But the“sale-day” came at last; I have a confused idea of it. The ladies left the day before. Miss Betsy took an affectionate leave of me; ah, I did not then know that it was a final one.

The servants were all sold, as I heard one man say, at very high rates, though not under the auctioneer's hammer. To that my young masters were opposed.

A tall, hard-looking man came up to me, very roughly seized my arm, bade me open my mouth; examined my teeth; felt of my limbs; made me run a few yards; ordered me to jump; and, being well satisfied with my activity, said to Master Edward, “I will take her.” Little comprehending the full meaning of that brief sentence, I rejoined the group of children from which I had been summoned. After awhile, my mother came up to me, holding a wallet in her hand. The tear-drops stood on her cheeks, and her whole frame was distorted with pain. She walked toward me a few steps, then stopped, and suddenly shaking her head, exclaimed, “No, no, I can't do it, I can't do it.” I was amazed at her grief, but an indefinable fear kept me from rushing to her.

“Here, Kitty,” she said to an old negro woman, who stood near, “you break it to her. I can't do it. No, it will drive me mad. Oh, heaven! that I was ever born to see this day.” Then rocking her body back and forward in a transport of agony, she gave full vent to her feelings in a long, loud, piteous wail. Oh, God! that cry of grief, that knell of a breaking heart, rang in my ears for many long and painful days. At length Aunt Kitty approached me, and, laying her hand on my shoulder, kindly said:

“Alas, poor chile, you mus' place your trus' in the good God above, you mus' look to Him for help; you are gwine to leave your mother now. You are to have a new home, a new master, and I hope new friends. May the Lord be with you.” So saying, she broke suddenly away from me; but I saw that her wrinkled face was wet with tears.

With perhaps an idle, listless air, I received this astounding news; but a whirlwind was gathering in my breast. What could she mean by new friends and a new home? Surely I was to take my mother with me! No mortal power would dare to sever us. Why, I remember that when master sold the gray mare, the colt went also. Who could, who would, who dared, separate the parent from her offspring? Alas! I had yet to learn that the white man dared do all that his avarice might suggest; and there was no human tribunal where the outcast African could pray for “right!” Ah, when I now think of my poor mother's form, as it swayed like a willow in the tempest of grief; when I remember her bitter cries, and see her arms thrown franticly toward me, and hear her earnest—oh, how earnest—prayer for death or madness, then I wonder where were Heaven's thunderbolts; but retributive Justice will come sooner or later, and He who remembers mercy now will not forget justice then.

“Come along, gal, come along, gather up your duds, and come with me,” said a harsh voice; and, looking up from my bewildered reverie, I beheld the man who had so carefully examined me. I was too much startled to fully understand the words, and stood vacantly gazing at him. This strange manner he construed into disrespect; and, raising his riding-whip, he brought it down with considerable force upon my back. It was the first lash I had ever given to me in anger. I smarted beneath the stripe, and a cry of pain broke from my lips. Mother sprang to me, and clasping my quivering form in her arms, cried out to my young master, “Oh, Master Eddy, have mercy on me, on my child. I have served you faithfully, I nursed you, I grew up with your poor mother, who now sleeps in the cold ground, I beg you now to save my child,” and she sank down at his feet, whilst her tears fell fast.

Then my poor old grandfather, who was called the patriarch slave, being the eldest one of the race in the whole neighborhood, joined us. His gray head, wrinkled face, and bent form, told of many a year of hard servitude.

“What is it, Massa Ed, what is it Kaisy be takin' on so 'bout? You haint driv the chile off? No—no! Young massa only playin' trick now; come Kais' don't be makin' fool of yoursef young massa not gwine to separate you and the chile.”

These words seemed to reanimate my mother, and she looked up at Master Edward with a grateful expression of face, whilst she clasped her arms tightly around his knees, exclaiming, “Oh, bless you, young master, bless you forever, and forgive poor Kaisy for distrusting you, but Pompey told me the child was sold away from me, and that gemman struck her;” and here again she sobbed, and caught hold of me convulsively, as if she feared I might be taken.

I looked at my young master's face, and the ghastly whiteness which overspread it, the tearful glister of his eye, and the strange tremor of his figure, struck me with fright. I knew my doom. Young as I was, my first dread was for my mother; I forgot my own perilous situation, and mourned alone for her. I would have given worlds could insensibility have been granted her.

“I've got no time to be foolin' longer with these niggers, come 'long, gal. Ann, I believe, you tole me was her name,” he said, as he turned to Master Edward. Another wild shriek from my mother, a deep sigh from grandpap, and I looked at master Ed, who was striking his forehead vehemently, and the tears were trickling down his cheeks.

“Here, Mr. Peterkin, here!” exclaimed Master Edward, “here is your bill of sale; I will refund your money; release me from my contract.”

Peterkin cast on him one contemptuous look, and with a low, chuckling laugh, replied, “No; you must stand to your bargain. I want that gal; she is likely, and it will do me good to thrash the devil out of her;” turning to me he added, “quit your snuffling and snubbing, or I'll give you something to cry 'bout;” and, roughly catching me by the arm, he hurried me off, despite the entreaty of Master Ed, the cries of mother, and the feeble supplication of my grandfather, I dared to cast one look behind, and beheld my mother wallowing in the dust, whilst her frantic cries of “save my child, save my child!” rang with fearful agony in my ears. Master Ed covered his face with his hands, and old grandfather reverently raised his to Heaven, as if beseeching mercy. The sight of this anguish-stricken group filled me with a new sense of horror, and forgetful of the presence of Peterkin, I burst into tears: but I was quickly recalled by a fierce and stinging blow from his stout riding-whip.

“See here, nigger (this man, raised among negroes, used their dialect), if you dar' to give another whimper, I'll beat the very life out 'en yer.” This terrific threat seemed to scare away every thought of precaution; and, by a sudden and agile bound, I broke loose from him and darted off to the sad group, from which I had been so ruthlessly torn, and, sinking down before Master Ed, I cried out in a wild, despairing tone, “Save me, good master, save me—kill me, or hide me from that awful man, he'll kill me;” and, seizing hold of the skirt of his coat, I covered my face with it to shut out the sight of Peterkin, whose -red eye-balls were glaring with fury upon me. Oath after oath escaped his lips. Mother saw him rapidly approaching to recapture me, and, with the noble, maternal instinct of self-sacrifice, sprang forward only to receive the heavy blow of his uplifted whip. She reeled, tottered and sank stunned upon the ground.

“Thar, take that, you yaller hussy, and cuss yer nigger hide for daring to raise this rumpus here,” he said, as he rapidly strode past her.

Gently, Mr. Peterkin,“ exclaimed Master Edward, “let me speak to her; a little encouragement is better than force.”

“This is my encouragement for them,” and he shook his whip.

Unheeding him, Master Edward turned to me, saying, “Ann, come now, be a good girl, go with this gentleman, and be an obedient girl; he will give you a kind, nice home; sometimes he will let you come to see your mother. Here is some money for you to buy a pretty head-handkerchief; now go with him.” These kind words and encouraging tones, brought a fresh gush of tears to my eyes. Taking the half-dollar which he offered me, and reverently kissing the skirt of his coat, I rejoined Peterkin; one look at his cold, harsh face, chilled my resolution; yet I had resolved to go without another word of complaint. I could not suppress a groan when I passed the spot where my mother lay still insensible from the effects of the blow

One by one the servants, old and young, gave me a hearty shake of the hand as I passed the place where they were standing in a row for the inspection of buyers.

I had nerved myself, and now that the parting from mother was over, I felt that the bitterness of death was past, and I could meet anything. Nothing now could be a trial, yet I was touched when the servants offered me little mementoes and keepsakes. One gave a yard of ribbon, another a half-paper of pins, a third presented a painted cotton head-tie; others gave me ginger-cakes, candies, or small coins. Out of their little they gave abundantly, and, small as were the bestowments, I well knew that they had made sacrifices to give even so much. I was too deeply affected to make any other acknowledgment than a nod of the head; for a choking thickness was gathering in my throat, and a blinding mist obscured my sight. I did not see my young mistresses, for they had left the house, declaring they could not bear to witness a spectacle so revolting to their feelings.

Upon reaching the gate I observed a red-painted wagon, with an awning of domestic cotton. Standing near it, and holding the horses, was an old, worn, scarred, weather-beaten negro man, who instantly took off his hat as Mr. Peterkin approached.

“Well, Nace, you see I've bought this wench to-day,” and he shook his whip over my head.

“Ya! ya! Massa, but she ha' got one goot home wid yer.”

“Yes, has she, Nace; but don't yer think the slut has been cryin' 'bout it!”

“Lor' bless us, Massa, but a little of the beech-tree will fetch that sort of truck out of her,” and old Nace showed his broken teeth, as he gave a forced laugh.

“I guess I can take the fool out en her, by the time I gives her two or three swings at the whippin'-post.”

Nace shook his head knowingly, and gave a low guttural laugh, by way of approval of his master's capabilities.

“Jump in the wagon, gal,” said my new master, “jump in quick; I likes to see niggers active, none of your pokes 'bout me; but this will put sperit in 'em”, and there was another defiant flourish of the whip.

I got in with as much haste and activity as I could possibly command. This appeared to please Mr. Peterkin, and he gave evidence of it by saying,—

“Well, that does pretty well; a few stripes a day, and you'll be a valerble slave;” and, getting in the vehicle himself, he ordered Nace to drive on “pretty peart,” as night would soon overtake us.

Just as we were starting I perceived Josh, one of my playmates, running after us with a small bundle, shouting, —

“Here, Ann, you've lef' yer bundle of close.”

“Stop, Nace,” said Mr. Peterkin, “let's git the gal's duds, or I'll be put to the 'spence of gittin' new ones for her.”

Little Josh came bounding up, and, with an affectionate manner, handed me the little wallet that contained my entire wardrobe. I leaned forward, and, in a muffled tone, but with my whole heart hanging on my lip, asked Josh “how is mother?” but a cut of Nace's whip, and a quick “gee-up,” put me beyond the hearing of the reply. I strained my eyes after Josh, to interpret the motion of his lips.

In a state of hopeless agony I sat through the remainder of the journey. The coarse jokes and malignant threats of Mr. Peterkin were answered with laughing and dutiful assent by the veteran Nace. I tried to deceive my persecutors by feigning sleep, but, ah, a strong finger held my lids open, and slumber fled away to gladden lighter hearts and bless brighter eyes.

THE young moon had risen in mild and meek serenity to bless the earth. With a strange and fluctuating light, the pale rays played over the leaves and branches of the forest trees, and flickered fantastically upon the ground! Only a few stars were discernible in the highest dome of heaven! The lowing of wandering cows, or the chirp of a night-bird, had power to beguile memory back to a thousand vanished joys. I mused and wept; still the wagon jogged along. Mr. Peterkin sat half-sleeping beside old Nace, whose occasional “gee-up” to the lagging horses, was the only human sound that broke the soft serenity! Every moment seemed to me an age, for I dreaded the awakening of my cruel master. Ah, little did I dream that that horrid day's experience was but a brief foretaste of what I had yet to suffer; and well it was for me that a kind and merciful Providence veiled that dismal future from my gaze. About midnight I had fallen into a quiet sleep, gilded by the sweetest dream, a dream of the old farm-house, of mother, grandfather, and my companions.

From this vision I was aroused by the gruff voice of Peterkin, bidding me get out of the wagon. That voice was to me more frightful and fearful than the blast of the last trump. Springing suddenly up, I threw off the shackles of sleep; and consciousness, with all its direful burden, returned fully to me. Looking round, by the full light of the moon, I beheld a large country house, half hidden among trees. A white paling enclosed the ground, and the scent of dewy roses and other garden flowers filled the atmosphere.

“Now, Nace, put up the team, and git yourself to bed,” said Peterkin. Turning to me he added, “give this gal a blanket, and let her sleep on the floor in Polly's cabin; keep a good watch on her, that she don't try to run off.”

“Needn't fear dat, Massa, for de bull-dog tear her to pieces if she 'tempt dat. By gar, I'd like to see her be for tryin' it;” and the old negro gave a fiendish laugh, as though he thought it would be rare sport.

Mr. Peterkin entered the handsome house, of which he was the rich and respected owner, whilst I, conducted by Nace, repaired to a dismal cabin. After repeated knocks at the door of this most wretched hovel, an old crone of a negress muttered between her clenched teeth, “Who's dar?”

“It's me, Polly; what you be 'bout dar, dat you don't let me in?”

“What for you be bangin' at my cabin? I's got no bisness wid you.”

“Yes, but I's got bisness wid you; stir yer ole stumps now.”

“I shan't be for troublin' mysef and lettin' you in my cabin at dis hour ob de night-time; and if you doesn't be off, I'll make Massa gib you a sound drubbin' in de mornin'.”

“Ha, ha! now I'm gots you sure; for massa sends me here himsef.”

This was enough for Polly; she broke off all further colloquy, and opened the door instantly.

The pale moonlight rested as lovingly upon that dreary, unchinked, rude, and wretched hovel, as ever it played over the gilded roof and frescoed dome of ancient palaces; but ah, what squalor did it not reveal! There, resting upon pallets of straw, like pigs in a litter, were groups of children, and upon a rickety cot the old woman reposed her aged limbs. How strange, lonely, and forbidding appeared that tenement, as the old woman stood in the doorway, her short and scanty kirtles but poorly concealing her meagre limbs. A dark, scowling countenance looked out from under a small cap of faded muslin; little bleared eyes glared upon me, like the red light of a heated furnace. Instinctively I shrank back from her, but Nace was tired, and not wishing to be longer kept from his bed, pushed me within the door, saying—

“Thar, Polly, Massa say dat gal mus' sleep in dar.”

“Come 'long in, gal,” said the woman. and closing the door, she pointed to a patch of straw, “sleep dar.”

The moonbeams stole in through the crevices and cracks of the cabin, and cast a mystic gleam upon the surrounding objects. Without further word or comment, Polly betook herself to her cot, and was soon snoring away as though there were no such thing as care or slavery in the world. But to me sleep was a stranger. There I lay through the remaining hours of the night, wearily thinking of mother and home. “Sold,” I murmured. “What is it to be sold? Why was I sold? Why separated from my mother and friends? Why couldn't mother come with me, or I stay with her? I never saw Mr. Peterkin before. Who gave him the right to force me from my good home and kind friends?” These questions would arise in my mind, and, alas! I had no answers for them. Young and ignorant as I was, I had yet some glimmering idea of justice. Later in life, these same questions have often come to me, as sad commentaries upon the righteousness of human laws; and, when sitting in splendid churches listening to ornate and worldly harangues from holy men, these same thoughts have tingled upon my tongue. And I have been surprised to see how strangely these men mistake the definition of servitude. Why, from the exposition of the worthy divines, one would suppose that servitude was a fair synonym for slavery! Admitting that we are the descendants of the unfortunate Ham, and endure our bondage as the penalty affixed to his crime, there can be no argument or fact adduced, whereby to justify slavery as a moral right. Serving and being a slave are very different. And why may not Ham's descendants claim a reprieve by virtue of the passion and death of Christ? Are we excluded from the grace of that atonement? No; there is no argument, no reason, to justify slavery, save that of human cupidity. But there will come a day, when each and every one who has violated that divine rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” will stand with a fearful accountability before the Supreme Judge. Then will there be loud cries and lamentations, and a wish for the mountains to hide them from the eye of Judicial Majesty.

The next morning I rose with the dawn, and sitting upright upon my pallet, surveyed the room and its tenants. There, in comfortless confusion, upon heaps of straw, slumbered five children, dirty and ragged. On the broken cot, with a remnant of a coverlet thrown over her, lay Aunt Polly. A few broken stools and one pine box, with a shelf containing a few tins, constituted the entire furniture.

“And this wretched pen is to be my home; these dirty-looking children my associates.” Oh, how dismal were my thoughts; but little time had I for reflection. The shrill sound of a hunting-horn was the summons for the servants to arise, and woe unto him or her who was found missing or tardy when the muster-roll was called. Aunt Polly and the five children sprang up, and soon dressed themselves. They then appeared in the yard, where a stout, athletic man, with full beard and a dull eye, stood with whip in hand. He called over the names of all, and portioned out their daily task. With a smile more of terror than pleasure, they severally received their orders. I stood at the extremity of the range. After disposing of them in order, the overseer (for such he was) looked at me fiercely, and said:

“Come here, gal.”

With a timid step, I obeyed.

“What are you fit for? Not much of anything, ha?” and catching hold of my ear he pulled me round in front of him, saying,

“Well, you are likely-looking; how much work can you do?”

I stammered out something as to my willingness to do anything that was required of me. He examined my hands, and concluding from their dimensions that I was best suited for house-work, he bade me remain in the kitchen until after breakfast. When I entered the room designated, par politesse, as the kitchen, I was surprised to find such a desolate and destitute-looking place. The apartment, which was very small, seemed to be a sort of Pandora's Box, into which everything of household or domestic use had been crowded. The walls were hung round with saddles, bridles, horse-blankets, &c. Upon a swinging shelf in the centre of the room were ranged all the seeds, nails, ropes, dried elms, and the rest of the thousand and one little notions of domestic economy. A rude, wooden shelf contained a dark, dusty row of unclean tins; broken stools and old kegs were substituted for chairs; upon these were stationed four or five ebony children; one of them, a girl about nine years old, with a dingy face, to which soap and water seemed foreign, and with shaggy, moppy hair, twisted in short, stringy plaits, sat upon a broken keg, with a squalid baby in her lap, which she jostled upon her knee, whilst she sang in a sharp key, “hushy-by-baby.” Three other wretched children, in tow-linen dresses, whose brevity of skirts made a sad appeal to the modesty of spectators, were perched round this girl, whom they called Amy. They were furiously begging Aunt Polly (the cook) to give them a piece of hoe-cake.

“Be off wid you, or I'll tell Massa, or de overseer,” answered the beldame, as their solicitations became more clamorous. This threat had power to silence the most earnest demands of the stomach, for the fiend of hunger was far less dreaded than the lash of Mr. Jones, the overseer. My entrance, and the sight of a strange face, was a diversion for them. They crowded closer to Amy, and eyed me with a half doubtful, and altogether ludicrous air.

“Who's her?” “whar she come from?” “when her gwyn away?” and such like expressions, escaped them in stifled tones.

“Come in, set down,” said Aunt Polly to me, and, turning to the group of children, she levelled a poker at them.

“Keep still dar, or I'll break your pates 'wid dis poker.”

Instantly they cowered down beside Amy, still peeping over her shoulder, to get a better view of me. With a very uneasy feeling I seated myself upon the broken stool, to which Aunt Polly pointed. One of the boldest of the children came up to me, and, slyly touching my dress, said, “tag,” then darted off to her hiding-place, with quite the air of a victress. Amy made queer grimaces at me. Every now and then placing her thumb to her nose, and gyrating her finger towards me, she would drawl out, “you ka-n-t kum it.” All this was perfect jargon to me; for at home, though we had been but imperfectly protected by clothing from the vicissitudes of seasons, and though our fare was simple, coarse, and frugal, had we been kindly treated, and our manners trained into something like the softness of humanity. There, as regularly as the Sunday dawned, were we summoned to the house to hear the Bible read, and join (though at a respectful distance) with the family in prayer. But this I subsequently learned was an unusual practice in the neighborhood, and was attributed to the fact, that my master's wife had been born in the State of Massachusetts, where the people were crazy and fanatical enough to believe that “niggers” had souls, and were by God held to be responsible beings.

The loud blast of the horn was the signal for the “hands” to suspend their labor and come to breakfast. Two negro men and three women rushed in at the door, ravenous for their rations. I looked about for the table, but, seeing none, concluded it had yet to be arranged; for at home we always took our meals on a table. I was much surprised to see each one here take a slice of fat bacon and a pone of bread in his or her hand, and eat it standing.

“Well,” said one man, “I'd like to git a bit more bread.”

“You's had your sher,” replied Aunt Polly. “Mister Jones ses one slice o' meat and a pone o' bread is to be the 'lowance.”

“I knows it, but if thar's any scraps left from the house table, you wimmin folks always gits it.”

“Who's got de bes' right? Sure, and arn't de one who cooks it got de bes' right to it?” asked Polly, with a triumphant voice.

THE family with whom I now found a home, consisted of Mr. Peterkin and his two daughters, Jane and Matilda, and a son, John, much younger than the ladies.

The death of Mrs. Peterkin had occurred about three years before I went to live with them. The girls had been very well educated by a Miss Bradly, from Massachusetts, a spinster of “no particular age.” From her, the Misses Peterkin learned to set a great value upon correct and elegant language. She was the model and instructress of the country round; for, under her jurisdiction, nearly all the farmers' daughters had been initiated into the mysteries of learning. Scattered about, over the house, I used to frequently find odd leaves of school-books, elementary portions of natural sciences, old readers, story-books, novels, &c. These I eagerly devoured; but I had to be very secret about it, studying by dying embers, reading by moon-light, sun-rise, &c. Had I been discovered, a severe punishment would have followed. Miss Jane used to say, “a literary negro was disgusting, not to be tolerated.” Though she quarrelled with the vulgar talk and bad pronunciation of her father, he was made of too rough material to receive a polish; and, though Miss Bradly had improved the minds of the girls, her efforts to soften their hearts had met with no success. They were the same harsh, cold and selfish girls that she had found them. It was Jane's boast that she had whipped more negroes than any other girl of her age. Matilda, though less severe, had still a touch of the tigress.

This family lived in something like “style.” They were famed for their wealth and social position throughout the neighborhood. The house was a low cottage structure, with large and airy apartments; an arching piazza ran the whole length of the building, and around its trellised balustrade the clematis vine twined in rich luxuriance. A primrose-walk led up to the door, and the yard blossomed like a garden, with the fairest flowers. It was a very Paradise of homes; pity, ah pity 'twas, that human fiends marred its beauty. There the sweet flowers bloomed, the young birds warbled, pure springs gushed forth with limpid joy—there truly, “All, save the spirit of man, was divine.” The traveller often paused to admire the tasteful arrangements of the grounds, the neat and artistic plan of the house, and the thorough “air” of everything around. It seemed to bespeak refined minds, and delicate, noble natures; but oh, the flowers were no symbols of the graces of their hearts, for the dwellers of this highly-adorned spot were people of coarse natures, rough and cruel as barbarians. The nightly stars and the gentle moon, the deep glory of the noontide, or the blowing of twilight breezes over this chosen home, had no power to ennoble or elevate their souls. Acts of diabolical cruelty and wickedness were there perpetrated without the least pang of remorse or regret. Whilst the white portion of the family were revelling in luxury, the slaves were denied the most ordinary necessaries. The cook, who prepared the nicest dainties, the most tempting viands, had to console herself with a scanty diet, coarse enough to shock even a beggar. What wonder, then, if the craving of the stomach should allow her no escape from downright theft! Who is there that could resist? Where is the honesty that could not, under such circumstances, find an argument to justify larceny?

Every evening Miss Bradly came to spend an hour or so with them. The route from the school to her boarding-house wound by Mr. Peterkin's residence, and the temptation to talk to the young ladies, who were emphatically the belles of the neighborhood, was too great for resistance. This lady was of that class of females which we meet in every quarter of the globe,—of perfectly kind intentions, yet without the independence necessary for their open and free expression. Bred in the North, and having from her infancy imbibed the spirit of its free institutions, in her secret soul she loathed the abomination of slavery, every pulse of her heart cried out against it, yet with a strange compliance she lived in its midst, never once offering an objection or an argument against it. It suited her policy to laugh with the pro-slavery man at the fanaticism of the Northern Abolitionist. With a Judas-like hypocrisy, she sold her conscience for silver; and for a mess of pottage, bartered the noble right of free expression. 'Twas she, base renegade from a glorious cause, who laughed loudest and repeated wholesale libels and foul aspersions upon the able defenders of abolition—noble and generous men, lofty philanthropists, who are willing, for the sake of principle, to wear upon their brows the mark of social and political ostracism! But a day is coming, a bright millennial day, when the names of these inspired prophets shall be inscribed proudly upon the litany of freedom; when their noble efforts for social reform shall be told in wondering pride around the winter's fire. Then shall their fame shine with a glory which no Roman tradition can eclipse. Freed from calumny, the names of Parker, Seward and Sumner, will be ranked, as they deserve to be, with Washington, Franklin and Henry. All glory to the American Abolitionists. Though they must now possess their souls in patience, and bear the brand of social opprobrium, yet will posterity accord them the meed of everlasting honor. They, “who sow in dishonor shall be raised in glory.” Already the watchman upon the tower has discerned the signal. A light beameth in the East, which no man can quench. A fire has broken forth, which needs only a breath to fan it into a flame. The eternal law of sovereign right will vindicate itself. In the hour of feasting and revelry the dreadful bolt of retribution fell upon Gomorrah.

I HAD been living with Mr. Peterkin about three years, during which time I had frequently seen Miss Bradly. One evening when she called (as was her custom after the adjournment of school), she found, upon inquiry, that the young ladies had gone out, and would not probably be back for several hours. She looked a little disconcerted, and seemed doubtful whether she would go home or remain. I had often observed her attentively watching me, yet I could not interpret the look; sometimes I thought it was of deep, earnest pity. Then it appeared only an anxious curiosity; and as commiseration was a thing which I seldom met with, I tried to guard my heart against anything like hope or trust; but on this afternoon I was particularly struck by her strange and irresolute manner. She turned several times as if to leave, then suddenly stopped, and, looking very earnestly at me, asked, “Did you say the girls would not return for several hours?”

Upon receiving an answer in the affirmative, she hesitated a moment, and then inquired for Mr. Peterkin. He was also from home, and would probably be absent for a day or two. “Is there no white person about the place?” she asked, with some trepidation.

“No one is here but the slaves,” I replied, perhaps in a sorrowful tone, for the word “slave” always grated upon my ear, yet I frequently used it, in obedience to a severe and imperative conventionality.

“Well then, Ann, come and sit down near me; I want to talk with you awhile.”

THAT evening when the family returned, I was glad to find the young ladies in such an excellent humor. It was seldom Miss Jane, whose peculiar property I was, ever gave me a kind word; and I was surprised on this occasion to hear her say, in a some-what gentle tone:

“Well, Ann, come here, I want you to look very nice to-night, and wait on the table in style, for I am expecting company;” and, with a sort of half good-natured smile, she tossed an old faded neck-ribbon to me, saying,

“There is a present for you.” I bowed low, and made a respectful acknowledgement of thanks, which she received in an unusually complacent manner.

Immediately I began to make arrangements for supper, and to get myself in readiness, which was no small matter, as my scanty wardrobe furnished no scope for the exercise of taste. In looking over my trunk, I found a white cotton apron, which could boast of many mice-bites and moth-workings; but with a needle and thread I soon managed to make it appear decent, and, combing my hair as neatly as possible, and tying the ribbon which Miss Jane had given me around it, I gave the finishing touch to my toilette, and then set about arranging the table. I assorted the tea-board, spoons, cups, saucers, &c., placed a nice damask napkin at each seat, and turned down the round little plates of white French china. The silver forks and ivory-handled knives were laid round the table in precise order. This done, I surveyed my work with an air of pride. Smiling complacently to myself, I proceeded to Miss Jane's room, to request her to come and look at it, and express her opinion.

On reaching her apartment, I found her dressed with great care, in a pink silk, with a rich lace berthé, and pearl ornaments. Her red hair was oiled until its fiery hue had darkened into a becoming auburn, and the metallic polish of the French powder had effectually concealed the huge freckles which spotted her checks.

Dropping a low courtesy, I requested her to come with me to the dining-room. and inspect my work. With a smile, she followed, and upon examination, seemed well pleased.

“Now, Ann, if you do well in officiating, it will be well for you; but if you fail, if you make one mistake, you had better never been born, for,” and she grasped me strongly by the shoulder, “I will flay you alive; you shall ache and smart in every limb and nerve.”

Terror-stricken at this threat, I made the most earnest promises to exert my very best energies. Yet her angry manner and threatening words so unnerved me, that I was not able to go on with the work in the same spirit in which I had begun, for we all know what a paralysis fear is to exertion.

I stepped out on the balcony for some purpose, and there, standing at the end of the gallery, but partially concealed by the clematis blossoms, stood Miss Jane, and a tall gentleman was leaning over the railing talking very earnestly to her. In that uncertain light I could see the flash of her eye and the crimson glow of her check. She was twirling and tearing to pieces, petal by petal, a beautiful rose which she held in her hand. Here, I thought here is happiness; this woman loves and is beloved. She has tasted of that one drop which sweetens the whole cup of existence. Oh, what a thing it is to be free— free and independent, with power and privilege to go whithersoever you choose, with no cowardly fear, no dread of espionage, with the right to hold your head proudly aloft, and return glance for glance, not shrink and cower before the white man's look, as we poor slaves must do. But not many moments could I thus spend in thought, and well, perhaps, it was for me that duty broke short all such unavailing regrets.

Hastening back to the dining-room, I gave another inquiring look at the table, fearful that some article had been omitted. Satisfying myself on this point, I moved on to the kitchen, where Aunt Polly was busy frying a chicken.

“Here, child,” she exclaimed, “look in thar at them biscuits. See is they done. Oh, that's prime, browning beautiful-like,” she said, as I drew from the stove a pan of nice biscuits, “and this ar' chicken is mighty nice. Oh, but it will make the young gemman smack his lips,” and wiping the perspiration from her sooty brow, she drew a long breath, and seated herself upon a broken stool.

“Wal, this ar' nigger is tired. I's bin cooking now this twelve years, and never has I had 'mission' to let my old man come to see me, or I to go see him.”

The children, with eyes wide open, gathered round Aunt Polly to hear a recital of her wrongs. “Laws-a-marcy, sights I's seen in my times, and often it 'pears like I's lost my senses. I tells you, yous only got to look at this ar' back to know what I's went through.” Hereupon she exposed her back and arms, which were frightfully scarred.

“This ar' scar,” and she pointed to a very deep one on her left shoulder, “Masser gib me kase I cried when he sold my oldest son; poor Jim, he was sent down the river, and I've never hearn from him since.” She wiped a stray tear from her old eyes.

“Oh me! 'tis long time since my eyes hab watered, and now these tears do feel so quare. Poor Jim is down the river, Johnny is dead, and Lucy is sold somewhar, so I have neither chick nor child. What's I got to live fur?”

This brought fresh to my mind recollections of my own mother's grief, when she was forced to give me up, and I could not restrain my tears.

“What fur you crying, child?” she asked. “It puts me in mind ov my poor little Luce, she used to cry this way whenever anything happened to me. Oh, many is the time she screamed if master struck me.”

“Poor Aunt Polly,” I said, as I walked up to her side, “I do pity you. I will be kind to you; I'll be your daughter.”

She looked up with a wild stare, and with a deep earnestness seized hold of my out-stretched hand; then dropping it suddenly, she murmured,

“No, no, you ain't my darter, you comes to me with saft words, but you is jest like Lindy and all the rest of 'em; you'll go to the house and tell tales to the white folks on me. No, I'll not trust any of you.”

Springing suddenly into the room, with his eyes flaming came Jones, and, cracking his whip right and left, he struck each of the listening group. I retreated hastily to an extreme corner of the kitchen, where, unobserved by him, I could watch the affray.

“You devilish old wretch, Polly, what are you gabbling and snubbling here about? Up with your old hide, and git yer supper ready. Don't you know thar is company in the house?” and here he gave another sharp cut of the whip, which descended upon that poor old scarred back with a cruel force, and tore open old cicatriced wounds. The victim did not scream, 'nor shrink, nor murmur; but her features resumed their wonted hard, encrusted expression, and, rising up from her seat, she went on with her usual work.

“Now, cut like the wind,” he added, as he flourished his whip in the direction of the young blacks, who had been the interested auditors of Aunt Polly's hair-breadth escapes, and quick as lightning they were off to their respective quarters, whilst I proceeded to assist Aunt Polly in dishing up the supper.

“This chicken,” said I, in a tone of encouragement, “is beautifully cooked. How brown it is, and oh, what a delightful savory odor.”

“I'll be bound the white folks will find fault wid it. Nobody ever did please Miss Jane. Her is got some of the most perkuler notions 'bout cookin'. I knows she'll be kommin' out here, makin' a fuss 'long wid me 'bout dis same supper,” and the old woman shook her head knowingly.

I made no reply, for I feared the re-appearance of Mr. Jones, and too often and too painfully had I felt the sting of his lash, to be guilty of any wanton provocation of its severity.

Silently, but with bitter thoughts curdling my life-blood, did I arrange the steaming cookies upon the luxurious board, and then, with a deferential air, sought the parlor, and bade them walk out to tea.

I found Miss Jane seated near a fine rosewood piano, and standing beside her was a gentleman, the same whom I had observed with her upon the verandah. Miss Matilda was at the window, looking out upon the western heaven. I spoke in a soft tone, asking them, “Please walk out to tea.” The young gentleman rose, and offered his arm to Miss Jane, which was graciously accepted, and Miss Matilda followed. I swung the dining-room door open with great pomp and ceremony, for I knew that anything showy or grand, either in the furniture of a house or the deportment of a servant, would be acceptable to Miss Jane. Fashion, or style, was the god of her worship, and she often declared that her principal objection to the negro, was his great want of style in thought and action. She was not deep enough to see, that, fathoms down below the surface, in all the crudity of ignorance, lay a stratum of this same style, so much worshipped by herself. Does not the African, in his love of gaud, show, and tinsel, his odd and grotesque decorations of his person, exhibit a love of style? But she was not philosopher enough to see that this was a symptom of the same taste, though ungarnished and semi-barbarous.

The supper passed off very handsomely, so far as my part was concerned. I carried the cups round on a silver salver to each one; served them with chicken, plied them with cakes, confections, &c., and interspersed my performance with innumerable courtesies, bows and scrapes.

“Ah,” said Miss Jane to the gentleman, “ah, Mr. Somerville, you have visited us at the wrong season; you should be here later in the autumn, or earlier in the summer,” and she gave one of her most benign smiles.

“Any season is pleasant here,” replied Mr. Somerville, as he held the wing of a chicken between his thumb and fore-finger. Miss Jane simpered and looked down; and Miss Matilda arched her brows and gave a significant side-long glance, toward her sister.

“Here, you cussed yallow gal,” cried Mr. Peterkin, in a rage, “take this split spoon away and fetch me a fork what I ken use. These darned things is only made for grand folks,” and he held the silver fork to me. Instantly I replaced it with a steel one.

“Now this looks something like. We only uses them ar' other ones when we has company, so I suppose, Mr. Somerville, the girl sot the table in this grand way bekase you is here.”

No thunder-cloud was ever darker than Miss Jane's brow. It gathered, and deepened, and darkened like a thick-coming tempest, whilst lightning blazed from her eye.

“Father,” and she spoke through her clenched teeth, “what makes you affect this horrid vulgarity? and how can you be so very idiosyncratic” (this was a favorite word with her), as to say you never use them? Ever since I can remember, silver forks have been used in our family; but,” and she smiled as she said it, “Mr. Somerville, father thinks it is truly a Kentucky fashion, and in keeping with the spirit of the early settlers, to rail out against fashion and style.”

To this explanation Mr. Somerville bowed blandly. “Ah, yes, I do admire your father's honest independence.”

“I'll jist tell you how it is, young man, my gals has bin better edicated than their pappy, and they pertends to be mighty 'shamed of me, bekase I has got no larnin'; but I wants to ax 'em one question, whar did the money kum from that give 'em thar larning?” and with a triumphant force he brought his hard fist down on the table, knocking off with his elbow a fine cut-glass tumbler, which was shivered to atoms.

“Thar now,” he exclaimed, “another piece of yer cussed frippery is breaked to bits. What did you put it here fur? I wants that big tin-cup that I drinks out of when nobody's here.”

“Father, father,” said Miss Matilda, who until now had kept an austere silence, “why will you persist in this outrageous talk? Why will you mortify and torture us in this cruel way?” and she burst into a flood of angry tears.

“Oh, don't blubber about it, Tildy, I didn't mean to hurt your feelin's.”

Pretty soon after this, the peace of the table being broken up, the ladies and Mr. Somerville adjourned to the parlor, whilst Melinda, or Lindy, as she was called, and I set about clearing off the table, washing up the dishes, and gathering and counting over the forks and spoons.

Now, though the young ladies made great pretensions to elegance and splendor of living, yet were they vastly economical when there was no company present. The silver was all carefully laid away, and locked up in the lower drawer of an old-fashioned bureau, and the family appropriated a commoner article to their every-day use; but let a solitary guest appear, and forthwith the napkins and silver would be displayed, and treated by the ladies as though it was quite a usual thing.

“Now, Ann,” said 'Lindy “you wash the dishes, and I'll count the spoons and forks.”

To this I readily assented, for I was anxious to get clear of such a responsible office as counting and assorting the silver ware.

Mr. Peterkin, or master, as we called him, sat near by, smoking his cob-pipe in none the best humor; for the recent encounter at the supper-table was by no means calculated to improve his temper.

“See here, gals,” he cried in a tone of thunder, “if thar be one silver spoon or fork missin', yer hides shall pay for the loss.”

“Laws, master, I'll be 'tickler enough,” replied Lindy, as she smiled, more in terror than pleasure.

“Wal,” he said, half aloud, “whar is the use of my darters taking on in the way they does? Jist look at the sight o' money that has bin laid out in that ar' tom-foolery.”

This was a sort of soliloquy spoken in a tone audible enough to be distinct to us.

He drew his cob-pipe from his mouth, and a huge volume of smoke curled round his head, and filled the room with the aroma of tobacco.

“Now,” he continued, “they does not treat me wid any politeness. They thinks they knows a power more than I does; but if they don't cut their cards square, I'll cut them short of a nigger or two, and make John all the richer by it.”

Lindy cut her eye knowingly at this, and gave me rather a strong nudge with her elbow.

“Keep still thar, gals, and don't rattle them cups and sassers so powerful hard.”

By this time Lindy had finished the assortment of the silver, and had carefully stowed it away in a willow-basket, ready to be delivered to Miss Jane, and thence consigned to the drawer, where it would remain in statu quo until the timely advent of another guest.

“Now,” she said, “I am ready to wipe the dishes, while you wash.”

Thereupon I handed her a saucer, which, in her carelessness, she let slip from her hand, and it fell upon the floor, and there, with great consternation, I beheld it lying, shattered to fragments. Mr. Peterkin sprang to his feet, glad of an excuse to vent his temper upon some one.

“Which of you cussed wretches did this?”

“'Twas Ann, master! She let it fall afore I got my hand on it.

Ere I had time to vindicate myself from the charge, his iron arm felled me to the floor, and his hoof-like foot was placed upon my shrinking chest.

“You d—n yallow hussy, does you think I buys such expensive chany-ware for you to break up in this ar' way? No, you 'bominable wench, I'll have revenge out of your saffer'n hide. Here, Lindy, fetch me that cowhide.”

WHEN I awoke (for I was afterwards told by my good nurse that I had slept four days), I was lying on the same rude bed; but a cool, clear sensation overspread my system. I had full and active possession of my mental faculties. I rose and sat upright in the bed, and looked around me. It was the deep hour of night. A little iron lamp was upon the hearth, and, for want of a supply of oil, the wick was burning low, flinging a red glare through the dismal room. Upon a broken stool sat Aunt Polly, her head resting upon her breast, in what nurses call a “stolen nap.” Amy and three other children were sleeping in a bed opposite me.

In a few moments I was able to recall the whole of the scenes through which I had passed, while consciousness remained; and I raised my eyes to God in gratitude for my partial deliverance from pain and suffering. Very softly I stole from my bed, and, wrapping an old coverlet round my shoulders, opened the door, and looked out upon the clear, star-light night. Of the vague thoughts that passed through my mind I will not now speak, though they were far from pleasant or consolatory.

The fresh night air, which began to have a touch of the frost of the advancing autumn, blew cheerily in the room, and it fell with an awakening power upon the brow of Aunt Polly.

“Law, chile, is dat you stannin' in de dor? What for you git up out en yer warm bed, and go stand in the night-ar?”

“Because I feel so well, and this pleasant air seems to brace my frame, and encourage my mind.”

WHEN the golden sun had begun to tinge with light the distant tree-tops, and the young birds to chant their matin hymn, I awoke from my profound sleep. Wearily I moved upon my pillow, for though my slumber had been deep and sweet, yet now, upon awaking, I experienced no refreshment.

Rising up in the bed, and supporting myself upon my elbow, I looked round in quest of Aunt Polly; but then I remembered that she had to be about the breakfast. Amy was sitting on the floor, endeavoring to arrange the clothes on a little toddler, her orphan brother, over whom she exercised a sort of maternal care. She, her two sisters, and infant brother, were the orphans of a woman who had once belonged to a brother of Mr. Peterkin. Their orphanage had not fallen upon them from the ghastly fingers of death, but from the far more cruel and cold mandate of human cupidity. A fair, even liberal price had been offered their owner for their mother, Dilsy, and such a speculation was not to be resigned upon the score of philanthropy. No, the man who would refuse nine hundred dollars for a negro woman, upon the plea that she had three young children and a helpless infant, from whom she must not be separated, would, in Kentucky, be pronounced insane; and I can assure you that, on this subject, the brave Kentuckians had good right to decide, according to their code, that Elijah Peterkin was compos mentis.

“Amy,” said I, as I rubbed my eyes, to dissipate the film and mists of sleep, “is it very late? have you heard the horn blow for the hands to come in from work?”

SEVERAL days had elapsed since the morning conversation with Amy; meanwhile matters were jogging along in their usually dull way. Of late, since the flight of Mr. Jones, and the illness of Mr. Peterkin, there had been considerably less fighting; but the ladies made innumerable threats of what they would do, when their father should be well enough to allow a suspension of nursing duties.

My wounds had rapidly healed, and I had resumed my former position in the discharge of household duties. Lindy, my old assistant, still held her place. I always had an aversion to her. There was that about her entire physique which made her odious to me. A certain laxity of the muscles and joints of her frame, which produced a floundering, shuffling sort of gait that was peculiarly disagreeable, a narrow, soulless countenance, an oblique leer of the eye where an ambushed fiend seemed to lurk, full, voluptuous lips, lengthy chin, and expanded nostril, combined to prove her very low in the scale of animals. She had a kind of dare-devil courage, which seemed to brave a great deal, and yet she shrank from everything like punishment. There was a union of degrading passions in her character. I doubt if the lowest realm of Hades contained a baser spirit. This girl, I felt assured from the first time I beheld her, was destined to be my evil genius. I felt that the baleful cornet that presided over her birth, would in his reckless and maddening course, rush too near the little star which, through cloud and shadow, beamed on my destiny.

She was not without a certain kind of sprightliness that passed for intelligence; and she could by her adroitness of manœuvre amble out of any difficulty. With a good education she would have made an excellent female pettifogger. She had all of the quickness and diablerie usually summed up in that most expressive American word, “smartness.”

I was a good deal vexed and grieved to find myself again a partner of hers in the discharge of my duties. It seemed to open my wounds afresh; for I remembered that her falsehood had gained me the severe castigation that had almost deprived me of life; and her laugh and jibe had rendered my suffering at the accursed post even more humiliating. Yet I knew better than to offer a demurrer to any arrangement that my mistress had made.

One day as I was preparing to set the table for the noon meal, Lindy came to me and whispered, in an under-tone, “You finish the table, I am going out; and if Miss Jane or Tildy axes where I is, say dat I went to de kitchen to wash a dish.”

“Very well,” I replied in my usual laconic style, and went on about my work. It was well for her that she had observed this precaution; for in a few moments Miss Tildy came in, and her first question was for Lindy. I answered as I had been desired to do. The reply appeared to satisfy her, and with the injunction (one she never failed to give), that I should do my work well and briskly, she left the room.

After I had arranged the table to my satisfaction, I went to the kitchen to assist Aunt Polly in dishing up dinner. When I reached the kitchen I found Aunt Polly in a great quandary. The fire was not brisk enough to brown her bread, and she dared not send it to the table without its being as beautifully brown as a student's meditations.

“Oh, child,” she began, “do run somewhar' and git me a scrap or so of dry wood, so as to raise a smart little blaze to brown dis bread.”

“Indeed I will,” and off I bounded in quest of the combustible material. Of late Aunt Polly and I had become as devoted as mother and child. 'Tis true there was a deep yearning in my heart, a thirst for intercommunion of soul, which this untutored negress could not supply. She did not answer, with a thrilling response, to the deep cry which my spirit sent out; yet she was kind, and even affectionate, to me. Usually harsh to others, with me she was gentle as a lamb. With a thousand little motherly acts she won my heart, and I strove, by assiduous kindness, to make her forget that I was not her daughter. I started off with great alacrity in search of the dry wood, and remembered that on the day previous I had seen some barrel staves lying near an out-house, and these I knew would quickly ignite. When rapidly turning the corner of the stable, I was surprised to see Lindy standing in close and apparently free conversation with a strange-looking white man. The sound of my rapid footsteps startled them; and upon seeing me, the man walked off hastily. With a fluttering, excited manner, Lindy came up and said:

“Don't say nothing 'bout haven' seed me wid dat ar' gemman; fur he used to be my mars'er, and a good one he was too.”

I promised that I would say nothing about the matter, but first I inquired what was the nature of the private interview.

“Oh, he jist wanted fur to see me, and know how I was gitten' long.

I said no more; but I was not satisfied with her explanation. I resolved to watch her narrowly, and ferret out, if possible, this seeming mystery. Upon my return to the kitchen, with my bundle of dry sticks, I related what I had seen to Aunt Polly.

“Dat gal is arter sompen not very good, you mark my words fur it.”

“Oh, maybe not, Aunt Polly,” I answered, though with a conviction that I was speaking at variance with the strong probabilities of the case.

I hurried in the viands and meats for the table, and was not surprised to find Lindy unusually obliging, for I understood the object. There was an abashed air and manner which argued guilt, or at least, that she was the mistress of a secret, for the entire possession of which she trembled. Sundry little acts of unaccustomed kindness she offered me, but I quietly declined them. I did not desire that she should insult my honor by the offer of a tacit bribe.

In the evening, when I was arranging Miss Jane's hair (this was my especial duty), she surprised me by asking, in a careless and incautious manner:

“Ann, what is the matter with Lindy? she has such an excited manner.”

“I really don't know, Miss Jane; I have not observed anything very unusual in her.”

“Well, I have, and I shall speak to her about it. Oh, there! slow, girl, slow; you pulled my hair. Don't do it again. You niggers have become so unruly since pa's sickness, that if we don't soon get another overseer, there will be no living for you. There is Lindy in the sulks, simply because she wants a whipping, and old Polly hasn't given us a meal fit to eat.”

“Have I done anything, Miss Jane?” I asked with a misgiving.

“No, nothing in particular, except showing a general and continued sullenness. Now, I do despise to see a nigger always sour-looking; and I can tell you, Ann, you must change your ways, or it will be worse for you.”

“I try to be cheerful, Miss Jane, but—”here I wisely checked myself.

“Try to be,” she echoed with a satirical tone. “What do you mean by trying? You don't dare to say you are not happy here?”

Finding that I made no reply, she said, “If you don't cut your cards squarely, you will find yourself down the river before long, and there you are only half-clad and half-fed, and flogged every day.” Still I made no reply. I knew that if I spoke truthfully, and as my heart prompted, it would only redound to my misery. What right had I to speak of my mother. She was no more than an animal, and as destitute of the refinement of common human feeling—so I forbore to allude to her, or my great desire to see her. I dared not speak of the horrible manner in which my body had been cut and slashed, the half-lifeless condition in which I had been taken from the accursed post, and all for a fault which was not mine. These were things which, as they were done by my master's commands, were nothing more than right; so with an effort, I controlled my emotion, and checked the big tears which I felt were rushing up to my eyes.

When I had put the finishing stroke to Miss Jane's hair, and whilst she was surveying herself in a large French mirror, Miss Bradly came in. Tossing her bonnet off, she kissed Miss Jane very affectionately, nodded to me, and asked,

“Where is Tildy?”

“I don't know, somewhere about the house, I suppose,” replied Miss Jane.

“Well, I have a new beau for her; now it will be a fine chance for Tildy. I would have recommended you; but, knowing of your previous engagement, I thought it best to refer him to the fair Matilda.”

Miss Jane laughed, and answered, that “though she was engaged, she would have no objections to trying her charms upon another beau.”

There was a strange expression upon Miss Bradly's face, and a flurried, excited manner, very different from her usually quiet demeanor.

Miss Jane went about the room collecting, here and there, a stray pocket handkerchief, under-sleeve, or chemisette; and, dashing them toward me, she said,

“Put these in wash, and do, pray, Ann, try to look more cheerful. Now, Miss Emily,” she added, addressing Miss Bradly, we have the worst servants in the world. There is Lindy, I believe the d—l is in her. She is so strange in her actions. I have to repeat a thing three or four times before she will understand me; and, as for Ann, she looks so sullen that it gives one the horrors to see her. I've a notion to bring Amy into the house. In the kitchen she is of no earthly service, and doesn't earn her salt. I think I'll persuade pa to sell some of these worthless niggers. They are no profit, and a terrible expense.” Thereupon she was interrupted by the entrance of Miss Tildy, whose face was unusually excited. She did not perceive Miss Bradly, and so broke forth in a torrent of invectives against “niggers.”

“I hate them. I wish this place were rid of every black face. Now we can't find that wretched Lindy anywhere, high nor low. Let me once get hold of her, and I'll be bound she shall remember it to the day of her death. Oh! Miss Bradly, is that you? pray excuse me for not recognizing you sooner; but since pa's sickness, these wretched negroes have half-taken the place, and I shouldn't be surprised if I were to forget myself,” and with a kiss she seemed to think she had atoned to Miss Bradly for her forgetfulness.

To all of this Miss B. made no reply, I fancied (perhaps it was only fancy) that there was a shade of discontent upon her face; but she still preserved her silence, and Miss Tildy waxed warmer and warmer in her denunciation of ungrateful “niggers.”

“Now, here, ours have every wish gratified; are treated well, fed well, clothed well, and yet we can't get work enough out of them to justify us in retaining our present number. As soon as pa gets well I intend to urge upon him the necessity of selling some of them. It is really too outrageous for us to be keeping such a number of the worthless wretches; actually eating us out of house and home. Besides, our family expenses are rapidly increasing. Brother must be sent off to college. It will not do to have his education neglected. I really am becoming quite ashamed of his want of preparation for a profession. I wish him sent to Yale, after first receiving a preparatory course in some less noted seminary,—then he will require a handsome outfit of books, and a wardrobe inferior to none at the institution; for, Miss Emily, I am determined our family shall have a position in every circle.” As Miss Tildy pronounced these words, she stamped her foot in the most emphatic way, as if to confirm and ratify her determination.

IN about an hour Lindy came in, looking very much excited, yet attempting to conceal it beneath the mask of calmness. I affected not to notice it, yet was it evident, from various little attentions and manifold kind words, that she sought to divert suspicion, and avoid all questioning as to her absence.

“Where,” she asked me, “are the young ladies? have they company?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Miss Bradly is with them, and they are expecting a young gentleman, an acquaintance of Miss B.'s.”

“Who is he?”

“Why, Lindy, how should I know?”

“I thought maybe you hearn his name.”

“No, I did not, and, even if I had, it would have been so unimportant to me that I should have forgotten it.”

She opened her eyes with a vacant stare, but it was perceptible that she wandered in thought.

“Now, Lindy,” I began, “Miss Jane has missed you from the house, and both she and Miss Tildy have sworn vengeance against you.”

“So have I sworn it agin' them.”

“What! what did you say, Lindy?”

Really I was surprised at the girl's hardihood and boldness. She had been thrown from her guard, and now, upon regaining her composure, was alarmed.

“Oh, I was only joking, Ann; you knows we allers jokes.”

“I never do,” I said, with emphasis.

IT must have been long after midnight when I awoke. I do not remember whether I had dreamed or not, but the slumber had brought refreshment to my body and peace to my heart.

I was aroused by the sound of voices, in a suppressed whisper, or rather in a tone slightly above a whisper. I thought I detected the voice of Lindy, and, as I rose from my recumbent posture, I caught sight of a figure flitting round the gable of these. I followed, but there was nothing visible. The pale moonlight slept lovingly upon the dwelling and the roofs of the out-buildings. Whither could the figure have fled? There was no sign of any one having been there. Slowly and sadly I directed my steps toward Aunt Polly's cabin. I opened the door cautiously, not wishing to disturb her; but easy and noiseless as were my motions, they roused that faithful creature. She sprang from the bed, exclaiming:

“La, Ann, whar has yer bin? I has bin so oneasy 'bout yer.”

With my native honesty I explained to her that I had been beguiled by the melody of a human voice, and had lingered long out in the autumn moonlight.

“Yes; but, chile, you'll be sick. Sleepin' out a doors is berry onwholesome like.”

“Yes; but, Aunt Polly, there is an interior beat which no autumnal frost has power to chill.”

“Yes, chile, you does talk so pretty, like dem ar' great white scholards. Many times I has wondered how a poor darkie could larn so much. Now it 'pears to me as if you knowed much as any ob 'em. I don't tink Miss Bradly hersef talks any better dan you does.”

“Oh, Aunt Polly, your praise is sweet to me; but then, you must remember not to do me more than justice. I am a poor, illiterate mulatto girl, who has indeed improved the modicum of time allowed her for self-culture; yet, when I hear such ladies as Miss Bradly talk, I feel how far inferior I am to the queens of the white tribe Often I ask myself why is this? Is it because my face is colored? But then there is a voice, deep down in my soul, that rejects such a conclusion as slanderous. Oh, give me but opportunity, and I will strive to equal them in learning.”

“I don't see no use in yer wanting to larn, when you is nothing but a poor slave. But I does think the gift of fine speech mighty valable.”

And here is another thing upon which I would generalize. Does it not argue the possession of native mind—the immense value the African places upon words—the high-flown and broad-sounding words that he usually employs? The ludicrous attempts which the most untutored make at grandiloquence, should not so much provoke mirth as admiration in the more reflective of the white race. Through what barriers and obstacles do not their minds struggle to force a way up to the light. I have often been astonished at the quickness with which they seized upon expressions, and the accuracy with which they would apply them. Every crude attempt which they make toward self-culture is laughed at and scorned by the master, or treated as the most puerile folly. No encouragement is given them. If, by almost superhuman effort, they gain knowledge, why they may; but, unaided and alone, they must work, as I have done. Moreover, I have been wonder-stricken at the facility with which the negro-boy acquires learning. 'Tis as though the rudiments of the school came to him by flashes of intuition. He is allowed only a couple of hours on Sunday afternoons for recitations, and such odd moments during the week as he can catch to prepare his lessons; for, a servant-boy often caught with his book in hand, would be pronounced indolent, and punished as such. Then, how unjust it is for the proud statesman—prouder of his snowy complexion than of his stores of knowledge—how unjust, I say, is it in him to assert, in the halls of legislation, that the colored race are to the white far inferior in native mind! Has he weighed the advantages and disadvantages of both? Has he remembered that the whites, through countless generations, have been cultivated and refined—familiarized with the arts and sciences and elegancies of a graceful age, whilst the blacks are bound down in ignorance; unschooled in lore; untrained in virtue; taught to look upon themselves as degraded—the mere drudges of their masters; debarred the privileges of social life; excluded from books, with the products of their labor going toward the enrichment of others? When, as in some solitary instance, a single mind dares to break through the restraints and impediments imposed upon it, does not the fact show of what strength the race, when properly cared for, is capable? Is not the bulb, which enshrouds the snowy leaves of the fragrant lily, an unsightly thing? Does the uncut diamond show any of the polish and brilliancy which the lapidary's band can give it? Thus is it with the African mind. Let but the schoolmen breathe upon it, let the architect of learning fashion it, and no diamond ever glittered with more resplendence. With a more than prismatic light, it will refract the beams of the sun of knowledge; and the heart, the most noble African's heart, that now slumbers in the bulb of ignorance, will burst forth, pure and lovely as the white-petaled lily!

I hope, kind reader, you will pardon these digressions, as I write my inner as well as outer life, and I should be unfaithful to my most earnest thoughts were I not to chronicle such reflections as these. This book is not a wild romance to beguile your tears and cheat your fancy. No; it is the truthful autobiography of one who has suffered long, long, the pains and trials of slavery. And she is committing her story, with her own calm deductions, to the consideration of every thoughtful and truth-loving mind.

“Where,” I asked Aunt Polly, “is Lindy?”

I WAS not a little surprised to find young master now in an apparently earnest colloquy with Aunt Polly. A deep carnation spot burned upon his cheeks, and his soft eye was purple in its intensity.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Lor, chile,” replied Aunt Polly, “Lindy can't be found nowhar.”

“Has every place been searched?” I inquired.

“Yes,” said little John, “and she is nowhere to be found.”

“Does master know it?”

“Not yet, and I hope it may be kept from him for some time, at least two or three hours,” he replied, with a mournful earnestness of tone.

“Why? Is he not well enough to bear the excitement of it?” I inquired.

The boy fixed his large and wondering eyes upon me. His gaze, lingered for a minute or two; it was enough; I read his inmost thoughts, and in my secret soul I revered him, for I bowed to the majesty of a heaven-born soul. Such spirits are indeed few. God lends them to earth for but a short time; and we should entertain them well, for, though they come in forms unrecognized, yet must we, despite the guise of humanity, do reverence to the shrined seraph. This boy now became to me an object of more intense interest. I felt assured, by the power of that magnetic glance, that he was not unacquainted with the facts of Lindy's flight.

IT was as I had expected; the news of Lindy's flight had been communicated by Nace to Mr. Peterkin, and his rage knew no limits. It was dangerous to go near him. Raving like a madman, he tore the covering of the bed to shreds, brandished his cowhide in every direction, took down his gun, and swore he would “shoot every d—d nigger on the place.” His daughters had no influence over him. Out of bed he would get, declaring that “all this devilment” would not have been perpetrated if he had not been detained there by the order of that d—d doctor, who had no reason for keeping him there but a desire to get his money. Fearing that his hyena rage might vent some of its gall on them, the ladies made no further opposition to his intention.

Standing just without the door, I heard Miss Jane ask him if he would not first take some breakfast.

“No; cuss your breakfast. I want none of it; I want to be among them ar' niggers, and give 'em a taste of this cowhide, that they have been sufferin' fur.”

In affright I fled to the kitchen, and told Aunt Polly that the storm had at length broken in all its fury. Each one of the negroes eyed the others in silent dismay.

Pale with rage and debility, hot fury flashing from his eye, and white froth gathering upon his lips, Mr. Peterkin dashed into the kitchen. “In the name of h—ll and its fires, niggers, what does this mean? Tell me whar that d—d gal is, or I'll cut every mother's child of you to death.”

As Mr. Peterkin was passing through the vestibule of the front door, he met young master standing there. Now, this was Mr. Peterkin's favorite child, for, though he did not altogether like that quietude of manner, which he called “poke-easy,” the boy had never offered him any affront about his incorrect language, or treated him with indignity in any way. And then he was so beautiful! True, his father could not appreciate the spiritual nobility of his face; yet the symmetry of his features and the spotless purity of his complexion, answered even to Mr. Peterkin's idea of beauty. The coarsest and most vulgar soul is keenly alive to the beauty of the rose and lily; though that concealed loveliness, which is only hinted at by the rare fragrance, may be known only to the cultivated and poetic heart. Often I have heard him say, “John is pretty enoff to be a gal.”

Now as he met him in the vestibule, he said, “John, I'm in a peck o' trouble.”

“I am sorry you are in trouble father.”

“That cussed black wench, Lindy, is off, and I'm 'fraid the neighborhood kant be waked up soon enough to go arter and ketch her. Let me git her once more in my clutches, and I'll make her pay for it. I'll give her one good bastin' that she'll 'member, and then I'll send her down the river fur enough.”

The boy made no reply; but, with his eyes cast down on the earth, he seemed to be unconscious of all that was going on around him. When he raised his head his eyes were burning, his breath came thick and short, and a deep scarlet spot shone on the whiteness of his cheek; the veins in his forehead lay like heavy cords, and his very hair seemed to sparkle. He looked as one inspired. This was unobserved by his parent, who hastily strode away to find more willing listeners. I tarried in a place where, unnoticed by others, I commanded a good out-look. I saw young master clasp his hands fervently, and heard him passionately exclaim “How much longer, oh, how much longer shall this be?” Then slowly walking down his favorite path, he was lost to my vision. “Blessed youth, heaven-missioned, if thou wouldst only speak to me! One word of consolation from God-anointed lips like thine, would soothe even the sting of bondage; but no,” I added, “that earnest look, that gentle tone, tell perhaps as much as it is necessary for me to know. This silence proceeds from some noble motive. Soon enough he will make himself known to us.”

In a little while the news of Lindy's departure had spread through the neighborhood like a flame. Our yard and house were filled with men come to offer their services to their neighbor, who, from his wealth, was considered a sort of magnate among them.

Pretty soon they were mounted on horses, and armed to the teeth, each one with a horn fastened to his belt, galloping off in quest of the poor fugitive. And is this thing done beneath the influence of civilized laws, and by men calling themselves Christians? What has armed those twelve men with pistols, and sent them on an excursion like this? Is it to redeem a brother from a band of lawless robbers, who hold him in captivity? Is it to right some individual wrong? Is it to take part with the weak and oppressed against the strong and the overbearing? No, no, my friends, on no such noble mission as this have they gone. No purpose of high emprise has made them buckle on the sword and prime the pistol. A poor, lone female, who, through years, has been beaten, tyrannized over, and abused, has ventured out to seek what this constitution professes to secure to every one—liberty. Barefoot and alone, she has gone forth; and 'tis to bring her back to a vile and brutal slavery that these men have sallied out, regardless of her sex, her destitution, and her misery. They have set out either to recapture her or to shoot her down in her tracks like a dog. And this is a system which Christian men speak of as heaven-ordained! This is a thing countenanced by freemen, whose highest national boast is, that theirs is the land of liberty, equality, and free-rights! These are the people who yearly send large sums to Ireland; who pray for the liberation of Hungary; who wish to transmit armed forces across the Atlantic to aid vassal States in securing their liberty! These are they who talk so largely of Cuba, expend so much sympathy upon the oppressed of other lands, and predict the downfall of England for her oppressive form of government! Oh, America! “first pluck the beam out of thine own eye, then shalt thou see more clearly the mote that is in thy brother's.”

When I watched those armed men ride away, in such high courage and eagerness for the hunt, I thought of Lindy, poor, lone girl, fatigued, worn and jaded, suffering from thirst and hunger; her feet torn and bruised with toil, biding away in bogs and marshes, with an ear painfully acute to every sound. I thought of this, and all the resentment I had ever felt toward her faded away as a vapor.

All that day the house was in a state of intense excitement. The servants could not work with their usual assiduity. Indeed, such was the excitement, even of the white family, that we were not strictly required to labor.

Miss Jane gave me some fancy-sewing to do for her. Taking it with me to Aunt Polly's cabin, intending to talk with her whilst time was allowed me, I was surprised and pleased to find the old woman still asleep. “It will do her good,” I thought, “she needs rest, poor creature! And that blow was given to her on my account! How much I would rather have received it myself.” I then examined her head, and was glad to find no mark or bruise; so I hoped that with a good sleep she would wake up quite well. I seated myself on an old stool, near the door, which, notwithstanding the rawness of the day, I was obliged to leave open to admit light. It was a cool, windy morning, such as makes a woollen shawl necessary. My young mistresses had betaken themselves to cashmere wrappers and capes; but I still wore my thin and “seedy” calico. As I sewed on, upon Miss Jane's embroidery, many fancies came in troops through my brain, defiling like a band of ghosts through each private gallery and hidden nook of memory, and even to the very inmost compartment of secret thought! My mother, with her sad, sorrow-stricken face, my old companions and play-fellows in the long-gone years, all arose with vividness to my eye! Where were they all? Where had they been during the lapse of years? Of my mother I had never heard a word. Was she dead? At that suggestion I started, and felt my heart grow chill, as though an icy hand had clenched it; yet why felt I so? Did I not know that the grave would be to her as a bed of ease? What torture could await her beyond the pass of the valley of shadows? She, who had been faithful over a little, would certainly share in those blessed rewards promised by Christ; yet it seemed to me that my heart yearned to look upon her again in this life. I could not, without pain, think of her as one who had been. There was something selfish in this, yet was it intensely human, and to feel otherwise I should have had to be less loving, less filial in my nature. “Oh, mother!” I said, “if ever we meet again, will it be a meeting that shall know no separation? Mother, are you changed? Have you, by the white man's coarse brutality, learned to forget your absent child? Do not thoughts of her often come to your lonely soul with the sighing of the midnight wind? Do not the high and merciful stars, that nightly burn above you, recall me to your heart? Does not the child-loved moon speak to you of times when, as a little thing, I nestled close to your bosom? Or, mother, have other ties grown around your heart? Have other children supplanted your eldest-born? Do chirruping lips and bright eyes claim all your thoughts? Or do you toil alone, broken in soul and bent in body, beneath the drudgery of human labor, without one soft voice to lull you to repose? Oh, not this, not this, kind. Heaven! Let her forget me, in her joy; give her but peace, and on me multiply misfortunes, rain down evils, only spare, shield and protect her.” This tide of thought, as it rolled rapidly through my mind, sent the hot tears, in gushes, from my eyes, As I bent my head to wipe them away, without exactly seeing it, I became aware of a blessed presence; and, lifting my moist eyes, I beheld young master standing before me, with that calm, spiritual glance which had so often charmed and soothed me.

“What is the matter, Ann? Why are you weeping?” he asked me in a gentle voice.

“Nothing, young Master, only I was thinking of my mother.”

“How long since you saw her?”

“Oh, years, young Master; I have not seen her since my childhood—not since Master bought me.”

He heaved a deep sigh, but said nothing; those eyes, with a soft, shadowed light, as though they were shining through misty tears, were bent upon me.

“Where is your mother now, Ann?”

“I don't know, young Master, I've never heard from her since I came here.”

Again he sighed, and now he passed his thin white hand across his eyes, as if to dissipate the mist.

“You think she was sold when you were, don't you?”

“I expect she was. I'm almost sure she was, for I don't think either my young Masters or Mistresses wished or expected to retain the servants.”

“I wish I could find out something about her for you; but, at present, it is out of my power. You must do the best you can. You are a good girl, Ann; I have noticed how patiently you bear hard trouble. Do you pray?”

“Oh, yes, young Master, and that is all the pleasure I have. What would be my situation without prayer? Thanks to God, the slave has this privilege!”

“Yes, Ann, and in God's eyes you are equal to a white person. He makes no distinction; your soul is as precious and dear to Him as is that of the fine lady clad in silk and gems.”

I opened my eyes to gaze upon him, as he stood there, with his beautiful face beaming with good feeling and love for the humblest and lowest of God's creatures. This was religion! This was the spirit which Christ commended. This was the love which He daily preached and practiced.

“But how is Aunt Polly? I heard that she was suffering much.”

“She is sleeping easily now,” I replied.

“Well, then, don't disturb her. It is better that she should sleep;” and he walked away, leaving me more peaceful and happy than before. Blessed youth!—why have we not more such among us! They would render the thongs and fetters of slavery less galling.

The day was unusually quiet; but the frostiness of the atmosphere kept the ladies pretty close within doors; and Mr. Peterkin had, contrary to the wishes of his family, and the injunctions of his physician, gone out with the others upon the search; besides, he had taken Nace and the other men with him, and, as Aunt Polly was sick, Ginsy had been appointed in her place to prepare dinner. After sewing very diligently for some time, I wandered out through the poultry lot, lost in a labyrinth of strange reflection. As I neared the path leading down toward the spring, young master's favorite walk, I could not resist the temptation to follow it to its delightful terminus, where he was wont to linger all the sunny summer day, and frequently passed many hours in the winter time. I was superstitious enough to think that some of his deep and rich philanthropy had been caught, as by inspiration, from this lovely natural retreat; for how could the child of such a low, beastly parent, inherit a disposition so heavenly, and a soul so spotless? He had been bred amid scenes of the most revolting cruelty; had lived with people of the harshest and most brutal dispositions; yet had he contracted from them no moral stain. Were they not hideous to look upon, and was he not lovely as a seraph? Were they not low and vulgar, and he lofty and celestial-minded? Why and how was this? Ah, did I not believe him to be one of God's blessed angels, lent us for a brief season?

The path was well-trodden, and wound and curved through the woods, down to a clear, natural spring of water. There had been made, by the order of young master, a turfetted seat, overgrown by soft velvet moss, and here this youth would sit for hours to ponder, and, perhaps, to weave golden fancies which were destined to ripen into rich fruition in that land beyond the shores of time. As I drew near the spring, I imagined that a calm and holy influence was settling over me. The spirit of the place had power upon me, and I yielded myself to the spell. It was no disease of fancy, or dream of enchantment, that thus possessed me; for there, half-reclining on the mossy bench, I beheld young master, and, seated at his feet, with her little, odd, wondering face uplifted to his, was Amy; and, crawling along, playing with the moss, and looking down into the mirror of the spring, peered the bright eyes of little Ben. It was a scene of such beauty that I paused to take a full view of it, before making my presence known. Young master, with his pale, intellectual face, his classic head, his sun-bright curls, and his earnest blue eyes, sat in a half-lounging attitude, making no inappropriate picture of an angel of light, whilst the two little black faces seemed emblems of fallen, degraded humanity, listening to his pleading voice.

“Wherever you go, or in whatever condition you may be, Amy, never forget to pray to the good Lord.” As he said this, he bent his eyes compassionately on her.

“Oh, laws, Masser, how ken I pray! de good Lord wouldn't hear me. I is too black and dirty.”

“God does not care for that. You are as dear to Him as the finest lady of the land.”

“Oh, now, Masser, you doesn't tink me is equal to you, a fine, nice, pretty white gemman—dress so fine.”

“God cares not, my child, for clothes, or the color of the skin. He values the heart alone; and if your heart is clear, it matters not whether your face be black or your clothes mean.”

“Laws, now, young Masser,” and the child laughed heartily at the idea, “you doesn't 'spect a nigger's heart am clean. I tells you 'tis black and dirty as dere faces.”

“My poor child, I would that I had power to scatter the gloomy mist that beclouds your mind, and let you see and know that our dying Saviour embraced all your unfortunate race in the merits of his divine atonement.”

This speech was not comprehended by Amy. She sat looking vacantly at him; marvelling all the while at his pretty talk, yet never once believing that Jesus prized a negro's soul. Young master's eyes were, as usual, elevated to the clear, majestic heavens. Not a cloud floated in the still, serene expanse, and the air was chill. One moment longer I waited, before revealing myself. Stepping forward, I addressed young master in an humble tone.

“Well, Ann, what do you want?” This was not said in a petulant voice, but with so much gentleness that it invited the burdened heart to make its fearful disclosure.

“Oh, young Master, I know that you will pardon me for what I am going to ask. I cannot longer restrain myself. Tell me what is to become of us? When shall we be sold? Into whose hands shall I fall?”

“Alas, poor Ann, I am as ignorant of father's intentions as you are. I would that I could relieve your anxiety, but I am as uneasy about it as you or any one can be. Oh, I am powerless to do anything to better your unfortunate condition. I am weak as the weakest of you.”

“I know, young Master, that we have your kindest sympathy, and this knowledge softens my trouble.”

He did not reply, but sat with a perplexed expression, looking on the ground.

“Oh, Ann, you has done gin young Masser some trouble. What fur you do dat? We niggers aint no 'count any how, and you hab no sort ob bisiness be troublin' young Masser 'bout it,” said Amy.

“Be still, Amy, let Ann speak her troubles freely. It will relieve her mind. You may tell me of yours too.”

Sitting down upon the sward, close to his feet, I relieved my oppressed bosom by a copious flood of tears. Still he spoke not, but sat silent, looking down. Amy was awed into stillness, and even little Ben became calm and quiet as a lamb. No one broke the spell. No one seemed anxious to do so. There are some feelings for which silence is the best expression.

At length he said mildly, “Now, my good friends, it might be made the subject of ungenerous remarks, if you were to be seen talking with me long. You had better return to the house.”

As Amy and I, with little Ben, rose to depart, he looked after us, and sighing, exclaimed, “poor creatures, my heart bleeds for you!”

UPON my return to the house I hastened on to the cabin, hoping to find Aunt Polly almost entirely recovered. Passing hastily through the yard I entered the cabin with a light step, and to my surprise found her sitting up in a chair, playing with some old faded artificial flowers, the dilapidated decorations of Miss Tildy's summer bonnet, which had been swept from the house with the litter on the day before. I had never seen her engaged in a pastime so childish and sportive, and was not a little astonished, for her aversion to flowers had often been to me the subject of remark.

“What have you there that is pretty, Aunt Polly?” I asked with tenderness.

With a wondering, childish smile, she held the crushed blossoms up, and turning them over and over in her hands, said:

“Putty things! ye is berry putty!” then pressing them to her bosom, she stroked the leaves as kindly as though she had been smoothing the truant locks of a well-beloved child. I could not understand this freak, for she was one to whose uncultured soul all sweet and pretty fancies seemed alien. Looking up to me with that vacant glance which at once explained all, she said:

“Who's dar? Who is you? Oh, dat is my darter,” and addressing me by the remembered name of her own long-lost child, she traversed, in thought, the whole waste-field of memory. Not a single wild-flower in the wayside of the heart was neglected or forgotten. She spoke of times when she had toyed and dandled her infant darling upon her knee; then, shudderingly, she would wave me off, with terror written all over her furrowed face, and cry, “Get you away, Masser is comin': thar, thar he is; see him wid de ropes; he is comin' to tar you 'way frum me. Here, here child, git under de bed, hide frum 'em, dey is all gwine to take you 'way—'way down de river, whar you'll never more see yer poor old mammy.” Then sinking upon her knees, with her hands outstretched, and her eyes eagerly strained forward, and bent on vacancy, she frantically cried:

“Masser, please, please Masser, don't take my poor chile from me. It's all I is got on dis ar' airth; Masser, jist let me hab it and I'll work fur you, I'll sarve you all de days ob my life. You may beat my ole back as much as you please; you may make me work all de day and all de night, jist, so I ken keep my chile. Oh, God, oh, God! see, dere dey goes, wid my poor chile screaming and crying for its mammy! See, see it holds its arms to me! Oh, dat big hard man struck it sich a blow. Now, now dey is out ob sight.” And crawling on her knees, with arms outspread, she seemed to be following some imaginary object, until, reaching the door, I feared in her transport of agony she would do herself some injury, and, catching her strongly in my arms, I attempted to hold her back; but she was endowed with a superhuman strength, and pushed me violently against the wall.

“Thar, you wretch, you miserble wretch, dat would keep me from my chile, take dat blow, and I wish it would send yer to yer grave.”

Recoiling a few steps, I looked at her. A wild and lurid light gathered in her eye, and a fiendish expression played over her face. She clenched her hands, and pressed her old broken teeth hard upon her lips, until the blood gushed from them; frothing at the mouth, and wild with excitement, she made an attempt to bound forward and fell upon the floor. I screamed for help, and sprang to lift her up. Blood oozed from her mouth and nose; her eyes rolled languidly, and her under-jaw fell as though it were broken.

THE freshening breeze, tempered with the keen chill of the coming winter, made a lively music through the woods, as, floating along, it toyed with the fallen leaves that lay dried and sere upon the earth. There stood the giant trees, rearing their bald and lofty heads to the heavens, whilst at their feet was spread their splendid summer livery. Like the philosophers of old, in their calm serenity they looked away from earth and its troubles to the “bright above.”

I wandered on, with a quick step, in the direction of the doctor's. The recent painful events were not calculated to color my thoughts very pleasingly; yet I had taught myself to live so entirely within, to be so little affected by what was without, that I could be happy in imagination, notwithstanding what was going on in the external world. 'Tis well that the negro is of an imaginative cast. Suppose he were by nature strongly practical and matter-of-fact; life could not endure with him. His dreaminess, his fancy, makes him happy in spite of the dreary reality which surrounds him. The poor slave, with not a six-pence in his pocket, dreams of the time when he shall be able to buy himself, and revels in this most delightful Utopia.

I had walked on for some distance, without meeting any object of special interest, when, passing through a large “deadening,” I was surprised to see a gentleman seated upon a fragment of what had once been a noble tree. He was engaged at that occupation which is commonly considered to denote want of thought, viz., whittling a stick.

UPON my arrival home I found that the doctor, lured by curiosity, and not by business, had called. The news of Lindy's flight had reached him in many garbled and exaggerated forms; so he had come to assure himself of the truth. Of course, with all a Southern patriot's ire, he pronounced Lindy's conduct an atrocious crime, for which she should answer with life, or that far worse penalty (as some thought), banishment “down the river.” Thought I not strangely, severely, of those persons, the doctor and the ladies, as they sat there, luxuriating over a bottle of wine, denouncing vengeance against a poor, forlorn girl, who was trying to achieve her liberty;—heroically contending for that on which Americans pride themselves? Had she been a Hungarian or an Irish maid, seeking asylum from the tyranny of a King, she would have been applauded as one whose name was worthy to be enrolled in the litany of heroes; but she was a poor, ignorant African, with a sooty face, and because of this all sympathy was denied her, and she was pronounced nothing but a “runaway negro,” who deserved a terrible punishment; and the hand outstretched to relieve her, would have been called guilty of treason. Oh, wise and boastful Americans, see ye no oppression in all this, or do ye exult in that odious spot, which will blacken the fairest page of your history “to the last syllable of recorded time”? Does not a blush stain your cheeks when you make vaunting speeches about the character of your government? Ye cannot, I know ye cannot, be easy in your consciences; I know that a secret, unspoken trouble gnaws like a canker in your breasts! Many of you veil your eyes, and grope through the darkness of this domestic oppression; you will not listen to the cries of the helpless, but sit supinely down and argue upon the “right” of the thing. There were kind and tender-hearted Jews, who felt that the crucifixion of the Messiah was a fearful crime, yet fear sealed their lips. And are there not now time-serving men, who are worthy and capable of better things, but from motives of policy will offer no word against this barbarous system of slavery? Oh, show me the men, like that little handful at the North, who are willing to forfeit everything for the maintenance of human justice and mercy. Blessed apostles, near to the mount of God! your lips have been touched with the flame of a new Pentecost, and ye speak as never men spake before! Who that listens to the words of Parker, Sumner, and Seward, can believe them other than inspired? Theirs is no ordinary gift of speech; it burns and blazes with a mighty power! Cold must be the ear that hears them unmoved; and hard the heart that throbs not in unison with their noble and earnest expressions! Often have I paused in this little book, to render a feeble tribute to these great reformers. It may be thought out of place, yet I cannot repress the desire to speak my voluntary gratitude, and, in the name of all my scattered race, thank them for the noble efforts they have made in our behalf!

All the malgnity of my nature was aroused against Miss Bradly, when I heard her voice loudest in denunciation against Lindy.

As I was passing through the room, I could catch fragments of conversation anything but pleasing to the ear of a slave; but I had to listen in meekness, letting not even a working muscle betray my dissent. They were orthodox, and would not tolerate even from an equal a word contrary to their views.

I did not venture to ask the doctor what he thought of Aunt Polly, for that would have been called impudent familiarity, punishable with wiphping at the “post;” but when I met young master in the entry, I learned from him that the case was one of hopeless insanity. Blood-letting, &c., had been resorted to, but with no effect. The doctor gave it as his opinion that the case was “without remedy.” Not knowing that young master differed from his father and sisters, the doctor had, in his jocose and unfeeling way, suggested that it was not much difference; the old thing was of but little value; she was old and worn-out. To all this young master made no other reply than a fixed look from his meek eyes—a look which the doctor could not understand; for the idea of sympathy with or pity for a slave would have struck him as being a thing existing only in the bosom of a fanatical abolitionist, whose conviction would not permit him to cross the line of Mason and Dixon. Ah! little knew he (the coarse doctor) what a large heart full of human charities had grown within; nay, was indigenous to this south-western latitude. I believe, yes have reason to know, that the pure sentiment of abolition is one that is near and dear to the heart of many a Kentuckian; even those who are themselves the hereditary holders of slaves are, in many instances, the most opposed to the system. This sentiment is, perhaps, more largely developed in, and more openly expressed by, the females of the State; and this is accounted for from the fact that to be suspected of abolition tendencies is at once the plague-mark whereby a man is ever after considered unfit for public trust or political honor. It is the great question, the strong conservative element of society. To some extent it likewise taboos, in social circles, the woman who openly expresses such sentiments; though as she has no popular interests to stake, in many cases her voice will be on the side of right, not might.

In later years I remember to have overheard a colloquy between a lady and gentleman (both slaveholders) in Kentucky. The gentleman had vast possessions, about one-third of which consisted of slaves. The lady's entire wealth was in six negroes, some of them under the age of ten. They were hired out at the highest market prices, and by the proceeds she was supported. She had been raised in a strongly conservative community; nay, her own family were (to use a Kentuckyism) the “pick and choose” of the pro-slavery party. Some of them had been considered the able vindicators of the “system;” yet she, despite the force of education and the influence of domestic training, had broken away from old trammels and leash-strings, and was, both in thought and expression, a bold, ingrain abolitionist. She defied the lions in their chosen dens. On the occasion of this conversation, I heard her say that she could not remain happy whilst she detained in bondage those creatures who could claim, under the Constitution, alike with her, their freedom; and so soon as she attained her majority, she intended to liberate them. “But,” said she—and I shall never forget the mournful look of her dark eye—the statute of the State will not allow them to remain here ten days after liberation; and one of these men has a wife (to whom he is much attached), who is a slave to a master that will neither free her nor sell her. Now, this poor captive husband would rather remain in slavery to me, than be parted from his wife; and here is the point upon which I always stand. I wish to be humane and just to him; and yet rid myself from the horrid crime to which, from the accident of inheritance, I have become accessory.” The gentleman, who seemed touched by the heroism of the girl, was beguiled into a candid acknowledgment of his own sentiments; and freely declared to her that, if it were not for his political aspirations, he would openly free every slave he owned, and relieve his conscience from the weight of the “perilous stuff” that so oppressed it. “But,” said he, “were I to do it in Kentucky, I should be politically dead. It would, besides, strike a blow at my legal practice, and then what could I do? ‘Othello's occupation would be gone.’ Of what avail, then, would be my ‘quiddits, quillets; my cages, tenures and my tricks?’ I, who am high in political favor, should live to read my shame. I, who now ‘tower in my pride of place, should, by some mousing owl, be hawked at and killed!’ No, I must burden my conscience yet a little longer.”

The lady, with all a young girl's naïve and beautiful enthusiasm, besought him to disregard popular praise and worldly distinction. “Seek first,” said she, “the kingdom of heaven, and all things else shall be given you;” but the gentleman had grown hard in this world's devious wiles. He preferred throwing off his allegiance to Providence, and, single-handed and alone, making his fate. Talk to me of your thrifty men, your popular characters, and I instantly know that you mean a cringing, parasitical server of the populace; one who sinks soul, spirit and manly independence for the mere garments that cover his perishable body, and to whom the empty plaudits of the unthinking crowd are better music than the thankful prayer of suffering humanity. Let such an one, I say, have his full measure of the “clapping of hands,” let him hear it all the while; for he cannot see the frown that darkens the brow of the guardian angel, who, with a sigh, records his guilt. Go on, thou worldly Pharisee, but the day will come, when the lowly shall be exalted. Trust and wait we longer. Oh, ye who “know the right, and yet the wrong pursue,” a fearful reckoning will be yours.

But young master was not of this sort; I felt that his lips were closed from other and higher motives. If it had been of any avail, no matter what the cost to himself, he would have spoken. His soul knew but one sentiment, and that was “love to God and good will to men on earth.” And now, as he entered the room where the doctor and the ladies were seated, and listened to their heartless conversation, he planted himself firmly in their midst, saying:

“Sisters, the time has come when I must speak. Patiently have I lived beneath this my father's roof, and witnessed, without uttering one word, scenes at which my whole soul revolted; I have heard that which has driven me from your side. On my bare knees, in the gloom of the forest, I have besought God to soften your hearts. I have asked that the dew of mercy might descend upon the hoary head of my father, and that womanly gentleness might visit your obdurate hearts. I have felt that I could give my life up a sacrifice to obtain this; but my unworthy prayers have not yet been answered. In vain, in vain, I have hoped to see a change in you. Are you women or fiends? How can you persecute, to the death, poor, ignorant creatures, whose only fault is a black skin? How can you inhumanly beat those who have no protectors but you? Reverse the case, and take upon yourselves their condition; how would you act? Could you bear silently the constant “wear and tear” of body, the perpetual imprisonment of the soul? Could you surrender yourselves entirely to the keeping of another, and that other your primal foe—one who for ages has had his arm uplifted against your race? Suppose you every day witnessed a board groaning with luxuries (the result of your labor) devoured by your persecutors, whilst you barely got the crumbs; your owners dressed in purple and fine linen, whilst you wore the coarsest material, though all their luxury was the product of your exertion; what think you would be right for you to do? Or suppose I, whilst lingering at the little spring, should be stolen off, gagged and taken to Algiers, kept there in servitude, compelled to the most drudging labor; poorly clad and scantily fed whilst my master lived like a prince; kept in constant terror of the lash; punished severely for every venial offence, and my poor heart more lacerated than my body;— what would you think of me, if a man were to tell me that, with his assistance, I could make my escape to a land of liberty, where my rights would be recognized, and my person safe from violence; I say what would you think, if I were to decline, and to say I preferred to remain with the Algerines? He paused, but none replied. With eyes wonderingly fixed upon him, the group remained silent.

“You are silent all,” he continued, “for conviction, like a swift arrow, has struck your souls. Oh, God!” and he raised his eyes upward, “out of the mouths of babes and sucklings let wisdom, holiness and truth proceed. Touch their flinty hearts, and let the spark of grace be! Oh, sisters, know ye not that this Algerine captivity that I have painted, is but a poor picture of the daily martyrdom which our slaves endure? Look on that old woman, who, by a brutal blow from our father, has been deprived of her reason. Look at that little haggard orphan, Amy, who is the kicked football of you all. Look at the poor men whom we have brutalized and degraded. Think of Lindy, driven by frenzy to brave the passage to an unknown country rather than longer endure what we have put upon her. Gaze, till your eyes are bleared, upon that whipping-post, which rises upon our plantation; it is wet, even now, with the blood that has gushed from innocent flesh. Look at the ill-fed, ill-clothed creatures that live among us; and think they have immortal souls, which we have tried to put out. Oh, ponder well upon these things, and let this poor, wretched girl, who has sallied forth, let her go, I say, to whatever land she wishes, and strive to forget the horrors that haunted her here.”

Again he paused, but none of them durst reply. Inspired by their silence, he went on:

“And from you, Miss Bradly, I had expected better things. You were reared in a State where the brutality of the slave system is not tolerated. Your early education, your home influences, were all against it. Why and how can your womanly heart turn away from its true instincts? Is it for you, a Northerner and a woman, to put up your voice in defence of slavery? Oh, shame! triple-dyed shame, should stain your cheeks! Well may my sisters argue for slavery, when you, their teacher, aid and abet them. Could you not have instilled better things into their minds? I know full well that your heart and mind are against slavery; but for the ease of living in our midst, enjoying our bounty, and receiving our money, you will silence your soul and forfeit your principles. Yea, for a salary, you will pander to this horrid crime. Judas, for thirty pieces of silver, sold the Redeemer of the world; but what remorse followed the dastard act! You will yet live to curse the hour of your infamy. You might have done good. Upon the waxen minds of these girls you might have written noble things, but you would not.”

I watched Miss Bradly closely whilst he was speaking. She turned white as a sheet. Her countenance bespoke the convicted woman. Not an eye rested upon her but read the truth. Starting up at length from her chair, Miss Jane shouted out, in a theatrical way,

“Treason! treason in our own household, and from one of our own number! And so, Mr. John, you are the abolitionist that has sown dissension and discontent among our domestics. We have thought you simple; but I discover, sir, you are more knave than fool. Father shall know of this, and take steps to arrest this treason.”

“As you please, sister Jane; you can make what report you please, only speak the truth.”

At this she flew toward him, and, catching him by the collar, slapped his cheeks severely.

“Right well done,” said a clear, manly voice; and, looking up, I saw Mr. Worth standing in the open door. “I have been knocking,” said he, “for full five minutes; but I am not surprised that you did not hear me, for the strong speech to which I have listened had force enough to overpower the sound of a thunder-storm.”

Miss Jane recoiled a few steps, and the deepest crimson dyed her cheeks. She made great pretensions to refinement, and could not bear, now, that a gentleman (even though an abolitionist) should see her striking her brother. Miss Tildy assumed the look of injured innocence, and smilingly invited Mr. Worth to take a seat.

“Do not be annoyed by what you have seen. Jane is not passionate; but the boy was rude to her, and deserved a reproof.”

Without making a reply, but, with his eye fixed on young master, Mr. Worth took the offered seat. Miss Bradly, with her face buried in her hands, moved not; and the doctor sat playing with his half-filled glass of wine; but young master remained standing, his eye flashing strangely, and a bright crimson spot glowing on either cheek. He seemed to take no note of the entrance of Mr. Worth, or in fact any of the group. There he stood, with his golden locks falling over his white brow; and calm serenity resting like a sunbeam on his face. Very majestic and imposing was that youthful presence. High determination and everlasting truth were written upon his face. With one look and a murmured “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do,” he turned away.

“Stop, stop, my brave boy,” cried Mr. Worth, “stop, and let me look upon you. Had the South but one voice, and that one yours, this country would soon be clear of its great dishonor.”

To this young master made no spoken reply; but the clear smile that lit his countenance expressed his thanks; and seeing that Mr. Worth was resolved to detain him, he said,

“Let me go, good sir, for now I feel that I need the woods,” and soon his figure was gliding along his well-beloved path, in the direction of the spring. Who shall say that solitary communing with Nature unfits the soul for active life? True, indeed, it does unfit it for baseness, sordid dealings, and low detraction, by lifting it from its low condition, and sending it out in a broad excursiveness.

Here, in the case of young master, was a sweet and glowing flower that had blossomed in the wilds, and been nursed by nature only. The country air had fanned into bloom the bud of virtue and the beauty of highest truth.

As young Master strode away, Misses Jane and Tildy regarded each other in silent wonder. At length the latter, who caught the cue from her sister, burst forth in a violent laugh, that I can define only by calling it a romping laugh, so full of forced mirth. Miss Jane took up the echo, and the house resounded with their assumed merriment. No one else, however, seemed to take the infection; and they had the fun all to themselves.

“Well, Ann,” said Miss Tildy, putting on a quizzical air, “I suppose you have been very much edified by your young master's explosion of philanthropy and good-will toward you darkies.”

Too well I knew my position to make an answer; so there I stood, silent and submissive.

“Oh, yes, I suppose this young renegade has delivered abolition lectures in the kitchen hall, to his ‘dearly belubed’ brederen ob de colored race,” added Miss Matilda, intending to be vastly witty.

“I think we had better send him on to an Anti-slavery convention, and give him a seat 'twixt Lucy Stone and Fred Douglas. Wouldn't his white complexion contrast well with that of the sable orator?” and this Miss Jane designed should be exceedingly pungent.

Still no one answered, Mr. Worth's face wore a troubled expression; the doctor still played with his wine-glass; and Miss Bradly's face was buried deeper in her hands.

AFTER wiping the fresh blood-stains (produced by the severe beating of Mr. Peterkin) from Aunt Polly's shoulders, and binding up her brow to conceal the wounds made by the leeching process, I tenderly spread the old coverlet over her form, and then turned away from her to go about my usual avocations.

The doctor was just making his adieux, and the ladies had gathered round him in quite a social and sportive way. Misses Jane and Tildy were playfully disputing which one should take possession of his heart and hand, in the event of Mrs. Mandy's sudden demise. All this merriment and light-heartedness was exhibited, when but a few rods from them a poor, old, faithful creature lay in the agonies of a torturing death, and a young girl, who had striven for her liberty, and tried to achieve it at a perilous risk, had just been bound, hand and foot, and cast into outer darkness! Oh, this was a strange, meeting of the extremes. What varied colors the glass of life can show!

At length, with many funny speeches, and promises very ridiculous, the doctor tore himself away from the chatty group.

Passing in and out of the house, through the hall or in the parlor, as my business required, I saw Mr. Worth and Miss Bradly sitting quietly and moodily apart, whilst, occasionally, Miss Tildy would flash out with a coarse joke, or Miss Jane would speculate upon the feelings of Lindy, in her present helpless and gloomy confinement.

“I reckon she does not relish Canada about this time.”

“No; let us ask her candid opinion of it,” said Miss Tildy, who considered herself the wit of the family, and this last speech she regarded as quite an extraordinary flash.

“That's very good, Till,” said her patronizing sister, “but you are always witty.”

“Now, sister, ain't you ashamed to flatter me so?” and with the most Laura Matilda-ish air, she turned her head aside and tried to blush.

I could read, from his clear, manly glance, that Mr. Worth was sick at heart and goaded to anguish by what he saw and heard; yet, like many another noble man, he sat in silent endurance. Miss Jane caught the idea of his gloom, and, with a good deal of sly, vulpine malice, determined to annoy him. She had not for him, as Miss Tildy had, a personal admiration; so, by way of vexing him, as well as showing off her smartness, she asked:

“Till, is there much Worth in Abolitionism?”

“I don't know, but there is a Robin in it.” This she thought a capital repartee.

“Bravo! bravo, Till! who can equal you? You are the wittiest girl in town or country.”

“Wit is a precious gift,” said Mr. Worth, as he satirically elevated his brows.

“Indeed is it,” replied Miss Tildy, “but I am not conscious of its possession.” Of course she expected he would gainsay her; but, as he was silent, her cheeks blazed like a peony.

“What makes Miss Bradly so quiet and seemingly lachrymose? I do believe Johnny's Abolition lecture has given her the blues.”

“Not the lecture, but the necessity for the lecture,” put in Mr. Worth.

“What's that? what's that 'bout Aberlitionists?” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, as he rushed into the room. “Is there one of 'em here? Let me know it, and my roof shan't shelter the rascal. Whar is he?”

I looked toward Mr. Worth, for I feared that, on an occasion like this, his principles would fail as Miss Bradly's had; but the fear was quickly dissipated, as he replied in a manly tone:

“I, a vindicator of the anti-slavery policy, and a denouncer of the slave system, stand before you, and declare myself proud of my sentiments.”

“You? ha! ha! ha! ha! that's too ridiculous; a mere boy; a stripling, no bigger than my arm. I'd not disgrace my manhood with a fight with the like of yer.”

“So thought Goliath when David met him in warfare; but witness the sequel, and then say if the battle is always to the strong, or the victory with the proud. Might is not always right. I ask to be heard for my cause. Stripling as you call me, I am yet able to vindicate my abolition principles upon other and higher ground than mere brute force.”

“Oh, yes; you has larnt, I s'pose, to talk. That's all them windy Aberlitionists ken do; they berate and talk, but they can't act.”

A contemptuous smile played over the face of Mr. Worth, but he did not deign to answer with words.

“Do you know, pa, that Johnny is an Abolitionist?” asked Miss Jane.

“What! John Peterkin? my son John?”

“The same,” and Miss Jane bowed most significantly.

“Well, that's funny enuff; but I'll soon bring it outen him. He's a quiet lad; not much sperrit, and I guess he's hearn some 'cock and bull story' 'bout freedom and equality. All smart boys of his age is apt to feel that way, but he'll come outen it. It's all bekase he has hearn too many Fourth of July speeches; but I don't fear fur him, he is sure to come outen it. The very idee of my son's being an Aberlitionist is too funny.”

“Funny is it, father, for your child to love mercy, and deal justly, even with the lowliest?” As he said this, young master stood in the doorway. He looked paler and even more spiritual than was his wont.

Mr. Peterkin sat for full five minutes, gazing at the boy; and, strange to say, made no reply, but strode away from the room.

Miss Jane and Tildy regarded each other with evident surprise. They had expected a violent outburst, and thus to see their father tamed and subdued by the word and glance of their boy-brother, astonished them not a little.

Miss Tildy turned toward young master, and said, in what was meant for a most caustic tone,

“You are an embryo Van Amburgh, thus to tame the lion's rage.”

“But you, Tilly, are too vulpine to be fascinated even by the glance of Van Amburgh himself.”

“Well, now, Johnny, you are getting impertinent as well as spicy.”

“Pertinent, you mean,” said Mr. Worth. Miss Tildy would not look angry at him; for she was besieging the fortress of his affections, and she deemed kind measures the most advantageous.

Were I to narrate most accurately the conversation that followed, the repartees that flashed from the lips of some, and the anger that burned blue in the faces of others, I should only amuse the reader, or what is more likely, weary him.

I will simply mention that, after a few hours' sojourn, Mr. Worth took his departure, not without first having a long conversation, in a private part of the garden, with young master. Miss Bradly retired to the young ladies' room (for they would not allow her to leave the house), under pretext of headache. Often, as I passed in and out to ask her if she needed anything, I found her weeping bitterly. Late in the evening, about eight o'clock, Mr. Peterkin returned; throwing the reins of his horse to Nace, he exclaimed:

“Well, I've made a good bargain of it; I've sold Lindy to a trader for one thousand dollars—that is, if she answers the description which I gave of her. He is comin' in the mornin', to look at her; and, with a little riggin' up, I think she'll 'pear a rale good-lookin' wench.”

MORN did break, bright and clear, over the face of the sleeping earth! It was a still and blessed hour. Man, hushed from his rushing activity, lay reposeful in the arms of “Death's counterfeit-sleep.” All animated nature was quiet and calm, till, suddenly, a gush of melody broke from the clear throats of the wildwood birds and made the air vocal. Another day was dawning; another day born to witness sins and cruelties the most direful. Do we not often wonder why the sky can smile so blue and lovingly, when such outrages are enacted beneath it? But I must not anticipate.

As soon as the sun had fairly risen I knocked at the house-door, which was opened by Miss Bradly, whose languid face and crumpled dress, proved that she had taken no rest during the night. Bidding her a polite good-morning, I inquired if the ladies had risen? She answered that they were still asleep, and had rested well during the night. I next inquired for master's health.

“Oh,” said she, “I think he is well, quite well again. He slept soundly. I think he only suffered from a violent and sudden mental excitement. A good night's rest, and a sedative that I administered, have restored him; but to-day, oh, to-day, how I do dread to-day.”

To the latter part of this speech I made no answer; for, of late, I had learned to distrust her. Even if her belief was right, I could not recognize her as one heroic enough to promulgate it from the house-tops. I saw in her only a weak, servile soul, drawn down from the lofty purpose of philanthropy, seduced by the charm of “vile lucre.” Therefore I observed a rigid silence. Feeling a little embarrassed, I began playing with the strings of my apron, for I was fearful that the expression of my face might betray what was working in my mind.

“What is the matter, Ann?”

This recalled the tragedy that had occurred in the cabin, and I said, in a faltering tone,

“Death has been among us. Poor Aunt Polly is gone.”

“Is it? When did she die? Poor old creature!”

“She died some time before midnight. When I left the house I was surprised to find her still sleeping, so I thought perhaps she was too sluggish, and, upon attempting to arouse her, I discovered that she was dead!”

“Why did you not come and inform me? I would have assisted you in the last sad offices.”

“Oh, I did not like to disturb you. I did everything very well myself.”

“Johnny and I sat up all night; that is, I suppose he was up, though he left the room a little after midnight, and has not since returned. I should not wonder if he has been walking the better part of the night. He so loves solitude and the night-time— but then,” she added, musingly “he has a bad cough, and it may be dangerous. The night was chilly, the atmosphere heavy. What if this imprudence should rapidly develop a fearful disease?” she seemed much concerned.

“I will go,” said she, “and search for him;” but ere these word had fairly died upon her lips, we were startled by a cough, and, looking up, we beheld the subject of our conversation within a few steps of us. Oh, how wretchedly he was changed! It appeared as if the wreck of years had been accomplished in the brief space of a night. Haggard and pale, with his eyes roving listlessly, dark purple lines of unusual depth surrounding them, and with his bright, gold hair, heavy with the dew, and hanging neglected around his noble head, even his clear, pearl-like complexion appeared dark and discolored.

“Where have you been, Johnny?” asked Miss Bradly.

To commune with the lonely and comfort the bound; at the door of the ‘lock-up,’ our miniature Bastile, I have spent the night. Here commenced a paroxysm of coughing, so violent that he was obliged to seat himself upon the door-sill.

“Oh, Johnny,” exclaimed the terrified lady.

But as he attempted to check her fears, another paroxysm, still more frightful, took place, and this time the blood gushed copiously from his mouth. Miss Bradly threw her arms tenderly around him, and, after a succession of rapid gushes of blood, his head fell languidly on her shoulder, like a pale, broken lily!

I instantly ran to call up the ladies, when master approached from his chamber; seeing young master lying so pale, cold, and insensible in the arms of Miss Bradly, he concluded he was dead, and, crying out in a frantic tone, he asked,

“In h—l's name, what has happened to my boy?”

“He has had a violent hemorrhage,” replied Miss Bradly, with an ill-disguised composure.

The sight of the blood, which lay in puddles and clots over the steps, increased the terror of the father, and, frantically seizing his boy in his arms, he covered the still, pale face with kisses.

“Oh, my boy! my boy! how much you are like her! This is her mouth, eyes, and nose, and now you 'pears jist like she did when I seed her last. These limbs are stiff and frozen. It can't be death; no, it can't be. I haven't killed you, too— say, Miss Bradly, is he dead?”

“No, sir, only exhausted from the violence of the paroxysm, and the copious hemorrhage, but he requires immediate medical treatment; send, promptly, for Dr. Mandy.”

Master turned to me, saying,

“Gal, go order Jake to mount the swiftest horse, and ride for life and death to Dr. Mandy; tell him to come instantly, my son is dying.”

I obeyed, and, with all possible promptitude, the message was dispatched. Oh, how different when his son was ill. Then you could see that human life was valuable; had it been a negro, he would have waited until after breakfast before sending for a doctor.

Mr. Peterkin bore his son into the house, placed him on the bed, and, seating himself beside him, watched with a tenderness that I did not think belonged to his harsh nature.

In a very short time Jake returned with Dr. Mandy, who, after feeling young master's pulse, sounding his chest, and applying the stethescope, said that he feared it was an incipient form of lung-fever. We had much cause for apprehension. There was a perplexed expression upon the face of the doctor, a tremulousness in his motions, which indicated that he was in great fear and doubt as to the case. He left some powders, to be administered every hour, and, after various and repeated injunctions to Miss Bradly, who volunteered to nurse the patient, he left the house.

After taking the first powder, young master lay in a deep, unbroken sleep As I stood by his bedside I saw how altered he was. The cheek, which, when he was walking, had seemed round and full, was now shrunk and hollow, and a fiery spot burned there like a living coal; and the dark, purple ring that encircled the eyes, and the sharp contraction of the thin nostril, were to me convincing omens of the grave. Then, too, the anxious, care-written face of Miss Bradly tended to deepen my apprehension. How my friends were falling around me! Now, just when I was beginning to live, came the fell destroyer of my happiness. Happiness? Oh, does it not seem a mockery for the slave to employ that word? As if he had anything to do with it! The slave, who owns nothing, ay, literally nothing. His wife and children are all his master's. His very wearing apparel becomes another's. He has no right to use it, save as he is advised by his owner. Go, my kind reader, to the hotels of the South and South-west, look at the worn and dejected countenances of the slaves, and tell me if you do not read misery there. Look in at the saloons of the restaurants, coffee-houses, &c., at late hours of the night; there you will see them, tired, worn and weary, with their aching heads bandaged up, sighing for a few moments' sleep. There the proud, luxurious, idle whites sip their sherbets, drink wine, and crack their ever-lasting jokes, but there must stand your obsequious slave, with a smile on his face, waiter in hand, ready to attend to “Master's slightest wish.” No matter if his tooth is aching, or his child dying, he must smile, or be flogged for gruffness. This “chattel personal,” though he bear the erect form of a man, has no right to any privileges or emotions. Oh, nation of the free, how long shall this be? Poor, suffering Africa, country of my sires, how much longer upon thy bleeding shoulders must the cross be pressed! Is there no tomb where, for a short space, thou shalt lie, and then, bursting the bonds of night and death, spring up free, redeemed and regenerate?”

“Oh, will he die?” I murmured, “he who reconciles me to my bondage, who is my only friend? Another affliction I cannot bear; I've been so tried in the furnace, that I have not strength to meet another.”

Those thoughts passed through my brain as I stood beside young master; but the entrance of Mr. Peterkin diverted them, and stepping up to him, I said, “Master, Aunt Polly is dead.”

“You lie!” he thundered out.

“No, Mr. Peterkin, the old woman is really dead,” said Miss Bradly, in a kind but mournful tone.

“Who killed her?” again he thundered.

Ay, who did kill her? Could I not have answered, “Thou art the man.” But I did not. Silently I stood before him, never daring to trust myself with a word.

“What time did she kick the bucket?” asked Mr. Peterkin, in one of the favorite Kentucky vulgarisms, whereby the most solemn and awful debt of nature is ridiculed by the unthinking. I told him how I had found her, what I had done, &c., all of which is known to the reader.

“I believe h—l is loose among the niggers. Now, here's Poll had to die bekase she couldn't cut any other caper. I might have made a sight o' money by her sale; and she, old fool, had to cut me outen it. Wal, I'll only have to sell some of the others, fur I's bound to make up a sartin sum of money to pay to some of my creditors in L—.”

This speech was addressed to Miss Bradly, upon whom it made not half the impression that it did upon me. How I hoped I should be one, for if young master, as I began to believe, should die soon, the place would become to me more horrible than a tiger's den. Any change was desirable.

When the young ladies rose from their beds I went in to attend on them, and communicated the news of young master's illness and Aunt Polly's death. For their brother they expressed much concern, but the faithful old domestic, who had served them so long, was of no more consequence than a dog. Miss Jane did seem provoked to think that she “had died on their hands,” as she expressed it. “If pa had sold her months ago, we might have had the money, or something valuable, but now we must go to the expense of furnishing her with a coffin.”

“Coffin! hoity-toity! Father's not going to give her a coffin, an old store-box is good enough to put her old carcass in.” And thus they spoke of one of God's dead.

Usually persons respect those upon whom death has set his ghastly signet; but these barbarians (for such I think they must have been) spoke with an irreverence of one whose body lay still and cold, only few steps from them. To some people no thing or person is sacred.

After breakfast I waited in great anxiety to hear how and when master intended to have Aunt Polly buried.

I had gone into the little desolate cabin, which was now consecrated by the presence of the dead. There she lay, cold and ashen; and the long white strip that I had thrown over her was too thin to conceal the face. It was an old muslin curtain that I had found in looking over the boxes of the deceased, and out of respect had flung it over the remains. So rigid and set seemed her features in that last, deep sleep, so tightly locked were those bony fingers, so mournful looked the straightened, stiffened form, so devoid of speculation the half-closed eyes, that I turned away with a shudder, saying inwardly:

“Oh, death, thou art revolting!” Yet when I bethought me of the peace passing human understanding into which she had gone, the safe bourne that she had attained, “where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest;” when I thought of this, death lost its horror, and the grave its gloom. Oh, Eternity, problem that the living can never solve. Oh, death, full of victory to the Christian! wast thou not, to my old and weary friend, a messenger of sweet peace; and was not the tomb a gateway to new and undreamed-of happiness? Yes, so will I believe; for so believing am I made joyful.

Relieved thus by faith from the burden of grief, I moved gently about the room, trying to bring something like order to its ragged appearance; for Jake, who had been dispatched for Doctor Mandy to come and see young master, had met on the way a colored preacher, to whom he announced Aunt Polly's death, and who had promised to come and preach a funeral sermon, and attend the burial. This was to the other negroes a great treat; they regarded a funeral as quite a gala occasion, inasmuch as we had never had such a thing upon the farm. I had my own doubts, though I did not express them, whether master would permit it.

Young master still slept, from the strong effects of the sleeping potion which had been administered to him. Miss Bradly, overcome by the night's watching, dozed in a large chair beside the bed, and an open Bible, in which she had been reading, lay upon her lap. The blinds were closed, but the dim light of a small fire that blazed on the hearth gave some appearance of life to the room. Every one who passed in and out, stepped on tip-toe, as if fearful of arousing the sleeper.

Oh, the comfort of a white skin! No darkened room, no comfortable air, marked the place where she my friend had died. No hushed dread nor whispered voice paid respect to the cabin-room where lay her dead body; but, thanks to God, in the morning of the resurrection we shall come forth alike, regardless of the distinctions of color or race, each one to render a faithful account of the deeds done in the body.

Mr. Peterkin came to the kitchen-door, and called Nace, saying:

“Where is that old store-box that the goods and domestics for the house was fetched home in, from L—, last fall?”

“It's in de smoke-house, Masser.”

“Wal, go git it, and bury ole Poll in it.”

“It's right dirty and greasy, Master,” I ventured to say.

“Who keres if 'tis? What right has you to speak, slut?” and he gave me a violent kick in the side with his rough brogan.

“Take that for yer imperdence. Who tole you to put yer mouth in?”

Nace and Dan soon produced the box, which had no top, and was dirty and greasy, as it well might be from its year's lodgment in the meat-house.

“Now, go dig a hole and put Poll in it.”

As master was turning away, he was met by a neatly-dressed black man, who wore a white muslin cravat and white cotton gloves, and carried two books in his hand. He had an humble, reverent expression, and I readily recognized him as the free colored preacher of the neighborhood—a good, religious man, God-fearing and God-serving. No one knew or could say aught against him. How I did long to speak to him; to sit at his feet as a disciple, and learn from him heavenly truths.

As master turned round, the preacher, with a polite air, took off his hat, saying:

“Your servant, Master.”

“What do you want, nigger?”

“Why, Master, I heard that one of your servants was dead, and I come to ask your leave to convene the friends in a short prayer-meeting, if you will please let us.”

ABOUT noon a gaudily-dressed and rough-looking man rode up to the gate, and alighted from a fine bay horse. With that free and easy sort of way so peculiar to a certain class of man-kind, he walked up the avenue to the front door.

“Gal,” he said, addressing me, “whar's yer master?”

“In the house. Will you walk in?”

“No, it is skersely worth while; jist tell him that me, Bill Tompkins, wants to see him; but stay,” he added, as I was turning to seek my master, “is you the gal he sold to me yesterday?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Wal, you is devilish likely. Put out yer foot. Wal, it is nice enuff to belong to a white 'ooman. You is a bright-colored mulatto. I must have you.”

“Heavens! I hope not,” was my half-uttered expression, as I turned away, for I had caught the meaning of that lascivious eye, and shrank from the threatened danger. Though I had been cruelly treated, yet had I been allowed to retain my person inviolate; and I would rather, a thousand-fold, have endured the brutality of Mr. Peterkin, than those loathsome looks which I felt betokened ruin.

“Master, a man, calling himself Bill Tompkins, wishes to see you,” said I, as I entered his private apartment.

“Can't yer say Mr. Tompkins?”

“He told me to tell you Bill Tompkins; I only repeat his words.”

“Whar is he?”

THE half insensible form of Amy was borne by Jake into the cabin, and laid upon the cot which had been Aunt Polly's. He then closed and secured the door after him.

Where, all this time, was Miss Bradly? She, in her terror, had buried her head upon the bed, on which young master still slept. She tried to drown the sound of those frantic cries that reached her, despite the closed door and barred shutter. Oh, did they not reach the ear of Almighty love?

“Well, I am glad,” exclaimed Miss Tildy, “that it is all over. Somehow, Jane, I did not like the sound of those young children's cries. Might it not have been well to let Amy go too?”

“No, of course not. Now that Lindy has been sold, we need a house-girl, and Amy may be made a very good one; besides, she enraged me so by attempting to spoil the sale of Ben.”

“Did she do that? Oh, well, I have no pity for her.”

“It would be something very new, Till, for you to pity a nigger.”

“So it would—yet I was weak enough to feel badly when I heard the children scream.”

“Oh, you are only nervous.”

“I believe I am, and think I will take some medicine.”

“Take medicine,” to stifle human pity!

“What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug would scour” the slaveholder's nature of harshness and brutality? Could this be found, “I would applaud to the very echo, that should applaud again;” but, alas! there is no remedy for it. Education has taught many of them to guard their “beloved institution” with a sort of patriotic fervor and religious zeal.

When master returned that evening, he was elated to a wonderful degree. Tompkins had paid him a large sum in ready cash, and this put him in a good humor with himself and everybody else. He almost felt kindly toward the negroes. But I looked upon him with more than my usual horror. That great, bloated face, blazing now with joy and the effect of strong drink, was revolting to me. Every expression of delight from his lips brought to my mind the horrid troubles he had caused by the simple exercise of his tyrannic will upon helpless women and children. The humble appearance of Ginsy, the touching innocence of her child, the unnoticed silent grief of Lindy, the fearful, heart-rending distraction of Amy, the agony of her helpless sisters and brother, all rose to my mind when I heard Mr. Peterkin's mirthful laugh ringing through the house.

Late in the evening young master roused up. The effect of the somnolent draught had died out, and he woke in full possession of his faculties. Miss Bradly and I were with him when he woke. Raising himself quickly in the bed, he asked,

“What hour is it?”

“About half-past six,” said Miss Bradly.

“So late? Then am I afraid that all is over! Where is Lindy?”

“Try and rest a little more; then we can talk!”

“No, I must know now.”

“Wait a while longer.”

“Tell me instantly,” he said with a nervous impatience very unusual to him.

“Drink this, and I will then talk to you,” said Miss Bradly, as she held a cordial to his lips.

Obediently he swallowed it, and, as he returned the glass, he asked,

ONE evening, during young master's illness, when he was able to sit up beside the fire, Dr. Mandy came to see him, and, as I sat in his room, sewing on some fancy work for Miss Jane, I heard the conversation that passed between them.

“Have you coughed much?” the doctor asked.

“A great deal last night.”

“Do the night-sweats continue?”

“Yes, sir, and are violent.”

“Let me feel your pulse. Here—it is very quick—face is flushed—high fever.”

“Yes, doctor, I am sinking fast.”

“Oh, keep up your spirits. I have been thinking that the best thing for you would be to take a trip to Havana. This climate is too variable for your complaint.”

Young master shook his head mournfully.

“The change of scene,” the doctor went on, “would be of service to you. A healthful excitement of the imagination, and a different train of thought, would, undoubtedly, benefit you.”

“What in the South could induce a different train of thought? Oh, doctor, the horrid system, that there flourishes with such rank power, would only deepen my train of thought, and make me more wretched than I am; I would not go near New Orleans, or pass those dreadful plantations, even to secure the precious boon of health.”

“You will not see anything of the kind. You will only see life at hotels; and there the slaves are all happy and well used. Besides, my good boy, the negroes on the plantations are much better used than you think; and I assure you they are very happy. If you could overhear them laughing and singing of an evening, you would be convinced that they are well cared for.”

“Ah, disguise thee as thou wilt, yet, Slavery, thou art horrid and revolting.”

“You are morbid on the subject.”

“No, only humane; but have I not seen enough to make me morbid?”

“These are subjects upon which I deem it best to say nothing.”

“That is the invariable argument of self-interest.”

“No, of prudence, Mr. John; I have no right to quarrel with and rail out against an institution that has the sanction of the law, and which is acceptable to the interests of my best friends and patrons.”

“Exactly; the whole matter, so vital to the happiness of others, so fraught with great humanitarian interests, must be quietly laid on the shelf, because it may lose you or me a few hundred dollars.”

“Not precisely that either; but, granting, for the sake of hypothesis only, that slavery is a wrong, what good would all my arguments do? None, but rather an injury to the very cause they sought to benefit. You must not exasperate the slave-holders. Leave them to time and their own reflections. I believe many of the Western States—yes, Kentucky herself— would at this moment be free from slavery, if it had not been for the officious interference of the North. The people of the West and South are hot, fiery and impetuous. They may be persuaded and coaxed into a measure, but never driven. All this talk and gasconade of Abolitionists have but the tighter bound the negroes.”

“I am sorry to hear you thus express yourself, for you give me a more contemptible opinion of the Southern and Western men, or rather the slave-holding class, than I had before. And so they are but children, who must be coaxed, begged, and be sugar-plumed into doing a simple act of justice. Have they not the manhood to come out boldly, and say this thing is wrong, and that they will no longer countenance it in their midst; that they will, for the sake of justice and sympathy with humanity, liberate these creatures, whom they have held in an unjust and wicked bondage? Were they to act thus, then might they claim for themselves the title of chevaliers.”

“Yes; but they take a different view of the subject; they look upon slavery as just and right—a dispensation of Providence, and feel that they are as much entitled to their slaves as another man is to his house, carriage, or horse.”

“Oh, how they shut their hearts against the voice of misery, and close their eyes to the rueful sigh of human grief. I never heard a pro-slavery man who could, upon any reasonable ground, defend his position. The slavery argument is not only a wicked, but an absurd one. How wise men can be deluded by it I am at a loss to understand. Infatuated they must be, else they could not uphold a system as tyrannous as it is base.”

“Well, we will say no more upon this subject,” said the doctor, as Mr. Peterkin entered.

“What's the matter?” the latter inquired, as he listlessly threw himself into a chair.

“Nothing, only Mr. John is not all right on the ‘goose,’ ” replied Dr. Mandy, with a facetious smile.

“And not likely to be,” said Mr. Peterkin; “Johnny has given me a great deal of trouble 'bout this matter; but I hope he will outgrow it. 'Tis only a foolish notion. He was 'lowed to gad 'bout too much with them ar' devilish niggers, an' so 'bibed their quare ideas agin slavery. Now, in my 'pinion, my niggers is a darned sight better off than many of them poor whites at the North.”

“But are they as free?” asked young master.

“No, to be sure they is not,” and here Mr. Peterkin ejected from his mouth an amount of tobacco-juice that nearly extinguished the fire.

“Woe be unto the man who takes from a fellow-being the priceless right of personal liberty!” exclaimed young master, with his fine eyes fervently raised.

“Yes, but everybody don't desarve liberty. Niggers ain't fit for to govern 'emselves nohow. They has bin too long 'customed to havin' masters. Them that's went to Libery has bin of no 'count to 'emselves nor nobody else. I tell yer, niggers was made to be slaves, and yer kan't change their Creator's design. Why, you see, doctor, a nigger's mind is never half as good as a white man's;” and Mr. Peterkin conceived this speech to be the very best extract of lore and sapience.

“Why is not the African mind equal to the Caucasian?” inquired young master, with that pointed naivete for which he was so remarkable.

“Oh, it tain't no use, Johnny, fur you to be talkin' that ar' way. It's all fine enoff in newspapers, but it won't do to bring it into practice, 'specially out here in the West.”

“No, father, I begin to fear that it is of no avail to talk common sense and preach humanity in a community like this.”

“Don't talk any more on this subject,” said the doctor; “I am afraid it does Mr. John no particular good to be so painfully excited. I was going to propose to you, Mr. Peterkin, to send him South, either on a little coasting trip, or to Havana via New Orleans. I think this climate is too rigorous and uncertain for one of his frail constitution to remain in it during the winter.”

“Well, doctor, I am perfectly willin' fur him to go, if I had anybody to go with him; but you see it wouldn't be safe to trust him by himself. Now an idee has jist struck me, which, if you'll agree to, will 'zackly suit me. 'Tis for you to go 'long; then he'd have a doctor to rinder him any sarvice he might need. Now Docter if you'll go, I'll foot the bill, and pay you a good bonus in the bargain.”

“Well, it will be a great professional sacrifice; but I'm willing to make it for a friend like you, and for a patient in whose recovery or improvement I feel so deeply interested.”

”Make no sacrifices for me, dear doctor; my poor wreck of life is not worth a sacrifice; I can weather it out a little longer in this region. It requires a stronger air than that of the tropics to restore strength to my poor decayed lungs.”

“Yes, but you must not despond,” said the doctor.

“No, my boy, you musn't give up. You are too young to die. You are my only son, and I can't spare you.” Again Mr. Peterkin turned uneasily in his chair.

“But tell me, doctor,” he added, “don't you think he is growin' stronger?”

“Why, yes I do; and if he will consent to go South, I shall have strong hope of him.”

“He must consent,” exclaimed Mr. Peterkin, with a decided emphasis.

“You know my objection, doctor, yet I cannot oppose my wish against father's judgment; so I will go, but 'twill be without the least expectation of ever again seeing home.”

“Oh, don't, don't, my boy,” and Mr. Peterkin's voice faltered, and his eyes were very moist.

“Idols of clay!” I thought, “how frail ye are; albeit ye are manufactured out of humanity's finest porcelain, yet a rude touch, a slight jar, and the beautiful fabric is destroyed forever!”

Mr. Peterkin's treasure, his only son, was wasting slowly, inch by inch, before his eyes—dying with slow and silent certainty. The virus was in his blood, and no human aid could check its strides. The father looked on in speechless dread. He saw the insidious marks of the incurable malady. He read its ravages upon the broad white brow of his son, where the pulsing veins lay like tightly-drawn cords; and on the hueless lip, that was shrivelled like an autumn leaf; in the dilated pupil of that prophet-like eye; in the fiery spot that blazed upon each hollow check; and in the short, disturbed breathing that seemed to come from a brazen tube; in all these he traced the omens of that stealthy disease that robs us, like a thief in the night-time, of our richest treasures.

“Well, my boy,” began Mr. Peterkin, “you must prepare to start in the course of a few days.”

“I am ready to leave at any moment, father; and, if we do not start very soon, I am thinking you will have to consign me to the earth, rather than send me on a voyage pleasure-hunting.”

A bright smile, though mournful as twilight's shadows, flitted over the pale face of young master as he said this.

“Why, Johnny, you are better this evening,” said Miss Bradly, as she entered the room, rushed up to him, and began patting him affectionately on either cheek.

“Yes, I am better, good Miss Emily; but still feeble, oh so feeble! My spirits are better, but the restless fire that burns eternally here will give me no rest,” and he placed his hand over his breast.

“Yes, but you must quench that fire.”

“Where is the draught clear and pure enough to quench a flame so consuming?”

“The dew of divine grace can do it.”

“Yes, but it descends not upon my dried and burnt spirit.”

Mr. Peterkin turned off, and affected to take no note of this little colloquy, whilst Doctor Mandy began to chew furiously.

The fact is, the Peterkin family had begun to distrust Miss Bradly's principles ever since the day young master administered such a reproof to her muffled conscience; and in truth, I believe she had half-declared her opposition to the slave system; and they began to abate the fervor of their friendship for her. The young ladies, indeed, kept up their friendly intercourse with her, though with a modification of their former warmth.

I fancied that Miss Bradly looked happier, now that she had cast off disguise and stood forth in her true character. That cloud of faltering distrust that once hung round her like a filmy web, had been dissipated and she stood out, in full relief, with the beautiful robe of truth draping and dignifying her nature. Woman, when once she interests herself in the great cause of humanity, goes to work with an ability and ardor that put to shame the colder and slower action of man. The heart and mind co-work, and thus a woman, as if by the dictate of inspiration, will achieve with a single effort the mighty deed, for the attainment of which men spend years in idle planning. Women have done much, and may yet achieve more toward the emancipation and enfranchisement of the world. The historic pages glitter with the noble acts of heroic womanhood, and histories yet unwritten will, I believe, proclaim the good which they shall yet do. Who but the Maid of Orleans rescued her country? Whose hand but woman's dealt the merited death-blow to one of France's bloodiest tyrants? In all times, she has been most loyal to the highest good. Woman has ever been brave! She was the instrument of our redemption, and the early watcher at the tomb of our Lord. To her heart the Saviour's doctrine came with a special welcome message. And I now believe that through her agency will yet come the political ransom of the slaves! God grant it, and speed on the blessed day!

I now looked upon Miss Bradly with the admiring interest with which I used to regard her; and though I had never had from her an explanation of the change or changes through which she had passed since that memorable conversation recorded in the earlier pages of this book, I felt assured from the fact that young master had learned to love her, that all was right at the core of her heart; and I was willing to forgive her for the timidity and vacillation that had caused her to play the dissembler. The memorable example of the loving but weak Apostle Peter should teach us to look leniently upon all those who cannot pass safely through the ordeal of human contempt, without having their principles, or at least actions, a little warped. Of course there are higher natures, from whose fortitude the rack and the stake can provoke nothing but smiles; but neither good St. Peter nor Miss Bradly were of such material.

“I am going to leave you very soon, Miss Emily.”

“And where are you going, John?”

“They will send me to the South. As the poor slaves say, I'm going down the river;” and a sweet smile flitted over that gentle face.

“Who will accompany you?”

THE winter was now drawing to a close. The heavy, dreary winter, that had hung like an incubus upon my hours, was fast drawing to an end. Many a little, tuneful bird came chirping with the sunny days of the waning February. Already the sunbeam had begun to give us a hint of the spring-warmth; the ice had melted away, and the moistened roofs of the houses began to smoke with the drying breath of the sun, and little green pods were noticeable upon the dried branches of the forest trees. It was on such a day, when the eye begins to look round upon Nature, and almost expects to solve the wondrous phenomenon of vegetation, that I was engaged arranging Miss Jane's wardrobe. I had just done up some laces for her, and finished off a nice silk morning-dress. She was making extensive preparations for a visit to the city of L. The protracted rigors of the winter and her own fancied ill-health had induced her to postpone the trip until the opening of spring.

It was decided that I should accompany her as lady's maid; and the fact is, I was desirous of any change from the wearying monotony of my life.

Young master had been absent during the whole winter. Frequent letters from Dr. Mandy (who had accompanied him) informed the family of his slowly-improving health; yet the doctor stated in each communication that he was not strong enough to write a letter himself. This alarmed me, for I knew that he must be excessively weak, if he denied himself the gratification of writing to his family. Miss Bradly came to the house but seldom; and then only to inquire the news from young master. Her principles upon the slavery question had become pretty well known in the neighborhood; so her residence there was not the most pleasant. Inuendoes, of a most insulting character, had been thrown out, highly prejudicial to her situation. Foul slanders were in busy circulation about her, and she began to be a taboed person. So I was not surprised to hear her tell Miss Jane that she thought of returning to the North early in the spring. I had never held any private conversation with her since that memorable one; for now that her principles were known, she was too much marked for a slave to be allowed to speak with her alone. Her sorrowful face struck me with pity. I knew her to be one of that time-serving kind, by whom the loss of caste and social position is regarded as the most fell disaster.

As I turned the key of Miss Jane's wardrobe, she came into the room, with an unusually excited manner, exclaiming,

“Ann, where is your Miss Tildy?”

Upon my answering that I did not know, she bade me go and seek her instantly, and say that she wished to speak with her. As I left the room, I observed Miss Jane draw a letter from the folds of her dress. This was hint enough. My mother-wit told me the rest.

Finding Miss Tildy with a book, in a quiet corner of the parlor, I delivered Miss Jane's message, and withdrew. The contents of Miss Jane's letter soon became known; for it was, to her, of such an exciting nature, that it could not be held in secresy. The letter was from Mr. Sommerville, and announced that he would pay her a visit in the course of a few days.

And, for the next “few days,” the whole house was in a perfect consternation. All hands were at work. Carpets were taken up, shaken, and put down again with the “clean side” up. Paint was scoured, windows were washed; the spare bedroom was re-arranged, and adjusted in style; the French couch was overspread with Miss Tildy's silk quilt, that had taken the prize at the Agricultural Fair; and fresh bouquets were collected from the green-house, and placed upon the mantel. Everything looked very nice about the house, and in the kitchen all sorts of culinary preparations had gone on. Cakes, cookies, and confections had been made in abundance. As Amy expressed it, in her quaintly comical way, “Christmas is comin' again.” It was the first and only time since, the, departure of “the children,” that I had heard her indulge in any of her old drollery.

At length the “day” arrived, and with it came Mr. Summerville. Whilst he remained with us, everything went off in the way that Miss Jane desired. There were fine dinners, with plenty of wine, roast turkey, curry powder, desserts, &c. The silver and best china had been brought out, and Mr. Peterkin behaved himself as well as he could. He even consented to use a silver fork, which, considering his prejudice against the article, was quite a concession for him to make.

Time sped on (as it always will do), and brought the end of the week, and with it, the end of Mr. Summerville's visit. I thought, from a certain softening of Miss Jane's eye, and from the length of the parting interview, that “matters” had been arranged between her and Mr. Summerville. After the last adieu had been given, and Miss Jane had rubbed her eyes enough with her fine pocket-hand kerchief (or, perhaps, in this case, it would be well to employ the suggestion of a modern author, and say her “lachrymal,”) I say, after all was over, and Mr. Summerville's interesting form was fairly lost in the distance, Miss Tildy proposed that they should settle down to their usual manner of living. Accordingly, the silver was all rubbed brightly by Amy, whose business it was, then handed over to Miss Tildy to be locked up in the bureau.

For a few weeks matters went on with their usual dullness. Master was still smoking his cob-pipe, kicking negroes, and blaspheming; and Miss Jane making up little articles for the approaching visit to the city. She and Miss Tildy sat a great deal in their own room, talking and speculating upon the coming joys. Passing in and out, I frequently caught fragments of conversation that let me into many of their secrets. Thus I learned that Miss Jane's chief object in visiting the city was to purchase a bridal trousseau, that Mr. Sommerville “had proposed,” and, of course, been accepted. He lived in the city; so it was decided that, after the celebration of the nuptial rite, Miss Tildy should accompany the bride to her new home, and remain with her for several weeks.

Sundry little lace caps were manufactured; handkerchiefs embroidered; dresses made and altered; collars cut, and an immence deal of “transfering” was done by the sisters Peterkin.

We, of the “colored population,” were stinted even more than formerly; for they deemed it expedient to economize, in order to be the better able to meet the pecuniary exigencies of the marriage. Thus time wore along, heavily enough for the slaves; but doubtless delightful to the white family. The enjoyment of pleasure, like all other prerogatives, they considered as exclusively their own.

Time, in its rugged course, had brought no change to Amy. If her heart had learned to bear its bereavement better, or had grown more tender in its anxious waiting, we knew it not from her word or manner. The same settled, rocky look, the same abstracted air, marked her deportment. Never once had I heard her laugh, or seen her weep. She still avoided conversation, and was assiduous in the discharge of her domestic duties. If she did a piece of work well, and was praised for it, she received the praise with the same indifferent air; or if, as was most frequently the case, she was harshly chided and severely punished, 'twas all the same. No tone or word could move those rigid features.

One evening Miss Bradly came over to see the young ladies, and inquire the latest, news from young master. Miss Jane gave orders that the table should be set with great care, and all the silver displayed. They had long since lost their olden familiarity, and, out of respect to the present coldness that existed between them, they (the Misses Peterkin) desired to show off “before the discredited school-mistress.” I heard Miss Bradly ask Mr. Peterkin when he heard from young master.

“I've just got a letter from Dr. Mandy. They ar' still in New Orleans; but expected to start for home in 'bout three days. The doctor gives me very little cause for hope; says Johnny is mighty weak, and had a pretty tough cough. He says the mighty night-sweats can't be broke; and the boy is very weak, not able to set up an hour at a time. This is very discouragin,' Miss Emily. Sometimes it 'pears like 'twould kill me, too, my heart is so sot 'pon that boy;” and here Mr. Peterkin began to smoke with great violence, a sure sign that he was laboring under intense excitement.

“He is a very noble youth,” said Miss Bradly, with a quivering voice and a moist eye; “I am deeply attached to him, and the thought of his death is one fraught with pain to me. I hope Doctor Mandy is deceived in the prognostics he deems so bad. Johnny's life is a bright example, and one that is needed.”

“Yes, you think it will aid the Abolition cause; but not in this region, I can assure you,” said Miss Tildy, as she tossed her head knowingly. “I'd like to know where Johnny learned all the Anti-slavery cant. Do you know, Miss Emily, that your incendiary principles lost you caste in this neighborhood, where you once, stood as a model?”

Miss Tildy had touched Miss Bradly in her vulnerable point. “Caste” was a thing that she valued above reputation, and reckoned more desirable than honor. Had it not been for a certain goodness of heart, from which she could not escape (though she had offten tried) she would have renounced her Anti-slavery sentiments and never again avowed them; but young master's words had power to rescue her almost shipwrecked principles, and then, whilst smarting under the lash of his rebuke, she attempted, like many an astute politician, to “run on both sides of the question;” but this was an equivocal position that the “out and out” Kentuckians were not going to allow. She had to be, in their distinct phraseology, “one thing or the other;” and, accordingly, aided by young master and her sense of justice, she avowed herself “the other.” And, of course, with this avowal, came the loss of cherished friends. In troops they fell away from her. Their averted looks and distant nods nearly drove her mad. If young master had been by to encourage and sustain her with gracious words, she could have better borne it; but, single-handed and alone, she could not battle against adversity. And now this speech of Miss Tildy's was very untimely. She winced under it, yet dared not reply. What a contemptible character, to the brave mind, seems one lacking moral courage!

“I want to see Johnny once again, and then I shall leave for the North,” said Miss Bradly, in a pitiful tone.

“See Naples and die, eh?” laughed Miss Tildy.

“Always and ever ready with your fun,” replied Miss Bradly.

At first her wiry turnings, her open and shameless sycophancy, and now her cringing and fawning upon the Peterkins, caused me to lose all respect for her. In the hour of her trouble, when deserted by those whom she had loved as friends, when her pecuniary prospects were blighted, I felt deeply for her, and even forgave the falsehood; but now when I saw her shrink from the taunt and invective of Miss Tildy, and then minister to her vanity, I felt that she was too little even for contempt. At tea, that evening, whilst serving the table, I was surprised to observe Miss Jane's face very red with anger, and her manner exceedingly irascible. I began to wonder if I had done anything to exasperate her; but could think of no offence of which I had been guilty. I knew from the way in which she conversed with all at the table, that none of them were offenders. I was the more surprised at her anger, as she had been, for the last week, in such an excellent humor, getting herself ready for the visit to the city. Oh, how I dreaded to see Miss Bradly leave, for then, I knew the storm would break in all its fury!

I was standing in the kitchen, alone, trying to think what could have offended Miss Jane, when Amy came up to me, saying,

AT breakfast, Miss Jane shook her head at Amy, saying,

“I'll settle accounts with you, presently.”

I wondered if that tremulous form, that stood eyeing her in affright, did not soften her; but no, the “shaking culprit,” as she styled Amy, was the very creature upon whom she desired to deal swift justice.

Pitiable was the sight in the kitchen, where Jake and Dan, great stout fellows, were making their breakfasts off of scraps of meat, old bones and corn-bread, whilst the aroma of coffee, broiled chicken, and egg-cakes was wafted to them from the house-table.

“I wish't I had somepin' more to eat,” said Dan.

“You's never satisfy,” replied Sally, the cook; “you gits jist as much as de balance, yit you makes de most complaints.”

“No I doesn't.”

“Yes, you does; don't he, Jake?”

“Why, to be sartain he does,” said Jake, who of late had agreed to live with Sally as a wife. Of course no matrimonial rite was allowed, for Mr. Peterkin was consistent enough to say, that, as the law did not recognize the validity of negro marriages, he saw no use of the tomfoolery of a preacher in the case; and this is all reasonable enough.

“You allers takes Sal's part,” said Dan, “now sense she has got to be your wife; you and her is allers colloged together agin' de rest ov us.”

“Wal, haint I right for to 'tect my ole 'oman?”

VERY lonely to me were the nights that succeeded Amy's death. I spent them alone in the cabin. A strange kind of superstition took possession of me! The room was peopled with unearthly guests. I buried my face in the bed-covering, as if that could protect me or exclude supernatural visitors. For two weeks I scarcely slept at all; and my constitution had begun to sink under the over-taxation. This was all the worse, as Amy's death entailed upon me a double portion of work.

“What!” said Mr. Peterkin to me, one day, “are you agoin to die, too, Ann? Any time you gits in the notion, jist let me know, and I'll give you rope enough to do it.”

In this taunting way he frequently alluded to that fatal tragedy which should have bowed his head with shame and remorse.

Young master had returned, but not at all benefited by his trip. A deep carnation was burnt into his shrivelled cheek, and he walked with a feeble, tottering step. The least physical exertion would bring on a violent paroxysm of coughing. The unnatural glitter of his eye, with its purple surroundings, gave me great uneasiness; but he was the same gentle, kind-spoken young master that he had ever been. His glossy, golden hair had a dead, dry appearance; whilst his chest was fearfully sunken; yet his father refused to believe that all these marks were the heralds of the great enemy's approach.

“The spring will cure you, my boy.”

“No, father, the spring is coming fast; but long before its flowers begin to scent the vernal gales, I shall have passed through the narrow gateway of the tomb.”

“No, it shall not be. All my money shall go to save you.”

“I am purchased, father, with a richer price than gold; the inestimable blood of the Lamb has long since paid my ransom; I go to my father in heaven.”

“Oh, my son! you want to go; you want to leave me. You do not love your father.”

“Yes, I do love you, father, very dearly; and I would that you were going with me to that lovely land.”

“I shill never go thar.”

“'Tis that fear that is killing me, father.”

“What could I, now, do to be saved?”

“Believe in the Lord Jesus, and be baptized.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all; but it embraces a good deal, dear father; a good deal more than most persons deserve. In order to a perfect belief in the Lord Jesus, you must act consistently with that belief. You must deal justly. Abundantly give to the poor, and, above all, you must love mercy, and do mercifully to all. Now I approach the great subject upon which I fear you will stumble. You must,” and he pronounced the words very slowly, “liberate your slaves.” There was a fair gleam from his eyes when he said this.

Mr. Peterkin turned uneasily in his chair. He did not wish to encourage a conversation upon this subject.

One evening, when it had been raining for two or three days, and the damp condition of the atmosphere had greatly increased young master's complaint, he called me to his bedside.

“Ann,” he said, in that deep, sepulchral tone, “I wish to ask you a question, and I urge you not to deceive me. Remember I am dying, and it will be a great crime to tell me a falsehood.”

I assured him that I would answer him with a faithful regard to truth.

“Then tell me what occasioned Amy's death? Did she come to it by violence?”

WHEN I entered the kitchen, I found the servants still weeping violently.

“Poor soul,” said Sally, “he's at rest now. If he hain't gone to heaven, 'taint no use of havin' any; fur he war de best critter I iver seed. He never gived me a cross word in all his life-time. Oh, Lord, he am gone now!”

“I 'members de time, when Mister Jones whipt me, dat young masser comed to me wid some grease and rubbed me all over, and talked so kind to me. Den he tell me not to say nothin' 'bout it, and I niver did mention it from dat day until dis.”

“Wal, he was mighty good,” added Jake, “and I's sorry he's dead.”

“I'se glad he got us our freedom afore he died. I wonder if we'll git it?” asked Nace, who was always intent upon selfishness.

“Laws! didn't he promise? Den he mus' keep his word,” added Jake.

I made no comment. My thoughts upon the subject I kept locked in the depths of my own bosom. I knew then, as now, that natures like Mr. Peterkin's could be changed only by the interposition of a miracle. He had now shrunk beneath the power of a sudden blow of misfortune; but this would soon pass away, and the savage nature would re-assert itself.

All that gloomy night, I watched with Miss Bradly and Dr. Mandy beside the corpse. Often whilst the others dozed, would I steal to the bed and turn down the covering, to gaze upon that still pale face! Reverently I placed my hand upon that rich golden head, with its band of flowers.

There is an angel-like calm in the repose of death; a subdued awe that impresses the coldest and most unbelieving hearts! As I looked at that still body, which had so lately been illumined by a radiant soul, and saw the noble look which the face yet wore, I inwardly exclaimed, 'Tis well for those who sleep in the Lord!

All that long night I watched and waited, hoped and prayed. The deep, mysterious midnight passed, with all its fearful power of passion and mystery; the still, small hours glided on as with silver slippers, and then came the purple glory of a spring dawn! I left the chamber of death, and went out to muse in the hazy day-break. And, as I there reflected, my soul grew sick and sore afraid. One by one my friends had been falling around me, and now I stood alone. There was no kind voice to cheer me on; no gentle, loving hand stretched forth to aid me; no smile of friendship to encourage me. In the thickest of the fight, unbucklered, I must go. Up the weary, craggy mountain I must climb. The burning sands I must tread alone! What wonder that my spirit, weak and womanly, trembled and turned away, asking for the removal of the cup of life! Only the slave can comprehend the amount of agony that I endured. He alone who clanks the chain of African bondage, can know what a cloud of sorrow swept over my heart.

I saw the great sun rise, like a blood-stained gladiator, in the East, and the diamond dew that glittered in his early light. I saw the roses unclose fragrantly to his warming call; yet my heart was chill. Through the flower-decked grounds I walked, and the aroma of rarest blooms filled my senses with delight, yet woke no answering thrill in my bosom. Must it not be wretchedness indeed, when the heart refuses to look around upon blooming, vernal Nature, and answer her with a smile of freshness?

A little after daylight I re-entered the house, and found Miss Bradly dozing in a large arm-chair, with one hand thrown-upon the cover of the bed where lay young master's body. Dr. Mandy was outstretched upon the lounge in a profound sleep. The long candles had burnt very low in the sockets, and every now and then sent up that flicker, which has been so often likened to the struggles of expiring humanity. I extinguished them, and closed the shutters, to exclude the morning rays that would else have stolen in to mar the rest of those who needed sleep. Then returning to the yard, I culled a fresh bouquet and placed it upon the breast of the dead. Gently touching Miss Bradly, I roused her and begged that she would seek some more comfortable quarters, whilst I watched with the body. She did so, having first imprinted a kiss upon the brow of the heavenly sleeper.

When she withdrew, I took from my apron a bundle of freshly gathered flowers, and set about weaving fairy chains and garlands, which I scattered in fantastic profusion over and around the body.

A beautiful custom is it to decorate the dead with fresh flowers! There is something in the delicate, fairy-like perfume, and in the magical shadings and formation of flowers, that make them appropriate offerings to the dead. Strange mystical things that they are, seemingly instinct with a new and inchoate life; breathing in their heavenly fragrance of a hidden blessing, telling a story which our dull ears of clay can never comprehend. Symbols of diviner being, expressions of quickening beauty, we understand ye not. We only feel that ye are God's richest blessing to us, therefore we offer ye to our loved and holy dead!

When the broad daylight began to beam in through the crevices of the shutters, and noise of busy life sounded from without, the family rose. Separately they entered the room, each turning down the spread, and gazing tearfully upon the ghastly face. Often and often they kissed the brow, cheek, and lips.

“How lovely he was in life,” said Miss Jane.

“Indeed he was, and he is now an angel,” replied Miss Tildy, with a fresh gush of emotion.

“My poor, poor boy,” said Mr. Peterkin, as he sank down on the bed beside the body; “how proud I was of him. I allers knowed he'd be tuck 'way from me. He was too putty an' smart an' good fur this world. My heart wus so sot on him! yit sometimes he almost run me crazy. I don't think it was just in Providence to take my only boy. I could have better spared one of the gals. Oh, tain't right, no how it can be fixed.”

And thus he rambled on, perfectly unconscious of the bold blasphemy which he was uttering with every breath he drew. To impugn the justice of his Maker's decrees was a common practice with him. He had so long rejoiced in power, and witnessed the uncomplaining vassalage of slaves, that he began to regard himself as the very highest constituted authority! This is but one of the corrupting influences of the slave-system.

That long, wearing day, with its weight of speechless grief, passed at last. The neighbors came and went. Each praised the beauty of the corpse, and inquired who had dressed it. At length the day closed, and was succeeded by a lovely twilight. Another night, with its star-fretted canopy, its queenly, slow-moving moon, its soft aromatic air and pearly dew. And another gray, hazy day-break, yet still, as before, I watched near the dead. But on the afternoon of this day, there came a long, black coffin, with its silver plate and mountings; its interior trimmings of white satin and border of lace, and within this they laid the form of young master! His pale, fair hands were crossed prayerfully upon his breast; and a fillet of fresh white buds bound his smooth brow, whilst a large bouquet lay on his breast, and the wreaths I had woven were thrown round him and over his feet. Then the lid was placed on and tightly screwed down. Then came the friends and neighbors, and a good man who read the Bible and preached a soothing and ennobling sermon. The friends gave one more look, another, a longer and more clinging kiss, then all was over. The slow procession followed after the vehicle that carried the coffin, the servants walking behind. Poor, uncared-for slaves, as we were, we paid a heart-felt tribute to his memory, and watered his new-made grave with as sincere tears as ever flowed from eyes that had looked on happier times.

I lingered until long after the last shovel-full of dirt was thrown upon him. Others, even his kindred, had left the spot ere I turned away. That little narrow grave was dearer and nearer to me, as there it lay so fresh and damp, shapen smoothly with the sexton's spade, than when, several weeks after, a patrician obelisk reared its Parian head towards the blue sky. I have always looked upon grave-monuments as stony barriers, shutting out the world from the form that slowly moulders below. When the wild moss and verdant sward alone cover the grave, 'tis easy for us to imagine death only a sleep; but the grave-stone, with its carvings and frescoes, seems a sort of prison, cold and grim in its aristocratic splendor. For the grave of those whom I love, I ask no other decoration than the redundant grass, the enamelled mosaic of wild flowers, a stream rolling by with its dirge-like chime, a weeping willow, and a moaning dove.

The shades of evening were falling darkly ere I left the burial-ground. There, amid the graves of his ancestors, beside the tomb of his mother, I left him sleeping pleasantly. “Life's fitful fever over,” his calm soul rests well.

In a few weeks after his death, the family settled back to their original manner of life. Mr. Peterkin grew sulky in his grief. He chewed and drank incessantly. The remonstrances of his daughters had no effect upon him. He took no notice of them, seemed almost to ignore their existence. Feeding sullenly on his own rooted sorrow, he cared nothing for those around him.

We, the servants, had been allowed a rather better time; for as he was entirely occupied with his own moody reflections, he bestowed upon us no thought. Yet we had heard no word about his compliance with the sacred promise he had made to the dead. Did he feel no touch of remorse, or was he so entirely sold to the d—l, as to be incapable of regret?

The young ladies had been busy making up their mourning, and took but little, notice of domestic affairs. Miss Jane concluded to postpone her visit to the city, on account of their recent bereavement; but later in the summer, she proposed going.

One afternoon, several weeks after the burial of young master, Miss Bradly came over to see the ladies for the purpose, as she said, of bidding them farewell, as early on the following morning she expected to start North, to rejoin her family, from whom she had been so long separated. Miss Jane received the announcement with her usual haughty smile; and Miss Tildy, who was rather more of a hypocrite, expressed some regret at parting from her old teacher.

“I fear, dear girls, that you will soon forget me. I hoped that an intimate friendship had grown up between us, which nothing could destroy; but it seems as if, in the last half-year, you have ceased to love me, or care for me.”

“I can only answer for myself, dear Miss Bradly,” said Miss Tildy, “and I shall ever gratefully and fondly remember you, and my interesting school-days.”

“So shall I pleasantly recollect my school-hours, and Miss Bradly as our preceptress; and, had she not chosen to express and defend those awfully disgraceful and incendiary principles of the North, I should have continued to think of her with pleasure.” Miss Jane said this with her freezing air of hauteur.

“But I remained silent, dear Jane, for years. I lived in your midst, in the very families where slave-labor was employed; yet I molested none. I did not inveigh against your peculiar domestic institution; though, Heaven knows, every principle of my nature cried out against it. Surely for all this I deserve some kind consideration.”

“'Tis a great pity your prudence did not hold out to the last; and I can assure you 'tis well for the safety of your life and person that you were a woman, else would it have gone hard with you. Kited through the streets with a coat of tar and a plumage of hen-feathers, you would have been treated to a rail-ride, none the most complimentary.” Here Miss Jane laughed heartily at the ridiculous picture she had drawn.

Miss Bradly's face reddened deeply as she replied:

TIME passed on; Mr. Peterkin drank more and more violently. He had grown immense in size, and now slept nearly all the day as well as night. Dr. Mandy had told the young ladies that there was great danger of apoplexy. I frequently saw them standing off, talking, and looking at their father with a strange expression, the meaning of which I could not divine; but sure I am there was no love in it, 'twas more like a surmise or inquiry, “How long will you be here?” I would not “set down aught in malice,” I would rather “extenuate,” yet am I bound in truth to say that I think their father's death was an event to which they looked with pleasure. He had not been showy enough for them, nor had he loved such display as they wished: true, he allowed them any amount of money; but he objected to conforming to certain fashions, which they considered indispensable to their own position; and this difference in ideas and tastes created much discord. They were not girls of feeling and heart. To them, a father was nothing more than an accidental guardian, whose duty it was to supply them with money.

Late one night, when I had fallen into a profound sleep, such an one as I had not known for months, almost years, I was suddenly aroused by a loud knocking at the cabin-door, and a shout of—

“Ann! Ann!”

I instantly recognized the sharp staccato notes of Miss Jane's voice; and, starting quickly up, I opened the door, but half-dressed, and inquired what was wanting?

WEEKS rolled monotonously by after the death of Mr. Peterkin. There was nothing to break the cloud of gloom that enveloped everything.

The ladies were, as ever, cruel and abusive. Existence became more painful to me than it had been before. It seemed as if every hope was dead in my breast. An iron chain bound every aspiration, and I settled down into the lethargy of despair. Even Nature, all radiant as she is, had lost her former charms. I looked not beyond the narrow horizon of the present. The future held out to me no allurements, whilst the dark and gloomy past was an arid plain, without fountain, or flower, or sunshine, over which I dared not send my broken spirit.

In this state of dreary monotony, I passed my life for months, until an event occurred which changed my whole after-fate.

Mr. Summerville, who, it seems, had kept up a regular correspondence with Miss Jane, made us a visit, and, after much secret talking in dark parlors, long rambles through the woods, twilight and moonlight whisperings on the gallery, Miss Jane announced that there would, on the following evening, be performed a marriage ceremony of importance to all, but of very particular interest to Mr. Summerville and herself.

Accordingly, on the evening mentioned, the marriage rite was solemnized in the presence of a few social friends, among whom Dr. Mandy and wife shone conspicuously. I duly plied the guests with wine, cakes and confections.

Miss Tildy, by the advice of her bride-sister, enacted the pathetic very perfectly. She wept, sighed, and, I do believe, fainted or tried to faint. This was at the special suggestion of her sister, who duly commended and appreciated her.

Mr. Summerville, for the several days that he remained with us, looked, and was, I suppose, the very personification of delight.

In about a week or ten days after the solemnization of the matrimonial rite, Mr. Summerville made his “better half” (or worse, I know not which), understand that very important business urged his immediate return to the city. Of course, whilst the novelty of the situation lasted, she was as obedient and complaisant as the most exacting husband could demand, and instantly consented to her lord's request. She bade me get ready to accompany her; and, as she had heard that people from the country were judged according to the wardrobe of their servants, she prepared for me quite a decent outfit.

One bright morning, I shall ever remember it, we started off with innumerable trunks, band-boxes, &c.—for the city of L—. Without one feeling of regret, I turned my face from the Peterkin farm. I never saw it after, save in dark and fearful dreams, from which I always awoke with a shudder. I felt half-emancipated, when my back was turned against it, and in the distance loomed up the city and freedom. I had a queer fancy, that if the Peterkin influence were once thrown off, the rest would speedily succeed!

If I had only been allowed, I could have shouted out like a school-boy freed from a difficult lesson; but Miss Jane's checking glance was upon me, and 'twas like winter's frozen breath over a gladsome lake.

I well remember the beautiful ride upon the boat, and how long and lingeringly I gazed over the guard, looking down at the blue, dolphin-like waves. All the day, whilst others lounged and talked, I was looking at those same curling, frothy billows, making, in my own mind, fifty fantastic comparisons, which then appeared to me very brilliant, but, since I have learned to think differently. Truly, the foam has died on the wave.

ONE day, when Miss Jane and Mr. Summerville had gone out at an early hour to spend the entire day, I little knew what to do with myself as I had no books nor papers to read, and Louise had business that took her out of the house.

The day was unusually soft and pleasant. I wandered through the halls, and, drawing near a private gallery that ran along in front of the gentlemen's room, I paused to look at a large picture of an English fox-chase, that adorned the wall. Whist examining its rare and peculiar beauties, my ear was pleasantly struck by the sound of a much-esteemed voice, saying—

“Well, very well! Let us take seats here, in this retired place, and begin the conversation we have been threatening so long.”

I glanced out at the crevice of the partially open door, and distinctly recognized the gentleman who had spoken to me of the magnolia, and who (I had learned) was James Trueman, of Boston, a man of high standing and social position, and a successful practitioner of law in his native State.

The other was a gentleman from Virginia, one of the very first families (there are no second, I believe), by the name of Winston, a man reputed of very vast possessions, a land-holder, and an extensive owner of slaves. I had frequently observed him in company with Mr. Trueman, and had inquired of Henry who and what he was.

I felt a little reluctant to remain in my position and bear this conversation, not designed for me; yet a singular impulse urged me to remain. I felt (and I scarce know why) that it had a bearing upon the great moral and social question that so agitated the country. Whilst I was debating with myself about the propriety of a retreat, I caught a few words, which determined me to stay and hear what I believed would prove an interesting discussion.

“Let us, my dear Mr. Winston,” began Mr. Trueman, “indulge for a few moments in a conversation upon this momentous subject. Both of us have passed that time of life when the ardor and impetuosity of youthful blood might unfit us for such a discussion, and we may say what we please on this vexed question with the distinct understanding, that however offensive our language may become, it will be regarded as general, neither meant nor understood to have any application to ourselves.”

“I am quite willing and ready to converse as you propose,” replied the other, in a quick, unpleasant tone, “and I gladly accept the terms suggested, in which you only anticipate my design. It is well to agree upon such restraint; for though, as you remind me, our advancing years have taken much of the fervor from our blood, and left us calm, sober, thoughtful men, the agitating nature of the subject and the deep interest which both of us feel in it, should put us on our guard. If, then, during the progress of the conversation, either of us shall be unduly excited, let the recollection of the conditions upon which we engage in it, recall him to his accustomed good-humor.”

“Well, we have settled the preliminaries without difficulty, and to mutual satisfaction. And now, the way being clear, our discussion may proceed. I assume, then, in the outset, that the, institution of slavery, as it exists in the South, is a monstrous evil. I assume this proposition; not alone because it is the universal sentiment of the ‘rest of mankind;’ but also, because it is now very generally conceded by slave-holders themselves.”

“Pray, where did you learn that slave-holders ever made such a concession? As to what may be the sentiment of the, ‘rest of mankind,’ I may speak by-and-bye. For the present, my concern is with the opinion of that large slave-holding class to which I belong. I am extensively acquainted among them, and if that is their opinion of our peculiar institution, I am entirely ignorant of it.”

“Your ignorance,” said Mr. Trueman, with a smile, “ in that regard, while it by no means disproves my proposition, may be easily explained. With your neighbors, who feel like yourself the dread responsibility of this crying abomination, it is not pleasant, perhaps, to talk upon it, and you avoid doing so, without the slightest trouble; because you have other and more engaging topics, such as the condition of your farms, the prospect of fine crops, and all the ‘changes of the varying year.’ But, read the declarations of your chosen Representatives, the favorite sons of the South, in the high councils of our nation; and you will discover, that in all the debates involving it, slavery, in itself, and in its consequences, is frankly admitted to be a tremendous evil.”

“Our Representatives may have sometimes thought proper to make such an admission to appease the fanaticism of Northern Abolitionists, and to quiet the agitations of the country in the spirit of generous compromise: but I am not bound to make it, and I will not make it. Neither do I avoid conversations with my neighbors upon the subject of slavery from the motive you intimate, nor from any other motive. I have frequently talked with them upon it, boldly and candidly, as I am prepared to talk to you or any reasonable man. Your proposition I positively deny, and can quickly refute.” I thought there was a little anger in the tone in which he said this; but no excitement was discernible in the clear, calm voice with which Mr. Trueman answered—

“Independently of the admission of your Representatives, which, I think, ought to bind you (for you must have been aware of it, and since it was public and undisputed, your acquiescence might be fairly presumed), there are many considerations that establish the truth of my position. But I cannot indorse your harsh reflection upon the Representatives of your choice. I cannot believe them capable of admitting, for any purpose, a proposition which, in their opinion and that of their constituents, asserts a falsehood. The immortal Henry Clay and such men as he are responsible for the admission, and not one of them was ever so timid as to be under the dominion of fear, or so dishonest as to be hypocritical.”

A moment's pause ensued, when Mr. Winston appeared to rally, and said,

“I do not understand, then, if that was their real opinion, how it was possible for them to continue to hold slaves. To say the least of it, their practice was not in accordance with their theory. Hence I said, that under certain circumstances and to serve a special purpose, they may have conceded slavery to be an evil. For my own part, if I were persuaded that this proposition is true, it would constrain me to liberate all my slaves, whatever may be my attachment to them or the loss I should necessarily suffer. Some of them have been acquired by purchase; others by inheritance: all of them seem satisfied with their treatment upon my estate; yet nothing could induce me to claim the property I have hitherto thought I possessed in them, when convinced of the evil which your proposition asserts.”

“Nothing could be fairer, my dear Mr. Winston. Your conviction will doubtless subject you to immense sacrifices: but these will only enhance your real worth as a man, and I am sure you will make them without hesitation, though it may be, not without reluctance. Now, it is a principle of law, well settled, that no person can in any manner convey a title, even to those things which are property, greater than that which be rightfully possesses. If, for instance, I acquire, by theft or otherwise, unlawful possession of your watch or other articles of value, which is transferred, by the operation of purchase and sale, through many hands, your right never ceases; and the process of law will enable you to obtain possession. Each individual who purchased the article, may have his remedy against him from whom he procured it, however extended the series of purchasers: but, since whatever right any one of them has derived originally from me, and since my unlawful acquisition conferred no right at all, it follows that none was transmitted. Consequently, you were not divested, and the just spirit of law, continuing to recognize your property in the article whenever found, provides the ready means whereby you may reduce it once more to possession. This principle of law is not peculiar to a single locality; it enters into the remedial code of all civilized countries. Its benefits are accessible to the free negro in this land of the dark Southern border; and, I trust, it will not be long before those who are now held in slavery may be embraced in its beneficent operation. Whether it is recognized internationally, I am not fully prepared to say; but it ought to be, if it is not, for it is the dictate of equity and common sense. But, upon the hypothesis that it is so recognized, if the property of an inhabitant of Africa were stolen from him by a citizen of the United States, he might recover it. As for those people who, in the Southern States, are held as slaves, they or their ancestors came here originally not by their own choice, but by compulsion, from distant Africa. You will hardly deny, I presume, what is, historically, so evident—that, “they were captured,” as the phrase is, or, in our honest vernacular, stolen and brought by violence from their native homes. Had they been the proper subjects of property, what could prevent the application of the principle I have quoted?”

After two or three hems and haws, Mr. Winston began:

“I have never inquired particularly into the matter; but have always entertained the impression which pervades the Southern mind, that our negroes are legitimately our slaves, in pursuance of the malediction denounced by God against Ham and his descendants, of whom they are a part. And, so thinking, I believed we were entitled to the same right to them which we exercise over the beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, and the fishes of the deep. Moreover, your principle of law, which is indeed very correct, is inapplicable to their case. There is also a principle in the law of my State, incapacitating slaves to hold property. They are property themselves; and property cannot hold property. Apart from the terrible curse, which doomed them in the beginning, they were slaves in their own country to men of their own race; slaves by right of conquest. Therefore, taking the instance you have suggested, by way of illustration, were any article of value wrested from their possession, under this additional principle, the law could riot give them any redress. But, inasmuch as whatever they may acquire becomes immediately the property of their master, to him the law will furnish a remedy.”

“You do not deny,” and here Mr. Trueman's tone was elevated and a little excited, “that the first of those who reached this country were stolen in Africa. Now, for the sake of the argument merely, I will admit that they were slaves at home. If they were slaves at home—it matters not whether by ‘right or conquest,’ or ‘in pursuance of the curse,’ they must have been the property of somebody, and those who stole them and sold them into bondage in America could give no valid title to their purchasers; for by the theft they had acquired none themselves. Hence, if ever they were slaves, they are still the property of their masters in Africa; but, if your interpretation of “the curse” is correct, those masters were also slaves, and, being such, under the principle of law which you have quoted, they could not for this reason hold property. Therefore, those oppressed and outraged, though benighted people, who were first sold into slavery, to the eternal disgrace of our land, were, in sheer justice, either free, or the property—even after the sale of—their African masters, if they had any; in neither case could they belong to those of our citizens who were unfortunate enough to buy them. They were not slaves of African masters: for, according to your argument, all of the race are slaves, and slaves cannot own slaves any more than horses can own horses; therefore, since no other people claimed dominion over them, they were, necessarily, free. You cannot escape from this dilemma, and the choice of either horn is fatal to your cause. Being free, might they not have held property like other nations? And, had any of it been stolen from them by those who are amenable to our laws, would not consistency compel us, who recognize the just principle I have quoted, to restore it to them? This is the course pursued among ourselves; and it ceases not with restoration; but on the offender it proceeds to inflict punishment, to prevent a repetition of the offence. This is the course we should pursue toward that down-trodden race whose greatest guilt is ‘a skin not colored like our own.’ ”

“As the case stands, it is not a question of property, but of that more valuable and sacred right, the right of personal liberty, of which we now boast so loudly. What, in the estimation of the world, is the worth of those multitudinous orations, apostrophies to liberty, which, on each recurring Fourth of July, in whatever quarter of the globe Americans may be assembled, penetrate the public ear? What are they worth to us, if, while reminding us of early colonial and revolutionary struggles against the galling tyranny of the British crown, they fail to inculcate the easy lesson of respect for the rights of all mankind? In keeping those poor Africans in the South still enslaved, you practically ignore this lesson, and you trample with unholy feet that divine ordinance which commands you ‘to do unto others as you would have others do unto you.’ By the oppression to which we were subjected under the yoke of Britain, and against which we wrestled so long, so patiently, so vigorously, in so many ways, and at last so triumphantly, I adjure you to put an end, at once and forever, to this business of holding slaves. This is oppression indeed, in comparison with which, that which drew forth our angry and bitter complaints, was very freedom. Let us, instead of perpetuating this infamous institution, be true to ourselves; let us vindicate the pretensions we set up when we characterize ours as ‘the land of liberty, the asylum of the oppressed,’ by proclaiming to the nations of the earth that, so soon as a slave touches the soil of America, his manacles shall fall from him: let us verify the words engraven in enduring brass on the old bell which from the tower of Independence Hall rang out our glorious Declaration, and in deed and in truth proclaim ‘Liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison doors to them that are bound.’ As you value truth, honor, justice, consistency, aye, humanity even, wipe out the black blot which defiles the border of our escutcheon, and the country will then be in reality what is now only in name, a free country, loving liberty disinterestedly for its own sake, and for that of all people, and nations, and tribes, and tongues.

“You may still, if you choose, dispute and philosophize about the inequality of races, and continue to insist on the boasted superiority of our Caucasian blood; but the greatest disadvantages which a comparison can indicate will not prove that one's claim to liberty is higher than another's. It may be that we of the white race, are vastly superior to our African brethren. The differences, however, are not flattering to us; for we should remember with shame and confusion of face, that our injustice and cruelty have produced them. Having first enslaved the poor Africans and subsequently withheld from them every means of improvement, it is not strange that such differences should exist as those on which we plume ourselves. But is it not intolerable that we should now quote them with such brazen self-gratulation?”

“Despite the manifold disadvantages that encumber and clog the movements of the Africans, unfortunately for the validity of your argument their race exhibits many proud specimens to prove their capability of culture, and of the enjoyment of freedom. Give them but the same opportunities that we have, and they will rival us in learning, refinement, statesmanship, and general demeanor, as is incontestibly shown in the lives and characters of many now living. Such men as Fred Douglas and President Roberts, would honor any complexion; or, I ought rather to say, should make us forget and despise the distinctions of color, since they reach not below the surface of the skin, nor affect, in the least, that better part that gives to man all his dignity and worth. Nor need I point to these illustrious examples to rebut the inferences you deduce from color. Every village and hamlet in your own sunny South, can furnish an abundant refutation, in its obscure but eloquent ‘colored preachers’— noble patterns of industry and wisdom, who show forth, by their exemplary bearing, all the beauty of holiness,— ‘allure to brighter worlds and lead the way.’ ”

It is impossible to furnish even the faintest description of the pleading earnestness of the speaker's tone. His full, round, rich voice, grew intense, low and silvery in its harmonious utterance. As he pronounced the last sentence, it was with difficulty I could repress a cry of applause. Oh, surely, surely, I thought, our cause, the African's cause, is not helpless, is not lost, whilst it still possesses such an advocate. My eyes overflowed with grateful tears, and I longed to kiss the hem of his garment.

“You forget,” answered Mr. Winston, “or you would do well to consider, that these cases are exceptional cases, which neither preclude my inferences nor warrant your assumption.”

“Exceptions, indeed, they are; but why?” inquired Mr. Trueman. “Exceptions, you know, prove the rule. Now, you infer from the sooty complexion of the Africans, a natural and necessary incapacity for the blessings of self-government and the refinements of education. I have mentioned individuals of this fatal complexion who are in the wise enjoyment of these sublime privileges: one of them has acquired an enviable, celebrity as an orator, the other is the accomplished President of the infant Liberian Republic. If color incapacitated, as you seem to think, it would affect all alike; but it has not incapacitated these, therefore it does not incapacitate at all. These are exceptions not to the general capacity of the blacks, but only to their general opportunity. What they have done others may do—the opportunities being equal.”

“I have listened to you entire argument,” rejoined Mr. Winston, “very patiently, with the expectation of hearing the proposition sustained with which you so vauntingly set out. You will, perhaps, accord to me the credit of being—what in this age of ceaseless talk is rarely met—‘a good listener.’ But, after all my patience and attention, I am still unsatisfied—if not shaken. You have failed to meet the argument drawn from the ‘curse’ pronounced on the progenitors of the unfortunate race: you have failed to present or notice what is generally considered by theologians and moralists the right of a purchaser—in your illustration from stolen goods—to something for the money with which he parts; and here, I think, you manifested great unfairness; and, above all, you have failed to propose any feasible remedy for the state of things against which you inveigh. What have you to say on these material points?”

“Very much, my good sir, as you will find, if, instead of taking advantage of every momentary pause to make out such a ‘failure’ as you desire, you only prolong your very complimentary patience. I wish you to watch the argument narrowly; to expose the faintest flaw you can detect in it; and, at the end, if unsatisfied, cry out ‘failure,’ or let it wring from you a reluctant confession. You will, at least, before I shall have done, withdraw the illiberal imputation of unfairness. It would be an easy task for me to anticipate all you can say, and to refute it; but such a course would leave you nothing to say, and, since I intend this discussion to be strictly a conversation, I shall leave you at liberty to present your own arguments in your own way. Now, as to the argument from ‘the curse,’ you must permit me to observe, that your interpretation is too free and latitudinarian. Mine is more literal, more in accordance with the character of God; it fully satisfies the Divine vengeance, and, whether correct or not, has, at least, as much authority in its favor. Granting the dominion of the white over the black race to be in virtue of ‘the curse,’ it by no means conveys such power as your Southern institution seeks to justify. The word slave nowhere occurs in that memorable malediction; but there is an obvious distinction between its import and that of the word servant, which it does employ. Surely, for the offence of looking upon the nakedness of his father, Ham could not have incurred and entailed upon his posterity a heavier punishment than they would necessarily suffer as the simple servants of their brethren. And this consideration should induce you to give them, at least, the same share of freedom as is enjoyed by the white servants to be found in many a household in the South. Such servitude would be the utmost that a merciful God could require. Even this, however, was under the old dispensation; and the reign of its laws, customs, and punishments, should melt under the genial rays of the sun of Christianity. Many of your own patriots, headed by Washington and Jefferson, have long since, thought so; and but few in these days plead ‘the curse’ as excuse or justification for that ‘damned spot’ which all will come ultimately to consider the disgrace of this enlightened age and nation. As to your next point, the right which a purchaser of stolen goods may acquire in them in consideration of the money which he pays, I grant all the benefit that even the most generous theologian or moralist can allow in the best circumstances of such a case. And what does this amount to? A return of the purchase-money, with a reasonable or very high rate of interest for the detention, would be as much as any one could demand. Applying this to the case of the stolen Africans, how many of those who were forced from their native land to this have died on their master's hands without yielding by their labor, not alone the principal, but a handsome percentage upon the money invested in their purchase? Thus purchasers were indemnified—abundantly indemnified, against loss. The indemnity, however, should have been sought from the seller, not from the article or person sold. But, at best, purchasers of stolen goods, to entitle themselves to any indemnity, should at least be innocent; for if they buy such goods, knowing them to be stolen, they are guilty of a serious misdemeanor, which is everywhere punishable under the law. ‘He who asks equity must do equity.’ When, therefore, you of the South would realize the benefit of the concession of theologians and moralists—the benefit of justice—you should bring yourselves within the conditions they require; you should come into court with clean hands, and with the intention of acting in good faith. Have you done so? Did your fathers do so before you? Not at all. They were not ignorant purchasers of the poor, ravished African; they knew full well that he had been stolen and brought by violence from his distant home: consequently, they were guilty of a misdemeanor in purchasing; consequently, too, they come not within the case proposed by the theologians and moralists, which might entitle them to indemnity; nor were they in a condition to ask it. The present generation, claiming through them, find themselves in the same predicament, with the same title only, and the same unclean hands, perpetuating their foul oppression. None of them, as I have shown, had a right to claim indemnity by reason of having invested their money in that way; and, if they ever had such right, they have been richly indemnified already. Therefore, it is absurd for you to continue the slave business upon this plea. Having thus answered your only objections to my position, I might remind you of your determination, and call upon you to ‘liberate your slaves,’ and take sides with me in opposition to the cruel institution. You are greatly mistaken in supposing that my omission to propose a plan, by which slave-holders could conveniently, and without pecuniary loss, emancipate their slaves, constitutes the slightest objection to the argument I have advanced. If you defer their emancipation until such a plan is proposed; if you are unwilling to incur even a little sacrifice, what nobility will there be in the act, to entitle you to the consideration of the just and good, or to the approval of your own consciences? I sought by this discussion, to convince you that slavery is an enormous evil; the proposition was declared in all its boldness. You volunteered a pledge to release your slaves if I could sustain it, let the sacrifice be what it might. Some sacrifice, then, you must have anticipated; and, should your conviction now demand it, you have no cause to complain of me. Your pledge was altogether voluntary; I did not even ask it; nor did I design to suggest any such plan of universal emancipation as would suit the convenience of everybody. I am not so extravagantly silly as to hope to do that. But, after all, why wait for a plan? Immediate, universal emancipation is not impracticable, and numberless methods might and would at once be devised, if the people of your States were sincere when they profess to desire its accomplishment. Their real wish, however, whatever it may be, need not interfere between your individual pledge, and its prompt fulfilment.”

Mr. Trueman paused for full five minutes, and, as I peered out from my hiding-place, I thought there was a very quizzical sort of expression on his fine face.

“Well, what have you to say?” he at length asked.

“It seems to me,” Mr. Winston began, in an angry tone, “you speak very flippantly and very wildly about general emancipation. Consider, sir, that slavery is so woven into our society, that there is scarcely a family that would not be more or less affected by a change. Fundamental alterations in society, to be safely made, must be the slow work of years: ‘Not the hasty product of a day,But the well-ripened fruit of wise delay.’ So it is only by almost imperceptible degrees that the emancipationists and impertinent Abolitionists can ever attain ‘the consummation’ they pretend to have so much at heart. If they would just stay at home and devote their spare time to cleansing their own garments, leaving us of the South to suffer alone what they are pleased to esteem the evil and sin and curse, the shame, burden and abomination of slavery, we should the sooner discover its blasting enormities, and strive more zealously to abolish them and the institution from which they proceed. Their super-serviceable interference, hitherto, has only riveted and tightened the bondage of those with whom they sympathize; and such a result will always attend it. Our slaves, as at present situated, are very well satisfied, as, indeed, they ought to be: for they are exempt from the anxious cares of the free, as to what they shall eat or what they shall drink, or wherewithal they shall be clothed. Many poor men of our own color would gladly exchange conditions with them, because they find life to be a hard, an incessant struggle for the scantiest comforts, with which our slaves are supplied at no cost of personal solicitude. Besides, sir, our institution of slavery is vastly more burdensome to ourselves than to the negroes for whom you affect so in much fraternal love.”

“One would suppose, that if you thought it burdensome, you would be making some effort to relieve yourselves,” interposed Mr. Trueman, in that clear and pointed manner that was his peculiarity; “and, if immediate emancipation were deemed impracticable in consequence of the radical hold which this institution has at the South, you might naturally be expected to be doing something toward that end by the encouragement of education among those in bondage, by the sanction of marriage ties between them, and by other efforts to ameliorate their condition. Certain inducements might be presented for the manumission of slaves by individual owners, for there are some of this class, I am happy to think, who, in tender humanity, would release their slaves, if the stringency of the laws did not deter them from it. Would it not be well to abate somewhat of this rigor, and allow all slaves, voluntarily manumitted, to remain in the several States with at least the privileges of the free negroes now resident therein, so that the olden ties, which have grown up between themselves and their owners, might not be abruptly snapped asunder? Besides, to enforce the propriety of this alteration of the law, it would be well to reflect that the South is the native home of most of the slaves, who cherish their local attachments quite as much as ourselves; and hence the law which now requires them, when by any means they have obtained their freedom, to remove beyond the limits of the State, is a very serious hardship and should cease to exist. This would be a long stride toward your own relief from the burden of which you complain. As to the slaves, who you think should be content with their condition, in which they have, as you say, ‘no care for necessary food and raiment,’ I would suggest that they have the faculty of distinguishing between slavery and bondage, and have sense enough to see that though these things, which are generally of the coarsest kind, are provided by their masters, the means by which they are furnished are but a scanty portion of their own hard earnings. Were they free, they could work in the same way, and be entitled to all the fruits of their labor. Then they would have the same inducements to toil that we now have, and the same ambition to lift themselves higher and higher in the social scale. Those white men whom you believe willing to exchange situations with them, are too indolent to enjoy the privileges of freedom, and would be utterly worthless as slaves. You declaim against the course which the Abolitionists have pursued, and seem disposed, in consequence, to tighten the cords of servitude. You would be let alone, forsooth, to bear this burden as long as you please, and to get rid of it at pleasure. So long as there was any hope that you would do what you ought in the matter, you were let alone, and if you were the only sufferers from your peculiar institution, you might continue undisturbed; but the yoke lies heavy and galling upon the poor slaves themselves, whose voices are stifled, and it is high time for the friends of human rights to speak in their behalf, till they make themselves heard. At this momentous period, when new States and Territories are knocking for admission at the doors of our Union—States and Territories of free and virgin soil, which you are seeking to defile by the introduction of slavery—it is fit that they should persevere in their noble efforts, that they should resist your endeavors, and strive with all their energies to confine the obnoxious institution within its already too-extended bounds; for they know, that, if they would attain their object—the ultimate and entire abolition of slavery from our land—they should oppose strenuously every movement tending to its extension; for, the broader tile surface over which it spreads, the more formidable will be the difficulty of its removal. Therefore it is that they are now so zealously engaged, and they address you as men whose ‘judgment has not fled to brutish beasts,’ with arguments against the evil itself and the weight of anguish it entails. Thus they have ever done, and you tell me that the result has been to rivet the chains of those in whose behalf they plead. As well might the sinner, whose guilt is pointed out to him by the minister of God, resolve for that very reason to plunge more deeply into sin.”

His voice became gradually calmer and calmer, until finally it sank into the low notes of a solemn half-whisper. I held my breath in intense excitement, but this transport was broken by the harsh tones of the Virginian, who said

“All this is very ridiculous as well as unjust; for, at the South slaves are regarded as property, and, inasmuch as our territories are acquired by the common blood and treasure of the whole country, we have as much right to locate in them with our property as you have with any of those things which are recognized as property at the North. In your great love of human rights you might take some thought of us; but the secret of your action is jealousy of our advancement by the aid of slave-labor, which you would have at the North if you needed it. We understand you well, and we are heartily tired of your insulting and impudent cant about the evils of the system of slavery. We want no more of it.”

Mr. Trueman, without noticing the insolence of Winston, continued in the same impressive manner:

“We do take much thought of you at the South, and hence it is that we dislike to see you passively submitting to the continuance of an institution so fraught with evil in itself, and very burdensome, as even you have admitted. We, of the North, feel strongly bound to you by the recollection of common dangers, struggles and trials; and, with an honorable pride, we wish our whole nation to stand fair, and, so far as possible, blameless before the world. We are doing all we can to remove the evils of every kind which exist at the North; and, as we are not sectional in our purposes, we would stimulate you to necessary action in regard to your especial system. We know its evils from sore experience, for it once prevailed amongst us; but, fortunately, we opened our eyes, and gave ourselves a blessed riddance of it. The example is well worthy of your imitation, but, ‘pleased as you are with the possession’, says Blackstone, speaking of the origin and growth of property, ‘you seem afraid to look back to the means by which it was acquired, as if fearful of some defect in your title; or, at best, you rest satisfied with the decision of the laws in your favor, without examining the reason or authority upon which those laws have been built.’ To the eyes of the nations, who regard us from far across the ocean, and who see us, as a body, better than we see ourselves, slavery is the great blot that obscures the disc of our Republic, dimming the effulgence of its Southern half, as a partial eclipse darkens the world's glorious luminary. It is, therefore, not alone upon the score of human rights in general, but from a personal interest in our National character, that the Abolitionists interfere. Various Congressional enactments have confirmed the justice of these views, which they are endeavoring to enforce by moral suasion (for they deprecate violence) upon the South. Those enactments assume jurisdiction, to some extent at least, upon the subject of slavery, having gone so far as to prohibit the continuance of the slave-trade, denouncing it as piracy, and punishing with death those who are in any way engaged in it. I have yet to learn that the South has ever protested against this law, in which the Abolitionists see a strong confirmation of their own just principles. Why should they not go a step further, and forbid all traffic in slaves, such as is pursued among your people? Why do not the States themselves interpose their power to put down at once and forever, such nefarious business? This would be productive of vastly more good than anything which Colonization societies can effect.”

“Suppose, sir.” began Mr. Winston, “we were to annul the present laws regulating the manumission of slaves, and to abolish the institution. entirely from our midst; where would be the safety of our own white race? There is great cause for the apprehension generally entertained, of perpetual danger and annoyance, if they were permitted to remain among us. They are there in large numbers, and, having once obtained their freedom, with permission to reside where they now are, they would seek to become ‘a power in the State,’ which would incite them, if resisted, into fearful rebellion. These are contingencies which sagacious statesmen have foreseen and which they would be unable to avert. Consequently, they had rather bear those ills they have, than fly to others that they know not of.”

“How infelicitous,” Mr. Trueman suddenly retorted, “is your quotation, for, truly, you ‘know not’ that these anticipated consequences would ensue; but ‘motes they are to trouble the mind's eye.’ Your sagacious statesmen might more wisely employ their thoughts in contemplating the more probable results of continuing your slaves in their present abject condition. Far more reason is there to apprehend rebellion and insurrection now, than the distant dangers you predict. Even this last objection is vain, unsubstantial, and, at best, only speculative, resorted to as an unction to mollify the sores of conscience. Some of your eminent men have expressed a hope that the colored race might be removed from the South, and from slavery, through the instrumentality of Colonization, by which, it is expected, that they would eventually be transported to Africa, and encouraged to establish governments for themselves. This proposal is liable, and with more emphasis, to the objection I advanced a while ago, when speaking of the laws which practically discourage manumission, for, if it is a hardship (as I contend it is) for them to be driven from their native State to one strange and unfamiliar to them, it is increasing that severity to require them to seek a home in Africa, whose climate is as uncongenial to them as to us, and with whose institutions they feel as little interest, or identity, as we do. Admit, for a moment, the practicability of such a scheme. We should, soon after, be called upon to recognize them as one of the nations of the earth, with whom we should treat as we do now with the English, French, German, and other nations. I will suggest to your Southern sages, who delight in speculations, that, in the progress of years, they might desire, in imitation of some other people, to accept the invitations we extend to the oppressed and unhappy of the earth. What is there, in that case, to binder them from immigrating in large numbers? Could you distinguish between immigrants of their class, and those who now settle upon our soil? Either you could or you could not. If you could not so distinguish, you would in all likelihood have them speedily back, in greater numbers than they come from Green Erin, or Fader-land. Thus you would be reduced to almost the same condition as general emancipation would bring about; but, if you could, and did make the distinction, is it not quite likely that deadly offence would be given to their government, which, added to their already accumulated wrongs, would light up the fires of a more frightful war than the intestine rebellion you have talked of; or than any that has ever desolated this continent? Bethink yourselves of these things amid your gloomy forebodings, and you will find them pregnant with fearful issues. You will discover, too, the folly of longer maintaining your burdensome system, and the wisdom of heeding whilst you may, the counsel of the philanthropic, which urges you to just, generous, speedy, universal emancipation. But I have fatigued you, and will stop; hoping soon to hear that you have magnanimously redeemed the promise which I had the gratification to bear at the commencement of our conversation.”

When Mr. Trueman paused, Mr. Winston sprang to his feet in a rage, knocking over his chair in the excitement, and declaring that he had most patiently listened to flimsy Abolition talk, in which there was no shadow of argument, mere common cant; that he would advise Mr. Trueman to be more particular in the dissemination of his dangerous and obnoxious opinions and, as to his own voluntary pledge, it was conditional, and those conditions had not been complied with, and he did not consider himself bound to redeem it. Mr. Trueman endeavored to calm and soothe the hot-blooded Southerner; but his words had no effect upon the illiberal man, whom he had so fairly demolished in argument.

THE next day Miss Jane, observing my unusual thoughtfulness, said:

“Come, now, Ann, you are not quite free. From the airs that you have put on, one would think you had been made so.”

“What have I done, Miss Jane?” This was asked in a quiet tone, perhaps not so obsequiously as she thought it should be. Thereupon she took great offence.

“How dare you, Miss, speak — in that tone? Take that,” and she dealt me a blow across the forehead with a long, limber whalebone, that laid the flesh open. I was so stunned by it that I reeled, and should have fallen to the floor, had I not supported myself by the bed-post.

“Don't you dare to scream.”

I attempted to bind up my brow with a handkerchief. This she regarded as affectation.

“Take care, Miss Ann,” she often prefixed the Miss when she was mad, by way of taunting me; “give yourself none of those important airs, I'll take you down a little.”

When Mr. Summerville entered, she began to cry, saying:

“Husband, this nigger-wench has given me a great deal of impertinence. Father never allowed it; now I want to know if you will not protect me from such insults.”

“Certainly, my love, I'll not allow any one, white or black, to insult you. Ann, how dare you give your mistress impudence?”

“I did not mean it, Master William.” I had thus addressed him ever since his marriage.

I attempted to relate the conversation that had occurred, wherein Miss Jane thought I had been impudent, when she suddenly sprang up, exclaiming:

“Do you allow a negro to give, testimony against your own wife?”

“Certainly not.”

“Now, Mr. Summerville,” she was getting angry with him, “I require you to whip that girl severely; if you don't do it—why—” and she ground her teeth fiercely.

“I will have her whipped, my dear, but I cannot whip her.”

“Why can't you?” and the lady's eye flashed.

“Because I should be injured by it. Gentlemen do not correct negroes: they hire others to do that sort of business.”

“Ah, well, then, hire some one who will do it well.”

“Come with me, Ann,” he said to me, as I stood speechless with fear and mortification.

“Seeing him again motion me to follow, I, forgetful of the injustice that had been done me, and the honest resentment I should feel—forgetful of everything but the humiliation to which they were going to subject me—fell on my knees before Miss Jane, and besought her to excuse, to forgive me, and I would never offend her again.

“Don't dare to ask mercy of me. You know that I am too much like father to spare a nigger.”

Ah, well I knew it! and vainly I sued to her. I might have known that she rejoiced too much in the sport; and, had she been in the country, would have asked no higher pleasure than to attend to it personally. A negro's scream of agony was music to her ears.

I governed myself as well as I could while I followed Mr. Summerville, through the halls and winding galleries. Down flights of steps, through passages and lobbys we went, until at last we landed in the cellar. There Mr. Summerville surrendered me to the care of a Mr. Monkton, the bar-keeper of the establishment duly appointed and fitted for the office of slave-whipping.

“Here,” said Mr. Summerville, “give this girl a good, genteel whipping; but no cruelty, Monkton, and here is your fee;” so saying he handed him a half-dollar, then left the dismal cellar.

I have since read long and learned accounts of the gloomy, subterranean cells, in which the cruel ministers of the Spanish Inquisition performed their horrible deeds; and I think this cellar very nearly resembled them. There it was, with its low, damp, vault-like roof; its unwholesome air, earthen floor, covered with broken wine bottles, and oyster cans, the debris of many a wild night's revel! There stood the monster Monkton, with his fierce, lynx eye, his profuse black beard, and frousy brows; a great, stalwart man, of a hard face and manner, forming no bad picture of those wolfish inquisitors of cruel, Catholic Spain!

Over this untempting scene a dim, waning lamp, threw its blue glare, only rendering the place more hideous.

“Now, girl, I am to lick you well. You see the half-dollar. Well, I'm to git the worth of it out of your hide. Now, what would you think if I didn't give you a single lick?”

I looked him full in the face, and even by that equivocal light I had power to discern his horrid purpose, and I quickly and proudly replied,

“I should think you did your duty poorly.”

“And why?”

“Because you engaged to do the job, and even received your pay in advance; therefore, if you fail to comply with your bargain, you are not trustworthy.”

“Wal, you're smart enough for a lawyer.”

“Well, attend to your business.”

“This is my business,” and he held up a stout wagon-whip; “come, strip off.”

“That is not a part of the contract.”

“Yes; but it's the way I always whips 'em.”

“You were not told to use me so, and I am not going to remove one article of my clothing.”

“Yes, but you shall;” and he approached me, his wild eye glaring with a lascivious light, and the deep passion-spot blazing on his cheek.

“Girl, you've got to yield to me. I'll have you now, if its only to show you that I can.”

I drew back a few steps, and, seizing a broken bottle, waited, with a deadly purpose, to see what he would do. He came so near that I almost fancied his fetid breath played with its damnable heat upon my very cheek.

“You've got to be mine. I'll give you a fine calico dress, and a pretty pair of ear-bobs!”

This was too much for further endurance. What! must I give up the angel-sealed honor of my life in traffic for trinkets? Where is the woman that would not have hotly resented such an insult?

I turned upon him like a hungry lioness, and just as his wanton hand was about to be laid upon me, I dexterously aimed, and hurled the bottle directly against his left temple. With a low cry of pain he fell to the floor, and the blood oozed freely from the wound.

As my first impression was that I had slain him, so was it my first desperate impulse to kill myself; yet with a second thought came my better intention, and, unlocking the door, I turned and left the gloomy cell. I mounted the dust-covered steps, and rapidly threaded silent, spider -festooned halls, until I regained the upper courts. How beautiful seemed the full gush of day-light to me! But the heavy weight of a supposed crime bowed me to the earth.

My first idea was to proceed directly to Mr. Summerville's apartment and make a truthful statement of the affair. What he would do or have done to me was a matter upon which I had expended no thought. My apprehension was altogether for the safety of my soul. Homicide was so fearful a thing, that even when committed in actual self-defence, I feared for the justice of it. The Divine interrogatory made to Cain rang with painful accuracy in my mental ear! “Am I my brother's keeper?” I repeated it again and again, and I lived years in the brief space of a moment. Away over the trackless void of the future fled imagination, painting all things and scenes with a sombre color.

The first recognizable person whom I met was Mr. Winston. I knew there was but little to hope for from him, for ever since the argument between himself and Mr. Trueman, he had appeared unusually haughty; and the waiters said that he had become excessively overbearing, that he was constantly knocking them around with his gold-headed cane, and swearing that Kentucky slaves were almost as bad as Northern free negroes.

Henry (who had become a most dear friend of mine) told me that Mr. Winston had on one or two occasions, without the slightest provocation, struck him severely over the head; but these things were pretty generally done in the presence of Mr. Trueman, and for no higher object, I honestly believe, than to annoy that pure-souled philanthropist. So I was assured that he was not one to entrust with my secret, especially as a great intimacy had sprung up between him and Miss Jane. I, therefore, hastily passed him, and a few steps on met Mr. Trueman. How serene appeared his chaste, marble face! Who that looked upon him, with his quiet, reflective eye, but knew that an angel sat enthroned within his bosom? Do not such faces help to prove the perfectibility of the race? If, as the transcendentalists believe, these noble characters are only types of what the whole man will be, may we not expect much from the advent of that dubious personage?

“Mr. Trueman,” I said, and my voice was clear and unfaltering, for something in his face and manner exorcised all fear, “I have done a fearful deed.”

“What, child?” he asked, and his eye was full of solicitude.

I then gave him a hurried account of what had occurred in the cellar. After a slight pause, he said:

“The best thing for you to do will be to make instant confession to Mr. Summerville. Alas! I fear it will go hard with you, for you are a slave.”

I thanked him for the interest he had manifested in me, and passed on to Miss Jane's room. I paused one moment at the floor, before turning the knob. What a variety of feelings were at work in my breast! Had I a fellow-creature's blood upon my hands? I trembled in every limb, but at length controlled myself sufficiently to enter.

There sat Miss Jane, engaged at her crochet-work, and Master William playing with the balls of cotton and silk in her little basket.

“Well, Ann, I trust you've got your just deserts, a good whipping,” said Miss Jane, as she fixed her eyes upon me.

Very calmly I related all that had occurred. Mr. Summerville sprang to his feet and rushed from the room, whilst Miss Jane set up a series of screams loud enough to reach the most distant part of the house. All my services were required to keep her from swooning, or affecting to swoon.

The ladies from the adjoining room srushed in to her assistance, and were soon busy chafing her bands, rubbing her feet, and bathing her temples.

“Isn't this terrible!” ejaculated one.

“What is the matter?” cried another.

“Poor creature, she is hysterical,” was the explanation of a third.

I endeavored to explain the cause of Miss Jane's excitement.

“You did right,” said one lady, whose truly womanly spirit burst through all conventionality and restraint.

“What,” said one, a genuine Southern conservative, “do you say it was right for a slave to oppose and resist the punishment which her master had directed?”

“Certainly not; but it was right for a female, no matter whether white or black, to resist, even to the shedding of blood, the lascivious advances of a bold libertine.”

“Do you believe the girl's story?”

“Yes; why not?”

“I don't; it bears the impress of falsehood on its very face.”

“No,” added another Kentucky true-blue, “Mr. Monkton was going to whip her, and she resisted him. That's the correct version of the story, I'll bet my life on it.”

To all of this aspersion upon myself, I was bound to be a silent auditor, yet ever obeying their slightest order to hand them water, cologne, &c. Is not this slavery indeed?

When Mr. Summerville left the room, he hastily repaired to the bar, where he made the story known, and getting assistance, forthwith went to the cellar, Mr. Winston forming one of the party of investigation. His Southern prejudices were instantly aroused, and he was ready “to do or die” for the propogation of the “peculiar institution.”

The result of their trip was to find Monkton very feeble from the loss of blood, and suffering from the cut made by the broken bottle, but with enough life left in him for the fabrication of a falsehood, which was of course believed, as he had a white face. He stated that he had proceeded to the administration of the whipping, directed by my master; that I resisted him; and finding it necessary to bind me, he was attempting to do so, when I swore that I would kill him, and that suiting the action to the word, I hurled the broken bottle at his temples.

When Mr. Summerville repeated this to Miss Jane, in my presence, stating that it was the testimony that Monkton was prepared to give in open court, for I was to be arrested, I could not refrain from uttering a cry of surprise, and saying:

“Mr. Monkton has misrepresented the case, as ‘I can show.’ ”

“Yes, but you will not be allowed to give evidence,” said Master William.

“Will Mr. Monkton's testimony be taken?” I inquired.

“Certainly, but a negro cannot bear witness against a white person.”

I said nothing, but many thoughts were troubling me.

“You see, Ann, what your bad conduct has brought you to,” said Miss Jane.

Again I attempted to tell the facts of the case, and defend myself, but she interrupted me, saying:

“Do you suppose I believe a word of that? I can assure you I do not, and, moreover, I'm not going to spend my money to have a lawyer employed to keep you from the punishment you so richly deserve. So you must content yourself to take the public hanging or whipping in the jail yard, which is the penalty that will be affixed to your crime.” Turning to Mr. Summerville, she added, “I think it will do Ann good, for it will take down her pride, and make her a valuable nigger. She has been too proud of her character; for my part, I had rather she had had less virtue. I've always thought she was virtuous because she did not want us to increase in property, and was too proud to have her children live in bondage.”

I dared not make any remark; but there I stood in dread of the approaching arrest, which came full soon.

As I was sewing for Miss Jane, Mr. Summerville opened the door, and said to a rough man, pointing to me

“There's the girl.”

“Come along with me to jail, gal.”

How fearfully sounded the command. The jail-house was a place of terror, and though I had in my brief life “supped full of horrors,” this was a new species of torture that I had hoped to leave untasted.

Taking with me nothing but my bonnet, I followed Constable Calcraft down stairs into the street. Upon one of the landings I met Henry, and I knew from his kindly mournful glance, that he gave me all his compassion.

“Good-bye, Ann,” he said, extending his hand to me, “good-bye, and keep of good cheer; the Lord will be with you.” I looked at him, and saw that his lip was quivering; and his dark eye glittered with a furtive tear. I dared not trust my voice, so, with a grateful pressure of the hand, I passed him by, keeping up my composure right stoutly. At the foot of the stair I met Louise, who was weeping.

“I believe you, Ann, we all believe you, and the Lord will make it appear on the day of your trial that you are right, only keep up your spirits, and read this,” and she slipped a little pocket-Testament into my hand, which was a welcome present.

THE day of my trial dawned as fair and bright as any that ever broke over the sinful world. It rose upon my slumber mildly, and without breaking its serenity. I slept better on the night preceding the trial, than I had done since my incarceration.

I knew that I was friendless and alone, and on the eve of a trial wherein I stood accused of a fearful crime; that I was defenceless; yet I rested my cause with Him, who has bidden the weary and heavy-laden to come unto Him, and He will give them rest. Strong in this consciousness, I sank to the sweetest slumber and the rosiest dreams. Through my mind gracefully flitted the phantom of Henry.

When Fanny woke me to receive my unrelished breakfast, she said:

“You've forgot that this is the day of trial; you sleep as unconsarned as though the trial was three weeks off. For my part, now that the baby is dead, I don't kere much what becomes of me.”

“My cause,” I replied, “is with God. To His keeping I have confided myself; therefore, I can sleep soundly.”

“Have you got any lawyer?”

“No; I am a slave, and my master will not employ one.”

After a few hours we heard the sound of a bell, that announced the opening of court. The jailer conducted me out of the jail yard into the Court House. It was the first time I had ever seen the interior of a court-room, when the court was in full session, and I was not very much edified by the sight.

ON the last and concluding day of the term of the court, the jailer signified to me that the constable would, on the morrow, administer the first fifty lashes; and, of course, I passed the night in great trepidation.

But the morning came bright and clear, and the jailer, accompanied by Constable Calcraft, entered.

“Come, girl,” said the latter, “ I have to execute the sentence upon you.”

Without one word, I followed him into the jail yard.

“Strip yourself to the waist,” said the constable.

I dared not hesitate, though feminine delicacy was rudely shocked. With a prayer to heaven for fortitude, I obeyed.

Then, with a strong cowhide, he inflicted fifty lashes (the first instalment of the sentence) upon my bare back; each lacerating it to the bone. I was afterwards compelled to put my clothes on over my raw, bloody back, without being allowed to wash away the clotted gore; for, upon asking for water to cleanse myself, I was harshly refused, and quickly re-conducted to the cell, where, wounded, mortified, and anguish-stricken, I was left to myself.

Oh, God of the world-forgotten Africa! Thou dost see these, things; Thou dost hear the cries which daily and nightly we are sending up to Thee! On that lonely, wretched night Thou wert with me, and my prison became as a radiant mansion, for angels cheered me there! Glory to God for the cross which He sent me; for it led me on to Him.

WHILST the hours thus rosily slided away, and I dreamed amid the verdure of existence, the syren charmed me wisely, indeed, with her beautiful promises. Poor, simple-hearted, trusting slaves! We could not see upon what a rocking bridge our feet were resting, how slippery and unsubstantial was the flowery declivity whereon we stood. There we reposed in the gentle light of a happy trance; we saw not the clouds, dark and tempest-charged, that were rising rapidly to bide the stars from our view.

One Sunday afternoon, Henry having finished his work much earlier than usual, and done some little act whereby the good will of his temporary master (the keeper of the hotel) was propitiated, and Miss Jane and Mr. Summerville having gone out, I willingly consented to his proposal to take a walk. We accordingly wandered off to a beautiful wood, just without the city limits, a very popular resort with the negroes and poorer classes, though it was the only pretty green woodland near the city. Yet, because the “common people and negroes” (a Kentucky phrase) went there, it was voted vulgar, and avoided by the rich and refined. One blessing was thus given to the poor!

Henry and I sought a retired part of the grove, and, seating ourselves on an old, moss-grown log, we talked with as much hope, and indulged in as rosy dreams, as happier and lordlier lovers. For three bright hours we remained idly rambling through the flower-realm of imagination; but, as the long shadows began to fall among the leaves, we prepared to return home.

ON the next day, after breakfast, Mr. Atkins came in, saying,

“Well, niggers, git yourselves ready. You must all start down the river to-day, at ten o'clock. A good boat is going out. Huddle up your clothes as quick as possible—no fuss, now.”

When he left, there was lamentation among some; silent mourning with others; joy for a few.

Shall I ever forget the despairing look of Charley? How passionately he compressed his lips! I went up to him, and, laying my hand on his arm, said,

“Let us be strong to meet the trouble that is sent us!”

He looked at me, but made no reply. I thought there was the wildness of insanity in his glance, and turned away.

It was now eight o'clock, and I had not heard from Henry or Louise. Alas! my heart misgave me. I had been buoyed up for some time by the flatteries and delusions of Hope! but now I felt that I had nothing to sustain me; the last plank had sunk!

I did not pretend to “get myself ready,” as Mr. Atkins had directed; the fact is, I was ready. The few articles of wearing apparel that I called mine were all in my trunk, with some little presents that Henry had made me, such as a brooch, earrings, &c. These were safely locked, and the key hung round my neck. But the others were busy “getting ready.” I was standing near the door, anxiously hoping to see either Henry or Louise, when an old negro woman, thinly clad, without any bonnet on her head, and with a basket in her hand, came up to me, saying,

I BECAME domesticated very soon in Mr. Josiah Smith's family. I learned what my work was, and did it very faithfully, and I believe to their satisfaction.

The family proper consisted of Mr. Smith, his wife, two daughters, and a niece. Mr. Smith was a merchant, of considerable wealth and social influence, and the young ladies were belles par-excellence. Mrs. Smith was the domestic of the concern, who carried on the establishment, a little, busy, fussy sort of woman, that went sailing it round the house with a huge bunch of keys dangling at her side, an incessant scold, with a voice sharp and clear like a steamboat bell; a managing, thrifty sort of person, a perfect terror to negroes; up of a morning betimes, and in the kitchen, fussing with the cook about breakfast.

I had very little to do with Mrs. Letitia. My business was almost exclusively with the young ladies. I cleaned and arranged their rooms, set the parlors right, swept and dusted them, and then attended to the dining-room. This part of my work threw me under Mrs. Letitia's dynasty; but as I generally did my task well, she had not much objection to make, though her natural fault-finding disposition sharpened her optics a good deal, and she generally discovered something about which to complain.

Miss Adele Smith was the elder of the two daughters, a tall, pale girl, with dark hair, carefully banded over a smooth, polished brow, large black eyes and a pleasing manner.

IN Mr. Smith's family of servants was Emily, the cook, a sagacious woman, but totally without education, knowledge, or the peculiar ambition that leads to its acquisition. She was a bold, raw, unthinking spirit; and, from the fact that she had been kept closely confined to the house, never allowed any social pleasure, she resolved to be revenged, and unfortunately in her desire for “spite ” (as she termed it), had sacrificed her character, and was the mother of two children, with unacknowledged fathers. Possessed of a violent temper, she would, at periods, rave like a mad-woman; and only the severest lashing could bring her into subjection. She was my particular terror. Her two children, half-bloods, were little, sick, weasly things that excited the compassion of all beholders, and though two years of age (twins), were, from some physical derangement, unable to walk.

There was also a man servant, Duke, who attended to odd ends of housework, and served in the capacity of decorated carriage-driver, and a girl, Elsy, a raw, green, country concern, good-natured and foolish, with a face as black as tar. They had hired her from a man in the country, and she being quite delighted with town and the off-cast finery of the ladies, was as happy as she could be—yet the mistakes she constantly made were truly amusing. She had formed quite an attachment for Duke, which he did not in the slightest degree return; yet, with none of the bashfulness of her sex, she confessed to the feeling, and declared that “Duke was very mean not to love her a little.” This never failed to excite the derision of the more sprightly Emily.

“Well, you is a fool,” she would exclaim, with an odd shake of the head.

“I loves him, and don't kere who knows it.”

“Does he love you?” asked Emily.

“Well, he doesn't.”

“Then I'd hate him,” replied Emily, as, with a great force, she brought her rolling-pin down on the table.

“No, I wouldn't,” answered the loving Elsy.

“You ain't worth shucks.”

“Wish I was worth Duke.”

“Hush, fool.”

“You needn't git mad, kase I don't think as you does.”

“I is mad bekase you is a fool.”

“Who made me one?”

“You was born it, I guess.”

“Then I aren't to blame far it. Them that made me is.”

Conversations like this were of frequent occurrence, and once, when I ventured to ask Elsy if she wouldn't like to learn to read, she laughed heartily, saying:

“Does you think I wants to run off?”

“Certainly not.”

“Den why did you ax me if I wanted to larn to read?”

“So you might have a higher source of enjoyment than you now have.”

“Oh, yes, so as to try to git my freedom! You is jist a spy fur de white folks, and wants to know if I'll run away. Go off, now, and mind yer own business, kase I has hearn my ole Masser, in de country, say dat whenever niggers 'gan to read books dey was ob no 'count, and allers had freedom in dar heads.”

Finding her thus obstinate, I gave up all attempts to persuade her, and left her to that mental obscuration in which I found her. Emily sometimes threatened to apply herself, with vigor, to the gaining of knowledge, and thus defeat and “spite” her owners; but knowledge so obtained, I think, would be of little avail, for, like religion, it must be sought after from higher motives—sought for itself only.

I could find but little companionship with those around me, and lived more totally within myself than I had ever done. Many times have I gone to my room, and in silence wept over the isolation in which my days were spent; but three nights out of the seven were marked with white stones, for on these I held blissful re-unions with Henry. Our appointed spot for meeting was near an old pump, painted green, which was known as the “green pump,” a very favorite one, as the water, pure limestone, was supposed to be better, cooler, and stronger than that of others. Much has been written, by our popular authors, on the virtues and legends of old town pumps, but, to me, this one had a beauty, a charm, a glory which no other inanimate object in wide creation possessed! And of a moonlight night, when I descried, at a distance, its friendly handle, outstretched like an arm of welcome, I have rushed up and grasped it with a right hearty good feeling! Long time afterwards, when it had ceased to be a love-beacon to me, I never passed it without taking a drink from its old, rusty ladle, and the water, like the friendly drauth contained in the magic cup of eastern story, transported me over the waste of time to poetry and love! Even here I pause to wipe away the fond, sad tears, which the recollection of that old “green pump” calls up to my mind, and I should love to go back and stand beside it, and drink, aye deeply, of its fresh, cool water! There are now many stately mansions in that growing city, that sits like a fairy queen upon the shore of the charmed Ohio; but away from all its lofty structures and edifices of wealth, away from her public haunts, her galleries and balls, would I turn, to pay homage to the old “green pump”!

Some quiet evenings, too, had I in Louise's room, listening to Henry sing, while he played upon his banjo. His voice was fine, full, and round, and rang out with the clearness of a bell. Though possessed of but slight cultivation, I considered it the finest one I ever heard.

AT last I contrived to “screw my courage to the sticking-place,” and go to Miss Nancy's room.

I paused at the closed door before knocking for admission. When I did knock, I heard a not unpleasant voice say—

“Come in.”

The tone of that voice re-inspired me, and I boldly entered.

There, resting upon the bed, was one of the sweetest and most benign faces that I ever beheld. Age had touched it but to beautify. Serene and clear, from underneath the broad cap frill shone her mild gray eyes. The wide brow was calm and white as an ivory tablet, and the lip, like a faded rose-leaf, hinted the bright hue which it had worn in health. The cheek, like the lip, was blanched by the hand of disease. “Ah,” she said, as with a slight cough she elevated herself upon the pillow, “it is you, Ann. You are a little tardy. I have been looking for you for the last half-hour.”

“I have been in the house some time, Miss Nancy, but had not the courage to venture into your presence; and yet I have been watching for your arrival with the greatest anxiety.”

“You must not be afraid of me, child, I am but a sorry invalid, who will, I fear, often weary and overtax your patience; but you must bear with me; and, if you are faithful, I will reward you for it. Henry has told me that you are pretty well educated, and have a pleasant voice for reading. This delights me much; for your principal occupation will be to read to me.”

Certainly this pleased me greatly, for I saw at once that I was removed from the stultifying influences which had so long been exercised over my mind. Now I should find literary food to supply my craving. My eyes fairly sparkled, as I answered,

“This is what I have long desired, Miss Nancy; and you have assigned to me the position I most covet.”

“I am glad I have pleased you, child. It is my pleasure to gratify others. Our lives are short, at best, and he or she only lives truly who does the most good.”

This was a style and manner of talk that charmed me. Beautiful example and type of womankind! I felt like doing reverence to her.

She reached her thin hand out to help herself to a glass of water, that stood on a stand near by. I sprang forward to relieve her.

“Ah, thank you,” she said, in a most bland tone; “I am very weak; the slightest movement convinces me of the failure of my strength.”

I begged that she would not exert herself, but always call on me for everything that she needed.

“I came here to serve you, and I assure you, my dear Miss Nancy, I shall be most happy in doing it. Mine will, I believe, truly be a ‘labor of love.’ ”

Another sweet smile, with the gilded light of a sunbeam, broke over her calm, sweet face! Bless her! she and all of her class should be held as “blessed among women;” for do they not walk with meek and reverent footsteps in the path of her, the great model and prototype of all the sex?

When I had been with her but a few days, she informed me that, as soon as her health permitted, she intended being removed to her house on Walnut street. I was not particularly anxious for this; for my sojourn at the G— house was perfectly delightful. My frequent intercourse with Henry and Louise, was a source of intense pleasure to me. I was allowed to pass the evenings with them. Truly were those hours dear and bright. Henry played upon his banjo, and sang to us the most enrapturing songs, airs and glees; and Louise generally supplied us with cakes and lemonade! How exquisite was my happiness, as there we sat upon the little balcony gazing at the Indiana shore, and talking of the time when Henry and I should be free.

“How much remains to be paid to your master, Henry,” asked Louise.

“I have paid all but three hundred and fifty; one hundred of which I already have; so, in point of fact, I lack only two hundred and fifty,” said Henry.

“I am very anxious to leave here this fall. I wish to go to Montreal. Now, if you could make your arrangements to go on with me, I should be glad. I shall require the services and attentions of a man; and, if you have not realized the money by that time, I think I can lend it to you,” returned Louise.

A bright light shone in Henry's eye, as he returned his thanks; but quickly the coming shadow banished that radiance of joy.

“But think of her,” he said tenderly, laying his hand on my shoulder; “what can she do without us, or what should I be without her?”

“Oh, think not of me, dearest, I have a good home, and am well cared for. Go, and as soon as you can, make the money, and come back for me.”

“Live years away from you? Oh, no, no!” and he wound his arm around my waist, and, most naturally, my head rested upon his shoulder. Loud and heavy was his breathing, and I knew that a fierce struggle was raging in his breast.

“I will never leave her, Louise,” he at length replied. “That tyrant, the law, may part us; but, my free will and act—never.”

“Ah, well,” added she, as she looked upon us, “you will think better of this after you give it a little reflection. This is only love's delusion;” and, in her own quiet, sensible way, she turned the stream of conversation into another channel.

I think now, with pleasure, of the lovely scenes I enjoyed on those evenings, with the fire-flies playing in the air; and many times have I thought how beautifully and truly they typify the illusive glancings of hope, darting here and there with their fire-lit wings; eluding our grasp, and sparkling e'en as they flit.

A few weeks after my installation in the new office, my mistress, whose health had been improving under my nursing, began to get ready to move to her sweet little cottage residence on Walnut street. I was not anxious for the change, notwithstanding it gave me many local advantages; for I should be removed from Henry, and though I knew that I could see him often, yet the same roof would not cover us. But my life, hitherto, had been too dark and oppressed for me to pause and mourn over the “crumpled rose-leaf;” and so, with right hearty good will I set to work “packing Miss Nancy's trunk,” and gathering up her little articles that had lain scattered about the room.

An upholsterer had been sent out to get the house ready for us. When we were on the eve of starting, Henry came to carry the luggage, and Miss Nancy paid him seventy-five cents, at which he took off his hat, made a low bow, and said,

“Thank you, Missis.”

Miss Nancy was seated on the most comfortable cushion, and I directly opposite, fanning her.

We drove up to the house, a neat little brick cottage, painted white, with green shutters, and a deep yard in front, thickly swarded, with a variety of flowers, and a few forest trees. Beautiful exotics, in rare plaster, and stone vases, stood about in the yard, and a fine cast-iron watch-dog slept upon the front steps. Passing through the broad hall, you had a fine view of the grounds beyond, which were handsomely decorated. The out-buildings were all neatly painted or white-washed. A thorough air of neatness presided over the place. On the right of the hall was the parlor, furnished in the very perfection of taste and simplicity.

I SLEPT uninterruptedly that night, and, on awaking in the morning, I was surprised to find it ten minutes past five. Hurrying on my clothes, I went to Miss Nancy's apartment, and was much surprised to find her sitting in her easy chair, her toilette made. Looking up from the Bible, which lay open on the stand before her, she said,

“I have stolen a march, Ann, and have risen before you.”

“Yes, ma'm,” replied I, in a mortified tone, “I am ten minutes behind the time; I am very sorry, and hope you will excuse me.”

“No apologies, now; I hope you do not take me for a cruel, exacting task-mistress, who requires every inch of your time.”

“No, indeed, I do not, for I know you to be the kindest mistress and best friend in the world.”

“And now, Ann, I will read some from the Lamentations of Jeremiah; and we will unite in family prayer.”

At the ringing of the little bell Biddy quickly appeared, and we seated ourselves near Miss Nancy, and listened to her beautiful voice as it broke forth in the plaintive eloquence of the holy prophet!

“Let us pray,” she said, fervently, extending her thin, white hands upward, and we all sank upon our knees. She prayed for grace to rest on the household; for its extension over the world; that it might visit the dark land of the South; that the blood of Christ might soften the hearts of slave-holders. She asked, in a special manner, for power to carry out her good intentions; prayed that the blessing of God might be given to me, in a particular manner, to enable me to meet the trials of life, and invoked benedictions upon Biddy.

WHEN I began to gain strength Miss Nancy took me out in a carriage of evenings; and had it not been for the melancholy recollections that hung like a pall around my heart, life would have been beautiful to me. As we drove slowly through the brightly-lighted streets, and looked at the gaudy and flaunting windows, where the gayest and most elegant articles of merchandise were exhibited, I remarked to Miss Nancy, with a sigh, “Life might be made a very gay and cheerful thing—almost a pleasure, were it not for the wickedness of men.”

“Ah, yes, it might, indeed,” she replied, and the big tears rested upon her eyelids.

One evening when we had returned from a drive, I noticed that she ate very little supper, and her hand trembled violently.

“You are sick, Miss Nancy,” I said.

“Yes, Ann, I feel strangely,” she replied.

“To-morrow you must go for my brother, and I will have a lawyer to draw up my will. It would be dreadful if I were to die suddenly without making a provision for you; then the bonds of slavery would be riveted upon you, for by law you would pass into my brother's possession.”

“Don't trouble yourself about it now, dear Miss Nancy,” I said; “your life is more precious than my liberty.”

“Not so, my good girl. The dawn of your life was dark, I hope that the close may be bright. The beginning of mine was full of flowers; the close will be serene, I trust; but ah, I've outlived many a blessed hope that was a very rainbow in my dreaming years.”

I had always thought Miss Nancy's early life had been filled with trouble; else why and whence her strange, subdued, melancholy nature! How much I would have given had she told me her history; yet I would not add to her sadness by asking her to tell me of it.

The next morning I went for Mr. Moodwell, who, at Miss Nancy's instance, summoned a notary. The will was drawn up and witnessed by two competent persons.

After this she began to improve rapidly. Her strength of body and cheerfulness returned. About this time my peace of mind began to be restored. Of my poor mother I never spoke, after bearing the particulars that followed her death. She was hurriedly buried, without psalm or sermon. No notice was taken by the citizens of her murder—why should there be? She was but a poor slave, grown old and gray in the service of the white man; and if her master chose to whip her to death, who had a right to gainsay him? She was his property to have and to hold; to use or to kill, as he thought best!

Give us no more Fourth of July celebrations; the rather let us have a Venetian oligarchy!

Miss Nancy, in her kind, persuasive manner, soon lured my thoughts away from such gloomy contemplations. She sought to point out the pleasant, easy pathway of wisdom and religion, and I thank her now for the good lessons she then taught me! Beneath such influence I gradually grew reconciled to my troubles. Miss Nancy fervently prayed that they might be sanctified to my eternal good; and so may they!

Louise came often to see me, and I found her then as now, the kindest and most willing friend; everything that she could do to please me she did. She brought me many gifts of books, flowers, fruits, &c. I may have been petulant and selfish in my grief; but those generous friends bore patiently with me.

Pleasant walks I used to take with Henry of evenings, and he was then so full of hope, for he had almost realized the sum of money, that his master required of him.

“Master will be down early in September,” he said, as we strolled along one evening in August, “and I think by borrowing a little from Miss Nancy, I shall be able to pay down all that I owe him, and then, dearest, I shall be free—free! only think of it! Of me being a free man, master of myself! and when we go to the North we will be married, and both of us will live with Miss Nancy, and guard her declining days.”

Happy tears were shining in his bright eyes, like dew-pearls; but, with a strong, manly hand he dashed them away, and I clung the fonder to that arm, that I hoped would soon be able to protect me.

“There is one foolish little matter, dearest, that I will mention, more to excite your merriment, than fear,” said Henry with an odd smile.

“What is it?”

“Well, promise me not to care about it; only let it give you a good laugh.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Well,” and he paused for a moment, “there is a girl living near the G— House. She belongs to Mr. Bodley, and has taken a foolish fancy to me; has actually made advances, even more than advances, actual offers of love! She says she used to know you, and, on one occasion, attempted to speak discreditably of you; though I quickly gave her to understand that I would not listen to it. Why do you tremble so, Ann?”

And truly I trembled so violently, that if it had not been for the support that his arm afforded me, I should have fallen to the ground.

“What is her name?” I asked.

“Melinda, and says she once belonged to Mr. Peterkin.”

“Yes, she did. We used to call her Lindy.”

I then told him what an evil spirit she had been in my path; and ventured to utter a suspicion that her work of harm was yet unfinished, that she meant me further injury.

I HAVE paused much before writing this chapter. I have taken up my pen and laid it down an hundred times, with the task unfulfilled—the duty unaccomplished. A nervous sensation, a chill of the heart, have restrained my pen—yet the record must be made.

I have that to tell, from which both body and soul shrink. Upon me a fearful office has been laid! I would that others, with colder blood and less personal interest, could make this disclosure; but it belongs to my history; nay, is the very nucleus from which all my reflections upon the institution of slavery have sprung. Reader, did you ever have a wound—a deep, almost a mortal wound—whereby your life was threatened, which, after years of nursing and skilful surgical treatment, had healed, and was then again rudely torn open? This is my situation. I am going to tear open, with a rude hand, a deep wound, that time and kind friends have not availed to cure. But like little, timid children, hurrying through a dark passage, fearing to look behind them, I shall hasten rapidly over this part of my life, never pausing to comment upon the terrible facts I am recording. “I have placed my hand to the ploughshare, and will not turn back.”

Let me recall that fair and soft evening, in the early September, when Henry and I, with hand clasped in hand, sat together upon the little balcony. How sweet-scented was the gale that fanned our brows! The air was soft and balmy, and the sweet serenity of the hour was broken only by that ever-pleasant music of the gently-roaring falls! Fair and queenly sailed the uprisen moon, through a cloudless sea of blue, whilst a few faint stars, like fire-flies, seemed flitting round her.

Long we talked of the happiness that awaited us on the morrow. Henry had arranged to meet his master, Mr. Graham, on that day, and make the final payment.

“Dearest, I lack but fifty dollars of the amount,” he said, as he laid his head confidingly on my shoulder.

“Ten of which I can give you.”

“And the remaining forty I will make up,” said Miss Nancy as she stepped out of the door, and, placing a pocket-book in Henry's hand, she added, “there is the amount, take it and be happy.”

Whilst he was returning thanks, I went to get my contribution. Drawing from my trunk the identical ten-dollar note that good Mr. Trueman had given me, I hastened to present it to Henry, and make out the sum that was to give us both so much joy.

“Here, Henry,” I exclaimed, as I rejoined them, “are ten dollars, which kind Mr. Trueman gave me.”

Miss Nancy sighed deeply. I turned around, but she said with a smile:

“How different is your life now from what it was when that money was given you.”

“Yes, indeed,” I answered; “and, thanks, my noble benefactress, to you for it.”

“Let me,” she continued, without noticing my remark, “see that note.”

I immediately handed it to her. Could I be mistaken? No she actually pressed it to her lips! But then she was such a philanthropist, and she loved the note because it was the means of bringing us happiness. She handed it back to me with another sigh.

“When he gave it to me, he bade me receive it as his contribution toward the savings I was about to lay up for the purchase of myself. Now what joy it gives me to hand it to you, Henry.” He was weeping, and could not trust his voice to answer.

“And Ann shall soon be free. Next week we will all start for the North, and then, my good friends, your white days will commence,” said Miss Nancy.

“Oh, Heaven bless you, dear saint,” cried Henry, whose utterance was choked by tears. Miss Nancy and I both wept heartily; but mine were happy tears, grateful as the fragrant April showers!

“Why this is equal to a camp-meeting,” exclaimed Louise, who had, unperceived by us, entered the front-door, passed through the hall, and now joined us upon the portico.

Upon hearing of Henry's good fortune, she began to weep also.

“Will you not let me make one of the party for the North?” she inquired of Miss Nancy.

“Certainly, we shall be glad to have you, Louise; but come, Henry, get your banjo, and play us a pleasant tune.”

He obeyed with alacrity, and I never heard his voice sound so rich, clear and ringing. How magnificent he looked, with the full radiance of the moonlight streaming over his face and form! His long flossy black hair was thrown gracefully back from his broad and noble brow; whilst his dark flashing eye beamed with unspeakable joy, and the animation that flooded his soul lent a thrill to his voice, and a majesty to his frame, that I had never seen or heard before. Surely I was very proud and happy as I looked on him then!

Before we parted, Miss Nancy invited him and Louise to join us in family devotion. After reading a chapter in the Bible, and a short but eloquent and impressive prayer, she besought Heaven to shed its most benign blessings on us; and that our approaching good fortune might not make us forget Him from whom every good and perfect gift emanated; and thus closed that delightful evening!

After Henry had taken an affectionate farewell of me, and departed with Louise, he, to my surprise, returned in a few moments, and finding the house still open, called me out upon the balcony.

“Dearest, I could not resist a strange impulse that urged me to come back and look upon you once again. How beautiful you are, my love!” he said as he pushed the masses of hair away from my brow, and imprinted a kiss thereon. He was so tardy in leaving, that I had to chide him two or three times.

“I cannot leave you, darling.”

“But think,” I replied, “of the joy that awaits us on the morrow.”

At last, and at Miss Nancy's request, he left, but turned every few steps to look back at the house.

“How foolish Henry is to-night,” said Miss Nancy, as she withdrew her head from the open window. “Success and love have made him foolishly fond!”

“Quite turned his brain,” I replied; “but he will soon be calm again.”

“Oh, yes, he will find that life is an earnest work, as well for the freeman as the bondsman.”

I lay for a long time on my bed in a state of sleeplessness, and it was past midnight when I fell asleep, and then, oh, what a terrible dream came to torture me! I thought I had been stolen off by a kidnapper, and confined for safe keeping in a charnel-house, an ancient receptacle for the dead, and there, with blue lights burning round me, I lay amid the dried bones and fleshless forms of those who had once been living beings; and the vile and loathsome gases almost stifled me. By that dim blue light I strove to find some door or means of egress from the terrible place, and just as I had found the door and was about to fit a rusty key into the lock, a long, lean body, decked out in shroud, winding-sheet and cap, with hollow check and cadaverous face, and eyes devoid of all speculation, suddenly seized me with its cold, skeleton hand. Slowly the face assumed the expression of Lindy's, then faded into that of Mr. Peterkin's. I attempted to break from it, but I was held with a vice-like power. With a loud, frantic scream I broke from the trammels of sleep. A cold, death-like sweat had broken out on my body. My screaming had aroused Miss Nancy and Biddy. Both came rushing into my room.

“A bad attack of incubus,” remarked Miss Nancy, “but she is cold; rub her well, Biddy.”

With a very good will the kind-hearted Irish girl obeyed her. I could not, however, be prevailed upon to try to sleep again; and as it wanted but an hour of the dawn, Biddy consented to remain up with me. We dressed ourselves, and sitting down by the closed window, entered into a very cheerful conversation. Biddy related many wild legends of the “ould country,” in which I took great interest.

Gradually we saw the stars disappear, and the moon go down, and the pale gray streaks of dawn in the eastern sky!

I threw up the windows, exclaiming: “Oh, Biddy, as the day dawns, I begin to suffocate. I feel just as I did in the dream. Give me air, quick.” More I could not utter, for I fell fainting in the arms of the faithful girl. She dashed water in my face, chafed my hands and temples, and consciousness soon returned.

“Why, happiness and good fortune do excite you strangely; but they say there are some that it sarves just so.”

“Oh no, Biddy, I am not very well, — a little nervous. I will take some medicine.”

When I joined Miss Nancy, she refused to let me assist her in dressing, saying:

“No, Ann, you look ill. Don't trouble yourself to do anything, Go lie down and rest.”

I assured her repeatedly that I was perfectly well; but she only smiled, and said in a commendatory tone,

“Good girl, good girl!”

All the morning I was fearfully nervous, starting at every little sound or noise. At length Miss Nancy became seriously uneasy, and compelled me to take a sedative. As the day wore on, I began to grow calm. The sedative had taken effect, and my nervousness was allayed.

I took my sewing in the afternoon, and seated myself in Miss Nancy's room. Seeing that I was calm, she began a pleasant conversation with me.

“Henry will be here to-night, Ann, a free man, the owner of himself, the custodian of his own person, and you must put on your happiest and best looks to greet him.”

“Ah, Miss Nancy, it seems like too much joy for me to realizes. What if some grim phantom dash down this sparkling cup; just as we are about to press it to our eager and expecting lips? Such another disappointment I could not endure.

“You little goosey, you will mar half of life's joys by these idle fears.”

“Yes, Miss Nancy,” put in Biddy. “Ann is just so nervous ever since that ugly dream, that she hain't no faith to-day in anything.”

“Have you baked a pretty cake, and got plenty of nice confections to give Henry a celebration supper, good Biddy?” inquired Miss Nancy.

“Ah yes, everything is ready, only just look how light and brown my cake is,” and she brought a fine large cake from the pantry, the savory odor of which would have tempted an anchorite.

“Then, too,” continued the provident Biddy, “the peaches are unusually soft and sweet. I have pared and sugared, and they are on the ice now; oh, we'll have a rale feast.”

“Thanks, thanks, good friends,” I said, in a voice choked with emotion.

“Only just see,” exclaimed Biddy, “here comes Louise, running as fast as her legs will carry her; she's come to be the first to tell you that Henry is free.”

I rushed with Biddy to the door, and Miss Nancy followed. We were all eager to hear the good news.

“Mercy, Louise, what's the matter?” I cried, for her face terrified me. She was pale as death; her eyes, black and wild, seemed starting from their sockets, and around her mouth there was that ghastly, livid look, that almost congealed my blood.

“Oh, God!” she cried in frenzy, “God have mercy on us all!” and reeled against the wall.

“Speak, woman, speak, in heaven's name,” I shouted aloud. “Henry! Henry! Henry! has aught happened to him?”

“Oh, God!” she said, and her eyes flamed like a fury's; “he has cut his throat, and now lies weltering in his own blood.”

I did not scream, I did not speak. I shed no tears. I did not even close my eyes. Every sense had turned to stone! For full five minutes I stood looking in the face of Louise.

“Why don't you speak, Ann! Cry, imprecate, do something, rather than stand there with that stony gaze!” said Louise, as she caught me frantically by the arm.

“Why did he kill himself?” I asked, in an unfaltering tone.

“He went, in high spirits, to make his last payment to his master, who was at the hotel. ‘Here, master,’ he said, ‘is all that I owe you; please make out the bill of sale, or my free papers.’ Mr. Graham took the money, with a smile, counted it over twice, slowly placed it in his pocket-book, and said, ‘Henry, you are my slave; I hired you to a good place, where you were well treated; had time to make money for yourself. Now, according to law, you, as a slave, cannot have or hold property. Everything, even to your knife, is your master's. All of your earnings come to me. So, in point of law, I was entitled to all the money that you have paid me. Legally it was mine, not yours; so I did but receive from you my own. Notwithstanding all this I was willing to let you have yourself, and intended to act with you according to our first arrangement; but upon coming here the other day, a servant girl of Mr. Bodly's named Lindy, informed me that you were making preparations to run off, and cheat me out of the last payment. She stated that you had told her so; and you intended to start one night this week. I was so enraged by it, that yesterday I sold you to a negro trader; and you must start down the river to-morrow.’ ”

“ ‘Master, it is a lie of the girl's; I never had any thought of running off, or cheating you out of your money.’ Henry then told him of Lindy's malice.

“ ‘Yes, you have proved it was a lie, by coming and paying me: but nothing can be done now; I have signed the papers, and you are the property of Atkins. I have not the power to undo what I have done.’ ”

“ ‘But, Master,’ pleaded Henry, ‘can't you refund the money that I have paid you, and let me buy myself from Mr. Atkins?’ ”

“ ‘Refund the money, indeed! Who ever heard of such impertinence? Have I not just shown that all that you made was by right of law mine? No; go down the river, serve your time, work well, and may be in the course of fifteen or twenty years you may be able to buy yourself.’ ”

“ ‘Oh, master!’ cried out the weeping Henry, ‘pity me, please save me, do something.’ ”

“ ‘I can do nothing for you; go, get your trunk ready, here comes Mr. Atkins for you.’ ”

Henry turned towards the hard trader, and with a face contracted with pain, and eyes raining tears, begged for mercy.

“ ‘Go long you fool of a nigger! an' git ready to go to the pen, without this fuss, or I'll have you tied with ropes, and taken.’ ”

Henry said no more; I had overheard all from an adjoining room. I tried to avoid him; but he sought me out.

“ ‘Louise,’ he said, in a tone which I shall never forget.”

“ ‘I have heard all,’ was my reply.”

“ ‘Will you see Ann for me? Take her a word from me? Tell how it was, Louise; break the news gently to her.’ Here he quite gave up, and, sinking into a chair, sobbed and cried like a child.”

“ ‘Be a friend to her, Louise; I know that she will need much kindness to sustain her. Thank Miss Nancy for all her kindness; tell her that I blest her before I went. Tell Ann to stay with her, and oh, Louise’—here he wrung his hands in agony—‘tell Ann not to grieve for me; but she mustn't forget me. Poor, wretched outcast that I am, I have loved her well! After awhile, when time has softened this blow, she must try to love and be happy with—No, no, I'll not ask that; only bid her not be wretched;—but give me pen and ink, I'll write just one word to her.’ ”

“I gave him the ink, pen and paper, and he wrote this.”

As Louise drew a soiled, blotted paper from her bosom, I eagerly snatched it and read:

“Ann, dearest, Louise will tell you all. Our dream is broken forever! I am sold; but I shall be a slave no more. Forgive me for what I am going to do. Madness has driven me to it! I love you, even in death I love you. Say farewell to Miss Nancy—I am gone!”

I read it over twice slowly. One scalding tear, large and round, fell upon it! I know not where it came from, for my eyes were dry as a parched leaf.

The note dropped from my hands, almost unnoticed by me. Biddy picked it up, and handed it to Miss Nancy, who read it and fainted. I moved about mechanically; assisted in restoring Miss Nancy to consciousness; chafed her hands and temples; and, when she came to, and burst into a flood of tears, I soothed her and urged that she would not weep or distress herself.

“I wonder that the earth don't open and swallow them,” cried the weeping Biddy.

“Hush, Biddy, hush!” I urged.

“They ought to be hung!”

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord,’ ” I replied.

“Oh, Ann, you are crazy!” she uttered.

And so, in truth, I was. That granite-like composure was a species of insanity. I comprehended nothing that was going on around me. I was in a sort of sleep-waking state, when I asked Louise if she thought they would bury him decently; and gave her a bunch of flowers to place in the coffin.

And so my worst suspicion was realized! Through Lindy came my heaviest blow of affliction! I fear that even now, after the lapse of years, I have not the Christianity to ask, “Father, forgive her, for she knew not what she did!” Lying beside me now, dear, sympathetic reader, is that note—his last brief words. Before writing this chapter I read it over. Old, soiled and worn it was, but by his trembling fingers those blotted and irregular lines were penned; and to me they are precious, though they awaken ten thousand bitter emotions! I look at the note but once a year, and then on the fatal anniversary, which occurs to-day! I have pressed it to my heart, and hearsed it away, not to be re-opened for another year. This is the blackest chapter in my dark life, and you will feel, with me, glad that it is about to close. I have nerved myself for the duty of recording it, and, now that it is over, I sink down faint and broken-hearted beside the accomplished task.

MONTHS passed by after the events told in the last chapter—passed, I scarce know bow. They have told me that I wandered about like one in the mazes of a troubled dream. My reason was disturbed. I've no distinct idea how the days or weeks were employed. Vague remembrances of kindly words, music, odorous flowers, and a trip to a beautiful, quiet country-house, I sometimes have; but 'tis all so misty and dream-like, that I can form no tangible idea of it. So this period has almost faded out of mind, and is like lost pages from the chronicle of life.

When the winter was far spent, and during the snowy days of February, my mind began to collect its shattered forces. The approach of another trouble brought back consciousness with rekindled vigor.

One day I became aware that Miss Nancy was very ill. It seemed as if a thick vapor, like a breath-stain on glass, had suddenly been wiped away from my mind; and I saw clearly. There lay Miss Nancy upon her bed, appallingly white, with her large eyes sunken deeply in their sockets, and her lips purple as an autumn leaf. Her thin, white hand, with discolored nails, was thrown upon the covering, and aroused my alarm. I rushed to her, fearing that the vital spark no longer animated that loved and once lovely frame.

“Miss Nancy, dear Miss Nancy,” I cried, “speak to me, only one word.”

She started nervously, “Oh, who are you? Ah, Ann—is it Ann?”

BUT little more remains to be told of my history.

When Louise, Biddy and I, under the protection of Mr. Worth, sailed on a pleasant steamer from the land of slavery, I could but thank my God that I was leaving forever the State, beneath the sanction of whose laws the vilest outrages and grossest inhumanities were committed!

Our trip would, indeed, have been delightful, but that I was constantly contrasting it in my own mind with what it might have been, had HE not fallen a victim to the white man's cupidity.

Often I stole away from the company, and, in the privacy of my own room, gave vent to my pent-up grief. Biddy and Louise were in ecstacies with everything that they saw.

All along the route, after passing out of the Slave States, we met with kind friends and genuine hospitality. The Northern people are noble, generous, and philanthropic; and it affords me pleasure to record here a tribute to their worth and kindness.

In New York we met with the best of friends. Everywhere I saw smiling, black faces; a sight rarely beheld in the cities and villages of the South. I saw men and women of the despised race, who walked with erect heads and respectable carriage, as though they realized that they were men and women, not mere chattels.

When we reached Boston I was made to feel this in a particular manner. There I met full-blooded Africans, finely educated, in the possession of princely talents, occupying good positions, wielding a powerful political influence, and illustrating, in their lives, the oft-disputed fact, that the African intellect is equal to the Caucasian. Soon after my arrival in Boston I found out, from Mr. Worth, the residence of Mr. Trueman, and called to see him.

I was politely ushered by an Irish waiter into the study, where I found Mr. Trueman engaged with a book. At first he did not recognize me; but I soon made myself known, and received from him a most hearty welcome.

I related all the incidents in my life that had occurred since I had seen him last. He entered fully into my feelings, and I saw the tear glisten in his calm eyes when I spoke of poor Henry's awful fate.

I told him of Miss Nancy's kindness, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. I did not speak of what she had told me in relation to their engagement; I merely stated that she had referred to him as a particular personal friend, and when I gave him the letter he received it with a tremulous hand, uttered a fearful groan, and buried his face among the papers that lay scattered over his table. Without a spoken good-bye, I withdrew.

I saw him often after this; and from him received the most signal acts of kindness. He thanked me many times for what he termed my fidelity to his sainted friend. He never spoke of her without a quiver of the lip, and I honored him for his constancy.

He strongly urged me to take up my residence in Boston; but I remembered that Henry's preference had always been for a New England village; and I loved to think that I was following out his views, and so I removed to a quiet puritanical little town in Massachusetts.

And here I now am engaged in teaching a small school of African children; happy in the discharge of so sacred a duty. 'Tis surprising to see how rapidly they learn. I am interested, and so are they, in the work; and thus what with some teachers is an irksome task, is to me a pleasing duty.

I should state for the benefit of the curious, that Biddy is living in Boston, happily married to “a countryman,” and is the proud mother of several blooming children. She comes to visit me sometimes, during the heat of summer, and is always a welcome guest.

Louise, too, has consented to wear matrimony's easy yoke. She still lives in the same village with me. Our social and friendly relations still continue. I have frequently, when visiting Boston, met Miss Bradly. She, like me, has never married. She has grown a firmer and more earnest woman than she was in Kentucky. I must not omit to mention the fact, that when travelling through Canada, I by the rarest chance met Ben—Amy's treasure—now grown to be a fine-looking youth.

He had a melancholy story—a life, like every other slave's, full of trouble—but at length, by the sharpest ingenuity, he made his escape, and reached, after many difficulties, the golden shores of Canada!

Now my history has been given—a round, unvarnished tale it is; and thus, without ornament, I send it forth to the world. I have spoken freely; at times, I grant, with a touch of bitterness, but never without truth; and I ask the wise, the considerate, the earnest, if I have not had cause for bitterness. Who can carp at me? That there are some fiery Southerners who will assail me, I doubt not; but I feel satisfied that I have discharged a duty that I solemnly owed to my oppressed and down-trodden nation. I am calm and self-possessed; I have passed firmly through the severest ordeal of persecution, and have been spared the death that has befallen many others. Surely I was saved for some wise purpose, and I fear nought from those who are fanatically wedded to wrong and inhumanity. Let them assail me as they will, I shall feel that

But there are others, some even in slave States, kind, noble, thoughtful persons, earnest seekers after the highest good in life and nature; to them I consign my little book, sincerely begging, that through my weak appeal, my poor suffering brothers and sisters, who yet wear the galling yoke of American slavery, may be granted a hearing.

From the distant rice-fields and sugar plantations of the fervid South, comes a frantic wail from the wronged, injured, and oh, how innocent African! Hear it; hear that cry, Christians of the North, let it ring in your ears with its fearful agony! Hearken to it, ye who feast upon the products of African labor! Let it stay you in the use of those commodities for which their life-blood, aye: more, their soul's life, is drained out drop by drop! Talk no more, ye faint-hearted politicians, of “expediency.” God will not hear your lame excuse in that grand and awful day, when He shall come in pomp and power to judge the quick and dead.

And so, my history, go forth and do thy mission! knock at the doors of the lordly and wealthy; there, by the shaded light of rosy lamps, tell your story. Creep in at the broken crevice of the poor man's cabin, and there make your complaint. Into the ear of the brave, energetic mechanic, sound the burden of your grief. To the strong-hearted blacksmith, sweating over his furnace, make yourself heard; and ask them, one and all, shall this unjust institution of slavery be perpetuated? Shall it dare to desecrate, with its vile presence, the new territories that are now emphatically free? Shall Nebraska and Kansas join in a blood-spilling coalition with the South?

Answer proudly, loudly, brave men; and answer, No, No! My work is done.