phillis's cabin(parody of Uncle Tom's Cabin)

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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]

Language: English

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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 ****tion 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 ****tion 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
puni****ng 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
****dness 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 wor****p. Have not they been fulfilled?

However inexplicable may be the fact that God would appoint the curse of
continual servitude on a ****tion 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 ****tion 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 *****."

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 wor****p, 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 ****tion 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 ****trait of Wa****ngton,) 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
****tion 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,
accompli****ng 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 sup****t, 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 ****ter'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 ****ch 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-fa****oned ****rt 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 ****nes 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 Wa****ngton, 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 cir***stances 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
sup****ted 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, sup****ting 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 m***** 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
sup****t.

"'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 cir***stance 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 cir***stance, 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 m***** 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 fa****on
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 m*****, 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, pu****ng 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
****t,
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 astoni****ng, 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 cu****ons 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 in***bent 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 fi****ng 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 astoni****ngly, 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, wi****ng her
daughter to have the benefit of her services, and feeling perfect
confidence in Polly's promise that under no cir***stances 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 fa****on, 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
cir***stances, 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 ****ft 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 cir***stances 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 ****k and a jug of mol***** 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 wa****n. 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 mol***** 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 ****vered 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 Wa****ngton 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 cl*****
of society, are proverbially improvident--and yours, in sickness, and in
old age, are often victims of want and suffering. Ours in such
cir***stances, 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 ****p come, and that gal's father and mother must die of
the
****p-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 *** 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 Wa****ngton, 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
y