about her
mouth, and her face when in repose bore traces of the warfare of past
years. The heart has a writing of its own, and we can see it on the
countenance; time has no power to obliterate it, but generally deepens the
expression. There was at times too a sternness in her voice and manner, yet
it left no unpleasant impression; her general refinement, and her fine
sense and education made her society always desirable.

Cousin Janet, as she was called by them all, was a dependant and distant
relation; a friend faithful and unfailing; a bright example of all that is
holy and good in the Christian character. She assisted Mrs. Weston greatly
in the many cares that devolved on the mistress of a plantation, especially
in instructing the young female servants in knitting and sewing, and in
such household duties as would make them useful in that state of life in
which it had pleased God to place them. Her heart was full of love to all
God's creatures; the servants came to her with their little ailings and
grievances, and she had always a soothing remedy--some little specific for
a bodily sickness, with a word of advice and kindness, and, if the case
required it, of gentle reproof for complaints of another nature. Cousin
Janet was an old maid, yet many an orphan and friendless child had shed
tears upon her bosom; some, whose hands she had folded together in prayer
as they knelt beside her, learning from her lips a child's simple petition,
had long ago laid down to sleep for ever; some are living still, surrounded
by the halo of their good influence. There was one, of whom we shall speak
by-and-by, who was to her a source of great anxiety, and the constant
subject of her thoughts and fervent prayers.

Many years had gone by since she had accepted Mr. Weston's earnest entreaty
to make Exeter her home; and although the bread she eat was that of
charity, yet she brought a blessing upon the house that sheltered her, by
her presence: she was one of the chosen ones of the Lord. Even in this day,
it is possible to entertain an angel unawares. She is before you, reader,
in all the dignity of old age, of a long life drawing to a close; still to
the last, she works while it is yet day!

With her dove-colored dress, and her muslin three-cornered handkerchief,
pinned precisely at the waist and over her bosom, with her eyes sunken and
dim, but expressive, with the wrinkles so many and so deep, and the thin,
white folds of her satin-looking hair parted under her cap; with her silver
knitting-sheath attached to her side, and her needles in ever busy hands,
Cousin Janet would perhaps first arrest the attention of a stranger, in
spite of the glowing cheek and golden curls that were contrasting with her.
It was the beauty of old age and youth, side by side. Alice's face in its
full perfection did not mar the loveliness of hers; the violet eyes of the
one, with their long sweep of eyelash, could not eclipse the mild but deep
expression of the other. The rich burden of glossy hair was lovely, but so
were the white locks; and the slight but rounded form was only compared in
its youthful grace to the almost shadowy dignity of old age.

It was just sundown, but the servants were all at home after their day's
work, and they too were enjoying the pleasant evening time. Some were
seated at the door of their cabins, others lounging on the grass, all at
ease, and without care. Many of their comfortable cabins had been recently
whitewashed, and were adorned with little gardens in front; over the one
nearest the house a multiflora rose was creeping in full bloom. Singularly
musical voices were heard at intervals, singing snatches of songs, of a
style in which the servants of the South especially delight; and not
unfrequently, as the full chorus was shouted by a number, their still more
peculiar laugh was heard above it all. Mr. Barbour had recently returned
from a pleasure tour in our Northern States, had been absent for two
months, and felt that he had not in as long a time witnessed such a scene
of real enjoyment. He thought it would have softened the heart of the
sternest hater of Southern institutions to have been a spectator here; it
might possibly have inclined him to think the sun of his Creator's
beneficence shines over every part of our favored land.

"Take a seat, my dear sir," Mr. Weston said, "in our sweetbrier house, as
Alice calls it; the evening would lose half its beauty to us, if we were
within."

"Alice is always right," said Mr. Barbour, "in every thing she says and
does, and so I will occupy this arm-chair that I know she placed here for
me. Dear me! what a glorious evening! Those distant peaks of the Blue Ridge
look bluer than I ever saw them before."

"Ah! you are glad to tread Virginia soil once more, that is evident
enough," said Mr. Weston. "There is no danger of your getting tired of your
native state again."

"Who says I was ever tired of her? I challenge you to prove your
insinuation. I wanted to see this great New England, the 'great Norrurd,'
as Bacchus calls it, and I have seen it; I have enjoyed seeing it, too; and
now I am glad to be at home again."

"Here comes Uncle Bacchus now, Mr. Barbour," said Alice; "do look at him
walk. Is he not a curiosity? He has as much pretension in his manner as if
he were really doing us a favor in paying us a visit."

"The old scamp," said Mr. Barbour, "he has a frolic in view; he wants to go
off to-morrow either to a campmeeting, or a barbecue. He looks as if he
were hooked together, and could be taken apart limb by limb."

Bacchus had commenced bowing some time before he reached the piazza, but on
ascending the steps he made a particularly low bow to his master, and then
in the same manner, though with much less reverence, paid his respects to
the others.

"Well, Bacchus?" said Mr. Weston.

"How is yer health dis evenin, master? You aint been so well latterly.
We'll soon have green corn though, and that helps dispepsy wonderful."

"It may be good for dyspepsia, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "but it sometimes
gives old people cholera morbus, when they eat it raw; so I advise you to
remember last year's experience, and roast it before you eat it."

"I shall, indeed," replied Bacchus; "'twas an awful time I had last summer.
My blessed grief! but I thought my time was done come. But de Lord was
mighty good to me, he brought me up again--Miss Janet's physic done me more
good though than any thing, only it put me to sleep, and I never slept so
much in my born days."

"You were always something of a sleeper, I am told, Bacchus," said Cousin
Janet; "though I have no doubt the laudanum had that effect; you must be
more prudent; old people cannot take such liberties with themselves."

"Lor, Miss Janet, I aint so mighty ole now; besure I aint no chicken
nother; but thar's Aunt Peggy; she's what I call a raal ole nigger; she's
an African. Miss Alice, aint she never told you bout de time she seed an
elerphant drink a river dry?"

"Yes," said Alice, "but she dreamed that."

"No, Miss, she actually seed it wid her own eyes. They's mighty weak and
dim now, but she could see out of 'em once, I tell ye. It's hot nuff here
sometimes, but Aunt Peggy says it's winter to what 'tis in Guinea, whar she
was raised till she was a big gall. One day when de sun was mighty strong,
she seed an elerphant a comin along. She runned fast enough, she had no
'casion to grease her heels wid quicksilver; she went mighty fast, no
doubt; she didn't want dat great beast's hoof in her wool. You and me seed
an elerphant de time we was in Washington, long wid master, Miss Alice, and
I thought 'bout Aunt Peggy that time. 'Twas a _'nageree_ we went to. You
know I held you in my arms over de people's heads to see de monkeys ride.

"Well, Aunt Peggy say she runned till she couldn't run no longer, so she
clumb a great tree, and sat in de branches and watched him. He made
straight for de river, and he kicked up de sand wid his hoofs, as he went
along, till he come to de bank; den he begins to drink, and he drinks, I
tell you. Aunt Peggy say every swaller he took was least a gallon, and he
drunk all dat blessed mornin. After a while she seed de water gitting very
low, and last he gits enuff. He must a got his thirst squinched by dat
time. So Aunt Peggy, she waded cross de river, when de elephant had went,
and two days arter dat, de river was clean gone, bare as my hand. Master,"
continued Bacchus, "I has a great favor to ax of you."

"Barbecue or campmeeting, Bacchus?" said Mr. Barbour.

"If you please, master," said he, addressing Mr. Weston, but at the same
time giving an imploring look to Mr. Barbour, "to 'low me to go way
to-morrow and wait at de barbecue. Mr. Semmes, he wants me mightily; he
says he'll give me a dollar a day if I goes. I'll sure and be home agin in
the evenin."

"I am afraid to give you permission," said Mr. Weston; "this habit of
drinking, that is growing upon you, is a disgrace to your old age. You
remember you were picked up and brought home in a cart from campmeeting
this summer, and I am surprised that you should so soon ask a favor of me."

"I feels mighty shamed o' that, sir," said Bacchus, "but I hope you will
'scuse it. Niggers aint like white people, no how; they can't 'sist
temptation. I've repented wid tears for dat business, and 'twont happen
agin, if it please the Lord not to lead me into temptation."

"You led yourself into temptation," said Mr. Weston; "you took pains to
cross two or three fences, and to go round by Norris's tavern, when, if
you had chosen, you could have come home by the other road."

"True as gospel, ma'am," said Bacchus, "I don't deny de furst word of it;
the Lord forgive me for backsliding; but master's mighty good to us, and if
he'll overlook that little misfortune of mine, it shan't happen agin."

"You call it a misfortune, do you, Bacchus?" said Mr. Barbour; "why, it
seems to me such a great Christian as you are, would have given the right
name to it, and called it a sin. I am told you are turned preacher?"

"No, sir," said Bacchus, "I aint no preacher, I warn't called to be; I
leads in prayer sometimes, and in general I rises de tunes."

"Well, I suppose I can't refuse you," said Mr. Weston; "but come home
sober, or ask no more permissions."

"God bless you, master; don't be afeard: you'll see you can trust me. I
aint gwine to disgrace our family no more. I has to have a little change
sometimes, for Miss Janet knows my wife keeps me mighty straight at home.
She 'lows me no privileges, and if I didn't go off sometimes for a little
fun, I shouldn't have no health, nor sperrets nother."

"You wouldn't have any sperrits, that's certain," said Alice, laughing; "I
should like to see a bottle of whisky in Aunt Phillis's cabin."

Bacchus laughed outright, infinitely overcome at the suggestion. "My
blessed grief! Miss Alice," said he, "she'd make me eat de bottle, chaw up
all de glass, swaller it arter dat. I aint ever tried dat yet--best not to,
I reckon. No, master, I intends to keep sober from this time forrurd, till
young master comes back; _den_ I shall git high, spite of Phillis, and
'scuse me, sir, spite of de devil hisself. When is he comin, any how, sir?"

"Next year, I hope, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston.

"Long time, sir," said Bacchus; "like as not he'll never see old Aunt Peggy
agin. She's failin, sir, you can see by de way she sets in de sun all day,
wid a long switch in her hand, trying to hit de little niggers as dey go
by. Sure sign she's gwine home. If she wasn't altogether wore out, she'd be
at somefin better. She's sarved her time cookin and bakin, and she's gwine
to a country whar there's no 'casion to cook any more. She's a good old
soul, but wonderful cross sometimes."

"She has been an honest, hard-working, and faithful servant, and a sober
one too," said Mr. Weston.

"I understand, sir," said Bacchus, humbly; "but don't give yourself no
oneasiness about me! I shall be home to-morrow night, ready to jine in at
prayers."

"Very well--that will do, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, who felt anxious to
enjoy the society of his friend.

"Good evenin to you all," said Bacchus, retreating with many bows.

We will see how Bacchus kept his word, and for the present leave Mr. Weston
to discuss the subjects of the day with his guest; while the ladies paid a
visit to Aunt Peggy, and listened to her complaints of "the flies and the
little niggers," and the thousand and one ailings that belong to the age of
ninety years.




CHAPTER II.


"You rode too far this afternoon, Alice, you seem to be very tired," said
Mr. Weston.

"No, dear uncle, I am not fatigued; the wind was cold, and it makes me feel
stupid."

"Why did not Walter come in?" asked Mr. Weston. "I saw him returning with
you by the old road."

"He said he had an engagement this evening," replied Alice, as she raised
her head from her uncle's shoulder.

"Poor Walter!" said Cousin Janet; "with the education and habits of a
gentleman, he is to be pitied that it is only as a favor he is received,
among those with whom he may justly consider himself on an equality."

"But is not Walter our equal?" asked Alice. Cousin Janet held her knitting
close to her eyes to look for a dropped stitch, while Mr. Weston replied
for her:

"My love, you know, probably, that Walter is not an equal by right of birth
to those whose parents held a fair and honorable position in society. His
father, a man of rare talents, of fascinating appearance, and winning
address, was the ruin of all connected with him. (Even his mother,
broken-hearted by his career of extravagance and dissipation, found rest in
the termination of a life that had known no rest.) His first wife, (not
Walter's mother,) a most interesting woman, was divorced from him by an
unjust decision of the law, for after her death circumstances transpired
that clearly proved her innocence. Walter's mother was not married, as far
as is known; though some believe she was, and that she concealed it in
consequence of the wishes and threats of Mr. Lee, who was ashamed to own
the daughter of a tradesman for his wife."

"But all this is not Walter's fault, uncle," said Alice.

"Assuredly not; but there is something due to our long established
opinions. Walter should go to a new country, where these things are not
known, and where his education and talents would advance him. Here they are
too fresh in the memory of many. Yet do I feel most kindly towards him,
though he rather repels the interest we take in him by his haughty coldness
of manner. The attachment between him and my son from their infancy draws
me towards him. Arthur writes, though, that his letters are very reserved
and not frequent. What can be the meaning of it?"

"There was always a want of candor and generosity in Walter's disposition,"
remarked Alice's mother.

"You never liked him, Anna," said Mr. Weston; "why was it?"

"Arthur and Walter contrast so strongly," answered Mrs. Weston. "Arthur was
always perfectly honest and straight-forward, even as a little child;
though quiet in his way of showing it, he is so affectionate in his
disposition. Walter is passionate and fickle, condescending to those he
loves, but treating with a proud indifference every one else. I wonder he
does not go abroad, he has the command of his fortune now, and here he can
never be happily situated; no woman of delicacy would ever think of
marrying him with that stain on his birth."

"How beautiful his mother was, Cousin Janet!" said Mr. Weston. "I have
never seen more grace and refinement. I often look at Walter, and recall
her, with her beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. How short her course was,
too! I think she died at eighteen."

"Do tell me about her, uncle," said Alice.

"Cousin Janet can, better than I, my darling. Have you never told Alice her
history, cousin?"

"No, it is almost too sad a tale for Alice's ear, and there is something
holy, in my mind, in the recollection of the sorrows of that young person.
I believe she was a wife, though an unacknowledged one. If the grave would
give up its secrets--but it will, it will--the time will come for justice
to all, even to poor Ellen Haywood.

"That young creature was worse than an orphan, for her father, thriving in
business at one time, became dissipated and reckless. Ellen's time was her
own; and after her mother's death her will was uncontrolled. Her education
was not good enough to give her a taste for self-improvement. She had a
fine mind, though, and the strictest sense of propriety and dignity. Her
remarkable beauty drew towards her the attention of the young men of her
own class, as well as those of good family; but she was always prudent.
Poor girl! knowing she was motherless and friendless, I tried to win her
regard; I asked her to come to the house, with some other young girls of
the neighborhood, to study the Bible under my poor teachings; but she
declined, and I afterwards went to see her, hoping to persuade her to come.
I found her pale and delicate, and much dispirited. Thanking me most
earnestly, she begged me to excuse her, saying she rarely went out, on
account of her father's habits, fearing something might occur during her
absence from home. I was surprised to find her so depressed, yet I do not
remember ever to have seen any thing like guilt, in all the interviews with
her, from that hour until her death.

"Ellen's father died; but not before many had spoken lightly of his
daughter. Mr. Lee was constantly at the house; and what but Ellen's beauty
could take him there! No one was without a prejudice against Mr. Lee, and I
have often wondered that Ellen could have overlooked what every one knew,
the treatment his wife had received. You will think," continued Cousin
Janet, "that it is because I am an old maid, and am full of notions, that I
cannot imagine how a woman can love a man who has been divorced from his
wife. I, who have never loved as the novelists say, have the most exalted
ideas of marriage. It is in Scripture, the type of Christ's love to the
church. Life is so full of cares; there is something holy in the thought of
one heart being privileged to rest its burden on another. But how can that
man be loved who has put away his wife from him, because he is tired of
her? for this is the meaning of the usual excuses--incompatibility of
temper, and the like. Yet Ellen did love him, with a love passing
description; she forgot his faults and her own position; she loved as I
would never again wish to see a friend of mine love any creature of the
earth.

"Time passed, and Ellen was despised. Mr. Lee left abruptly for Europe, and
I heard that this poor young woman was about to become a mother. I knew she
was alone in the world, and I knew my duty too. I went to her, and I thank
Him who inclined me to seek this wandering lamb of his fold, and to be (it
may be) the means of leading her back to His loving care and protection. I
often saw her during the last few weeks of her life, and she was usually
alone; Aunt Lucy, her mother's servant, and her own nurse when an infant,
being the only other occupant of her small cottage.

"Speaking of her, brings back, vividly as if it happened yesterday, the
scene with which her young life closed. Lucy sent for me, as I had charged
her, but the messenger delayed, and in consequence, Ellen had been some
hours sick when I arrived. Oh! how lovely her face appears to my memory, as
I recall her. She was in no pain at the moment I entered; her head was
supported by pillows, and her brown hair fell over them and over her neck.
Her eyes were bright as an angel's, her cheeks flushed to a crimson color,
and her white, beautiful hand grasped a cane which Dr. Lawton had just
placed there, hoping to relieve some of her symptoms by bleeding. Lucy
stood by, full of anxiety and affection, for this faithful servant loved
her as she loved her own life. My heart reproached me for my unintentional
neglect, but I was in a moment by her side, supporting her head upon my
breast.

"It is like a dream, that long night of agony. The patience of Ellen, the
kindness of her physician, and the devotion of her old nurse--I thought
that only a wife could have endured as she did.

"Before this, Ellen had told me her wishes as regards her child, persuaded
that, if it should live, she should not survive its birth to take care of
it. She entreated me to befriend it in the helpless time of infancy, and
then to appeal to its father in its behalf. I promised her to do so, always
chiding her for not hoping and trusting. 'Ellen,' I would say, 'life is a
blessing as long as God gives it, and it is our duty to consider it so.'

"'Yes, Miss Janet, but if God give me a better life, shall I not esteem it
a greater blessing? I have not deserved shame and reproach, and I cannot
live under it. Right glad and happy am I, that a few sods of earth will
soon cover all.'

"Such remarks as these," continued Cousin Janet, "convinced me that there
was grief, but not guilt, on Ellen's breast, and for her own sake, I hoped
that she would so explain to me her past history, that I should have it in
my power to clear her reputation. But she never did. Truly, 'she died and
made no sign,' and it is reserved to a future day to do her justice.

"I said she died. That last night wore on, and no word of impatience or
complaint escaped her lips. The agony of death found her quiet and
composed. Night advanced, and the gray morning twilight fell on those
features, no longer flushed and excited. Severe faintings had come on, and
the purple line under the blue eyes heralded the approach of death. Her
luxuriant hair lay in damp masses about her; her white arms were cold, and
the moisture of death was gathering there too. 'Oh! Miss Ellen,' cried old
Lucy, 'you will be better soon--bear up a little longer.'

"'Ellen dear,' I said, 'try and keep up.' But who can give life and
strength save One?--and He was calling to her everlasting rest the poor
young sufferer.

"'Miss Ellen,' again cried Lucy, 'you have a son; speak to me, my darling;'
but, like Rachel of old, she could not be thus revived, 'her soul was in
departing.'

"Lucy bore away the child from the chamber of death, and I closed her white
eyelids, and laid her hands upon her breast. Beautiful was she in death:
she had done with pain and tears forever.

"I never can forget," continued Cousin Janet, after a pause of a few
moments, "Lucy's grief. She wept unceasingly by Ellen's side, and it was
impossible to arouse her to a care for her own health, or to an interest in
what was passing around. On the day that Ellen was to be buried, I went to
the room where she lay prepared for her last long sleep. Death had laid a
light touch on her fair face. The sweet white brow round which her hair
waved as it had in life--the slightly parted lips--the expression of
repose, not only in the countenance, but in the attitude in which her old
nurse had laid her, seemed to indicate an awakening to the duties of life.
But there was the coffin and the shroud, and there sat Lucy, her eyes heavy
with weeping, and her frame feeble from long fasting, and indulgence of
bitter, hopeless grief.

"It was in the winter, and a severe snow-storm, an unusual occurrence with
us, had swept the country for several days; but on this morning the wind
and clouds had gone together, and the sun was lighting up the hills and
river, and the crystals of snow were glistening on the evergreens that
stood in front of the cottage door. One ray intruded through the shutter
into the darkened room, and rested on a ring, which I had never observed
before, on Ellen's left hand. It was on the third finger, and its
appearance there was so unexpected to me, that for a moment my strength
forsook me, and I leaned against the table on which the coffin rested, for
support.

"'Lucy,' I said, 'when was that placed there?'

"'I put it there, ma'am.'

"'But what induced you?'

"'She told me to do so, ma'am. A few days before she was taken sick, she
called me and took from her bureau-drawer, that ring. The ring was in a
small box. She was very pale when she spoke--she looked more like death
than she does now, ma'am. I know'd she wasn't able to stand, and I said,
'Sit down, honey, and then tell me what you want me to do.'

"'Mammy,' said she, 'you've had a world of trouble with me, and you've had
trouble of your own all your life; but I am not going to give you much
more--I shall soon be where trouble cannot come.'

"'Don't talk that way, child,' said I, 'you will get through with this, and
then you will have something to love and to care for, that will make you
happy again.'

"'Never in this world,' said she; 'but mammy, I have one favor more to ask
of you--and you must promise me to do it.'

"'What is it, Miss Ellen?' said I, 'you know I would die for you if 'twould
do you any good.'

"'It is this,' she said, speaking very slowly, and in a low tone, 'when I
am dead, mammy, when you are all by yourself, for I am sure you will stay
by me to the last, I want you to put this ring on the third finger of my
left hand--will you remember?--on the third finger of my left hand.' She
said it over twice, ma'am, and she was whiter than that rose that lays on
her poor breast.'

"'Miss Ellen,' says I, 'as sure as there's a God in heaven you are Mr.
Lee's wife, and why don't you say so, and stand up for yourself? Don't you
see how people sneer at you when they see you?'

"'Yes, but don't say any more. It will soon be over. I made a promise, and
I will keep it; God will do me justice when he sees fit.'

"'But, Miss Ellen,' says I, 'for the sake of the child'--

"'Hush! mammy, that is the worst of all; but I will trust in Him. It's a
dreadful sin to love as I have, but God has punished me. Do you remember,
dear mammy, when I was a child, how tired I would get, chasing butterflies
while the day lasted, and when night came, how I used to spring, and try to
catch the lightning-bugs that were flying around me--and you used to beg me
to come in and rest or go to bed, but I would not until I could no longer
stand; then I laid myself on your breast and forgot all my weariness? So it
is with me now; I have had my own way, and I have suffered, and have no
more strength to spend; I will lie down in the grave, and sleep where no
one will reproach me. Promise me you will do what I ask you, and I will die
contented.'

"'I promised her, ma'am, and I have done it.'

"'It is very strange, Lucy,' said I, 'there seems to have been a mysterious
reason why she would not clear herself; but it is of no use to try and
unravel the mystery. She has no friends left to care about it; we can only
do as she said, leave all to God.'

"'Ah ma'am,' said Lucy, 'what shall I do now she is gone? I have got no
friend left; if I could only die too--Lord have mercy upon me.'

"'You have still a friend, Lucy,' I said. 'One that well deserves the name
of friend. You must seek Him out, and make a friend of Him. Jesus Christ is
the friend of the poor and desolate. Have you no children, Lucy?'

"'God only knows, ma'am.'

"'What do you mean?' I said. 'Are they all dead?'

"'They are gone, ma'am--all sold. I ain't seen one of them for twenty
years. Days have come and gone, and nights have come and gone, but day and
night is all the same to me. You did not hear, may be, for grand folks
don't often hear of the troubles of the poor slave--that one day I had
seven children with me, and the next they were all sold; taken off, and I
did not even see them, to bid them good-by. My master sent me, with my
mistress to the country, where her father lived, (for she was sickly, and
he said it would do her good,) and when we came back there was no child to
meet me. I have cried, ma'am, enough for Miss Ellen, but I never shed a
tear for my own.'

"'But what induced him, Lucy, to do such a wicked thing?'

"'Money, ma'am, and drinking, and the devil. He did not leave me one. My
five boys, and my two girls, all went at once. My oldest daughter, ma'am, I
was proud of her, for she was a handsome girl, and light-colored too--she
went, and the little one, ma'am. My heart died in me. I hated him. I used
to dream I had killed him, and I would laugh out in my sleep, but I
couldn't murder him on her account. My mistress, she cried day and night,
and called him cruel, and she would say, 'Lucy, I'd have died before I
would have done it.' I couldn't murder him, ma'am, 'twas my mistress held
me back.'

"'No, Lucy,' said I, ''twas not your mistress, it was the Lord; and thank
Him that you are not a murderer. Did you ever think of the consequences of
such an act?'

"'Lor, ma'am, do you think I cared for that? I wasn't afraid of hanging.'

"'I did not mean that, Lucy. I meant, did you not fear His power, who could
not only kill your body, but destroy your soul in hell?'

"'I didn't think of any thing, for a long time. My mistress got worse after
that, and I nursed her until she died; poor Miss Ellen was a baby, and I
had her too. When master died I thought it was no use for me to wish him
ill, for the hand of the Lord was heavy on him, for true. 'Lucy,' he said,
'you are a kind nurse to me, though I sold your children, but I've had no
rest since.' I couldn't make him feel worse, ma'am, for he was going to his
account with all his sins upon him.'

"'This is the first time Lucy,' I said, 'that I have ever known children to
be sold away from their mother, and I look upon the crime with as great a
horror as you do.'

"'Its the only time I ever knowed it, ma'am, and everybody pitied me, and
many a kind thing was said to me, and many a hard word was said of him;
true enough, but better be forgotten, as he is in his grave.'

"Some persons now entered, and Lucy became absorbed in her present grief;
her old frame shook as with a tempest, when the fair face was hid from her
sight. There were few mourners; Cousin Weston and I followed her to the
grave. I believe Ellen was as pure as the white lilies Lucy planted at her
head."

"Did Lucy ever hear of her children?" asked Alice.

"No, my darling, she died soon after Ellen. She was quite an old woman, and
had never been strong."

"Uncle," said Alice, "I did not think any one could be so inhuman as to
separate mother and children."

"It is the worst feature in slavery," replied Mr. Weston, "and the State
should provide laws to prevent it; but such a circumstance is very
uncommon. Haywood, Ellen's father, was a notoriously bad man, and after
this wicked act was held in utter abhorrence in the neighborhood. It is the
interest of a master to make his slaves happy, even were he not actuated by
better motives. Slavery is an institution of our country; and while we are
privileged to maintain our rights, we should make them comfortable here,
and fit them for happiness hereafter."

"Did you bring Lucy home with you, Cousin Janet?" asked Alice.

"Yes, my love, and little Walter too. He was a dear baby--now he is a man
of fortune, (for Mr. Lee left him his entire property,) and is under no
one's control. He will always be very dear to me. But here comes Mark with
the Prayer Book."

"Lay it here, Mark," said Mr. Weston, "and ring the bell for the servants.
I like all who can to come and unite with me in thanking God for His many
mercies. Strange, I have opened the Holy Book where David says, (and we
will join with him,) 'Praise the Lord, oh! my soul, and all that is within
me, praise his holy name.'"




CHAPTER III.


After the other members of the family had retired, Mr. Weston, as was usual
with him, sat for a while in the parlor to read. The closing hour of the
day is, of all, the time that we love to dwell on the subject nearest our
heart. As, at the approach of death, the powers of the mind rally, and the
mortal, faint and feeble, with but a few sparks of decaying life within
him, arouses to a sense of his condition, and puts forth all his energies,
to meet the hour of parting with earth and turning his face to heaven; so,
at the close of the evening, the mind, wearied with its day's travelling,
is about to sink into that repose as necessary for it as for the body--that
repose so often compared to the one in which the tired struggler with life,
has "forever wrapped the drapery of his couch about him, and laid down to
pleasant dreams." Ere yielding, it turns with energy to the calls of
memory, though it is so soon to forget all for a while. It hears voices
long since hushed, and eyes gaze into it that have looked their last upon
earthly visions. Time is forgotten, Affection for a while holds her reign,
Sorrow appears with her train of reproachings and remorse, until
exhaustion comes to its aid, and it obtains the relief so bountifully
provided by Him who knoweth well our frames. With Mr. Weston this last hour
was well employed, for he not only read, but studied the Holy Scriptures.
Possessed of an unusually placid temperament, there had occurred in his
life but few events calculated to change the natural bent of his
disposition. The death of his wife was indeed a bitter grief; but he had
not married young, and she had lived so short a time, that after a while he
returned to his usual train of reflection. But for the constant presence of
his son, whose early education he superintended, he would have doubted if
there ever had been a reality to the remembrance of the happy year he had
passed in her society.

With his hand resting on the sacred page, and his heart engrossed with the
lessons it taught, he was aroused from his occupation by a loud noise
proceeding from the kitchen. This was a most unusual circumstance, for
besides that the kitchen was at some distance from the house, the servants
were generally quiet and orderly. It was far from being the case at
present. Mr. Weston waited a short time to give affairs time to right
themselves, but at length determined to inquire into the cause of the
confusion.

As he passed through the long hall, the faces of his ancestors looked down
upon him by the dim light. There was a fair young lady, with an arm white
as snow, unconcealed by a sleeve, unless the fall of a rich border of lace
from her shoulder could be called by that name. Her golden hair was brushed
back from her forehead, and fell in masses over her shoulders. Her face was
slightly turned, and there was a smile playing about her mouth.

Next her was a grave-looking cavalier, her husband. There were old men,
with powdered hair and the rich dress of bygone times.

There were the hoop and the brocades, and the stomacher, and the fair
bosom, against which a rose leaned, well satisfied with its lounging
place. Over the hall doors, the antlers of the stag protruded, reminding
one that the chase had been a favorite pastime with the self-exiled sons of
Merry England.

Such things have passed away from thee, my native State! Forever have they
gone, and the times when over waxed floors thy sons and daughters
gracefully performed the minuet. The stately bow, the graceful curtsey are
seen no more; there is hospitality yet lingering in thy halls, but fashion
is making its way there too. The day when there was a tie between master
and slave,--is that departing, and why?

Mr. Weston passed from the house under a covered way to the kitchen, and
with a firm but slow step, entered. And here, if you be an Old or a New
Englander, let me introduce you--as little at home would be Queen Victoria
holding court in the Sandwich Islands, as you here. You may look in vain
for that bane of good dinners, a cooking stove; search forever for a grain
of saleratus or soda, and it will be in vain. That large, round block, with
the wooden hammer, is the biscuit-beater; and the cork that is lifting
itself from the jug standing on it, belongs to the yeast department.

Mr. Weston did not, nor will we, delay to glance at the well-swept earthen
floor, and the bright tins in rows on the dresser, but immediately
addressed himself to Aunt Peggy, who, seated in a rush-bottomed chair in
the corner, and rocking herself backwards and forwards, was talking
rapidly.

And oh! what a figure had Aunt Peggy; or rather, what a face. Which was the
blacker, her eyes or her visage; or whiter, her eyeballs or her hair? The
latter, unconfined by her bandanna handkerchief as she generally wore it,
standing off from her head in masses, like snow. And who that had seen her,
could forget that one tooth projecting over her thick underlip, and in
constant motion as she talked.

"It's no use, Mister Bacchus," said she, addressing the old man, who
looked rather the worse for wear, "it's no use to be flinging yer imperence
in my face. I'se worked my time; I'se cooked many a grand dinner, and eat
'em too. You'se a lazy wagabond yerself."

"Peggy," interposed Mr. Weston.

"A good-for-nothing, lazy wagabond, yerself," continued Peggy, not noticing
Mr. Weston, "you'se not worth de hommony you eats."

"Does you hear that, master?" said Bacchus, appealing to Mr. Weston; "she's
such an old fool."

"Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Weston; while Mark, ready to strangle his
fellow-servant for his impertinence, was endeavoring to drag him out of the
room.

"Ha, ha," said Peggy, "so much for Mr. Bacchus going to barbecues. A nice
waiter he makes."

"Do you not see me before you, Peggy?" said Mr. Weston, "and do you
continue this disputing in my presence? If you were not so old, and had not
been so faithful for many years, I would not excuse such conduct. You are
very ungrateful, when you are so well cared for; and from this time
forward, if you cannot be quiet and set a good example in the kitchen, do
not come into it."

"Don't be afeard, master, I can stay in my own cabin. If I has been well
treated, it's no more den I desarves. I'se done nuff for you and yours, in
my day; slaved myself for you and your father before you. De Lord above
knows I dont want ter stay whar dat ole drunken nigger is, no how. Hand me
my cane, dar, Nancy, I ain't gwine to 'trude my 'siety on nobody." And
Peggy hobbled off, not without a most contemptuous look at Bacchus, who was
making unsuccessful efforts to rise in compliment to his master.

"As for you, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "never let this happen again. I
will not allow you to wait at barbecues, in future."

"Don't say so, master, if you please; dat ox, if you could a smelled him
roastin, and de whiskey-punch," and Bacchus snapped his finger, as the only
way of concluding the sentence to his own satisfaction.

"Take him off, Mark," said Mr. Weston, "the drunken old rascal."

"Master," said Bacchus, pushing Mark off, "I don't like de way you speak to
me; t'aint 'spectful."

"Carry him off," said Mr. Weston, again. "John, help Mark."

"Be off wid yourselves, both of ye," said Bacchus; "if ye don't, I'll give
you de devil, afore I quits."

"I'll shut your mouth for you," said Mark, "talking so before master; knock
him over, John, and push him out."

Bacchus was not so easily overcome. The god whose namesake he was, stood by
him for a time. Suddenly the old fellow's mood changed; with a patronizing
smile he turned to Mr. Weston, and said, "Master, you must 'scuse me: I
aint well dis evening. I has the dyspepsy; my suggestion aint as good as
common. I think dat ox was done too much."

Mr. Weston could not restrain a smile at his grotesque appearance, and
ridiculous language. Mark and John took advantage of the melting mood which
had come over him, and led him off without difficulty. On leaving the
kitchen, he went into a pious fit, and sung out

  "When I can read my title clar."

Mr. Weston heard him say, "Don't, Mark; don't squeeze an ole nigger so; do
you 'spose you'll ever get to Heaven, if you got no more feelins than
that?"

"I hope," said Mr. Weston, addressing the other servants, "that you will
all take warning by this scene. An honest and respectable servant like
Bacchus, to degrade himself in this way--it gives me great pain to see it.
William," said he, addressing a son of Bacchus, who stood by the window,
"did you deliver my note to Mr. Walter?"

"Yes, sir; he says he'll come to dinner; I was on my way in to tell you,
but they was making such a fuss here."

"Very well," said Mr. Weston. "The rest of you go to bed, quietly; I am
sure there will be no more disturbance to-night."

But, what will the Abolitionist say to this scene? Where were the whip and
the cord, and other instruments of torture? Such consideration, he
contends, was never shown in the southern country. With Martin Tupper, I
say,

  "Hear reason, oh! brother;
    Hear reason and right."

It has been, that master and slave were friends; and if this cannot
continue, at whose door will the sin lie?

The Abolitionist says to the slave, Go! but what does he do that really
advances his interest? He says to the master, Give up thine own! but does
he offer to share in the loss? No; he would give to the Lord of that which
costs him nothing.

Should the southern country become free, should the eyes of the world see
no stain upon her escutcheon, it will not be through the efforts of these
fanatics. If white labor could be substituted for black, better were it
that she should not have this weight upon her. The emancipation of her
slaves will never be accomplished by interference or force. Good men assist
in colonizing them, and the Creator may thus intend to christianize
benighted Africa. Should this be the Divine will, oh! that from every port,
steamers were going forth, bearing our colored people to their natural
home!




CHAPTER IV.


My readers must go with me to a military station at the North, and date
back two years from the time of my story. The season must change, and
instead of summer sunsets and roses, we will bring before them three feet
of snow, and winter's bleakest winds.

Neither of these inconvenienced the company assembled in the comfortable
little parlor of Captain Moore's quarters, with a coal-grate almost as
large as the room, and curtains closely drawn over the old style windows:
Mrs. Moore was reduced to the utmost extremity of her wits to make the room
look modern; but it is astonishing, the genius of army ladies for putting
the best foot foremost. This room was neither square nor oblong; and though
a mere box in size, it had no less than four doors (two belonged to the
closets) and three windows. The closets were utterly useless, being
occupied by an indomitable race of rats and mice; they had an impregnable
fortress somewhere in the old walls, and kept possession, in spite of the
house-keeping artillery Mrs. Moore levelled against them. The poor woman
gave up in despair; she locked the doors, and determined to starve the
garrison into submission.

She was far more successful in other respects, having completely banished
the spirits of formality and inhospitality that presided in these domains.
The house was outside the fort, and had been purchased from a citizen who
lived there, totally apart from his race; Mrs. Moore had the comfort of
hearing, on taking possession, that all sorts of ghosts were at home there;
but she was a cheerful kind of woman, and did not believe in them any more
than she did in clairvoyance, so she set to work with a brave heart, and
every thing yielded to her sway, excepting the aforesaid rats and mice.

Her parlor was the very realization of home comfort. The lounge by the
three windows was covered with small figured French chintz, and it was a
delightful seat, or bed, as the occasion required. She had the legs of
several of the chairs sawed off, and made cushions for them, covered with
pieces of the chintz left from the lounge. The armchairs that looked at
each other from either side of the fireplace place, not being of velvet,
were made to sit in.

In one corner of the room, (there were five,) a fine-toned guitar rested
against the wall; in another, was a large fly-brush of peacock's feathers,
with a most unconscionable number of eyes. In the third, was Captain
Moore's sword and sash. In the fourth, was Mrs. Moore's work-basket, where
any amount of thimbles, needles, and all sorts of sewing implements could
be found. And in the fifth corner was the baby-jumper, its fat and habitual
occupant being at this time oblivious to the day's exertions; in point of
fact, he was up stairs in a red pine crib, sound asleep with his thumb in
his mouth.

One of Chickering's best pianos stood open in this wonderful little parlor,
and Mrs. Moore rung out sweet sounds from it evening after evening. Mrs. M.
was an industrious, intelligent Southern woman; before she met Captain
Moore, she had a sort of antipathy to dogs and Yankees; both, however,
suddenly disappeared, for after a short acquaintance, she fell desperately
in love with the captain, and allowed his great Newfoundland dog, (who had
saved the captain, and a great number of boys from drowning,) to lick her
hand, and rest his cold, black nose on her lap; on this evening Neptune lay
at her feet, and was another ornament of the parlor. Indeed, he should have
been mentioned in connection with the baby-jumper, for wherever the baby
was in the day time, there was Neptune, but he seemed to think that a
Newfoundland dog had other duties incumbent upon him in the evening than
watching babies, so he listened attentively to the music, dozing now and
then. Sometimes, during a very loud strain, he would suddenly rouse and
look intently at the coal-fire; but finding himself mistaken, that he had
only dreamed it was a river, and that a boy who was fishing on its banks
had tumbled in, and required his services to pull him out, would fall down
on the rug again and take another nap.

I have said nothing of this rug, which Neptune thought was purchased for
him, nor of the bright red carpet, nor of the nice china candlesticks on
the mantel-piece, (which could not be reached without a step-ladder,) nor
of the silver urn, which was Mrs. Moore's great-grandmother's, nor of the
lard-lamp which lit up every thing astonishingly, because I am anxious to
come to the point of this chapter, and cannot do justice to all these
things. But it would be the height of injustice, in me, to pass by
Lieutenant Jones's moustaches, for the simple reason, that since the close
of the Mexican war, he had done little else but cultivate them. They were
very brown, glossy, and luxuriant, entirely covering his upper lip, so that
it was only in a hearty laugh that one would have any reason to suppose he
had cut his front teeth; but he had, and they were worth cutting, too,
which is not always the case with teeth. The object of wearing these
moustaches was, evidently, to give himself a warlike and ferocious
appearance; in this, he was partially successful, having the drawbacks of a
remarkably gentle and humane countenance, and a pair of mild blue eyes. He
was a very good-natured young man, and had shot a wild turkey in Mexico,
the tail of which he had brought home to Mrs. Moore, to be made into a fan.
(This fan, too, was in the parlor, of which may be said what was once
thought of the schoolmaster's head, that the only wonder was, it could
contain so much.)

Next to Mr. Jones we will notice a brevet-second lieutenant, just attached
to the regiment, and then introduce a handsome bachelor captain. (These are
scarce in the army, and should be valued accordingly.) This gentleman was a
fine musician, and the brevet played delightfully on the flute; in fact,
they had had quite a concert this evening. Then there was Colonel Watson,
the commanding officer, who had happened in, Mrs. Moore being an especial
favorite of his; and there was a long, lean, gaunt-looking gentleman, by
the name of Kent. He was from Vermont, and was an ultra Abolitionist. They
had all just returned from the dining-room, where they had been eating cold
turkey and mince pies; and though there was a fair chance of the nightmare
some hours hence, yet for the present they were in an exceedingly high
state of health and spirits.

Now, Mrs. Moore had brought from Carolina a woman quite advanced in life.
She had been a very faithful servant, and Mrs. Moore's mother, wishing her
daughter to have the benefit of her services, and feeling perfect
confidence in Polly's promise that under no circumstances would she leave
her daughter without just cause, had concluded that the best way of
managing affairs would be to set her free at once. She did so; but Polly
being one of those persons who take the world quietly, was not the least
elated at being her own mistress; she rather felt it to be a kind of
experiment to which there was some risk attached. Mrs. Moore paid her six
dollars a month for her services, and from the time they had left home
together until the present moment, Polly had been a most efficient servant,
and a sort of friend whose opinions were valuable in a case of emergency.

For instance, Captain Moore was a temperance man, and in consequence,
opposed to brandy, wine, and the like being kept in his house. This was
quite a trouble to his wife, for she knew that good mince pies and pudding
sauces could not be made without a little of the wherewithal; so she laid
her difficulties before Aunt Polly, and begged her to advise what was best
to do.

"You see, Aunt Polly, Captain Moore says that a good example ought to be
set to the soldiers; and that since the Mexican war the young officers are
more inclined to indulge than they used to be; that he feels such a
responsibility in the case that he can't bear the sight of a bottle in the
house."

"Well, honey," said Aunt Polly, "he says he likes my mince pies, and my
puddins, mightily; and does he 'spect me to make 'em good, and make 'em out
of nothin, too?"

"That's what I say, Aunt Polly, for you know none of us like to drink. The
captain belongs to the Temperance Society; and I don't like it, because it
gets into my head, and makes me stupid; and you never drink any thing, so
if we could only manage to get him to let us keep it to cook with."

"As to that, child," said Aunt Polly, "I mus have it to cook with, that's a
pint settled; there aint no use 'sputin about it. If he thinks I'm gwine to
change my way of cookin in my old age, he's mightily mistaken. He need'nt
think I'm gwine to make puddins out o' one egg, and lighten my muffins with
snow, like these ere Yankees, 'kase I aint gwine to do it for nobody. I sot
out to do my duty by you, and I'll do it; but for all that, I aint bound to
set to larnin new things this time o' day. I'll cook Carolina fashion, or I
wont cook at all."

"Well, but what shall I do?" said Mrs. Moore; "you wouldn't have me do a
thing my husband disapproves of, would you?"

"No, that I wouldn't, Miss Emmy," said Aunt Polly. "My old man's dust and
ashes long ago, but I always done what I could to please him. Men's mighty
onreasonable, the best of 'em, but when a woman is married she ought to do
all she can for the sake of peace. I dont see what a man has got to do
interferin with the cookin, no how; a woman oughter 'tend to these
matters. 'Pears to me, Mr. Moore, (captain, as you calls him,) is mighty
fidjetty about bottles, all at once. But if he cant bear the sight of a
brandy bottle in the house, bring 'em down here to me; I'll keep 'em out of
his sight, I'll be bound. I'll put 'em in the corner of my old chist
yonder, and I'd like to see him thar, rummagin arter brandy bottles or any
thing else."

Mrs. Moore was very much relieved by this suggestion, and when her husband
came in, she enlarged on the necessity of Polly's having her own way about
the cooking, and wound up by saying that Polly must take charge of all the
bottles, and by this arrangement he would not be annoyed by the sight of
them.

"But, my dear," said he, "do you think it right to give such things in
charge of a servant?"

"Why, Aunt Polly never drinks."

"Yes, but Emmy, you don't consider the temptation."

"La, William, do hush; why if you talk about temptation, she's had that all
her life, and she could have drank herself to death long ago. Just say yes,
and be done with it, for it has worried me to death all day, and I want it
settled, and off my mind."

"Well, do as you like," said Captain Moore, "but remember, it will be your
fault if any thing happens."

"Nothing is going to happen," said Mrs. Moore, jumping up, and seizing the
wine and brandy bottles by the necks, and descending to the lower regions
with them.

"Here they are, Aunt Polly. William consents to your having them; and mind
you keep them out of sight."

"Set 'em down in the cheer thar, I'll take care of 'em, I jist wanted some
brandy to put in these potato puddins. I wonder what they'd taste like
without it."

But Mrs. Moore could not wait to talk about it, she was up stairs in
another moment, holding her baby on Neptune's back, and more at ease in her
mind than she had been since the subject was started, twenty-four hours
before.

There was but one other servant in the house, a middle-aged woman, who had
run away from her mistress in Boston; or rather, she had been seduced off
by the Abolitionists. While many would have done well under the
circumstances, Susan had never been happy, or comfortable, since this
occurred. Besides the self-reproach that annoyed her, (for she had been
brought on from Georgia to nurse a sick child, and its mother, a very
feeble person, had placed her dependence upon her,) Susan was illy
calculated to shift for herself. She was a timid, delicate woman, with
rather a romantic cast of mind; her mistress had always been an invalid,
and was fond of hearing her favorite books read aloud. For the style of
books that Susan had been accustomed to listen to, as she sat at her
sewing, Lalla Rookh would be a good specimen; and, as she had never been
put to hard work, but had merely been an attendant about her mistress'
room, most of her time was occupied in a literary way. Thus, having an
excellent memory, her head was a sort of store-room for lovesick snatches
of song. The Museum men would represent her as having snatched a feather of
the bird of song; but as this is a matter-of-fact kind of story, we will
observe, that Susan not being naturally very strong-minded, and her
education not more advanced than to enable her to spell out an antiquated
valentine, or to write a letter with a great many small i's in it, she is
rather to be considered the victim of circumstances and a soft heart. She
was, nevertheless, a conscientious woman; and when she left Georgia, to
come North, had any one told her that she would run away, she would have
answered in the spirit, if not the expression, of the oft quoted, "Is thy
servant a dog?"

She enjoyed the journey to the North, the more that the little baby
improved very much in strength; she had had, at her own wish, the entire
charge of him from his birth.

The family had not been two days at the Revere House before Susan found
herself an object of interest to men who were gentlemen, if broadcloth and
patent-leather boots could constitute that valuable article. These
individuals seemed to know as much of her as she did of herself, though
they plied her with questions to a degree that quite disarranged her usual
calm and poetic flow of ideas. As to "Whether she had been born a slave, or
had been kidnapped? Whether she had ever been sold? How many times a week
she had been whipped, and what with? Had she ever been shut up in a dark
cellar and nearly starved? Was she allowed more than one meal a day? Did
she ever have any thing but sweet potato pealings? Had she ever been
ducked? And, finally, she was desired to open her mouth, that they might
see whether her teeth had been extracted to sell to the dentist?"

Poor Susan! after one or two interviews her feelings were terribly
agitated; all these horrible suggestions _might become_ realities, and
though she loved her home, her mistress, and the baby too, yet she was
finally convinced that though born a slave, it was not the intention of
Providence, but a mistake, and that she had been miraculously led to this
Western Holy Land, of which Boston is the Jerusalem, as the means by which
things could be set to rights again.

One beautiful, bright evening, when her mistress had rode out to see the
State House by moonlight, Susan kissed the baby, not without many tears,
and then threw herself, trembling and dismayed, into the arms and tender
mercies of the Abolitionists. They led her into a distant part of the city,
and placed her for the night under the charge of some people who made their
living by receiving the newly ransomed. The next morning she was to go off,
but she found she had reckoned without her host, for when she thanked the
good people for her night's lodging and the hashed cod-fish on which she
had tried to breakfast, she had a bill to pay, and where was the money?
Poor Susan! she had only a quarter of a dollar, and that she had asked her
mistress for a week before, to buy a pair of side-combs.

"Why, what a fool you be," said one of the men; "Didn't I tell you to bring
your mistress' purse along?"

"And did you think I was going to steal besides running off from her and
the poor baby?" answered Susan.

"It's not stealing," said the Abolitionist. "Haven't you been a slaving of
yourself all your life for her, and I guess you've a right to be paid for
it. I guess you think the rags on your back good wages enough?"

Susan looked at her neat dress, and thought they were very nice rags,
compared to the clothes her landlady had on; but the Abolitionist was in a
hurry.

"Come," said he, "I'm not going to spend all my time on you; if you want to
be free, come along; pay what you owe and start."

"But I have only this quarter," said Susan, despairingly.

"I don't calculate to give runaway niggers their supper, and night's
lodging and breakfast for twenty-five cents," said the woman. "I aint so
green as that, I can tell you. If you've got no money, open your bundle,
and we can make a trade, like as not."

Susan opened her bundle, (which was a good strong carpet-bag her mistress
had given her,) and after some hesitation, the woman selected as her due a
nice imitation of Cashmere shawl, the last present her mistress had given
her. It had cost four dollars. Susan could hardly give it up; she wanted to
keep it as a remembrance, but she already felt herself in the hands of the
Philistines, and she fastened up her carpet-bag and set forward. She was
carried off in the cars to an interior town, and directed to the house of
an Abolitionist, to whom she was to hire herself.

Her fare was paid by this person, and then deducted from her wages--her
wages were four dollars a month. She cooked and washed for ten in family;
cleaned the whole house, and did all _the chores_, except sawing the wood,
which the gentleman of the house did himself. She was only required to
split the hard, large knots--the oldest son splitting the easy sticks for
her. On Saturday, the only extra duty required of her was to mend every
item of clothing worn in the family; the lady of the house making them
herself. Susan felt very much as if it was out of the frying pan into the
fire; or rather, as if she had been transferred from one master to another.
She found it took all her wages to buy her shoes and stockings and flannel,
for her health suffered very much from the harsh climate and her new mode
of life, so she ventured to ask for an increase of a dollar a month.

"Is that your gratitude," was the indignant reply, "for all that we've done
for you? The idea of a nigger wanting over four dollars a month, when
you've been working all your life, too, for nothing at all. Why everybody
in town is wondering that I keep you, when white help is so much better."

"But, ma'am," replied Susan, "they tell me here that a woman gets six
dollars a month, when she does the whole work of a family."

"A _white_ woman does," said this Abolitionist lady, "but not a nigger, I
guess. Besides, if they do, you ought to be willing to work cheaper for
Abolitionists, for they are your friends."

If "save me from my friends," had been in Lalla Rookh, Susan would
certainly have applied it, but as the quotation belonged to the heroic
rather than the sentimental department, she could not avail herself of it,
and therefore went on chopping her codfish and onions together, at the rate
of four dollars a month, and very weak eyes, till some good wind blew
Captain Moore to the command of his company, in the Fort near the town.

After Mrs. Moore's housekeeping operations had fairly commenced, she found
it would be necessary to have a person to clean the house of four rooms,
and to help Neptune mind the baby. Aunt Polly accordingly set forward on an
exploration. She presented quite an unusual appearance as regards her style
of dress. She wore a plaid domestic gingham gown; she had several stuff
ones, but she declared she never put one of them on for any thing less than
"meetin." She had a black satin Methodist bonnet, very much the shape of a
coal hod, and the color of her own complexion, only there was a slight
shade of blue in it. Thick gloves, and shoes, and stockings; a white cotton
apron, and a tremendous blanket shawl completed her costume. She had a most
determined expression of countenance; the fact is, she had gone out to get
a house-servant, and she didn't intend to return without one.

I forgot to mention that she walked with a cane, having had a severe attack
of rheumatics since her arrival in "the great Norrurd," and at every step
she hit the pavements in such a manner as to startle the rising generation
of Abolitionists, and it had the good effect of preventing any of them from
calling out to her, "Where did you get your face painted, you black nigger,
you?" which would otherwise have occurred.

Susan was just returning from a grocery store with three codfish in one
hand, and a piece of salt pork and a jug of molasses in the other, when she
was startled by Aunt Polly's unexpected appearance, bearing down upon her
like a man of war.

Aunt Polly stopped for a moment and looked at her intensely, while Susan's
feelings, which, like her poetry, had for some time been quite subdued by
constant collision with a cooking stove, got the better of her, and she
burst into tears. Aunt Polly made up her mind on the spot; it was, as she
afterwards expressed it, "'A meracle,' meeting that poor girl, with all
that codfish and other stuff in her hand."

Susan did not require too much encouragement to tell her lamentable tale,
and Aunt Polly in return advised her to leave her place when her month was
up, informing the family of her intention, that they might supply
themselves. This Susan promised to do, with a full heart, and Aunt Polly
having accomplished her mission, set out on her return, first saying to
Susan, however, "We'll wait for you, you needn't be afeard, and I'll do
your work 'till you come, 'taint much, for we puts out our washin. And you
need'nt be sceard when you see the sogers, they aint gwine to hurt you,
though they do look so savage."

Susan gave notice of her intention, and after a season of martyrdom set
forward to find Captain Moore's quarters. She had no difficulty, for Polly
was looking out for her, with her pipe in her mouth. "Come in, child," said
she, "and warm yourself; how is your cough? I stewed some molasses for you,
'gin you come. We'll go up and see Miss Emmy, presently; she 'spects you."

Susan was duly introduced to Mrs. Moore who was at the time sitting in the
captain's lap with the baby in hers, and Neptune's forepaws in the baby's.
The captain's temperance principles did not forbid him smoking a good
cigar, and at the moment of Susan's entrance, he was in the act of emitting
stealthily a cloud of smoke into his wife's face. After letting the baby
fall out of her lap, and taking two or three short breaths with strong
symptoms of choking, Mrs. Moore with a husky voice and very red eyes,
welcomed Susan, and introduced her to the baby and Neptune, then told Aunt
Polly to show her where to put her clothes, and to make her comfortable in
every respect.

Aunt Polly did so by baking her a hoe-cake, and broiling a herring, and
drawing a cup of strong tea. Susan went to bed scared with her new
happiness, and dreamed she was in Georgia, in her old room, with the sick
baby in her arms.

Susan's _friends_, the Abolitionists, were highly indignant at the turn
affairs had taken. They had accordingly a new and fruitful subject of
discussion at the sewing societies and quilting bees of the town. In solemn
conclave it was decided to vote army people down as utterly disagreeable.
One old maid suggested the propriety of their immediately getting up a
petition for disbanding the army; but the motion was laid on the table in
consideration of John Quincy Adams being dead and buried, and therefore not
in a condition to present the petition. Susan became quite cheerful, and
gained twenty pounds in an incredibly short space of time, though strange
rumors continued to float about the army. It was stated at a meeting of the
F.S.F.S.T.W.T.R. (Female Society for Setting the World to Rights) that
"army folks were a low, dissipated set, for they put wine in their _puddin_
sauce."

I do not mean to say liberty is not, next to life, the greatest of God's
earthly gifts, and that men and women ought not to be happier free than
slaves. God forbid that I should so have read my Bible. But such cases as
Susan's do occur, and far oftener than the raw-head and bloody-bones'
stories with which Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe has seen fit to embellish
that interesting romance, Uncle Tom's Cabin.




CHAPTER V.


Capt. Moore suddenly seized the poker, and commenced stirring the fire
vigorously. Neptune rushed to his covert under the piano, and Mrs. Moore
called out, "Dont, dear, for heaven's sake."

"Why, it's getting cold," said Captain Moore, apologetically. "Don't you
hear the wind?"

"Yes, but I don't feel it, neither do you. The fire cannot be improved. See
how you have made the dust fly! You never can let well alone."

"That is the trouble with the Abolitionists," said Colonel Watson. "They
can't let well alone, and so Mr. Kent and his party want to reorganize the
Southern country."

"There is no well there to let alone," said Mr. Kent, with the air of a
Solomon.

"Don't talk so, Mr. Kent," said Mrs. Moore, entreatingly, "for I can't
quarrel with you in my own house, and I feel very much inclined to do so
for that one sentence."

"Now," said the bachelor captain, "I do long to hear you and Mr. Kent
discuss Abolition. The colonel and I may be considered disinterested
listeners, as we hail from the Middle States, and are not politicians.
Captain Moore cannot interfere, as he is host as well as husband; and Mr.
Jones and Scott have eaten too much to feel much interest in any thing just
now. Pray, tell Mr. Kent, my dear madam, of Susan's getting you to
intercede with her mistress to take her back, and see what he says."

"I know it already," said Mr. Kent, "and I must say that I am surprised to
find Mrs. Moore inducing a fellow-creature to return to a condition so
dreadful as that of a Southern slave. After having been plucked from the
fire, it should be painful to the human mind to see her thrown in again."

"Your simile is not a good one, Mr. Kent," said Mrs. Moore, with a
heightened color. "I can make a better. Susan, in a moment of delirium,
jumped into the fire, and she called on me to pull her out. Unfortunately,
I cannot heal all the burns, for I yesterday received an answer to my
letter to her mistress, who positively refuses to take her back. She is
willing, but Mr. Casey will not consent to it. He says that his wife was
made very sick by the shock of losing Susan, and the over-exertion
necessary in the care of her child. The baby died in Boston; and they
cannot overlook Susan's deserting it at a hotel, without any one to take
charge of it; they placing such perfect confidence in Susan, too. He thinks
her presence would constantly recall to Mrs. Casey her child's death;
besides, after having lived among Abolitionists, he fancies it would not be
prudent to bring her on the plantation. Having attained her freedom, he
says she must make the best of it. Mrs. Casey enclosed me ten dollars to
give to Susan, for I wrote her she was in bad health, and had very little
clothing when she came to me. Poor girl! I could hardly persuade her to
take the money, and soon after, she brought it to me and asked me to keep
it for her, and not to change the note that came from home. I felt very
sorry for her."

"She deserves it," said Mr. Kent.

"I think she does," said Mrs. Moore, smiling, "though for another reason."

Mr. Kent blushed as only men with light hair, and light skin, and light
eyes, can blush.

"I mean," said Mr. Kent, furiously, "she deserves her refusal for her
ingratitude. After God provided her friends who made her a free woman, she
is so senseless as to want to go back to be lashed and trodden under foot
again, as the slaves of the South are. I say, she deserves it for being
such a fool."

"And I say," said Mrs. Moore, "she deserves it for deserting her kind
mistress at a time when she most needed her services. God did not raise her
up friends because she had done wrong."

"You are right, Emmy, in your views of Susan's conduct; but you should be
careful how you trace motives to such a source. She certainly did wrong,
and she has suffered; that is all we can say. We must do the best we can to
restore her to health. She is very happy with us now, and will, no doubt,
after a while, enjoy her liberty: it would be a most unnatural thing if she
did not."

"But how is it, Mr. Kent," said the colonel, "that after you induce these
poor devils to give up their homes, that you do not start them in life; set
them going in some way in the new world to which you transfer them. You do
not give them a copper, I am told."

"We don't calculate to do that," said Mr. Kent.

"I believe you," said Mrs. Moore, maliciously.

Mr. Kent looked indignant at the interruption, while his discomfiture was
very amusing to the young officers, they being devoted admirers of Mrs.
Moore's talents and mince pies. They laughed heartily; and Mr. Kent looked
at them as if nothing would have induced him to overlook their impertinence
but the fact, that they were very low on the list of lieutenants, and he
was an abolition agent. "We calculate, sir, to give them their freedom, and
then let them look out for themselves."

"That is, you have no objection to their living in the same world with
yourself, provided it costs you nothing," said the colonel.

"We make them free," said Mr. Kent. "They have their right to life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. They are no longer enslaved, body
and soul. If I see a man with his hands and feet chained, and I break those
chains, it is all that God expects me to do; let him earn his own living."

"But suppose he does not know how to do so," said Mrs. Moore, "what then?
The occupations of a negro at the South are so different from those of the
people at the North."

"Thank God they are, ma'am," said Mr. Kent, grandly. "We have no overseers
to draw the blood of their fellow creatures, and masters to look on and
laugh. We do not snatch infants from their mothers' breasts, and sell them
for whisky."

"Neither do we," said Mrs. Moore, her bosom heaving with emotion; "no one
but an Abolitionist could have had such a wicked thought. No wonder that
men who glory in breaking the laws of their country should make such
misstatements."

"Madam," said Mr. Kent, "they are facts; we can prove them; and we say that
the slaves of the South shall be free, cost what it will. The men of the
North have set out to emancipate them, and they will do it if they have to
wade through fire, water, and blood."

"You had better not talk in that style when you go South," said Captain
Moore, "unless you have an unconquerable prejudice in favor of tar and
feathers."

"Who cares for tar and feathers?" said Mr. Kent; "there has been already a
martyr in the ranks of Abolition, and there may be more. Lovejoy died a
glorious martyr's death, and there are others ready to do the same."

"Give me my cane, there, captain, if you please," said Colonel Watson, who
had been looking at Mr. Kent's blazing countenance and projecting eyes, in
utter amazement. "Why, Buena Vista was nothing to this. Good night, madam,
and do tell Susan not to jump into the fire again; I wonder she was not
burned up while she was there. Come, captain, let us make our escape while
we can."

The captain followed, bidding the whole party good night, with a smile. He
had been perfectly charmed with the Abolition discussion. Mr. Jones had got
very sleepy, and he and Mr. Scott made their adieu. Mr. Kent, with some
embarrassment, bade Mrs. Moore good night. Mrs. Moore begged him to go
South and be converted, for she believed his whole heart required changing.
Captain Moore followed them to the door, and shivered as he inhaled the
north-easter. "Come, Emmy," said he, as he entered, rubbing his hands,
"you've fought for your country this night; let's go to bed."

Mrs. Moore lit a candle, and put out the lard-lamp, wondering if she had
been impolite to Mr. Kent. She led the way to the staircase, in a
reflective state of mind; Neptune followed, and stood at the foot of the
steps for some moments, in deep thought; concluding that if there should be
danger of any one's falling into a river up there, they would call him and
let him know, he went back, laid down on the soft rug, and fell asleep for
the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

It does not take long to state a fact. Mr. Kent went to Washington on
Abolition business,--through the introduction of a senator from his own
State he obtained access to good society. He boarded in the same house with
a Virginian who had a pretty face, very little sense, but a large fortune.
Mr. Kent, with very little difficulty, persuaded her he was a saint, ready
to be translated at the shortest notice. He dropped his Abolition notions,
and they were married. At the time that my story opens, he is a planter,
living near Mr. Weston, and we will hear of him again.




CHAPTER VI.


Arthur Weston is in his college-room in that far-famed city, New Haven. He
is in the act of replacing his cigar in his mouth, after having knocked the
ashes off it, when we introduce to him the reader. Though not well
employed, his first appearance must be prepossessing; he inherited his
mother's clear brunette complexion, and her fine expressive eyes. His very
black hair he had thrown entirely off his forehead, and he is now reading
an Abolition paper which had fallen into his hands. There are two other
young men in the room, one of them Arthur's friend, Abel Johnson; and the
other, a young man by the name of Hubbard.

"Who brought this paper into my room?" said Arthur, after laying it down on
the table beside him.

"I was reading it," said Mr. Hubbard, "and threw it aside."

"Well, if it makes no difference to you, Mr. Hubbard, I'd prefer not seeing
any more of these publications about me. This number is a literary
curiosity, and deserves to be preserved; but as I do not file papers at
present, I will just return it, after expressing my thanks to you for
affording me the means of obtaining valuable information about the Southern
country."

"What is it about, Arthur," said Abel Johnson, "it is too hot to read this
morning, so pray enlighten me?"

"Why, here," said Arthur, opening the paper again, "here is an
advertisement, said to be copied from a Southern paper, in which, after
describing a runaway slave, it says: 'I will give four hundred dollars for
him alive, and the same sum for satisfactory proof that he has been
killed.' Then the editor goes on to say, 'that when a planter loses a
slave, he becomes so impatient at not capturing him, and is so angry at the
loss, that he then does what is equivalent to inducing some person to
murder him by way of revenge.' Now, is not this infamous?"

"But it is true, I believe," said Mr. Hubbard.

"It is not true, sir," said Arthur, "it is false, totally and entirely
false. Why, sir, do you mean to say, that the life of a slave is in the
power of a master, and that he is not under the protection of our laws?"

"I am told that is the case," said Mr. Hubbard.

"Then you are told what is not true; and it seems to me, you are remarkably
ignorant of the laws of your country."

"It is not my country," said Mr. Hubbard, "I assure you. I lay no claims to
that part of the United States where slavery is allowed."

"Then if it is not your country, for what reason do you concern yourself so
much about its affairs?"

"Because," replied Mr. Hubbard, "every individual has the right to judge
for himself, of his own, and of other countries."

"No, not without proper information," said Arthur. "And as you have now
graduated and intend to be a lawyer, I trust you will have consideration
enough for the profession, not to advance opinions until you are
sufficiently informed to enable you to do so justly. Every country must
have its poor people; you have yours at the North, for I see them--we have
ours; yours are white, ours are black. I say yours are white; I should
except your free blacks, who are the most miserable class of human beings I
ever saw. They are indolent, reckless, and impertinent. The poorer classes
of society, are proverbially improvident--and yours, in sickness, and in
old age, are often victims of want and suffering. Ours in such
circumstances, are kindly cared for, and are never considered a burden;
our laws are, generally speaking, humane and faithfully administered. We
have enactments which not only protect their lives, but which compel their
owners to be moderate in working them, and to ensure them proper care as
regards their food."

"But," said Mr. Hubbard, "you have other laws, police-laws, which deprive
them of the most innocent recreations, such as are not only necessary for
their happiness, but also for their health."

"And if such laws do exist," said Arthur, "where is the cause? You may
trace it to the interference of meddling, and unprincipled men. They excite
the minds of the slaves, and render these laws necessary for the very
protection of our lives. But without this interference, there would be no
such necessity. In this Walsh's Appeal, which is now open before me, you
will find, where Abel left off reading, these remarks, which show that not
only the health and comfort of the slaves, but also their feelings, are
greatly considered. 'The master who would deprive his negro of his
property--the product of his poultry-house or his little garden; who would
force him to work on holidays, or at night; who would deny him common
recreations, or leave him without shelter and provision, in his old age,
would incur the aversion of the community, and raise obstacles to the
advancement of his own interest and external aims.'"

"Then," said Mr. Hubbard, "you mean to say, he is kind from self-interest
alone."

"No, I do not," replied Arthur; "that undoubtedly, actuates men at the
South, as it does men at the North; but I mean to say, so universal is it
with us to see our slaves well treated, that when an instance of the
contrary nature occurs, the author of it is subject to the dislike and
odium of his acquaintances."

"But," said Mr. Hubbard, "that does not always protect the slaves--which
shows that your laws are sometimes ineffectual. They are not always secure
from ill-treatment."

"But, do your laws always secure you from ill-treatment?" said Arthur.

"Of course," said Mr. Hubbard, "the poorest person in New England is as
safe from injustice and oppression, as the highest in the land."

"Nonsense," said Arthur, "don't you think I can judge for myself, as
regards that? Abel, do tell Mr. Hubbard of our little adventure in the
bakehouse."

"With pleasure," said Abel, "especially as you two have not let me say a
word yet. Well, Mr. Hubbard, Arthur and I having nothing else to do, got
hungry, and as it was a fine evening, thought we would walk out in search
of something to satisfy our appetites, and there being a pretty girl in
Brown's bakehouse, who waits on customers, we took that direction. Arthur,
you know, is engaged to be married, and has no excuse for such things, but
I having no such ties, am free to search for pretty faces, and to make the
most of it when I find them. We walked on, arm-in-arm, and when we got to
the shop, there stood Mrs. Brown behind the counter, big as all out doors,
with a very red face, and in a violent perspiration; there was some thing
wrong with the old lady 'twas easy to see."

"'Well, Mrs. Brown,' said Arthur, for I was looking in the glass cases and
under the counter for the pretty face, 'have you any rusk?'

"'Yes, sir, we _always_ have rusk,' said Mrs. Brown, tartly.

"'Will you give us some, and some cakes, or whatever you have? and then we
will go and get some soda water, Abel.'

"Mrs. Brown fussed about like a 'bear with a sore head,' and at last she
broke out against _that gal_.

"'Where on earth has she put that cake?' said she. 'I sent her in here
with it an hour ago; just like her, lazy, good-for-nothing Irish thing.
They're nothing but white niggers, after all, these Irish. Here, Ann,' she
bawled out, 'come here!'

"'Coming,' said Ann, from within the glass door.

"'Come this minute,' said the old woman, and Ann's pretty Irish face showed
itself immediately.

"'Where's that 'lection cake I told you to bring here?'

"'You didn't tell me to bring no cake here, Mrs. Brown,' said Ann.

"'I did, you little liar, you,' said Mrs. Brown. 'You Irish are born liars.
Go, bring it here.'

"Ann disappeared, and soon returned, looking triumphant. 'Mr. Brown says he
brought it in when you told him, and covered it in that box--so I aint such
a liar, after all.'

"'You are,' said Mrs. Brown, 'and a thief too.'

"Ann's Irish blood was up.

"'I'm neither,' said she; 'but I'm an orphan, and poor; that's why I'm
scolded and cuffed about.'

"Mrs. Brown's blood was up too, and she struck the poor girl in the face,
and her big, hard hand was in an instant covered with blood, which spouted
out from Ann's nose.

"'Now take that for your impudence, and you'll get worse next time you go
disputing with me.'

"'I declare, Mrs. Brown,' said Arthur, 'this is, I thought, a free country.
I did not know you could take the law into your own hands in that style.'

"'That gal's the bother of my life,' said Mrs. Brown. 'Mr. Brown, he was in
New York when a ship come, and that gal's father and mother must die of the
ship-fever, and the gal was left, and Mr. Brown calculated she could be
made to save us hiring, by teaching her a little. She's smart enough, but
she's the hard-headedest, obstinatest thing I ever see. I can't make
nothin' of her. You might as well try to draw blood out of a turnip as to
get any good out of her.'

"'You got some good blood out of her,' said I, 'at any rate,' for Mrs.
Brown was wiping her hands, and the blood looked red and healthy enough;
'but she is not a turnip, that's one thing to be considered.'

"'Well, Mrs. Brown, good evening,' said Arthur. 'I shall tell them at the
South how you Northern people treat your white niggers.'

"'I wish to the Lord,' said Mrs. Brown, 'we had some real niggers. Here I
am sweatin, and workin, and bakin, all these hot days, and Brown he's doin
nothin from morning 'till night but reading Abolition papers, and tendin
Abolition meetings. I'm not much better than a nigger myself, half the
time.'

"Now," said Arthur, "Mr. Hubbard, I have been fortunate in my experience. I
have never seen a slave woman struck in my life, though I've no doubt such
things are done; and I assure you when I saw Mrs. Brown run the risk of
spoiling that pretty face for life, I wondered your laws did not protect
'these bound gals,' or 'white niggers,' as she calls them."

"You see, Hubbard," said Abel, "your philanthropy and Arthur's is very
contracted. He only feels sympathy for a pretty white face, you for a black
one, while my enlarged benevolence induces me to stand up for all female
'phizmahoganies,' especially for the Hottentot and the Madagascar ones, and
the fair sex of all the undiscovered islands on the globe in general."

"You don't think, then," said Mr. Hubbard, argumentatively, "that God's
curse is on slavery, do you?"

"In what sense?" asked Arthur. "I think that slavery is, and always was a
curse, and that the Creator intended what he said, when he first spoke of
it, through Noah."

"But, I mean," said Mr. Hubbard, "that it will bring a curse on those who
own slaves."

"No, _sir_," said Arthur, "God's blessing is, and always has been on my
father, who is a slaveholder; on his father, who was one; and on a good
many more I could mention. In fact, I could bring forward quite a
respectable list who have died in their beds, in spite of their egregious
sin in this respect. There are Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Marshall,
Calhoun, Henry Clay, and not a few others. In this case, the North, as has
been said, says to her sister South, 'Stand aside, for I am holier than
thou!' that is, you didn't need them, and got rid of them."

"We were all born free and equal," said Mr. Hubbard, impressively.

"Equal!" said Abel, "there is that idiot, with his tongue hanging out of
his mouth, across the street: was he born equal with you?"

"It strikes me," said Arthur, "that our slaves are not born free."

"They ought to be so, then," said Mr. Hubbard.

"Ah! there you arraign the Creator," said Arthur; "I must stop now."

"What do you think is the meaning of the text 'Cursed be Canaan, a servant
of servants shall he be unto his brethren,' Hubbard?" said Abel.

"I don't think it justifies slavery," said Hubbard.

"Well, what does it mean?" said Abel. "It must mean something. Now I am at
present between two doctrines; so I am neither on your nor on Arthur's
side. If I can't live one way I must another; and these are hard times. If
I can't distinguish myself in law, divinity, or physic, or as an artist,
which I would prefer, I may turn planter, or may turn Abolition agent. I
must do something for my living. Having no slaves I can't turn planter;
therefore there is more probability of my talents finding their way to the
Abolition ranks; so give me all the information you can on the subject."

"Go to the Bible," said Mr. Hubbard, "and learn your duty to your
fellow-creatures."

"Well, here is a Bible my mother sent here for Arthur and myself, with the
commentaries. This is Scott's Commentary. Where is Canaan?" said he,
turning over the leaves; "he is very hard to be got at."

"You are too far over," said Arthur, laughing, "you are not in the habit of
referring to Scott."

"Here it is," said Abel, "'Cursed be Canaan, a servant of servants shall he
be unto his brethren.' And in another verse we see 'God shall enlarge
Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem, and Canaan shall be his
servant.' So we are Japheth and Shem, and the colored population are
Canaan. Is that it, Arthur?" said Abel.

"See what Scott says, Abel," said Arthur; "I'm not a commentator."

"Well, here it is,--'There is no authority for altering the text, and
reading, as some do, Cursed be Ham, the father of Canaan, yet the frequent
mention of Ham, as the father of Canaan, suggests the thought that the
latter was also criminal. Ham is thought to be second, and not the youngest
son of Noah; and if so, the words, 'Knew what his younger son had done,'
refers to Canaan, his grandson. Ham must have felt it a very mortifying
rebuke, when his own father was inspired on this occasion to predict the
durable oppression and slavery of his posterity. Canaan was also rebuked,
by learning that the curse would especially rest on that branch of the
family which should descend from him; for his posterity were no doubt
principally, though not exclusively, intended.'"

"Now," continued Abel, "I shall have to turn planter, and get my niggers as
I can; for I'll be hanged if it wasn't a curse, and a predicted one, too."

"That does not make it right," said Mr. Hubbard.

"Don't it," said Abel; "well, if it should be fated for me to turn parson,
I shan't study divinity with you, for my mother has told me often, that
God's prophecies were right, and were fulfilled, too; as I think this one
has been."

"I suppose, then, you think slavery will always continue, Mr. Weston?"
said Hubbard.

"Well, I am only a man, and cannot prophesy, but I think, probably not.
Slavery is decreasing throughout the world. The slave trade is about being
abolished on the coast of Africa. You Abolitionists are getting a good many
off from our southern country, and our planters are setting a number of
theirs free, and sending them to Africa. I know a gentleman in Georgia who
liberated a number, and gave them the means to start in Liberia as free
agents and men. He told me he saw them on board, and watched the ship as
she disappeared from his sight. At last he could not detect the smallest
trace of her, and then such a feeling of intense satisfaction occupied his
breast as had been a stranger there until that time. 'Is it possible that
they are gone, and I am no longer to be plagued with them? They are free,
and I am free, too.' He could hardly give vent to his feelings of relief on
the occasion."

"And are they such trouble to you, Arthur?" asked Abel.

"No, indeed," said Arthur, "not the least. My father treats them well, and
they appear to be as well off as the working classes generally are. I see
rules to regulate the conduct of the master and slave in Scripture, but I
see no where the injunction to release them; nor do I find laid down the
sin of holding them. The fact is, you northern people are full of your
isms; you must start a new one every year. I hope they will not travel
south, for I am tired of them. I should like to take Deacon and Mrs. White
back home with me. Our servants would be afraid of a man who has worked
sixteen hours a day half his lifetime."

"Deacon White is worth twenty thousand dollars," said Abel, "every cent of
which he made mending and making common shoes."

"What does he do with it?" said Arthur.

"Hoards it up," said Abel, "and yet an honester man never lived. Did I not
tell you of the time I hired his horse and chaise? I believe not; well, it
is worth waiting for. The deacon's old white horse is as gray and as docile
as himself; the fact is, the stable is so near the house, that the horse is
constantly under the influence of 'Old Hundred;' he has heard the good old
tune so often, that he has a solemn way of viewing things. Two or three
weeks ago I wanted to take my sister to see a relative of ours, who lives
seven or eight miles from here, and my mother would not consent to my
driving her, unless I hired the deacon's horse and chaise--the horse, she
said, could not run if he wanted to. So I got him, and Harriet asked Kate
Laune to go too, as the chaise was large enough for all three; and we had a
good time. We were gone all day, and after I took the girls home, I drove
round to the deacon's house and jumped out of the chaise to pay what I
owed.

"You know what a little fellow the deacon is, and he looked particularly
small that evening, for he was seated in his arm-chair reading a large
newspaper which hid him all but his legs. These are so shrunken that I
wonder how his wife gets his stockings small enough for him.

"'Good evening, Mrs. White,' said I, for the old lady was sitting on the
steps knitting.

"'Mercy's sake, deacon,' said she, 'put down your newspaper; don't you see
Mr. Johnson?'

"'The deacon did not even give me a nod until he had scrutinized the
condition of the horse and chaise, and then he said, 'How are you?'

"'Not a screw loose in me, or the horse and chaise either, for I had two
girls with me, and I'm courting one of them for a quarter, so I drove very
carefully. I am in a hurry now, tell me what I am to pay you?'

"'Twelve and a half cents,' said the deacon, slowly raising his spectacles
from his nose.

"'No!' said I. 'Twelve and a half cents! Why, I have had the horse all
day.'

"'That is my price,' said the deacon.

"'For a horse and chaise, all day?' said I. 'Why, deacon, do charge me
something that I aint ashamed to pay you.'

"'That is my regular price, and I can't charge you any more.'

"I remonstrated with him, and tried to persuade him to take twenty-five
cents--but, no. I appealed to Mrs. White; she said the 'deacon hadn't ought
to take more than the horse and chaise was worth.' However, I induced him
to take eighteen and three-quarter cents, but he was uneasy about it, and
said he was afraid he was imposing on me.

"The next morning I was awakened at day-dawn--there was a man, they said,
who wanted to see me on pressing business, and could not wait. I dressed in
a hurry, wondering what was the cause of the demand for college-students. I
went down, and there stood the deacon, looking as if his last hour were
come. 'Mr. Abel,' he said, 'I have passed a dreadful restless night, and I
couldn't stand it after the day broke--here's your six and a quarter
cents--I hadn't ought to have charged you more than my usual price.' I was
angry at the old fellow for waking me up, but I could not help laughing,
too."

"''Twas very ugly of you, Mr. Abel, to persuade me to take so much,' said
he; 'you're welcome to the horse and chaise whenever you want it, but
twelve and a half cents is my usual price.'"

"Now," said Mr. Hubbard, "he is like the Portuguese devils; when they are
good, they are too good--I should distrust that man."

"He is close to a farthing," said Abel, "but he is as honest as the day.
Why he has the reputation of a saint. Harriet says she wishes he wore a
long-tailed coat instead of a short jacket, so that she could hang on and
get to heaven that way."

"My sister saw Mrs. White not long ago, and complimented her on her new
bonnet being so very becoming to her. 'Now I want to know!' said Mrs.
White; 'why I thought it made me look like a fright.'

"'But what made you get a black one,' said Harriet, 'why did you not get a
dark green or a brown one?'

"'Why, you see,' said Mrs. White, 'the deacon's health is a failin'; he's
dreadful low in the top knots lately, and I thought as his time might come
very soon, I might as well get a black one while I was a getting. We're all
born to die, Miss Harriet; and the deacon is dwindlin' away.'"

The young men laughed, and Arthur said "What will he do with his money?
Mrs. White will not wear the black bonnet long if she have twenty thousand
dollars; she can buy a new bonnet and a new husband with that."

"No danger," said Abel, "Deacon White has made his will, and has left his
wife the interest of five thousand dollars; at her death the principal
goes, as all the rest, to aid some benevolent purpose.

"But there are the letters; what a bundle for you, Arthur! That is the
penalty of being engaged. Well I must wait for the widow White, I guess
she'll let me have the use of the horse and chaise, at any rate."

Mr. Hubbard arose to go, and Arthur handed him his newspaper. "That is a
valuable document, sir, but there is one still more so in your library
here; it is a paper published the same month and year of the Declaration of
Independence, in which are advertised in the New England States negroes for
sale! Your fathers did not think we were all born free and equal it
appears."

"We have better views now-a-days, said Mr. Hubbard; the Rev. Mr. H. has
just returned from a tour in the Southern States, and he is to lecture
to-night, won't you go and hear him?"

"Thank you, no," said Arthur. "I have seen some of this reverend
gentleman's statements, and his friends ought to advise him to drop the
reverend for life. He is a fit subject for an asylum, for I can't think a
man in his senses would lie so."

"He is considered a man of veracity," said Mr. Hubbard, "by those who have
an opportunity of knowing his character."

"Well, I differ from them," said Arthur, "and shall deprive myself of the
pleasure of hearing him. Good evening, sir."

"Wouldn't he be a good subject for tar and feathers, Arthur? They'd stick,
like grim death to a dead nigger," said Abel.

"He is really such a fool," said Arthur, "that I have no patience with him;
but you take your usual nap, and I will read my letters."




CHAPTER VII.


We will go back to the last evening at Exeter, when we left Mr. Weston to
witness the result of Bacchus's attendance at the barbecue. There were
other hearts busy in the quiet night time. Alice, resisting the offers of
her maid to assist her in undressing, threw herself on a lounge by the open
window. The night air played with the curtains, and lifted the curls from
her brow. Her bloom, which of late had been changeful and delicate, had now
left her cheek, and languid and depressed she abandoned herself to thought.
So absorbed was she, that she was not aware any one had entered the room,
until her mother stood near, gently reproving her for thus exposing
herself to the night air. "Do get up and go to bed," she said. "Where is
Martha?"

"I did not want her," said Alice; "and am now going to bed myself. What has
brought you here?"

"Because I felt anxious about you," said Mrs. Weston, "and came, as I have
often before, to be assured that you were well and enjoying repose. I find
you still up; and now, my daughter, there is a question I have feared to
ask you, but can no longer delay it. By all the love that is between us, by
the tie that should bind an only child to a widowed mother, will you tell
me what are the thoughts that are oppressing you? I have been anxious for
your health, but is there not more cause to fear for your happiness?"

"I am well enough, dear mother," said Alice, with some irritation of
manner, "Do not concern yourself about me. If you will go to bed, I will
too."

"You cannot thus put me off," said Mrs. Weston. "Alice, I charge you, as in
the presence of God, to tell me truly: do you love Walter Lee?"

"It would be strange if I did not," said Alice, in a low voice. "Have we
not always been as brother and sister?"

"Not in that sense, Alice; do not thus evade me. Do you love him with an
affection which should belong to your cousin, to whom you are solemnly
engaged, who has been the companion of your childhood, and who is the son
of the best friend that God ever raised up to a widow and a fatherless
child?"

Alice turned her head away, and after a moment answered, "Yes, I do,
mother, and I cannot help it." But on turning to look at her mother, she
was shocked at the expression of agony displayed on her countenance. Her
hand was pressed tightly over her heart, her lips quivered, and her whole
person trembled. It was dreadful to see her thus agitated; and Alice,
throwing her arms around her mother exclaimed, "What is it, dearest
mother? Be not look so deathlike. I cannot bear to see you so."

Oh! they speak falsely who say the certainty of evil can be better borne
than suspense. Watcher by the couch of suffering, sayest thou so? Now thou
knowest there is no hope, thy darling must be given up. There is no
mistaking that failing pulse, and that up-turned eye. A few hours ago,
there was suspense, but there was hope; death was feared, but not expected;
his arm was outstretched, but the blow was not descending; now, there is no
hope.

Mrs. Weston had long feared that all was not well with Alice--that while
her promise was given to one, her heart had wandered to another; yet she
dreaded to meet the appalling certainty; now with her there is no hope. The
keen anguish with which she contended was evident to her daughter, who was
affrighted at her mother's appearance. So much so, that for the first time
for months she entirely forgot the secret she had been hiding in her heart.
The young in their first sorrow dream there are none like their own. It is
not until time and many cares have bowed us to the earth, that we look
around, beholding those who have suffered more deeply than ourselves.

Accustomed to self-control, Mrs. Weston was not long in recovering herself;
taking her daughter's hand within her own, and looking up in her fair face,
"Alice," she said, "you listened with an unusual interest to the details of
suffering of one whom you never saw. I mean Walter Lee's mother; she died.
I can tell you of one who has suffered, and lived.

"It is late, and I fear to detain you from your rest, but something impels
me that I cannot resist. Listen, then, while I talk to you of myself. You
are as yet almost unacquainted with your mother's history."

"Another time, mother; you are not well now," said Alice.

"Yes, my love, now. You were born in the same house that I was; yet your
infancy only was passed where I lived until my marriage. I was motherless
at an early age; indeed, one of the first remembrances that I recall is the
bright and glowing summer evening when my mother was carried from our
plantation on James River to the opposite shore, where was our family
burial-ground. Can I ever forget my father's uncontrolled grief, and the
sorrow of the servants, as they followed, dressed in the deepest mourning.
I was terrified at the solemn and dark-looking bier, the black plumes that
waved over it, and all the dread accompaniments of death. I remember but
little for years after this, save the continued gloom of my father, and his
constant affection and indulgence toward me, and occasionally varying our
quiet life by a visit to Richmond or Washington.

"My father was a sincere and practical Christian. He was averse to parting
with me; declaring, the only solace he had was in directing my education,
and being assured of my happiness.

"My governess was an accomplished and amiable lady, but she was too kind
and yielding. I have always retained the most grateful remembrance of her
care. Thus, though surrounded by good influences, I needed restraint, where
there was so much indulgence. I have sometimes ventured to excuse myself on
the ground that I was not taught that most necessary of all lessons: the
power of governing myself. The giving up of my own will to the matured
judgment of others.

"The part of my life that I wish to bring before you now, is the year
previous to my marriage. Never had I received an ungentle word from my
father; never in all my waywardness and selfwill did he harshly reprove me.
He steadily endeavored to impress on my mind a sense of the constant
presence of God. He would often say, 'Every moment, every hour of our
lives, places its impress on our condition in eternity. Live, then, as did
your mother, in a state of waiting and preparation for that account which
we must all surely give for the talents entrusted to our care.' Did I heed
his advice? You will hardly believe me, Alice, when I tell you how I repaid
his tenderness. I was the cause of his death."

"It could never be, mother," said Alice, weeping, when she saw the tears
forcing their way down her mother's cheek. "You are excited and distressed
now. Do not tell me any more to-night, and forget what I told you."

Mrs. Weston hardly seemed to hear her. After a pause of a few moments, she
proceeded:

"It was so, indeed. I, his only child, was the cause of his death; I, his
cherished and beloved daughter, committed an act that broke his heart, and
laid the foundation of sorrows for me, that I fear will only end with my
life.

"Alice, I read not long since of a son, the veriest wretch on earth; he was
unwilling to grant his poor aged father a subsistence from his abundance;
he embittered the failing years of his life by unkindness and reproaches.
One day, after an altercation between them, the son seized his father by
his thin, white hair, and dragged him to the corner of the street. Here,
the father in trembling tones implored his pity. 'Stop, oh! stop, my son'
he said, 'for I dragged my father here, God has punished me in your sin.'

"Alice, can you not see the hand of a just God in this retribution, and do
you wonder, when you made this acknowledgment to me to-night, the agony of
death overcame me? I thought, as I felt His hand laid heavily upon me, my
punishment was greater than I could bear; my sin would be punished in your
sorrow; and naught but sorrow would be your portion as the wife of Walter
Lee.

"Do not interrupt me, it is time we were asleep, but I shall soon have
finished what I have to say. My father and Mr. Weston were friends in early
life, and I was thrown into frequent companionship with my husband, from
the time when we were very young. His appearance, his talents, his
unvaried gayety of disposition won my regard. For a time, the excess of
dissipation in which he indulged was unknown to us, but on our return to
Virginia after an absence of some months in England, it could no longer be
concealed. His own father joined with mine in prohibiting all intercourse
between us. For a time his family considered him as lost to them and to
himself; he was utterly regardless of aught save what contributed to his
own pleasures. I only mention this to excuse my father in your eyes, should
you conclude he was too harsh in the course he insisted I should pursue. He
forbade him the house, and refused to allow any correspondence between us;
at the same time he promised that if he would perfectly reform from the
life he was leading, at the end of two years he would permit the marriage.
I promised in return to bind myself to these conditions. Will you believe
it, that seated on my mother's grave, with my head upon my kind father's
breast, I vowed, that as I hoped for Heaven I would never break my promise,
never see him again, without my father's permission, until the expiration
of this period; and yet I did break it. I have nearly done. I left home
secretly. I was married; and I never saw my father's face again. The shock
of my disobedience was too hard for him to bear. He died, and in vain have
I sought a place of repentance, though I sought it with tears.

"I have suffered much; but though I cannot conceal from you that your
father threw away the best portion of his life, his death was not without
hope. I cling to the trust that his sins were washed away, and his soul
made clean in the blood of the Saviour. Then, by the memory of all that I
suffered, and of that father whose features you bear, whose dying words
gave testimony to my faithfulness and affection to him, I conjure you to
conquer this unfortunate passion, which, if yielded to, will end in your
unceasing misery.

"There was little of my large fortune left at your father's death; we have
been almost dependant on your uncle. Yet it has not been dependance; he is
too generous to let us feel that. On your father's death-bed, he was all in
all to him--never leaving him; inducing him to turn his thoughts to the
future opening before him. He taught me where to look for comfort, and bore
with me when in my impatient grief I refused to seek it. He took you, then
almost an infant, to his heart, has cherished you as his own, and now looks
forward to the happiness of seeing you his son's wife; will you so cruelly
disappoint him?"

"I will do whatever you ask me, dear mother," said Alice. "I will never see
Walter again, if that will content you. I have already told him that I can
never be to him more than I have always been--a sister. Yet I cannot help
loving him."

"Cannot help loving a man whose very birth is attended with shame," said
Mrs. Weston; "whose passions are ungovernable, who has already treated with
the basest ingratitude his kindest friends? Have you so little pride? I
will not reproach you, my darling; promise me you will never see Walter
again, after to-morrow, without my knowledge. I can trust you. Oh! give up
forever the thought of being his wife, if ever you have entertained it.
Time will show you the justice of my fears, and time will bring back your
old feelings for Arthur, and we shall be happy again."

"I will make you the promise," said Alice, "and I will keep it; but I will
not deceive Arthur. Ungrateful as I may appear, he shall know all. He will
then love some one more worthy of him than I am."

"Let us leave the future in the hands of an unerring God, my Alice. Each
one must bear her burden, I would gladly bear yours; but it may not be.
Forget all this for a while; let me sleep by you to-night."

Alice could not but be soothed by the gentle tone, and dear caress. Oh,
blessed tie! uniting mother and child. Earth cannot, and Heaven will not
break it.




CHAPTER VIII.


As absurd would it be for one of the small unsettled stars, for whose place
and wanderings we care not, to usurp the track of the Queen of night or of
the God of day, as for an unpretending writer to go over ground that has
been trodden by the master minds of the age. It was in the olden time that
Cooper described a dinner party in all its formal, but hospitable
perfection. Washington was a guest there, too, though an unacknowledged
one; we cannot introduce him at Exeter, yet I could bring forward there,
more than one who knew him well, valuing him not only as a member of
society and a hero, but as the man chosen by God for a great purpose.
Besides, I would introduce to my readers, some of the residents of L----. I
would let them into the very heart of Virginia life; and, although I cannot
arrogate to it any claims for superiority over other conditions of society,
among people of the same class in life, yet, at least, I will not allow an
inferiority. As variety is the spice of society, I will show them, that
here are many men of many minds.

Mark, was a famous waiter, almost equal to Bacchus, who was head man, on
such occasions. They were in their elements at a dinner party, and the
sideboard, and tables, on such an occasion, were in their holiday attire. A
strong arm, a hard brush, and plenty of beeswax, banished all appearance of
use, and the old servants thought that every article in the room looked as
bright and handsome as on the occasion of their young mistress' first
presiding at her table. The blinds of the windows looking south, were
partly open; the branches of the lemon-tree, and the tendrils of the
white-jessamine, assisted in shading the apartment, making it fragrant
too. The bird-cages were hung among the branches of the flowers, and the
little prisoners sang as if they had, at last, found a way of escape to
their native woods; old-fashioned silver glittered on the sideboard, the
large china punch-bowl maintaining its position in the centre.

William had gone to the drawing-room to announce the important
intelligence, "Dinner is ready!" and Bacchus looked around the room for the
last time, to see that every thing was, as it should be, snuffing up the
rich fumes of the soup as it escaped from the sides of the silver-covered
tureen. He perceived that one of the salt-cellars was rather near the
corner of the table, and had only time to rearrange it, when William threw
open the doors. The company entered, and with some delay and formality took
their places. We need not wait until the Rev. Mr. Aldie says grace, though
that would not detain us long; for the Rev. Mr. Aldie, besides being very
hungry, has a great deal of tact, and believes in short prayers; nor will
we delay to witness the breaking down of the strongholds of precision and
ultra propriety, that almost always solemnizes the commencement of an
entertainment; but the old Madeira having been passed around, we will
listen to the conversation that is going on from different parts of the
table.

"We have outlived, sir," said Mr. Chapman, addressing a northern gentleman
present, "we have outlived the first and greatest era of our country. Its
infancy was its greatest era. The spirit of Washington still breathes among
us. One or two of us here have conversed with him, sat at his table, taken
him by the hand. It is too soon for the great principles that animated his
whole career to have passed from our memory. I am not a very old man,
gentlemen and ladies, yet it seems to me a great while since the day of
Washington's funeral. My father called me and my brothers to him, and while
our mother was fastening a band of black crape around our hats, 'My boys,'
said he, 'you have seen the best days of this republic.' It is so, for as
much as the United States has increased in size, and power, and wealth,
since then, different interests are dividing her."

"Was Washington a cheerful man?" asked an English gentleman who was
present, "I have heard that he never laughed. Is it so?"

Miss Janet, who was considered a kind of oracle when personal memories of
Washington were concerned, answered after a moment's pause, "I have seen
him smile often, I never saw him laugh but once. He rode over, one
afternoon, to see a relative with whom I was staying; it was a dark, cloudy
day, in November; a brisk wood fire was very agreeable. After some little
conversation on ordinary topics, the gentlemen discussed the politics of
the times, Washington saying little, but listening attentively to others.

"The door opened suddenly, and a son of my relative entered, in a noisy
bustling manner. Passing the gentlemen with a nod, he turned his back to
the fire, putting his hands behind him. 'Father,' said he, scarcely waiting
until the sentence that General Washington was uttering, was finished,
'what do you think? Uncle Jack and I shot a duck in the head!' He deserved
a reproof for his forwardness; but Washington joined the rest in a laugh,
no doubt amused at the estimation in which the youth held himself and Uncle
Jack. The two together, killed a duck, and the boy was boasting of it in
the presence of the greatest man the world ever produced. The poor fellow
left the room, and for a time his sporting talents were joked about more
than he liked."

After the ladies retired, Mr. Selden proposed the health of the amiable
George Washington.

"Good heavens! sir," said Mr. Chapman, the veins in his temples swelling,
and his whole frame glowing with vexation, "what is that you say? Did ever
any one hear of a soldier being amiable? No, sir, I will give you a toast
that was drank just before the death of the greatest and best of men. I
picked up an old newspaper, and laid it aside in my secretary. In it I read
a toast worth giving. Fill high, gentlemen--'The man who forgets the
services of George Washington, may he be forgotten by his country and his
God.'"

Mr. Selden, who possessed in a remarkable degree the amiableness that he
had ascribed to another, swallowed the wine and approved the toast. Mr.
Chapman was some time recovering his composure.

"You intend to leave Virginia very soon, Mr. Lee," said Mr. Kent,
addressing Walter.

"Very soon, sir," Walter replied.

"Where shall you go first?" asked Mr. Kent.

"I have not decided on any course of travel," said Walter. "I shall,
perhaps, wander toward Germany."

"We will drink your health, then," said Mr. Weston. "A pleasant tour,
Walter, and a safe return."

       *       *       *       *       *

"You are from Connecticut, I believe, Mr. Perkins?" said Mr. Barbour, "but
as you are not an Abolitionist, I suppose it will not be uncourteous to
discuss the subject before you. I have in my memorandum book a copy of a
law of your State, which was in existence at one time, and which refers to
what we have been conversing about. It supports the Fugitive Slave Law, in
prospect. At that time you New Englanders held not only negro, but Indian
slaves. Let me read this, gentleman. 'Be it enacted by the Governor,
Council, and Representatives, in General Court assembled, and by the
authority of the same, that whatsoever negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or
servants, shall be wandering out of the bounds of the town or place to
which they belong, without a ticket or pass, in writing, under the hand of
some Assistant or Justice of the Peace, or under the hand of the master or
owner of such negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or servants, shall be
deemed and accounted as runaways, and may be treated as such. And every
person inhabiting in this colony, finding or meeting with any such negro,
mulatto, or Indian servant or servants not having a ticket as aforesaid, is
hereby empowered to seize and secure him or them, and bring him or them
before the next authority, to be examined and returned to his or their
master or owner, who shall satisfy the charge accruing thereby.

"'And all ferrymen within the colony are hereby requested not to suffer any
Indian, mulatto, or negro servant without certificate as aforesaid, to pass
over their respective ferries by assisting them, directly or indirectly, on
the penalty of paying a fine of twenty shillings for every such offence, to
the owner of such servants.' In the same act," continued Mr. Barbour, "a
free person who receives any property, large or small, from a slave,
without an order from his master, must either make full restitution or be
openly whipped with so many stripes, (not exceeding twenty.)"

"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, who was an impetuous old gentleman,
"don't you see those Yankees were close enough in taking care of their own
slaves, and if they could have raised sugar and cotton, or had deemed it to
their advantage to be slaveholders to this day, they'd have had a Fugitive
Slave Law long before this. A Daniel would have come to judgment sooner
even than the immortal Daniel Webster."

"Wait a moment, my dear sir," said Mr. Barbour. "Another paragraph of the
same act provides, 'that if any negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or slave,
shall be found abroad from home, in the night season, after nine o'clock,
without a special order from his or their master or mistress, it shall be
lawful for any person or persons to apprehend and secure such negro,
mulatto, or Indian servant or slave, so offending, and him, her, or them,
bring before the next assistant or justice of the peace, which authority
shall have full power to pass sentence upon such servant or slave, and
order him, her, or them, to be publicly whipped on the _naked_ body, not
exceeding ten stripes, &c.'"

"Pretty tight laws you had, sir," said Mr. Chapman, addressing Mr. Perkins.
"A woman could be picked up and whipped, at the report of any body, on the
naked body. Why, sir, if we had such laws here, it would be whipping all
the time, (provided so infamous a law could be carried into execution.)
There is one thing certain, you made the most of slavery while you had it."

"But we have repented of all our misdeeds," said Mr. Perkins,
good-humouredly.

"Yes," said Mr. Chapman, "like the boy that stole a penny, and when he
found it wouldn't buy the jack-knife he wanted, he repented, and carried it
to the owner."

"But you must remember the times, my dear sir," said Mr. Perkins.

"I do, I do, sir," said Mr. Chapman. "The very time that you had come for
freedom yourself, you kidnapped the noble sons of the soil, and made
menials of them. I wonder the ground did not cry out against you. Now we
have been left with the curse of slavery upon us, (for it is in some
respects a curse on the negro and the white man,) and God may see fit to
remove it from us. But why don't the Abolitionists buy our slaves, and send
them to Liberia?"

"That would be against their principles," said Mr. Perkins.

"Excuse me, sir," said Mr. Chapman, "but d----n their principles; it is
against their pockets. Why don't those who write Abolition books, give the
profits to purchase some of these poor wretches who are whipped to death,
and starved to death, and given to the flies to eat up, and burned alive;
then I would believe in their principles, or at least in their sincerity.
But now the fear is for their pockets. I am a poor man. I own a few slaves,
and I will sell them to any Northern man or woman at half-price for what I
could get from a trader, and they may send them to Liberia. Lord! sir,
they'd as soon think of buying the d----l himself. You must excuse my
strong language, but this subject irritates me. Not long ago, I was in the
upper part of the State of New York, looking about me, for I do look about
me wherever I am. One morning I got up early, and walked toward the new
railroad that they were constructing in the neighborhood. I chanced to get
to the spot just in time to see a little fracas between a stout, burly
Irishman, and the superintendent of the party.

"'I thought, be Jasus,' said the Irishman, just as I approached near enough
to hear what was going on, 'that a man could see himself righted in a free
country.'

"'Go to your work,' said the superintendent, and if you say another word
about it, I'll knock you over.'

"'Is it you'll knock me over, you will,' began the Irishman.

"He was over in a moment. The superintendent, sir, gave him a blow between
the eyes, with a fist that was hard as iron. The man staggered, and fell. I
helped him up, sir; and I reckon he thought matters might be worse still,
for he slowly walked off.

"'D----d free country,' he muttered to me, in a kind of confidential tone.
'I thought they only knocked niggers over in Ameriky. Be me soul, but I'll
go back to Ireland.'

"I could not help expressing my astonishment to the superintendent,
repeating the Irishman's words, 'I thought only niggers could be knocked
over in this country.'

"'Niggers!' said the superintendent, 'I guess if you had to deal with
Irishmen, you'd find yourself obliged to knock 'em down.'

"'But don't the laws protect them?' I asked.

"'Laws! why railroads have to be made, and have to be made the right way.
I aint afraid of the laws. I think no more of knocking an Irishman over,
sir, than I do of eating my dinner. One is as necessary as the other.'

"Now," continued Mr. Chapman, "if an Abolitionist sees a slave knocked
over, he runs home to tell his mammy; it's enough to bring fire and
brimstone, and hail, and earthquakes on the whole country. A man must have
a black skin or his sorrows can never reach the hearts of these gentlemen.
They had better look about at home. There is wrong enough there to make a
fuss about."

"Well," said the Englishman, "you had both better come back to the mother
country. The beautiful words, so often quoted, of Curran, may invite you:
'No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of
slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and
the God sink together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and
disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation.'"

"Thank you, sir, for your invitation," said Mr. Chapman, "but I'll stay in
Virginia. The old State is good enough for me. I have been to England, and
I saw some of your redeemed, regenerated, disenthralled people--I saw
features on women's faces that haunted me afterward in my dreams. I saw
children with shrivelled, attenuated limbs, and countenances that were old
in misery and vice--such men, women, and children as Dickens and Charlotte
Elizabeth tell about. My little grand-daughter was recovering from a severe
illness, not long ago, and I found her weeping in her old nurse's arms. 'O!
grandpa,' said she, as I inquired the cause of her distress, 'I have been
reading "The Little Pin-headers."' I wept over it too, for it was true. No,
sir; if I must see slavery, let me see it in its best form, as it exists in
our Southern country."

"You are right, sir, I fear," said the Englishman.

"Well," said Mr. Perkins, "I am glad I am not a slaveholder, for one
reason; I am sure I should never get to heaven. I should be knocking brains
out from morning till night, that is if there are brains under all that
mass of wool. Why, they are so slow, and inactive--I should be stumbling
over them all the time; though from the specimens I have seen in your
house, sir, I should say they made most agreeable servants."

"My servants are very faithful," said Mr. Weston, "they have had great
pains taken with them. I rarely have any complaints from the overseer."

"Your overseers,--that is the worst feature in slavery," said Mr. Perkins.

"Why, sir," said Mr. Chapman, ready for another argument, "you have your
superintendents at the North--and they can knock their people down whenever
they see fit."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Perkins. "I had forgotten that."

"Stay a little while with us," said Mr. Chapman, as Mr. Weston rose to lead
the way to the drawing-room. "You will not find us so bad as you think. We
may roast a negro now and then, when we have a barbecue, but that will be
our way of showing you hospitality. You must remember we are only 'poor
heathenish Southerners' according to the best received opinions of some who
live with you in New England."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Alice," said Mrs. Weston, at a late hour in the evening, when the last of
the guests were taking their departure, "Walter would like to see you in
the library; but, my love, I wish you would spare yourself and him the
useless pain of parting."

"I must see him, dear mother, do not refuse me; it is for the last
time--pray, let me go."

"If you choose," and Alice glided away as her mother was interrupted by the
leave-taking of some of their visitors. The forms, the courtesies of life
had no claims upon her now--she was enduring her first sorrow; the
foundation of youth's slight fabric of happiness was yielding beneath her
touch. The dread "nevermore," that Edgar Poe could not drive from his heart
and sight, was oppressing her. She sought him before whom her young heart
had bowed, not the less devotedly and humbly that it was silently and
secretly. It was to be a bitter parting, not as when she watched to the
last Arthur Weston, who was dear to her as ever was brother to a sister,
for they had the promise and hope of meeting again; but now there was no
tear in her eye, no trembling in her frame, and no hope in her heart. From
the utmost depth of her soul arose the prophetic voice, "Thou shalt see him
no more."

"Alice," said Walter, taking her hand between both of his, and gazing at
her face, as pale and sad as his own, "it is your mother's wish that from
this time we should be strangers to each other, even loving as we do; that
our paths on earth should separate, never to meet again. Is it your wish
too?"

"We must part; you know it, Walter," said Alice, musingly, looking out
upon, but not seeing the calm river, and the stars that gazed upon its
waves, and all the solemn beauty with which night had invested herself.

"But you love me, Alice; and will you see me go from you forever, without
hope? Will you yourself speak the word that sends me forth a wanderer upon
the earth?" said Walter.

"What can I do?" said Alice.

"Choose, Alice, your own destiny, and fix mine."

"Walter, I cannot leave my mother; I would die a thousand times rather than
bring such sorrow upon her who has known so much. My uncle, too--my more
than father--oh! Walter, I have sinned, and I suffer."

"You are wise, Alice; you have chosen well; you cling to mother, and home,
and friends; I have none of these ties; there is not upon earth a being so
utterly friendless as I am."

"Dear Walter, you have friends, and you can make them; you have wealth,
talent, and many gifts from God. Go forth into the world and use them. Let
your noble heart take courage; and in assisting others and making them
happy, you will soon be happy yourself."

Walter looked at her with surprise: such words were unlike her, whom he had
been accustomed to consider a loving and lovely child. But a bitter smile
passed over his countenance, and in a stern voice he said, "And you, Alice,
what are you to do?"

"God alone knows," said Alice, forced into a consideration of her own
sorrow, and resting against a lounge near which she had been standing. She
wept bitterly. Walter did not attempt to restrain her, but stood as if
contemplating a grief that he could not wish to control. Alice again spoke,
"It must come, dear Walter, first or last, and we may as well speak the
farewell which must be spoken--but I could endure my part, if I had the
hope that you will be happy. Will you promise me you will try to be?"

"No, Alice, I cannot promise you that; if happiness were in our own power,
I would not be looking on you, whom I have loved all my life, for the last
time.

"But I will hope," he continued, "you may be fortunate enough to forget and
be happy."

"Children," said Miss Janet--for she had gently approached them--"do you
know when and where happiness is to be found? When we have done all that
God has given us to do here; and in the heaven, above those stars that are
now looking down upon you. Look upon Alice, Walter, with the hope of
meeting again; and until then, let the remembrance of her beauty and her
love be ever about you. Let her hear of you as one who deserves the pure
affection of her young and trusting heart. You have lived as brother and
sister; part as such, and may the blessing of God be upon both of you
forever."

Walter took Alice in his arms, and kissed her cheek; all sternness and
pride had gone from his handsome face, but there was such a look of
hopeless sorrow there, as we would not willingly behold on the countenance
of one so young.

Cousin Janet led him away, and with words of solemn, deep affection, bade
him farewell--words that came again, for a time, unheeded and
unwelcomed--words that at the last brought hope and peace to a fainting
heart.

Cousin Janet returned to Alice, whose face lay hidden within her hands:
"Alice, darling," she said, "look up--God is here; forget your own grief,
and think of one who suffered, and who feels for all who, like Him, must
bear the burden of mortality. Think of your many blessings, and how
grateful you should feel for them; think of your mother, who for years wept
as you, I trust, may never weep; think of your kind uncle, who would die to
save you an hour's pain. Trust the future, with all its fears, to God, and
peace will come with the very effort to attain it."

"Oh, Cousin Janet," said Alice, "if Walter were not so lonely; he knows not
where he is going, nor what he is going to do."

"It is true," said Cousin Janet, weeping too; "but we can hope, and trust,
and pray. And now, my love, let us join your mother in her room; it is a
sad parting for her, too, for Walter is dear to us all."

       *       *       *       *       *

Reader! have so many years passed away, that thou hast forgotten the
bitterness of thy first sorrow, or is it yet to come? Thinkest thou there
is a way of escape--none, unless thou art young, and Death interpose,
saving thee from all sadness, and writing on thy grave, "Do not weep for
me, thou knowest not how much of sorrow this early tomb has saved me."

When were thy first thoughts of death? I do not mean the sight of the
coffin, the pall, or any of its sad accompaniments, but the time when the
mind first arrested itself with the melancholy convictions of mortality.
There was a holiday for me in my young days, to which I looked forward as
the Mohammedan to his Paradise; this was a visit to a country-place, where
I revelled in the breath of the woodbines and sweetbriers, and where I sat
under tall and spreading trees, and wondered why towns and cities were ever
built. The great willows swept the windows of the chamber where I slept,
and faces with faded eyes looked upon me from their old frames, by the
moonlight, as I fell asleep, after the day's enjoyment. I never tired of
wandering through the gardens, where were roses and sweet-williams,
hyacinths and honeysuckles, and flowers of every shape and hue. This was
the fairy spot of my recollection, for even childhood has its cares, and
there were memories of little griefs, which time has never chased away.
There I used to meet two children, who often roamed through the near woods
with me. I do not remember their ages nor their names; they were younger
though than I. They might not have been beautiful, but I recollect the
bright eyes, and that downy velvet hue that is only found on the soft check
of infancy.

Summer came; and when I went again, I found the clematis sweeping the
garden walks, and the lilies-of-the-valley bending under the weight of
their own beauty. So we walked along, I and an old servant, stopping to
enter an arbor, or to raise the head of a drooping plant, or to pluck a
sweet-scented shrub, and place it in my bosom. "Where are the little
girls?" I asked. "Have they come again, too?"

"Yes, they are here," she said, as we approached two little mounds, covered
over with the dark-green myrtle and its purple flowers.

"What is here?"

"Child, here are the little ones you asked for."

Oh! those little myrtle-covered graves, how wonderingly I gazed upon them.
There was no thought of death mingled with my meditation; there was, of
quiet and repose, but not of death. I had seen no sickness, no suffering,
and I only wondered why those fair children had laid down under the myrtle.
I fancied them with the fringed eyelids drooping over the cheeks, and the
velvet hue still there. How much did I know of death? As little as of life!

Time passed with me, and I saw the sorrows of others. Sometimes I thought
of the myrtle-covered graves, and the children that slept beneath. Oh! how
quiet they must be, they utter no cry, they shed no tears.

Time passed, and an angel slept in my bosom, close to my heart. Need I say
that I was happy when she nestled there? that her voice was music to my
soul, and her smile the very presence of beauty? Need I say it was joy when
she called me, Mother? Then I lived for the present; all the sorrow that I
had seen around me, was forgotten.

God called that angel to her native heaven, and I wept. Now was the mystery
of the myrtle-covered graves open before my sight. I had seen the going
forth of a little life that was part of my own, I remembered the hard sighs
that convulsed that infant breast. I knew that the grave was meant to hide
from us, silence and pallor, desolation and decay. I was in the world, no
longer a garden of flowers, where I sought from under the myrtle for the
bright eyes and the velvet cheeks. I was in the world, and death was there
too; it was by my side. I gave my darling to the earth, and felt for myself
the bitterness of tears.

Thus must it ever be--by actual suffering must the young be persuaded of
the struggle that is before them--well is it when there is one to say, "God
is here."




CHAPTER IX.


We must bring Uncle Bacchus's wife before our readers. She is a tall,
dignified, bright mulatto woman, named Phillis; it is with the qualities of
her heart and mind, rather than her appearance, that we have to do. Bayard
Taylor, writing from Nubia, in Upper Egypt, says:--"Those friends of the
African race, who point to Egypt as a proof of what that race has done, are
wholly mistaken. The only negro features represented in Egyptian sculpture
are those of the slaves and captives taken in the Ethiopian wars of the
Pharaohs. The temples and pyramids throughout Nubia, as far as Abyssinia,
all bear the hieroglyphics of these monarchs. There is no evidence in all
the valley of the Nile that the negro race ever attained a higher degree of
civilization than is at present exhibited in Congo and Ashantee. I mention
this, not from any feeling hostile to that race, but simply to controvert
an opinion very prevalent in some parts of the United States."

It seemed impossible to know Phillis without feeling for her sentiments of
the highest respect. The blood of the freeman and the slave mingled in her
veins; her well-regulated mind slowly advanced to a conclusion; but once
made, she rarely changed it.

Phillis would have been truly happy to have obtained her own freedom, and
that of her husband and children: she scorned the idea of running away, or
of obtaining it otherwise than as a gift from her owner. She was a firm
believer in the Bible, and often pondered on the words of the angel,
"Return and submit thyself to thy mistress." She had on one occasion
accompanied her master and Mrs. Weston to the North, where she was soon
found out by some of that disinterested class of individuals called
Abolitionists. In reply to the question, "Are you free?" there was but a
moment's hesitation; her pride of heart gave way to her inherent love of
truth, "I'll tell no lie," she answered; "I am a slave!"

"Why do you not _take_ your freedom?" was the rejoinder. "You are in a free
state; they cannot force you to the South, if you will take the offers we
make you, and leave your master."

"You are Abolitionists, I 'spose?" asked Phillis.

"We are," they said, "and we will help you off."

"I want none of your help," said Phillis. "My husband and children are at
home; but if they wasn't, I am an honest woman, and am not in the habit of
_taking_ any thing. I'll never _take_ my freedom. If my master would give
it to me, and the rest of us, I should be thankful. I am not going to begin
stealing, and I fifty years of age."

An eye-witness described the straightening of her tall figure, and the
indignant flashing of her eye, also the discomfited looks of her northern
friends.

I have somewhere read of a fable of Iceland. According to it, lost souls
are to be parched in the burning heat of Hecla, and then cast for ever to
cool in its never-thawing snows. Although Phillis could not have quoted
this, her opinions would have applied it. For some reason, it was evident
to her mind (for she had been well instructed in the Bible) that slavery
was from the first ordained as a curse. It might, to her high spirit, have
been like burning in the bosom of Hecla; but taking refuge among
Abolitionists was, from the many instances that had come to her knowledge,
like cooling in its never-thawing snows.

At the time that we introduced her to the reader, she was the mother of
twelve children. Some were quite young, but a number of them were grown,
and all of them, with the exception of one, (the namesake of his father,)
inherited their mother's energy of character. She had accustomed them to
constant industry, and unqualified obedience to her directions; and for
this reason, no one had found it necessary to interfere in their
management.

Pride was a large ingredient in Phillis's composition. Although her husband
presented one of the blackest visages the sun ever shone upon, Phillis
appeared to hold in small esteem the ordinary servants on the plantation.
She was constantly chiding her children for using their expressions, and
tried to keep them in the house with white people as much as possible, that
they might acquire good manners. It was quite a grief to her that Bacchus
had not a more genteel dialect than the one he used. She had a great deal
of family pride; there was a difference in her mind between family servants
and those employed in field labor. For "the quality" she had the highest
respect; for "poor white people" only a feeling of pity. She had some noble
qualities, and some great weaknesses; but as a _slave!_ we present her to
the reader, and she must be viewed as such.

Miss Janet was, in her eyes, perfection. Her children were all the better
for her kind instructions. Her youngest child, Lydia, a girl of six or
seven years old, followed the old lady everywhere, carrying her key and
knitting-basket, looking for her spectacles, and maintaining short
conversations in a confidential tone.

One of Phillis's chiefest virtues was, that she had been able to bring
Bacchus into subjection, with the exception of his love for an occasional
spree. Spoiled by an indulgent master, his conceit and wilfulness had made
him unpopular with the servants, though his high tone of speaking, and a
certain pretension in his manner and dress, was not without its effect. He
was a sort of patriarch among waiters and carriage-drivers; could tell
anecdotes of dinners where Washington was a guest; and had been familiar
with certain titled people from abroad, whose shoes he had had the honor of
polishing. The only person in whose presence he restrained his braggadocio
style was Phillis. Her utter contempt for nonsense was too evident.
Bacchus was the same size as his master, and often fell heir to his
cast-off clothes. A blue dress-coat and buff vest that he thus inherited,
had a great effect upon him, bodily and spiritually. Not only did he
swagger more when arrayed in them, but his prayers and singing were doubly
effective. He secretly prided himself on a likeness to Mr. Weston, but this
must have been from a confusion of mind into which he was thrown, by
constantly associating himself with Mr. Weston's coats and pantaloons.

He once said to Phillis, "You might know master was a born gentleman by de
way his clothes fits. Dey don't hang about him, but dey 'pears as if dey
had grow'd about him by degrees; and if you notice, dey fits me in de same
way. Pity I can't wear his shoes, dey's so soft, and dey don't creak. I
hates boots and shoes all time creakin, its so like poor white folks when
they get dressed up on Sunday. I wonders often Miss Anna don't send me none
of master's old ruffled shirts. 'Spose she thinks a servant oughtn't to
wear 'em. I was a wishin last Sunday, when I gin in my 'sperience in
meetin, that I had one of master's old ruffled shirts on. I know I could a
'scoursed them niggers powerful. Its a hard thing to wear a ruffled shirt.
Dey sticks out and pushes up to people's chins--I mean people dat aint born
to wear 'em. Master wears 'em as if he was born in 'em, and I could too. I
wish you'd put Miss Janet up to gittin one or two for me. Miss Janet's
mighty 'bliging for an ole maid; 'pears as if she liked to see even cats
happy. When an ole maid don't hate cats, there aint nothin to be feared
from 'em."

Phillis ruled her husband in most things, but she indulged him in all his
whims that were innocent. She determined he should have, not an old ruffled
shirt, but a new one. She reported the case to Miss Janet, who set two of
her girls to work, and by Saturday night the shirt was made and done up,
and plaited. Bacchus was to be pleasantly surprised by it next morning
appearing on the top of his chest.

It happened that on this identical Sunday, Bacchus had (as the best of men
will sometimes) got up wrong foot foremost, and not having taken the
trouble to go back to bed, and get up again, putting the right foot out
first, he continued in the same unhappy state of mind. He made, as was his
wont, a hasty toilet before breakfast. He wore an old shirt, and a pair of
pantaloons that did not reach much above his hips. One of his slippers had
no instep; the other was without a heel. His grizzly beard made him look
like a wild man of the woods; a certain sardonic expression of countenance
contributed to this effect. He planted his chair on its remaining hind leg
at the cabin door, and commenced a systematic strain of grumbling before he
was fairly seated in it.

"I believe in my soul," Phillis heard him say, "dat ole Aunt Peggy al'ars
gits up wrong on a Sabbath mornin. Will any one hear her coughin? My narves
is racked a listenin to her. I don't see what she wants to live for, and
she most a hundred. I believe its purpose to bother me, Sabbath mornins.
Here, Phillis, who's this bin here, diggin up my sweet-williams I
planted?--cuss dese children--"

"The children had nothing to do with it," said Phillis. "Master wanted some
roots to give to Mr. Kent and he asked me for 'em. I dug 'em up and they're
all the better for being thinned out."

"I wish master'd mind his own business, and not be pryin and pilferin 'bout
other people's gardens; givin my flowers to that yallow-headed Abolitioner.
I'll speak my mind to him about it, any how."

"You'd better," said Phillis, drily.

"I will so," said Bacchus; "I'd rather he'd a burned 'em up. Kent's so
cussed mean, I don't b'lieve he'd 'low his flowers ground to grow in if he
could help hisself. If Miss Nannie'd let him, he'd string them niggers of
hers up, and wallop their gizzards out of 'em. I hate these Abolitioners. I
knows 'em,--I knows their pedigree."

"Much you know about 'em," said Phillis, who was shaking the dew drops off
her "morning glory."

"I knows enuff of 'em--I reckon Miss Nannie do, about dis time. De ole
gentleman did right, any how, when he lef 'em all to her--if he hadn't, dat
feller would a sold 'em all off to Georgia 'fore this, and a runn'd off wid
de money."

"Well," said Phillis, "you'd better mind your own affairs; come in and eat
your breakfast, if you want any, for I aint going to keep it standin there
all day, drawing the flies."

Bacchus kicked his slippers off and stumbled into a chair beside the table.
"I'll swar," said he, after a glance at the fried ham and eggs, "if ever a
man had to eat sich cookin as dis. Why didn't you fry 'em a little more?"
Phillis not minding him, he condescended to eat them all, and to do justice
to the meal in general.

"The old fool," thought Phillis, amused and provoked; "talkin of master's
pilferin--never mind, I've put his ruffled shirt out, and he'll get in a
good humor when he sees it, I reckon."

Having finished his breakfast, Bacchus put an enormous piece of tobacco in
his mouth, and commenced sharpening a small-sized scythe, that he called a
razor. In doing so, he made a noise like a high-pressure steamboat, now and
then breathing on it, and going in a severe fit of coughing with every
extra exertion. On his table was a broken piece of looking-glass, on the
quicksilver side of which, Arthur had, when a child, drawn a horse. Into
this Bacchus gave a look, preparatory to commencing operations. Then, after
due time spent in lathering, he hewed down at each shave, an amount of
black tow that was inconceivable. After he had done, he gathered up his
traps, and stowed them away in the corner of his chest.

Phillis sat outside the door, smoking; looking in at the window,
occasionally, to observe the effect of the first sight of the new shirt.
She saw him turn toward the little red painted bureau, on which she had
laid out his clean clothes, starting with surprise and pleasure, when his
eye first took in the delightful vision. Cortez, when he stood conqueror of
Mexico, did not feel the glow of satisfaction that thrilled through
Bacchus's heart as he gently patted the plaited ruffles and examined the
wristbands, which were stitched with the utmost neatness. He got weak in
the knees with pleasure, and sat down on the chest in the corner, to
support with more ease this sudden accession of happiness, while his wife
was reaping a harvest of gratification at the success of her efforts toward
his peace of mind. All at once she saw a change pass over his visage.
Bacchus recollected that it would not do for him so suddenly to get into a
good humor; besides, he reflected it was no more than Phillis's duty to
make him ruffled shirts, and she ought to have been so doing for the last
twenty years. These considerations induced him not to show much pleasure on
the occasion, but to pretend he was not at all satisfied with the style and
workmanship of the article in question.

"Why, lord a massy," said he, "Phillis, what do you call dis here? t'aint a
shirt? at fust I thought 'twas one of Miss Janet's short night gowns you'd
been a doing up for her."

Phillis smoked on, looking inquiringly into the distant hills.

"Phillis, you don't mean me to wear dis here to meetin? T'aint fit. Dese
wristbands is made out o' cotton, and I b'lieves in my soul Aunt Peggy done
dis stitchin widout any spectacles."

Phillis knocked the ashes out of her pipe, and puffed on.

"Look here, Phillis," said Bacchus, going to the door as fast as the
uncertain condition of his pantaloons would allow him, "did you 'spose I
was sich a fool as to wear dis to meetin to-day?"

"Yes, I did," said Phillis.

"Why, t'aint fit for a nigger to hoe corn in, its as big as a hay-stack."

"Have you tried it on?" asked Phillis.

"T'aint no use," said Bacchus, "I can tell by de looks."

"I'm sorry you don't like it," said Phillis.

"Like it," said Bacchus, contemptuously, "why, if it twasn't for the
trouble of going to my chist, I'd wear one of my old ones. Cuss de ruffles,
I wish you'd cut 'em off."

Bacchus went in, and in due time made his appearance in full dress. He wore
the blue coat and buff vest, and a pair of white pantaloons, made after the
old style. His shoes were as bright as his eyes, and his hat dusted until
it only wanted an entire new nap to make it as good as new. His hair was
combed in a sort of mound in front, and the _tout ensemble_ was astounding.
He passed Phillis in a dignified way, as if she were a valuable cat that he
would not like to tread upon.

Phillis looked after him with a most determined expression of face. If she
had been made out of stone she could not have seemed more resolved. She got
up, however, soon after, and went in to arrange matters after her lord and
master.

Bacchus purposely passed Aunt Peggy's cabin, making her a stylish bow.
Peggy had taken off her handkerchief, to air her head, her hair standing
off every which way, appearing determined to take her up somewhere, the
point of destination being a matter of no consequence. She chuckled audibly
as she saw Bacchus.

"Look at dat ole fool now, wid dat ruffled shirt on; he's gwine to bust dis
blessed mornin. Look at de way he's got his wool combed up. I b'lieves in
my soul he's got somebody buried up thar. He's a raal ole peacock. Dat's
de way! 'Kase I'm ole and wuthless, no matter 'bout me; and dat ole nigger
'lowed to make a fool of hisself, dressin up drunk in a ruffled shirt. No
matter, I'll be dead and out of der way, fore long."

Bacchus prayed with great effect this morning, calling himself and the
whole congregation the most dreadful names, with the utmost satisfaction.
He made a short address too, warning the servants against sin in general,
and a love of finery in particular. On his return he beamed forth upon
Phillis like one of her own "morning glories." The rest of the day he was
brimful of jokes and religion.

The next Sunday came around. Phillis smoked outside while Bacchus made his
toilet.

"Phillis," said the old fellow, blandly, coming to the door, "I don't see
my ruffled shirt out here."

"High" said Phillis, "I laid your shirt with the rest; but I'll look. Here
it is," said she, pleasantly, "jest where I put it."

"Why, whar's the ruffles?"

"I cut 'em off," said Phillis; "you asked me to."

Bacchus got weak in the knees again, and had to sit down on the old chest.
Not a word escaped his lips; a deep sigh burst from the pent-up boiler of
his remorse. With an agonized countenance he seized a piece of rag which he
had used as a shaving towel, and wiped away a repentant tear. His soul was
subdued within him. He went to meeting, but declined officiating in any
capacity, pleading a pain in his stomach as an excuse. At dinner he found
it impossible to finish the remaining quarter of a very tough old rooster
Phillis had stuffed and roasted for him. At sundown he ate a small-sized
hoe-cake and a tin pan of bonnyclabber; then observing "That he believed he
was put into dis world for nothing but to have trouble," he took to his
bed.

Phillis saw that he would be more docile for the rest of his life; for a
moment, the thought of restoring the shirt to its original splendor
occurred to her, but she chased it away as if it had been a fox, and took
the greatest satisfaction in "having given the old fool a lesson that would
last him all the days of his life."

"To you, generous and noble-minded men and women of the South, I appeal, (I
quote the words of a late writer on Abolitionism, when I say,) Is _man_
ever a creature to be trusted with wholly irresponsible power? Can anybody
fail to make the inference, what the practical result will be?"[A] Although
she is here speaking of slavery _politically_, can you not apply it to
matrimony in this miserable country of ours? Can we not remodel our
husbands, place them under our thumbs, and shut up the escape valves of
their grumbling forever? To be sure, St. Paul exhorts "wives to be obedient
to their own husbands," and "servants to be obedient to their own masters,"
but St. Paul was not an Abolitionist. He did not take into consideration
the necessities of the free-soil party, and woman's _rights_. This is the
era of mental and bodily emancipation. Take advantage of it, wives and
negroes! But, alas for the former! there is no society formed for _their_
benefit; their day of deliverance has not yet dawned, and until its first
gleamings arise in the _east_, they must wear their chains. Except when
some strong-minded female steps forth from the degraded ranks, and asserts
her position, whether by giving loose to that unruly member the tongue, or
by a piece of management which will give "an old fool a lesson that will
last him all the days of his life."




CHAPTER X.


Phillis was at her ironing early in the morning, for she liked to hurry it
over before the heat of the day. Her cabin doors were open, and her
flowers, which had been watered by a slight rain that fell about daybreak,
looked fresh and beautiful. Her house could be hardly called a cabin, for
it was very much superior to the others on the plantation, though they were
all comfortable. Phillis was regarded by the Weston family as the most
valuable servant they owned--and, apart from her services, there were
strong reasons why they were attached to her. She had nursed Mrs. Weston in
her last illness, and as her death occurred immediately after Arthur's
birth, she nourished him as her own child, and loved him quite as well. Her
comfort and wishes were always objects of the greatest consideration to the
family, and this was proved whenever occasion allowed. Her neatly
white-washed cottage was enclosed by a wooden fence in good condition--her
little garden laid out with great taste, if we except the rows of
stiffly-trimmed box which Phillis took pride in. A large willow tree shaded
one side of it; and on the other, gaudy sunflowers reared their heads, and
the white and Persian lilacs, contrasted with them. All kinds of small
flowers and roses adorned the front of the house, and you might as well
have sought for a diamond over the whole place, as a weed. The back of the
lot was arranged for the accommodation of her pigs and chickens; and two
enormous peacocks, that were fond of sunning themselves by the front door,
were the handsomest ornaments about the place.

The room in which Phillis ironed, was not encumbered with much furniture.
Her ironing-table occupied a large part of its centre, and in the ample
fireplace was blazing a fire great enough to cook a repast for a moderate
number of giants. Behind the back door stood a common pine bedstead, with
an enormous bed upon it. How any bedstead held such a bed was remarkable;
for Phillis believed there was a virtue in feathers even in the hottest
weather, and she would rather have gone to roost on the nearest tree than
to have slept on any thing else. The quilt was of a domestic blue and
white, her own manufacture, and the cases to the pillows were very white
and smooth. A little, common trundle bedstead was underneath, and on it was
the bedding which was used for the younger children at night. The older
ones slept in the servants' wing in the house, Phillis making use of two
enormous chests, which were Bacchus's, and her wardrobes, for sleeping
purposes for a couple more. To the right of the bed, was the small chest of
drawers, over which was suspended Bacchus's many-sided piece of shaving
glass, and underneath it a pine box containing his shaving weapons. Several
chairs, in a disabled state, found places about the room, and Phillis's
clothes-horse stood with open arms, ready to receive the white and
well-ironed linen that was destined to hang upon it. On each side of the
fireplace was a small dresser, with plates and jars of all sizes and
varieties, and over each were suspended some branches of trees, inviting
the flies to rest upon them. There was no cooking done in this room, there
being a small shed for that purpose, back of the house; not a spot of
grease dimmed the whiteness of the floors, and order reigned supreme,
marvellous to relate! where a descendant of Afric's daughters presided.

Lydia had gone as usual to Miss Janet, and several of the other children
were busy about the yard, feeding the chickens, sweeping up, and employed
in various ways; the only one who ever felt inclined to be lazy, and who
was in body and mind the counterpart of his father, being seated on the
door step, declaring he had a pain in his foot.

The adjoining room was the place in which Phillis's soul delighted, the
door of it being at all times locked, and the key lost in the depths of her
capacious pocket. From this place of retirement it emerged when any of the
family honored her with their company, especially when attended by
visitors; and after their departure, traces of their feet were carefully
sought with keen and anxious eyes, and quickly obliterated with broom and
duster.

This, her sanctum sanctorum, was a roomy apartment with three windows, each
shaded by white cotton curtains. On the floor was a home-made carpet; no
hand was employed in its manufacture save its owner's, from the time she
commenced tearing the rags in strips, to the final blow given to the last
tack that confined it to the floor. A very high post bedstead, over which
were suspended white cotton curtains, gave an air of grandeur to one side
of the room. No one had slept in it for ten years, though it was made with
faultless precision. The quilt over it contained pieces of every calico and
gingham dress that had been worn in the Weston family since the Revolution,
and in the centre had been transferred from a remnant of curtain calico, an
eagle with outstretched wings. The pillow cases were finished off with tape
trimming, Alice's work, at Cousin Janet's suggestion. Over an old
fashioned-mahogany bureau hung an oval looking glass, which was carefully
covered from the flies. An easy chair stood by the window at the foot of
the bed, which had, like most of the other ancient looking pieces of
furniture, occupied a conspicuous place in Mr. Weston's house. Six chairs
planted with unyielding stiffness against the walls seemed to grow out of
the carpet; and the very high fender enclosed a pair of andirons that any
body with tolerable eyesight could have seen their faces in.

Over the mantel piece were suspended two pictures. One was a likeness of
Mr. Weston, cut in paper over a black surface, with both hands behind him,
and his right foot foremost; the other was a picture of the Shepherds in
Pilgrim's Progress, gazing through a spy-glass at the Celestial city.
Alice's first sampler, framed in a black frame, hung on one side of the
room, and over it was a small sword which used to swing by Arthur's side,
when receiving lessons in military science from Bacchus, who, in his own
opinion, was another Bonaparte. Into this room Phillis's children gazed
with wondering eyes; and those among the plantation servants who had been
honored with a sight of it, declared it superior, in every respect, to
their master's drawing room; holding in especial reverence a small table,
covered with white, which supported the weight of Phillis's family Bible,
where were registered in Arthur's and Alice's handwriting, the births of
all her twelve descendants, as well as the ceremony which united her to
their illustrious father.

Phillis was ironing away with a good heart, when she was interrupted by a
summons to attend her master in the library. She obeyed it with very little
delay, and found Mr. Weston seated in his arm-chair, looking over a note
which he held in his hand.

"Come in, Phillis," he said, in a kind but grave manner. "I want to speak
with you for a few moments; and as I have always found you truthful, I have
no doubt you will be perfectly so on the present occasion."

"What is it, master?" Phillis said, respectfully.

"I received a note, yesterday, from Mr. Dawson, about his servant Jim, who
ran away three weeks ago. He charges me with having permitted my servants
to shelter him for the night, on my plantation; having certain information,
that he was seen leaving it the morning after the severe storm we had about
that time. If you know any thing of it, Phillis, I require you to tell it
to me; I hardly think any of the other servants had opportunities of doing
so, and yet I cannot believe that you would so far forget yourself as to do
what is not only wrong, but calculated to involve me in serious
difficulties with my neighbors."

"I hope you will not be angry with me, master?" said Phillis, "but I can't
tell a lie; I let Jim stay in my room that night, and I've been mightily
troubled about it; I was afeard you would be angry with me, if you heard of
it, and yet, master, I could not help it when it happened."

"Could not help it! Phillis," said Mr. Weston. "What do you mean by that?
Why did you not inform me of it, that I might have sent him off?"

"I couldn't find it in my heart, sir," said Phillis, the tears coming in
her fine eyes. "The poor creature come in when the storm was at its worst.
I had no candle lit; for the lightning was so bright that I hadn't no call
for any other light. Bacchus was out in it all, and I was thinking he would
be brought in dead drunk, or dead in earnest, when all at once Jim burst
open the door, and asked me to let him stay there. I know'd he had run
away, and at first I told him to go off, and not be gitting me into
trouble; but, master, while I was sending him off such a streak of
lightning come in, and such a crash of thunder, that I thought the Almighty
had heard me turn him out, and would call me to account for it, when Jim
and me should stand before him at the Judgment Day. I told Jim he had
better go back to his master, that he wouldn't have any comfort, always
hiding himself, and afeard to show his face, but he declared he would die
first; and so as I couldn't persuade him to go home agin, I couldn't help
myself, for I thought it would be a sin and shame, to turn a beast out in
such a storm as that. As soon as the day began to break, and before, too, I
woke him up, and told him never to come to my cabin again, no matter what
happened. And so, master, I've told you the whole truth, and I am sure you
couldn't have turned the poor wretch out to perish in that storm, no
matter what would have come of it after."

Phillis had gained confidence as she proceeded, and Mr. Weston heard her
without interruption.

"I can hardly blame you," he then said, "for what you have done; but,
Phillis, it must never be repeated. Jim is a great rascal, and if I were
his master I would be glad to be rid of him, but my plantation must not
shelter runaway slaves. I am responsible for what my servants do. I should
be inclined to hold other gentlemen responsible for the conduct of theirs.
The laws of Virginia require the rights of the master to be respected, and
though I shan't make a constable of myself, still I will not allow any such
thing to be repeated. Did Bacchus know it?"

"No, indeed, sir; he hates Jim, and no good, may be, would have come of his
knowing it; besides, he was asleep long after Jim went off, and there was
too much whiskey in him to depend on what he'd have to say."

"That will do, Phillis; and see that such a thing never happens again,"
said Mr. Weston.

Phillis went back to her ironing, assured her master was not angry with
her. Yet she sighed as she thought of his saying, "see that such a thing
never happens again." "If it had been a clear night," she thought within
herself, "he shouldn't have stayed there. But it was the Lord himself that
sent the storm, and I can't see that he never sends another. Anyway its
done, and can't be helped;" and Phillis busied herself with her work and
her children.

I have not given Phillis's cottage as a specimen of the cabins of the
negroes of the South. It is described from the house of a favorite servant.
Yet are their cabins generally, healthy and airy. Interest, as well as a
wish for the comfort and happiness of the slave, dictates an attention to
his wants and feelings. "Slavery," says Voltaire, "is as ancient as war;
war as human nature." It is to be wished that _truth_ had some such
intimate connection with human nature. Who, for instance, could read
without an indignant thought, the following description from the pen of
Mrs. Stowe: "They (their cabins) were rude shells, destitute of any pieces
of furniture, except a heap of straw, foul with dirt, spread confusedly
over the floor." "The small village was alive with no inviting sounds;
hoarse, guttural voices, contending at the handmills, where their morsel of
hard corn was yet to be ground into meal to fit it for the cake that was to
constitute their only supper." But such statements need no denial; the very
appearance of the slaves themselves show their want of truth. Look at their
sound and healthy limbs, hear the odd, but sweet and musical song that
arrests the traveler as he goes on his way; listen to the ready jest which
is ever on his lips, and see if the slavery which God has permitted in all
ages to exist, is as is here described; and judge if our fair Southern land
is tenanted by such fiends as they are represented to be, by those who are
trying to make still worse the condition of a mass of God's creatures, born
to a life of toil, but comparative freedom from care. If it be His will
that men should be born free and equal, that will is not revealed in the
Bible from the time of the patriarchs to the present day. There are
directions there for the master and the slave. When the period of
emancipation advances, other signs of the times will herald it, besides the
uncalled-for interference, and the gross misrepresentations, of the men and
women of the North.

Sidney Smith said of a man, who was a great talker, that a few flashes of
silence would make a great improvement in him. So of the Abolition cause, a
few flashes of truth would make it decidedly more respectable.




CHAPTER XI.


"Come, Alice," said Mr. Barbour, "I hear, not the trump of war, but the
soul-inspiring scrape of the banjo. I notice the servants always choose the
warmest nights to dance in. Let us go out and see them."

"We'll go to the arbor," said Alice; "where we will be near enough to see
Uncle Bacchus's professional airs. Ole Bull can't exceed him in that
respect."

"Nor equal him," said Mr. Barbour. "Bacchus is a musician by nature; his
time is perfect; his soul is absorbed in his twangs and flourishes."

"I must come, too," said Mr. Weston. "You are afraid of the night air,
Cousin Janet?"

"Never mind me," said Cousin Janet; "I'll sit here and fan myself."

"And as I prefer music, especially the banjo, at a distance, I will stay
too," said Mrs. Weston.

Aunt Phillis was smoking outside her door, her mind divided between
speculations as to what had become of Jim, and observations on the
servants, as they were collecting from every direction, to join in the
dancing or to find a good seat to look on.

The first sound of the banjo aroused Bacchus the younger from his dreams.
He bounded from his bed on the chest, regardless of the figure he cut in
his very slight dishabille, and proceeded to the front door, _set_, as his
mother would have said, on having his own way.

"Oh, mammy," he said, "dare's de banjo."

"What you doin here?" said Phillis. "Go long to bed this minute, 'fore I
take a switch to you."

"Oh, mammy," said the boy, regardless of the threat in his enthusiastic
state of mind, "jist listen, daddy's gwine to play 'Did you ever see the
devil?'"

"Will any body listen to the boy? If you don't go to bed"--

"Oh, mammy, _please_ lem me go. Dare's Jake, he's gwine to dance. Massa
said I'd beat Jake dancin one o' dese days."

"High," said Phillis; "where's the sore

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