With the assurance that they should now find their mother, they trusted implicitly, in their new-made friend; who strengthened their confidence in himself by gentle words and timely gifts. Cakes of marvellous sweetness were ever ready for them, if they grew impatient of the length of the journey; and their childish hearts could know no distrust of one whose words and acts were kind.

How long they were on the boat they did not know; nor by what other means they travelled could they afterwards remember, until they reached Versailles, Kentucky. Here their self-constituted guardian, whom they now heard addressed as Kincaid, placed them in a wagon with a colored woman and her child, and conveyed them to Lexington.

This was the first town they had ever seen, and as they were conducted up Main street, they were filled with wonder and admiration.

Kincaid took them to a plain brick house where dwelt one John Fisher, a mason by trade, and proprietor of a large brick yard.

After some conversation between the gentlemen, which of course the children did not understand, they were taken out to the kitchen, and presented to Aunt Betty, the cook.

“There, my, boys,” said Kincaid, “there is your mother—we've found her at last.”

“No! no!” they shrieked, “that's not our mother! O, please, sir! take us back!” With tears and cries they clung to him who had abused their guileless trust, and begged him not to leave them there.

This scene was soon ended by John Fisher himself, who, with a hearty blow on each cheek, bade them “hush!” “you belong to me now, you little rascals, and I'll have no more of this. There's Aunt Betty, she's your mammy now; and if you behave yourselves, she'll be good to you.”

Kincaid soon departed, and they never saw him again. They learned, however, from a white apprentice, who lived in the house, that he received from. Mr. Fisher one hundred and fifty-five dollars for Levin, and one hundred and fifty for Peter.

Poor children! what a heavy cloud now shadowed their young lives!

For the first few weeks they talked constantly of going back to their mother—except when their master was near. They soon learned that they must not mention the subject in his presence.

He was, in the main, a kind, indulgent man—but were they not his money? Why should he allow them to prate about being stolen, when he had bought them, and paid a right good price?

“Father,” said John Fisher, junior, “isn't Philadelphia in a free State?”

“Certainly—it is in Pennsylvania.”

“Well, then, I reckon those two boys you bought were stolen, for they lived with their mother near the Delaware river; and Aunt Betty says that is at Philadelphia. It was too bad, father, for that man to steal them and sell them here, where they can never hear from their mother!”

“Pooh, boy! don't talk like a fool! Most likely they were sold to Kincaid, and he told them he would take them to their mother, in order to get them away without any fuss. And even if he did steal them—so were all the negroes stolen at first. I bought these boys, and paid for them, and I'll stop their talk about being free, or I'll break their black necks. A pretty tale that, to go about the country—just to spoil the sale if I should happen to wish to get shut of them! Free, indeed! And what is a free nigger? They're better off here than if they were free, growing up in idleness, and with nobody to take care of them.”

Before night the young offenders were thoroughly kicked and beaten, and received the assurance that they should be killed outright if they dared to tell such a tale again. So they grew cautious; and spoke those sweet memories of home and mother only in whispers to each other, or to some follow-slave that knew how to sympathize with their sorrows.

THE long, hard lesson of slavery was now fairly open before our young students. In vain they shrank from its dreadful details. In vain they appealed for pity to their hard-handed master. Page after page of dark experiences shadowed their boyish eyes, and their young hearts, so merry hitherto, grew sad and anxious.

The necessity of concealing the true feelings is among the rudiments of slavery's lore. A servant should be merry. A gloomy face is a perpetual complaint, and why should it be tolerated?

To this necessity the temperament of the African is most happily suited. Cheerful and warm-hearted, with an innate love of light and harmony, the slightest sympathy awakens his affection, and the faintest dawn of happiness provokes a smile.

Levin and Peter were not long in divining, with the tact of childhood, their exact position, domestic and social.

Their master was a large, fine looking man, with a free, hearty manner, and much real kindliness of disposition. He never allowed this latter quality, however, to interfere in business matters; and as, in addition to the business of brickmaking, he rented a large plantation about a mile out of town, he had no time to waste in unprofitable sentimentalities. How to get the most work done with the least expense he regarded as a problem worthy of his attention, and his success in business proved that he considered it well.

Mrs. Fisher was a stout, freckle-faced lady, plain and unpretending in her dress and manner, and perfectly devoted to her husband and children. She had, at the time of which we speak, two boys, John and Sydney; and for the first three years that he lived with them, Peter was their constant playmate. Levin was sent to the brick-yard the second year after Fisher purchased them, he being at that time only nine years old.

At night the little slave boys rolled themselves up in their blankets, and slept on the floor in their mistress' room. They often waked in the morning under the bed, or the bureau, where Mrs. Fisher had shoved them with her foot, the night previous—that they might be out of the way. They were comfortably clothed, well fed, and—if they said nothing of their mother's house on the Delaware river—kindly treated. But if a word on that forbidden subject reached their master's ear, he became a monster. By stripes and kicks he taught them that they had no right to that blessed memory, that they were his property, and that he possessed the power to quiet their restless tongues.

The plantation which was rented by Mr. Fisher belonged to Mrs. Russell, a widow lady, and lay about a mile from the city, across the road from the residence of Henry Clay. Here, while Peter was too young to work in the brick-yard, he was sent daily for the cows, and for vegetables from the garden; and as he had plenty of leisure, he spent many happy hours in playing with the little colored children at Mr. Clay's. Frequently the merry group was joined by young Masters Theodore and Thomas Clay, and then the sport was liveliest.

The heart of the little new-made slave glowed with love for these noble boys, and he soon confided to them his sad history; and one day, when Mrs. Clay, as was her custom, spoke kindly to the dusky playmate of her sons, he simply recited to her the story of his sorrows, and asked her if she did not think some one would send him back to his mother.

She quieted him with cakes and other delicacies, to the palate of the child exceeding grateful, and then gently dismissed the children to their play.

But the brave-hearted boys were young enough to long to do something for their little favorite, and bade him tell his story to their father, who, they assured him, would send him back. There was true Kentucky generosity in their breasts, and they felt sure their honored father could not fail to do his utmost to redress such a cruel wrong.

“O Levin!” whispered Peter, the first time he was alone with his brother. “I reckon we'll go back to-reckly!”

“Go back! whar?”

“Why home, to see mother! Mass' Theodore Clay say, his father so good to everybody, he know he'll send us back if we tell him how we got stole—says his father allers hope folks whar gits in trouble.”

“Mass' Theodore say so? Reckon then we will, kase Mr. Clay mighty good to all his people. Hi! Mars John Fisher! you's gwine lose these chillerns!”

And with comical grimaces, Levin cut a series of shuffles, indicating the confusion that awaited “Mars John.”

Not long after this conversation, Peter saw Mr. Clay standing near the court-house with a letter in his hand. His little heart bounded with hope as he ran towards him.

“O Mr. Clay!” he exclaimed, “I'm stole!”

“Stole? Who stole you, and where were you stolen from?”

“I's stolen from my father and mother on Delaware river—folks say that's Philadelphia—but I don' know. Please, sir, won't you send me back to my mother?”

“To whom do you belong?”

“I 'long to Mars John Fisher, on Main street, and I wants to go back to my mother.”

“Well, my boy, I have no time to talk to you now; you carry this letter to Major Pope—you know were he lives—and then come back and I'll attend to you.”

Away ran the child dancing with delight, and crying, “I's free! I's free! I's gwine to my mother!”

“What is that you say?” asked a gentleman who met him. “I's gwine to be free! Mr. Clay gwine to send me back to my mother, kase I was stole away from her!”

“Now look here, you little negro,” said the man, who knew the child, and understood the temper of his master, “you'd better not talk about that to Mr. Clay, for he will tell your master, and then old John Fisher will be sure to skin you.”

The bright vision that Hope had held before the trusting boy faded away. With drooping bead and tearful eye he returned to tell his brother of their disappointment, and after that they both avoided Mr. Clay.

Yet Hope did not desert them; but whispered often in their eager ears—“You shall return; your friends will come to seek you. You were born free, and slaves you shall not die!”

When Peter was about nine years old, he too was employed in the brick-yard, as “off-bearer.” Three thousand brick a day was the task for two boys; and if one of them chanced to be by any means disabled, his companion must “off-bear” the whole. The moulder must not be hindered.

These moulders—slaves themselves—were cruel tyrants. The boys, though seldom abused by the master himself, were subject to all their caprices and passions. If one of inferior station failed to perform his task, they know no mercy; and their master permitted any punishment they chose to inflict.

Their favorite mode of chastisement was called “standing in the wheelbarrow.” The offender was placed with a foot on each side of the wheel, and compelled to reach over and grasp a handle in each hand; and then the youngest boys—the “off-bearers”—were compelled to whip him with cowhides. If he would lie still, and take twenty-four lashes without attempting to rise, that was deemed sufficient proof of his humility. But if he made an effort to change his position before that number was inflicted, the moulder who presided over the ceremony, and who counted off the strokes, commenced again at “one,” and caused the twenty-four to be repeated.

One day a large man, named Charles, was put into the wheelbarrow, and received over three hundred blows before he was sufficiently subdued to lie still, and take twenty-four without moving. The boys that were selected to inflict this horrible punishment (of whom Peter was one) were all trembling with terror; but if one of them, through pity, failed to strike with his utmost strength, the moulder, who stood aside with a cowhide, punished his merciful folly by a violent blow upon his own back.

Amid such scenes passed the childhood of these hapless boys. Their natural cheerfulness and mildness of temper made them universal favorites. In their own person, therefore, they endured few such sufferings as they were forced to witness. A “Boston clergyman,” carefully observing their every-day life, would have pronounced them happy, careless boys; so ardently attached to their young masters and their follow servants, that it would be really unkind to set them free. They were well fed—their clothes were comfortable—all they needed was supplied without their thought or care.

WHEN Peter was about thirteen years old, Mr. Fisher planned a removal to Cincinnati, where his brother had recently gone. He disposed of his brick-yard, and intended to sell all his servants, except Aunt Betty, the cook, with her daughter and grandchild. These he could not spare, as they were indispensable to the comfort of the family.

Levin and Peter were overwhelmed with grief at the news of the intended sale. There was degradation in the thought of being trafficked for like horses; for, with all their apparent humility, and their submissive, gentle manners, there was a principle deep in their hearts that claimed the birthright of humanity.

Besides, they had, through all these years, cherished the hope that they should yet be sought by their parents; and they knew that if they changed owners, the chances of their being discovered would be lessened.

But their destiny was fixed. Mr. Fisher found some difficulty in disposing of them, for their old story of being stolen was remembered, and men hesitated to buy where there was a shadow of uncertainty in the title. Their master, however, so confidently asserted that he had conquered them, and it was so many years since they had been heard to say anything on the subject, that a sale was at last effected.

The purchaser was Mr. Nat. Gist, of Lexington, and he paid four hundred and fifty dollars for each of the brothers.

Mr. Fisher did not, as he had anticipated, go to Cincinnati, but remained in Lexington for several years, and then he removed with his family to Louisville, Ky.

The change of owners was far from being an agreeable one to Levin and Peter. Nat. Gist, their new master, lived in a small brick house on Dutch street, or, as it was sometimes called, Hill street. He was a short, stout, gray-headed man, about fifty-six years of age, a Virginian by birth, and had been a revolutionary soldier. He swore hard, and drank to intoxication every day; therefore, as he was a bachelor, his home was seldom visited by any humanizing influence.

He owned a brick-yard of about five acres, and had, in all, twenty slaves. These he fed sparingly, clothed scantily, and worked hard. In the winter, when they could not make brick, he was accustomed to hire them out wherever he could get the highest price for their services.

Mr. Gist had now among his people four boys— Levin and Peter, with Alfred and Allison, who were also brothers. They had been brought from Virginia, where their parents still remained.*

AFTER Levin and Peter had worked for four summers in the brickyard, their master hired them, with Alfred and Allison, to Mr. George Norton, a tobacconist, who at that time carried on an extensive business in Lexington.

They had been hired out before to different persons during the winter. Peter had, one winter, served as waiter, a cousin of his master, Mr. Sandford Keene. This was his first introduction to house service, as well as his first experience, since he became a slave, of genuine kindness. Mrs. Keene was a noble-hearted lady, who delighted to promote the happiness of all around her, and Peter loved to serve her acceptably.

But to this Mr. Norton they were hired for the whole year; and violent as Master Nattie in his phrensied hours, and carefully as he avoided every indulgence towards them which might seem to recognize their humanity, they dreaded to exchange him for this new master, for of him report spake never kindly.

Mr. George Norton—ah! how grand he looked as he stood near the shop door conversing with his overseer! His broad-brimmed hat seemed conscious of its elevated position, and his hair descending in a cue behind was stiff and stately. The very smoke from his cigar ascended with a consequential puff, and his cane thumped on the sidewalk in exact accordance with the great man's varying moods. It had a gentle tap to answer words of compliment, or salutations from the rich or beautiful. But when a breath of contradiction came, or any sable menial hesitated to obey his slightest wish, the expressive staff beat furiously upon the pavement, in token of the vengeance that should fall upon the offender's head.

A fit foil to his pompous superior was the overseer, Mr. Kisich. Small and pale, awkward in his manners, and “slightly lame,” he seemed totally indifferent to his personal appearance, and gloried only in the force and accuracy with which he could execute his employer's plans.

He was a native of the Emerald Isle, as his “rich brogue” plainly indicated; and, like some of his more distinguished countrymen in these later days, claimed liberty for Irishmen, and equality with the noblest in every land. But when “He found his fellow guilty of a skinNot colored like his own,” he could see him bought and sold, and tasked, and beaten, without a single impulse of pity.

About thirty men and boys were employed in Mr. Norton's establishment. Of these, three were white men, who were hired to do that part of the work which required more experience and skill than the negroes were supposed to possess. These acted as spies and informers; making the privilege of tyrannizing over their dark-skinned fellows, a sort of compensation for the degradation which is inseparable, in slave-land, from the necessity of labor.

Peter and Allison succeeded admirably in pleasing Mr. Norton. He liked their ready obedience, and their sprightly, nimble movements. When he gave an order, he could not wait with patience its dilatory execution, and they loved to surprise him by returning from an errand, or by finishing a task earlier than he expected. Yet by this they won no praise. It was but their duty, and they had reason to rejoice if, by performing it, they escaped the cow-hide.

For several months they thus succeeded in avoiding any outbreak of his wrath. They had been accustomed to no mild exercise of authority, and the angry strife they often witnessed, seemed to them, if not quite necessary, unavoidable at times. Force was their law, and force their motive to obedience; and but for their brother-love, and the warm memory of their mother, their hearts must have grown callous and incapable of affectionate response.

For Levin and Peter there was ever a bright morning in remembrance, and they were young—could they live without the hope of returning once more to that mother-home? Humble was the cabin which they delighted to remember, but the sunshine came freely in at the open door, and no harsh word was ever heard within the lowly walls.

How sweet, how soothing, was the influence of these cherished retrospects! How often, when their tasks were finished, the two brothers strolled away from the noisy mirth with which their companions were beguiling the twilight hour, and in low tones discussed the possibilities of an escape from slavery—a return to the dear home where they had known no care nor fear.

A hundred plans they at different times suggested to each other, but the execution of any one of them required more knowledge than they possessed, or could acquire. And then there were so many that failed in such attempts. The jail was always tenanted by captured fugitives. No—they could not run away.

But perhaps, some day, they might buy their freedom. They could work nights and Sundays, and earn the money, and then they would be safe. This was their favorite aerial abode, and here they enjoyed many bright anticipations. But alas! they soon learned by the sad experience of others, that such a plan was all uncertain. The history of one man of their acquaintance in Lexington, taught them a lesson of caution on that point, that chilled their ardent hopes, and deepened their distrust of seeming friends.

Spencer, a fine-looking intelligent mulatto, belonged to a Mr. Williams, who kept a lottery office in Lexington. His master, having no need of his services, hired him out; usually to the keepers of hotels or livery stables, and sometimes to Spencer himself. He was a great favorite with the white people, and had excellent opportunities of making money; not only by extra services about the hotels or stables, but also by doctoring horses, in which he had much skill.

He sometimes speculated in lottery tickets, but here his success availed him little. He drew at one time a house and lot in Lexington, valued at $30,000, and although many white people declared that it would be a shame to deprive him of the benefit of his good fortune, yet it was on the whole deemed an unsafe precedent to allow a negro to acquire so much property. So the prize was finally awarded to a gentleman in Philadelphia, who stood second in the list of successful competitors.

Soon after this, Spencer conceived the idea of buying his freedom, and proposed the subject to his master. Mr. Williams received it favorably, and fixed the price at one thousand dollars.

Spencer, habitually industrious, had now a new animation in his labors; and so untiring was his diligence, that in a few years he had paid his master within twenty-five dollars of the whole sum. The goal of all his hopes was just in sight, when lo! the perfidious tyrant denied ever having promised him his liberty, and bade him never mention the subject more.

Spencer was sorely disappointed, but not discouraged, and when not long after a gentleman who had heard the history of this deception offered to purchase him, and to give him his freedom as soon as he could earn the price which he must pay to Williams, the hopeful slave eagerly accepted the offer.

The bargain was soon concluded, and with new zeal, the bondman commenced his labors. He took the precaution this time, to ask for a receipt whenever he made a payment. This was readily given, and Spencer deemed himself safe. But behold! when he had paid all but seventy dollars, his new master suddenly left town; and before the poor slave was aware of any approaching change, an agent to whose care he had been consigned, had sold him to another master. He was indignant at this outrageous fraud, and produced his receipts, which he had carefully preserved. But these availed nothing. They did not show to whom the money had been paid. And even if they had been properly written they would have profited nothing— for does not a slave's money as well as his person and his labor, belong to his master?

Still hope died not in Spencer's breast. Again he tried a man who had been lavish of his sympathy, and loud in his denunciations of the baseness by which he had suffered. Into his hands—for the third time—he paid the hard-earned price of his redemption; and when he should have received his free papers, and a pass out of the State, he was chained in a gang, and sent to the cotton and sugar fields of the south.

To the ears of Peter and his brother came many tales like this, and in their inmost hearts were treasured the lessons of caution which they imparted. Surely there was none they could trust. It were far better, by apparent contentment, and by cheerful manners, to win the confidence of those in whose power they were placed, than to become objects of suspicion and dislike, by ill-timed efforts to be free. So they toiled on, their genial sunny natures, and the warm heart-love ever fresh within their breasts, preserving them from despair.

Half the year at Mr. Norton's had passed away, and neither of the boys belonging to old Nattie Gist had fallen into any serious difficulty. They had witnessed many exhibitions of their employer's cruelty, and one which occurred about this time, filled their hearts with horror.

Mr. Norton's body-servant, a large black man, chanced one day to offend his haughty master. He was immediately put in a buck, and in the presence of all the men and boys, Norton inflicted on his naked back three hundred lashes with a cowhide. The blood gushed out, and ran in streams upon the brick floor of the shop.

When the stick was removed from under his knees, the poor victim was unable to rise. At this his tormentor was enraged. He seized a board that lay near, full of shingle nails, and with it struck him several violent blows, every one of which brought the blood in streams, as though he had been pierced with lancets.

The slaves who witnessed this horrid deed were paralyzed with fear, but the white men swore it was just right. The cursed niggers—they must be conquered, or they would not be worth a d—n.

Here young Peter's caution for a moment failed. His eyes, usually so mild, flashed fiercely, and he declared in a low voice to his brother that George Norton should never strip him and put him in a buck to whip him—he would die first.

Poor boy! his rash speech was overheard, and reported to the tyrant, who from that day waited only an excuse to punish his presumption.

The next Saturday evening, as the boys were sweeping the shop, an old woman came in and asked for some tobacco. Peter, being nearest the door, gathered up a handful of the sweepings, and gave them to her.

On the following morning, it was Peter's turn to make a fire in the sweat-room; and when he had performed this duty, he locked the door of the shop and went to his old master's where he usually spent his Sundays. Here he played marbles, and enjoyed such other sports as are proper for the Sabbath-rest of slave-boys, while their young masters are at the Sunday-school or in the billiard-room—according to their tastes.

Peter had been absent from the shop but a short time when Mr. Norton himself took a fancy to go in and look at the tobacco. He tried the door, but it was locked, and the key was nowhere to be found. His anger rose. Ah! Peter, a heavy cloud is gathering, and there is no shelter for thy defenceless head!

Early Monday morning, Mr. Norton came into the shop. His eyes looked darker and brighter than usual, and the smoke from his cigar came in quick passionate puffs. His cane, too, beat an ominous march upon the floor. Something was wrong.

The great man spoke. “Whose business was it to make a fire in the sweat-room yesterday?”

“Mine, sir,” said Peter.

“Did you attend to it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did! where were you when I came here?”

“Don't know, sir,—reckon I was up home.”

“Where is your home, your rascal?”

“Up to Mars Nattie's, sir.”

“I'll let you know, nigger, that this is your home, and that I am your master!” and with a furious thumping of his cane, the mighty man strode out of the shop. He was in a rage. It always made him angry for one of his hired servants to call his owner, “Master;”—it was his law that in his shop no one should receive that ennobling title except himself.

Before sunrise the next morning, just as the work of the day was commenced, Mr. Norton appeared at the door. He stood a few minutes perfectly still, and then taking out his knife, he commenced trimming a switch—whistling meantime a beautiful march.

The sweet notes woke no answering melody in the hearts of those within, for well they knew the spirit of their master. Only when about to inflict some cruel punishment did George Norton utter sounds like these.

His march ended, he spoke—

“Peter!”

“Sir.”

“Where were you, yesterday?”

“Here, sir, strippin' tobacco.”

“Well, Sunday, where were you?”

“Home, to Mars Nattie's, sir.”

The hot blood mounted to Mr. Norton's face. “I am your master, rascal, and I'll let you know you are to go to no other home than this! Who swept the shop on Saturday?”

“We boys, sir, all of us.”

“Who gave tobacco to an old woman?”

“I gave her a handful of sweepings, sir,—no 'count, no how, sir.”

“Well, you'll find I am your master, and you are to obey me. Come here, and lie down across this box.”

Peter obeyed, wondering at the same time that he had not been ordered to strip. It was not Mr. Norton's custom to whip his servants over their clothes, and the boy had on a new suit of blue linsey. But he had heard of the expression he had made a few days before, and perhaps thought best to avoid an unnecessary contest.

No sooner was the boy extended across the designated box, than Norton struck him a violent blow. Peter raised up. “Lie down you nigger!” and he renewed the blows with greater force. Peter raised up again. “Lie down!” cried the fury, with a curse. Peter obeyed the third tie, and them blows fell hard and fast.

Once more he raised up. “Lie down! I say, you cursed nigger—if you move again till I bid you, I will beat you till you cannot rise.”

The boy stood upright, and looked his tormentor steadily in the face. “I have laid down three times for you to beat me, when I have done nothing wrong; I will not lie down again!”

Instantly Norton seized him, and attempted to force him across the box—but was unable. “Here, Mr. Kisich! Tadlock! all of you! help me conquer this nigger!

Quick to his aid came the overseer, and the three other white men that worked in the shop, and all fell upon him at once, while Peter screamed “Murder!” and fought with his utmost strength.

People in the street heard the tumult, and gathered about the doors of the shop; when Norton ordered them closed and fastened. Among those thus excluded was Sandford Keene, the nephew of old Nattie Gist. He listened to the uproar with anxious ears, but could not determine from which of the boys the cries proceeded. Had he known that it was Peter, his special favorite, to whom also his wife was much attached, he could hardly have refrained from rushing in to his rescue.

The ruffians tried to bind his hands, but he struggled so fiercely that they were in danger of breaking his bones. That would have been too costly an amusement. But they succeeded in throwing him upon the floor, and there he struggled, and screamed, and bit their legs and ankles, till they despaired of holding him in any position, unless they could succeed in tying him.

One of them, accordingly, prepared a slip noose, and threw it over his head when he rose up—with intent to choke him. He perceived their purpose, and quickly raising both hands, thrust them through the noose and slipped it down below his arms.

Thus baffled in one scheme, they resorted to another. Dragging him along by the rope now fastened around his waist, they proceeded to the back part of the shop where stood five or six presses, each about eight feet high. If they could hang him up on one of these he would be entirely at their mercy. But he foiled them here. As they raised the rope to fasten it to the top of the press, he sprang one side, and crept into the narrow space between it and the wall.

Here he remained for some time. Bleeding and panting—his bloodshot eyes glared at his persecutors, who, on both sides, were engaged in beating him over the head with cow-hides and hoop-poles, and thrusting sticks and pieces of iron against his bruised flesh.

At last they dragged him from his partial hiding place; and now he made no resistance—he had not strength to struggle. Norton threw him across a keg, and with fiendish curses, whipped his bleeding back with a cowhide; swearing he was the first nigger that ever tried to fight him, and that he should be humbled if it took his life.

When this correction was finished it was nearly ten o'clock; and, commanding the other slaves, who stood agape with horror, to go to work, Mr. Norton, followed by his aids, went to the house for breakfast. They had exercised sufficiently to eat with good appetites; and while they were enjoying a plentiful repast, and discussing in their own peculiar style, the “obstinacy of the nigger,” their poor victim, bruised and torn, with only a few shreds left of his new suit of linsey, crept out of the shop, and with his little remaining strength, succeeded in gaining the residence of his master, on the hill.

Old Nattie Gist had, according to his morning custom, gone down town. Aunt Mary, the cook, however, received him kindly, pitied him, and dressed his wounds. She had a human mother's heart, and her two boys were slaves.

Peter guessed rightly, that his old master, cruel as he was himself, would not like to see his property thus damaged by others. Yet he spoke no gentle word to the sufferer. He would not intimate to a “nigger” that a white man could do him wrong. But he sought Norton, and cursed him roundly for inflicting such abuse upon a boy of his.

For a week he allowed Peter to stay at home, and then he sent him back to the shop. Here he remained till the end of the year. Norton was evidently either ashamed of his previous violence, or afraid to repeat its exercise, for never after that, did Peter receive an unkind word from him or either of his satellites.

Just before Christmas, Mr. Norton went to old Master Nattie, and, assuring him that the boys were all perfectly satisfied with the past, and anxious to remain with him, hired them for another year. But when their time expired, they all ran off together to their master, and he did not force them to go back.

This was a merry Christmas-time to these four boys. They had been accustomed to severity before, and had lived on poor and scanty fare. Yet even their old master, heartless as he seemed, was not systematic in his cruelty. When he went down town in the morning, there was none to watch them till he returned. They could talk, and laugh, and sing; if they but finished their tasks, they had little to fear.

But, at Norton's shop, there was scarcely a minute of the day that evil eyes were not upon them. Not a laugh, a gesture, or grimace, but was remembered and quoted as a token of disrespect to the lofty master, who could ill brook a jest reflecting on his dignity.

IN the fall of this year (1817), the community of which old Nattie Gist was the centre and the head became greatly agitated.

The old man had two nephews, Levi and Andrew Gist, of whom he was very fond. They were both sons of his brother William, who resided on a farm few miles out of town.

These young men, after much discussion, and not withstanding some opposition from their friends, determined to seek their fortunes in Alabama. They had heard tempting reports of the fertility of the valley of the Tennessee, and of the ease with which a fortune could be made by raising cotton; and besides, they were Kentuckians, and loved adventure.

Their uncle liked the spirit of enterprize that impelled them; he liked money too, and he foresaw that they would have fine opportunities in that new country, of amassing wealth.

Levi Gist, the elder of the two brothers, had always been a special favorite with his uncle, and to him he intrusted six of his negroes. These he was to take with him to Alabama, to assist him in putting up his first crop. The old man promised to go himself the next year, if they should like the country, and decide to settle there.

The command to prepare to go with Master Levi, fell with crushing weight upon the hearts of the doomed slaves. Old Frank and his wife Peggy were the first to learn their sentence. They were indignant at the word. Long and weary had they toiled in their master's service. Patiently had they endured hunger. Stripes and cursings had been their frequent portion, And these they had learned to receive without complaint. Now they were growing aged and to be torn from the old place, and from all the friends in whose society the Sundays passed so pleasantly, seemed too hard a trial.

Their two children were to go with them. That was some comfort, but a deeper sorrow, for they would be forced to work in those great cotton fields, where venemous snakes would hiss at them, and cruel overseers watch their toil.

Yet old Frank and Peggy had not the deepest cause for grief. Levin and Alfred were destined to accompany them, and they must each leave behind his brother, dearer to him than life itself.

The young men intended to take with them every thing that would be needed to stock a new plantation. To collect and arrange in travelling order all their goods, required much time and labor, and every hand, at home, and at their uncle's, was enlisted in their service.

At Master Nattie's, particularly, all was now excitement and confusion. The old man hurried to and fro, administering curses and stripe's to all who failed to execute his plans. The boys who had been hired out, were brought home to aid in these unusual labors, and thus the brothers, that must so soon be separated, were allowed to spend the last few days in each others society.

The thought that his brother must go to the South was agony to Peter. In all their sorrows, thus far, they had been together. They had shared the same little pleasures—their hearts had been as one. And now, to be sundered so wide—could they live apart?

“O Levin, Levin! if they take, you 'way off there, I sha'nt never see you no more, sure!”

“O yes,” sobbed Levin, his heart almost broken, while yet he strove to speak cheeringly to his weeping brother—“O yes, Mars Nattie say he gwine bring ye all next year when he come.”

“Mars Nattie! He never gwine 'way off there! He'll stay here long as he can get breath enough to curse. He's too old to go to a new country, any how.”

“Well, he have to die some day—he can't live a mons's long time, sure.”

“Yes, and if he dies, we'll all be sold—they allers has an auction when folks dies—and then their people's scattered all about. O 'pears like 'taint no use livin' in this yer world. I sha'n't never see you no more!”

The preparations for the journey were at last completed, and one pleasant afternoon in October, the little company of slaves had orders to repair to Master William's, in order to be ready to start with their young masters the next morning.

“Mars Nattie,” said Levin, as they were all assembled in the yard to say good-bye, “please, sir, give me something 'fore I go, to 'member you by.”

“Well,” said the old man, “go in and bring me the cowhide, and I'll give you something you'll never forget. If I should give you a coat or a shirt, you would wear it right out, but if I cut your skin to pieces, you will remember this parting as long as you live. And mind, you rascal, when I come out next fall, I'll bring the cowhide, and if you don't behave yourself, I'll give you enough then—d'ye hear?”

Such, interspersed with numerous curses, was the kind farewell of old Nattie Gist. The servants all shook hands, and strove to speak in cheering tones to their departing friends; but great tears stood in their eyes as they watched the little company slowly marching down the hill.

Sadly they returned to their work, but their thoughts crept on toward the dim future. Which of them should go next? Master Nattie had sold, during the past year, more than half his servants; and none could tell what caprice might seize him before another year should pass. They might all be chained in a gang, and driven away by some barbarous trader. Heavily throbbed their hearts as these gloomy fancies floated before them; and while they tried to repress the tears that would scald their aching eye-balls, they pursued their task in silence.

Peter returned no more to his work at Mr. Hudson Martin's, where he had spent the former part of the year, but was sent by his master to take Levin's place as waiter at Mr. John D. Young's.

Mr. Young was not a rich man—indeed he had failed in business, and now inhabited a small brick house on the plantation of his father-in-law. He was an intelligent gentleman, of pleasant manners, and great kindliness of heart. Had his wife resembled him in amiability and gentleness, their home would have been happy; but she was unfortunately destitute of that true independence and dignity of character, that can meet worldly reverses with composure. She felt humiliated by their comparative poverty, and the comforts with which she was surrounded looked hateful in her eyes, because the splendors wealth might purchase, were beyond her reach. Her servants endured most in consequence of this unfortunate peculiarity. From morning till night they were scolded, till they came to heed the shrill voice of their mistress, no more than they would heed the rain-drops on the roof.

During the few months which Peter spent in the service of Mr. Young, he passed many pleasant hours at Mr.Clay's. His childish fear of the great statesman had changed to deepest reverence; and, though young masters Theodore and Thomas Clay, no longer played, as had been their childish custom, with their colored favorite, they treated him ever with perfect kindness.

But with the servants, every one of whom was privileged beyond the common lot of slaves, he was always at home; and many a pleasant winter evening did he spend at Ashland.

Among the slaves that gathered there at night, one of the merriest was Aaron the coachman. He was the father of Mr. Clay's body servant, Charles, who, during the last years of his master's life, was ever at his side.

Aaron was an excellent servant—quick and energetic, and his. mirthfulness and genuine good feeling rendered him a favorite with all; while his stories, songs and merry jests, made the warm kitchen ring again.

But he had one fault. He loved a dram, and when tempted by the sight or smell of his favorite liquor, he could seldom resist the entreaties of his appetite.

This weakness was peculiarly annoying to Mrs. Clay, as it frequently unfitted him for business at a time when she had most need of his services.

He one day drove her carriage into town, and while she was making a visit, he improved the opportunity to indulge in a glass of his loved beverage; and by the time his mistress was ready to go home, he was wholly incapable of driving her carriage. She was, therefore, obliged to hire a man to take his place, and she then resolved that Aaron should be punished. But it could not be done without Mr. Clay's consent, as the overseer was forbidden to strike one of the house servants, without consulting him.

So to her husband she recited the story of her mortification, and, as he had tired various mild means to cure the slave of this unlucky propensity, he decided that it was best to use more severe measures.

The next morning he sent for the overseer, and directed him to take Aaron into the carriage-house, and give him a slight whipping. “Now do it quietly,” said he, “and be sure not to cut his skin. I don't want to hear any disturbance. Do it as gently as possible.”

The overseer respectfully assented and went out. Instantly one of the maids, who had chanced to overhear this conversation, stole out of the house, and sought Aaron.

“Look yer,” said she, “you know what massa say?”

“Know what massa say? No! How I know what he say, when he never spoke to me this mornin'?”

IN April, 1818, Mr. Young having no further need of Peter's services, Master Nattie sent him to his brother, William Gist, to be employed on his plantation. Here Allison was his companion once more, and the pleasure of being together was in part, a compensation to each for the absence of his brother.

But this joy was transient. Early in the ensuing summer, young Master Andrew came from Alabama for a short visit. He brought news of the health and prosperity of those who had gone with him the year before, and gave glowing descriptions of the beauty of the country. The rich bottom lands, with their grand old trees, the clustering vines and graceful flowering shrubs, and, above all, the abundance of game in the forests, afforded exhaustless topics of discourse.

When he returned, he took Allison with him.

Peter was left all alone, and his heart was very heavy. There was no one now to whom he could communicate all his little trials; none that would sympathize with his griefs. He had nothing but work to divert his thoughts during the day; and at night his dreams, sleeping or waking, were all of that dear brother, that had for so many years trod by his side the rugged path to which they two were doomed.

Soon after the departure of his nephew, Master Nattie's health was observed to fail; and though for a long time he struggled against disease, and would not own that he was ill, yet he was at last obliged to yield. His constitution was worn out by intemperance and the indulgence of evil passions; and now, no medicine could retard the steady approach of the Death Angel.

Twice a week, during the summer, Peter was accustomed to go to market. Then he never failed to visit his old master; and as he saw his sunken eye and hollow cheek, and noted his vacant wandering stare, his heart sank within him.

He did not regard his master with affection. Who could love old Nattie Gist? But the sale, ah! if he should die, there would, of course, be an auction, and the traders would be there, and then, adieu to the last hope he had cherished, of one day joining his beloved brother.

The unhappy old man continued to fail. Death stays not at the behest of kings or generals how then should the faint prayer of a poor slave-boy impede his progress?

In loneliness and gloom passed the last days of the wretched man. His housekeeper and cook, Aunt Mary, was his constant nurse. She understood all his wants, and she had learned patiently to bear all his caprices. Her will—her very womanhood—had been crushed into submission to his authority; for though a slave called her his wife, she had for years been forced to disregard her marriage ties, as well as her own honor, in order to indulge the base passions of the tyrant.

Now, in the death-hour, the down-trodden woman moistened his parched lips, all heedless of the curses which they uttered. Her hand smoothed his pillow, administered his medicine, and surrounded him with all possible comforts.

Death advanced. On Saturday morning, the thirteenth of September, when, according to his custom, Peter went in to see him, the final struggle had commenced. His brother William and the doctor were standing by the bed. Silently they witnessed his agony as he strove with the King of Terrors. There was no light of Christian hope in his glazing eye, no love in his obdurate heart. He would resist—he would live! Why should he die? This world had been gloomy. No love-light had shone upon his path— no gentle hand had led him through the labyrinths of evil to the Author of all good. And as his lips had loved cursing, why should he look for blessings now? Could he hope for a better life than he had chosen here? Fearful was the frown upon his face as he was forced to yield to the great Conqueror. He struggled —groaned—gasped—he was gone.

Silently they closed his eyes, and horror sat upon every countenance.

They buried him, and raised a stone to his memory. Ah! he chose his own remembrancers! Poor Levin and his fellows need no stone to tell them that a monster lived.

After the funeral Mr. Wm. Gist conveyed the greater part of his brother's property to his place for safe keeping. A will was found conveying to his favorite nephew, Levi Gist, the house and lot in Lexington, as well as all the servants. Whatever money he possessed he left in legacies to his other relatives.

At the time of his death, Master Nattie owned but eleven slaves—the six that went first to Alabama. Aunt Mary, with her two sons, and Allison and Peter. The others he had sold some time before.

Aunt Mary was left in town to take care of the house, till young master Levi should come to take possession of his property. As she went through the familiar rooms, and arranged and re-arranged the furniture, she had time to think. The past rose before her—the dark repulsive past. She bad been young, but it was so long ago—it was hardly worth her while to think of all the hopes that cheered her youth. She was married—and her husband's love shone for a brief time on her pathway; too soon, alas! to be shadowed by the dark passions of her absolute master. Two babes had nestled on her bosom, and they, too, were branded with her humiliation.

Now, he was dead—he would curse her life no longer. Ha! what a pang came with that half-uttered gratulation! Dead—and she who had served him so faithfully—who had meekly borne his wrathful curses, and patiently endured the degradation to which he had reduced her—she to whom he was indebted for all the comfort his home had known for years—who had attended him by day and night till the grave closed above his head—she was coolly given to his nephew, to be transported hundreds of miles away. How her great eyes flashed at the thought, as, with her hand upraised, in the solitary room where her master died, she swore she would not go!

On a cold Sabbath morning, December 20,1818, Peter started with Master John Gist, a younger brother of “Mars Levi,” for his new home in Alabama.

He wore his old master's broad-brimmed hat, and had his shot-gun lashed upon his back. Miss 'Maltha, the youngest daughter of Master William, came out just as they started, and with a kind smile gave him a handful of biscuits. Heaven bless her for the kindly thought! The memory of that simple gift is still warm in the heart of him who was then but a poor slave-boy, going forth to meet his uncertain fortunes amid scenes strange and new.

The farewells were all said, and the young men rode away—silently at first, for there were last words and affectionate charges from his parents, still ringing in the ears of Master John; and Peter's heart was full.

He left Lexington with few regrets. It had never seemed to him like home: though among the many families in which he had served, there were some who had treated him with great kindness. Yet the memory of his mother haunted him, and a sense of injustice and wrong, a consciousness that he had been stolen from home, and that the power to which he had been forced to submit was all usurped, prevented his forming a strong attachment to the place itself.

Now he had little hope of ever seeing any of his kindred except the dear brother that had gone before; and his heart grew lighter, as hour by hour the distance diminished between them. Alfred and Allison, too, he soon should meet, and they were very dear to him—for had they not suffered together?

Then came a heavy sinking of the heart at the thought, that he must thenceforth be exposed to all the reputed hardships of the South. The constant toil in the great cotton fields, the oppressive heat, the danger of fearful sickness, and the deeper dread of cruel overseers —all these fell upon his hopes like snow upon the violets that have peeped out too soon.

And oh! if after all these years his parents should come in search of their children, and they both be gone! No, no! he would not think of that—and giving old master's riding-horse a smart cut with his whip, he galloped on to overtake Master John.

Hour after hour the youths rode side by side; now conversing pleasantly about the country through which they were passing, or reviewing little incidents connected with their departure from home; and again, their thoughts grew busy, and forgot to shape themselves in words. Day after day they still rode on one anticipating a pleasant visit with his brothers, and a speedy return to all the endearments of a happy home—the other, hopeful, and yet half afraid to meet his destiny.

They spent the nights at houses of entertainment, which they found scattered here and there along the roadside. At these, they were received more like family visitors than guests at a hotel. Master John sat in the parlor by the blazing fire, and told the news from Lexington to his kind host, or listened to the history of the last year's crop. Peter, meanwhile, in the kitchen made himself no less agreeable. He had come from town, and could tell wonders to his less privileged auditors, who had seldom been out of sight of home.

The travellers arrived at Hopkinsville on Christmas morning. Here dwelt Dr. William Teagarden, whose wife was a maternal aunt of Master John, and at his house they spent the holidays.

This was a merry time. All the usual Christmas festivities were enjoyed, and Mrs. Teagarden, in addition to these, gave a large evening party in compliment to her nephew.

Here Peter had a fine opportunity to display his skill and grace as a waiter, and so highly pleased was Mrs. Teagarden with his expertness in this vocation, that she made several efforts during the next three years, to purchase him of his young master.

“Look yer, Peter,” said a gossiping old woman, who stood among the other servants just outside the parlor-door, and who had been watching the dancers with intense interest, “your Mars John gwine fall in love wid dat young lady, I reckon. How you like her for missus?”

“What young lady you mean? I reckon Mars John ain't in no hurry to fall in love, no how.”

“Why, Miss Agnes Keats. Dar! he's leadin' her to a cheer by her sister, Miss Frances. He's danced a'most all night wid her, and 'pears like he thinks she's mighty perty.”

HERE a new world opened before the young slave. The brick-yards in which his boyhood was spent, the fields of corn, tobacco, and hemp, around Lexington, presented no picture that could equal this. Far away stretched the brown plain, covered with the frosted cotton shrubs. Here and there stood a girdled forest tree, leafless and grim, yet mighty in its very desolateness. Gloomily its wasted shadow fell across the pathway trod by its destroyers, like the mysterious dread of ill that ever haunts the footsteps of the guilty.

The crop was now about half picked out. The business was all new to Peter, and though it did not look difficult, yet he worked diligently all day, and at night had only twelve pounds and a half. The other boys were greatly amused at his awkwardness, and played many jokes upon him, telling him he must first break off the boll, and then pick out the cotton.

At night, when Master Andrew weighed the cotton, he told them he would give a new pair of shoes to the one who would pick fifty pounds the next day. Allison was nearly barefoot, and he worked hard for the prize, but in vain. Peter, however, had learned wisdom from one day's failure, and, to the surprise of all, he had at night, seventy-five pounds. After this, he was seldom excelled in the cotton field. His fingers were long and nimble, and he could pluck the fleecy treasure from the frost-browed boll almost without effort.

Bainbridge, though mainly settled by poor people, who gained a scanty subsistence by hunting and fishing, was at that time surrounded by the estates of wealthy planters. Some of these were of good Virginia or Carolina families, but more were ignorant and vulgar men; overseers, or even negro traders, formerly, who had gained wealth in these refined pursuits, and were thereby entitled to stand in the ranks of the aristocracy of North Alabama.

The store of the Messrs. Gist was a favorite resort of these neighboring planters. It contained not only the usual assortment of dry goods, groceries, &c., with which country stores are usually supplied, but what was more essential to the social enjoyment of the gentlemen there congregated, excellent liquors of every kind. There too, was the Post Office; and to the patriots of Bainbridge there was never lack of interest in the great subjects of politics, and—the cotton market. Upon these they conversed day after day, as they sat on the porch at the store door, and night after night the discussions warmed, as the brandied flush crept over cheek and brow of the staunch vindicators of their different party chiefs. Sometimes, indeed the arguments ran so high that the disputants went home with visages slightly disfigured by contact with opposing fists; but these wounds soon healed, and over a bottle of good old wine, such trifling episodes were quite forgotten.

IT is a pleasant Sabbath evening in early spring. The air is filled with perfume from hosts of new made flowers, and vocal with the merry notes of birds.

Master Levi rises from his seat on the porch, and walks slowly to and fro in the yard. He is stouter and handsomer than he was two years ago when he came out on the farm to live. Aye, and happier too; for the lovely little Mary, that stretches out her tiny hands towards her papa, and sweetly lisps his name, has unsealed a new fountain of joy in his bosom.

Yes, he is happy and prosperous. His crops all look well, and his negroes are healthy and obedient.

“O mass'r!” says a voice at his side. He turns. It is Levin. He has grown tall and manly since we remarked him last—of course, for he is now about twenty-five years old, and a fine stout follow.

“Well, Levin, what do you want?” responds the master. “What is the matter?”

“O, nuthin's the matter, sir; only I wanted to ax you if you's willin' I should get married, sir.”

“Get married? Why, yes—you're old enough, I suppose—over twenty, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir, I's twenty-five.”

IN Edgecombe county, N. C., about seven miles from Tarboro', lived a respectable planter, named William Foxall. He was handsome in person, and in manners most agreeable; a kind master, and a true-hearted friend.

At the time of which we speak—1817—he was a widower with two children. The eldest, a lovely and accomplished young lady, named Mary Ann, the fruit of his first marriage, resided with her father; but the little boy, a final parting gift from his last wife, was adopted by her grandmother immediately after her daughter's death.

Mr. Foxall was not a wealthy man; indeed he had never been ambitious to accumulate great riches. He had chosen rather to live in the enjoyment of the competency bequeathed him by his ancestors, and to leave it, together with an untarnished name, as an inheritance to his children.

But the quiet he had chosen was destined to be interrupted by the entreaties of an old schoolmate, who had resided for a few years in Lawrence county, Alabama.

This gentleman, whose name was Allen, wrote frequently to Mr. Foxall, and always begged him to sell what he termed his meagre old plantation, and to come to the Tennessee Valley. “Here,” said he, “you will find a country beautiful by nature, and rich as beautiful. The soil seems eager to yield its increase, and wealth waits but the planter's bidding. Come to this charming valley, where, with the forces now at our command, a few years' crops will make you independent, and insure wealth to your children after you are gone.”

The alluring prospect tempted even the unambitious Foxall; and he sold his old plantation, endeared as it was to him by a thousand tender associations. His servants, old and young, he resolved to take with him.

Among these, there was one woman named Sally, who, with her three children, properly belonged to his daughter; she having been given to the first Mrs. Foxall on her marriage.

Sally was an excellent servant, and devotedly attached to her young mistress. She had waited on her departed mother when she too was a blooming maiden, and had arrayed her in her bridal robes. All her cares and sorrows she had shared; and when their beloved mistress was passing away, she it was that smoothed the dying pillow, and folded the meek hands to their long repose.

Then the deep love of her nature was transferred to the sweet infant left wholly to her care; and though when her own children were born, a new fount of tenderness was opened in her heart, it was scarce deeper than that which had welled forth for the motherless babe she had cherished.

Her own poor children, alas! were now fatherless— though death had spared the husband of her love.

LATE in the evening, the two young maidens reached their destination, and were conducted to the kitchen. Bashfully they crept into the darkest corner, while curious eyes stared at them from every side, and wondering whispers passed from lip to lip.

The cook alone seemed not surprised at the arrival of the strangers, but with a wise look that well became her elevated station, bade them come closer to the fire; for “'Pears like,” said she, “de evenin's sort o' cold. Missus 'll be home to-reckly; she went to Tuscumby to church, to-day, wid her sister, Miss 'Muthis. Dar, warm yerself, honey, you looks sort o' chilly like,” continued the old woman, as she drew Rosetta towards the blazing fire, at which she was preparing supper.

Rosetta had left neither father nor mother behind, and though she was sad at leaving her young companions, and above all, her master, whom she almost adored, yet these slight regrets soon subsided, and she readily glided into conversation, with the new associates to whom she had been so unceremoniously presented. The iron had not entered her soul.

But Vina crept further back into her shadowed corner, where, heedless of the numerous visitors that love to assemble on Sunday evening in a planter's kitchen, she yielded to the influence of her desponding thoughts. Yet no tear moistened her eye-lid, no sob gave vent to the choking anguish of her heart.

“Missis come: say, bring in supper;” said a young girl, appearing for a moment at the kitchen door.

Supper was carried in, and, one by one, the dark visitors to the kitchen went out; some to prepare their own scant evening meals, and others to collect again in little groups for confidential chat.

“Hi! dem's nice gals in yon!” said the tallest in one of those groups—a kind hearted fellow, that had pitied the confusion of the young strangers.

“Not over an' above nice, I reckon; dat little un's sort o' fa'r, but t'other looks like she don't know nuthin'. She aint much 'count, no how.”

“You don't know 'bout dat dar, ” rejoined the first speaker, “she mought 'a' lef '—her sweetheart—'way yon'—pears like she feels mighty bad.”

“Missus say, come in de house; she want to see what ye all looks like;” cried the same young girl at the kitchen door.

“Dar, go 'long honey,” said the old cook, as she drew Vina from the shaded corner, and placed her beside Rosetta. “Hol' up yer heads now, children, and look peart like when ye goes in to see Missus; go 'long.”

“De Lor' help 'em, poor little critters,” sighed the kind old woman, as she watched them from the kitchen door, “dey's got a she wolf to deal wid now. 'Pears like dey aint used to hard times, no how, but nobody cant say dat dar 'bout em, arter dey's done staid on dis yer place one year.”

DURING the first months of Vina's residence at Mr. McKiernan's, she formed no intimacies with her companions. Her heart was too heavy to sympathize in their transient griefs, or to join in the merry sports with which they sought to enliven their brief intervals of rest.

Mr. Gist's plantation lay very near, indeed, the dwellings were not more than a mile apart, and from the near relationship of the two families, a greater intimacy existed between the servants than is usual between the slaves even of near neighbors.

Peter was at this time a fine, cheerful fellow, in the first fresh vigor of manhood; and, being a special favorite with his mistress, he was always a welcome visitor at the plantation of her brother-in-law. Mr. and Mrs. McKiernan liked him, for he was always respectful and obliging; and to their servants, his bright, good-humored face brought ever a gleam of the heart's sunshine.

Even the lovely little Vina felt the genial influence of his presence, and her shyness and reserve gradually melted away in the warmth of his smiles. At the first sight of the desolate stranger his heart was moved to pity; and, as he never failed to speak kindly to her, she soon began to look for his coming, as a weary watcher waits for the morning.

Thus, week after week, and month after month, grew and strengthened the sympathy between the brave-hearted youth, and the timid, shrinking maiden; and when Vina had been a year in her new home, they had confessed their mutual love, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to be united in marriage.

True, Vina was but fifteen years old, but she was very destitute and helpless, and there was none but Peter to care for her.

Her master and mistress were pleased to observe this growing attachment. Mr. McKiernan had always fancied Peter, and longed to own him; and, as he knew it would be inconvenient for him to have a wife away from home, he determined to encourage him to marry Vina, that then he might perhaps be able to induce his brother-in-law to sell him.

To his master and mistress, Peter dreaded to communicate his wishes. He had seen poor Levin's sufferings in consequence of having formed a connection which they did not approve; and he was conscious of the difficulties that would attend his caring for a wife on any neighboring plantation. His mistress always wanted him at home. She depended on him; and he knew that she would object to having his attention diverted from her business by family cares of his own.

Yet, while he understood all this, he felt that he was, himself, a man. Was he not twenty-five years old, and had he not a right to marry? Surely, when he had waited for so many years upon his master's family, without ever indulging a wish that could interrupt their pleasure, they might be content to spare him now and then on a Sunday for the cultivation and enjoyment of his own affections.

Still he knew they would oppose him, and he could not bear to vex them; so he postponed speaking to them of his wishes till something should occur that would naturally open the way for the communication. Thus the matter was suspended, when, early in May, Mr. and Mrs. Gist announced their intention of visiting Lexington. They had for several years been talking of going there, and had promised Peter that when they went, he might drive the carriage. He had anticipated much pleasure in the visit; and when, year after year, circumstances had rendered its postponement necessary, he had keenly felt the disappointment.

But now, to the surprise of all, he did not wish to go. “Not go!” cried his master, “I thought there was nothing you would like so well!”

“Well, so I would,” replied Peter, “but it's so long now, that I'm 'feared everybody there done forgot me. There would'nt be nobody glad to see me, no how.”

“Well, well, then old man Frank can go—he'll not want to be asked twice.”

Uncle Frank was wild with delight at the intelligence That Peter was to stay at home. There were so many old friends there that he would be glad to see— “yah! yah! Reckon all de folks in Lexington ain't forgot ole Frank.”

Mrs. Gist had a brother living near; and to him, while he should be away, Mr. Gist entrusted the care of his servants. The overseer was to be under his authority; and no slave was to be whipped, or in any way abused, during the master's absence. He knew that some of them might do wrong, and might even deserve whipping; but he chose to be there himself when they were punished, in order to be sure that justice was administered; and so, whatever might be the offence, the execution of the penalty should be postponed till his return.

On a fine May morning the carriage drove up to the door. The trunks were strapped on behind, and a dozen little baskets and bundles were stowed away inside. The mistress, with her sister-in-law, Miss Mary Gist, was handed in by Master Levi, and the nurse followed with her little charge, the precious baby, Mary. Uncle Frank mounted the box; he was dressed in a new suit, and as he bowed good-bye to all his colored friends that stood about the door, his white tooth gleamed in the sunshine, and his black face shone with delight.

With a grand flourish of the whip he gave the signal to the spirited horses, and away they went; while loving eyes looked a fond adieu from the carriage windows, and many a dark hand from the crowded porch waved an affectionate response.

Master Levi's horse was ready; and, after shaking hands all around, and charging the servants again and again to take good care of everything in his absence, he sprang into the saddle, and galloped on to overtake the carriage.

Many were the warm wishes for a pleasant journey to “young Mass'r and Missus” that followed the travellers from that sable band; and many a fear was breathed that “Miss' Muthis” or the sweet baby would “git mighty tired a ridin' off so far.”

Soon they dispersed to their necessary labors—all but Peter. He remained upon the porch alone. His eyes were fixed on the spot where the carriage had disappeared, and lo! they were dim with unshed tears. Ah! it was a great pleasure he had sacrificed. Now he should never see Lexington again. There he had suffered much; but, after all, he loved the old place. His boy-friends were, doubtless, scattered; yet he would like to learn their history—he hoped they were all happier than he.

“Ha! what a fool I am!” thought he, as some sound of busy life within the house roused him from his regretful reverie; “here I stand, and they're gone. I'll be married to Vina 'fore they come back, and then it'll be too late to make a fuss about it.”

He walked quietly away to his work, and all day long, his thoughts were busier than his hands. When his task was done, his plan was laid; and with a light step he trod the path to Aunt Lucy's cabin, which, since Vina went into the field, had been her home.

It was easy to win her consent to immediate marriage; for she was but a lonely girl; and her young heart, so long unused to sympathy, bounded at the approach of the footsteps of love.

Her master readily assented to the plan proposed by Peter; and, on the evening of the twenty-fifth of June, all preliminary arrangements having been completed, they were married.

Old Cato Hodge, a Baptist preacher belonging to one of the neighbors, performed the ceremony. That over, a merry company, consisting of all Vina's fellow-servants, and a few of Peter's best friends from his master's plantation, enjoyed a substantial supper in the kitchen.

THERE was an anxious gathering of dark faces just after sunset. Earnest eyes were peering through the trees in the direction of the great road, and long fingers shook threatfully at each little sable urchin, that could not stand still, and listen for the carriage wheels. The cook bustled about—now in the kitchen watching her biscuits lest they should bake too brown; now in the house, to be sure that nothing was wanting on the neat supper table, and then her steaming figure came puffing through the crowd before the door, that she might be the first to welcome “Missus.”

There! the faint rumble of wheels is heard approaching. A joyous shout rises from the excited throng; and a score of tiny feet fly in the direction of the sound. There is a merry strife between the proprietors of all these little feet for the high privilege of opening the gate for “Missus,” but it lasts not long. The carriage comes in sight, and all the little eager hands are laid at once upon the gate, which flies wide open at their touch.

Here they come! Old Frank's smile is brighter, even in the twilight, than when last it beamed upon us in the full morning sunshine, and as he wheels proudly up before the door, his old heart warms at the kindly smiles that beam upon him.

How quickly is the carriage door flung open, and the steps let down! and how lightly the beautiful mistress is set down in the midst of her delighted servants, every one of whom pushes forward to offer a warm welcome home. The fair hand she presents is reverently shaken or tenderly kissed, and “How d'y' Missus?” “Oh! you's pertier 'an ever!” “How glad I is you's come home once mo'!” greet her on every side, as she passes into the house.

Nurse tenderly lifts the little Mary from the carriage. She is fast asleep, and as she lays her in her late deserted cradle, the dark faces steal along, one by one, to get a peep at her sweet baby-face.

“Bless my life! if dar aint Mass'r! Hi! we all's so glad see Missus, we done forget Mass'r gwine come too!” The hearty welcomes are repeated, the extended hand is duly shaken, and by the time Missus, with the aid of a dozen eager hands can be prepared to sit down at the table, supper is brought in.

“Well Peter, so you've stolen a march on us since we've been gone—been getting married, hey?”

“Yes, Sir, I's been gettin' married.”

“Ha! ha! you thought the folks at Lexington had all forgotten you. Well, since you have been so smart, I must try and buy your wife for you. You'll not be worth much if you have to be running off every week to see your family. Besides, Mr. McKiernan intends to move to Bainbridge about Christmas, and then you'll have a long road to travel.

But Vina's master had no intention of selling her. She was one of the best servants he had. He would, however, be glad to buy her husband—very glad.

That was out of the question. Neither Mr. Gist nor his wife would consent to sell him, and if they had been willing to part with him, Peter himself would have remonstrated. He knew too well the difference between the two masters to wish for an exchange.

Thus matters stood till Christmas. Peter went frequently to see his wife, as it was so near, and neither his master nor his mistress endeavored to dissuade him from doing so. They had tested their influence with Levin, and they had no desire to repeat the strife.

The brick house that had been built at Bainbridge was now occupied by Mr. McKiernan. He had bought a large plantation there,—much of it new land, and to clear it, and fit it for corn and cotton, required the utmost diligence.

There was no time to build cabins, though there were not half enough for the numerous families of slaves that he carried with him. Every family, therefore, that wished a house to themselves, were obliged to spend their Sundays in building it.

Peter immediately commenced preparations for building a cabin for his wife. Every Saturday he walked to Bainbridge—a distance of seven miles; and early on Sunday morning, he was at his work. All the holy day he toiled, and often when the moon shone, his work ceased not till late at night. Then by the first peep of Monday's dawn, he was up and away, to commence his weekly labors for his master.

Peter was obliged to cut the timber for his house, himself, and then to haul it across the creek. When that was all prepared, he hired men to help him raise it; and though he did his best, it was April when he had the little building finished.

The roof was made of boards, and the chimney of sticks and clay. Puncheons (slabs) formed the floor, and the ground itself made an excellent hearth. Peter was more extravagant than many architects of kindred edifices, in that he had a floor at all. The bare earth is generally deemed sufficient, and it becomes at length by constant treading, almost as hard as brick.

The house completed, it was empty. Peter had worked nights and holidays, and had earned all he could, but, alas! that was very little; and now he was forced to sell more of his clothes to buy the most necessary articles of furniture. Two or three cooking utensils, two chairs, and a trunk, he procured at first. Then he cut a walnut tree, and “hauled” it to the mill. for a bedstead, and when that was done, a straw bed was prepared and laid upon it.

Every Sunday morning at Mr. McKiernan's, the weekly allowance was weighed out. This was generally practised by the Kentucky planters. Their servants all ate together, and usually a plentiful supply was cooked for them. But here, a peck of unsifted meal, and three and a half pounds of bacon, was the weekly allowance. The piece might be more than half bone, yet no additional weight was allowed on that account. No vegetables were provided for them, if they wished any they might raise them for themselves; and then, if they had any desire for decent or comfortable clothes, or any little articles of furniture, they could sell the few vegetables which their patches produced, in order to procure them.

Mr. Gist had bought a shoemaker, not long before, and he had cheerfully imparted instruction in his art to his friend Peter. The slight skill he acquired in this branch of industry was now of great use to him, as he was able to make his own shoes, and those of his wife; thus saving many a dollar that must otherwise have been expended. He also earned many comforts for his cabin by making shoes at night for his fellow slaves.

After a while, as the wealth of the young couple increased, they bought a cupboard, and afterwards a chest. This latter article was very necessary, that Vina might lock up her week's provisions, and any little comforts which Peter brought her; as, if they were exposed, some of the half-clad hungry slaves were sure to steal them.

A flour barrel, too, the provident young husband bought, thinking it would be useful in their humble housekeeping; but before he had a chance to take it home, Mr. Gist's overseer took the liberty to appropriate it to his own use.

“That's my bar'l, sir,” said Peter, as he saw him removing it, “and I want to use it myself.”

“D—n you! hush your mouth, you nigger! I'll let you know you're not to forbid me to use a bar'l when I want it.”

“But it's mine,” persisted Peter; “I bought it, and I's gwine carry it to my wife.”

The overseer was enraged; but he dared take no vengeance except the weak one of showering upon the offender his most terrible curses. When he had exhausted his stock of these, he was forced to wait till the master returned from town.

He then complained to Mr. Gist that one of his niggers had been impudent to him, and swore he would have revenge. “And if” added he, “I don't whip him now, I'll give him something that will hurt him a heap worse.”

The master hesitated, but finally, judging from the fellow's temper, that such a course would be safest for his slave, he gave, him permission to whip him very slightly. Accordingly, Peter was taken to the stable, where twenty-five lashes were inflicted on his naked back.

ON the twelfth of September, 1826, the wailing of a tiny voice was heard in Vina's cabin. A new fount of love gushed up in her mother-heart, to bless the little trembler; and her frame thrilled with a delicious joy, as she proudly placed in her husband's arms his first-born boy.

Oh! how happily to his mother passed the first four weeks of the existence of this little one. Quietly Vina sat in her cabin; and, as she gazed upon the innocent face of her child, and saw his little eyes learning to seek hers in loving trustfulness, her cup was not all bitter. She knew her babe was born to slavery—and sorrow; but oh! so dearly did she love it! And, perhaps, after all, it might fall into kind hands, and be far happier than its parents.

Now, with her joy, her care was doubled. As soon as she was able to sit up, she toiled to the extent of her strength to put everything in order in her cabin, before her month was up.

Peter had managed to provide materials for a comfortable wardrobe for the little stranger; and she now took great pleasure in making up the tiny garments. They were certainly not very fine, nor traced with elegant embroidery; but when she had them all finished, and laid, neatly folded, in the trunk, she could not help lifting the lid now and then, to see how nice they looked.

Then she washed and mended all her own and Peter's clothes; for she knew she should have but little time after she went to the field again.

When she did go out, poor little Peter (for the baby bore his father's name), was left all alone upon her bed. Four times in the day, while yet he was very young, she was permitted to go in and minister to his little wants. But she had then only a few minutes to stay; and, though in her heart she longed to lull him to sleep upon her breast, and though he cried so hard when she laid him down, yet she must go.

How tenderly, when she was employed as nurse in Courtland, had she cared for the little ones entrusted to her care! How anxiously had she watched every indication of uneasiness, lest they should be sick! And when the moan of pain fell on her ear, how well she knew the simple remedies for all their little ailments! Now that her own babe needed her constant care, she could not be spared. The cotton must be picked.

How her heart ached when she heard him crying, as she often did, when she was at work in the field near the quarter. And if the overseer chanced to be at a distance, so that she thought he would not observe her, how suddenly she darted between the trees that sheltered the cabins, and entered the house! How she pressed her baby to her breast, while her tears fell on his little face! And when she dared not stay a minute longer, how gently she laid him down again, and imprinted one fond kiss upon his cheek.

THE sunshine of prosperity beamed steadily upon the peaceful home of Mr. and Mrs. Gist. Gradually their worldly substance increased; and the dearer treasures of their hearts were multiplied.

The Spring of 1830, when she had waked the delicate flowers of the forest, came noiselessly on, and with careful hand, unfolded the rosebuds that climbed on the porch.

Near the half-open door sat the young husband and his still beautiful wife. Not a line of care or sorrow had stolen across their foreheads; not a shade of coldness or distrust had fallen on their hearts. Their children sported before them—two lovely girls and a brave boy, the youngest, and the pet of all.

Ah! came no whispering voice to bid them prize these golden moments? Entered no dread of change into all the plans they formed together? None! The sweet Spring smiled on them from without—the parching Summer drought she never heralds.

They were planning a visit to Kentucky. It was five years since they had enjoyed the hospitalities of that endeared home of other days; and the beloved parent, from whom they had been so long severed, were growing old. Yes; they would go to Lexington.

On a bright May morning a few weeks after, the family carriage rolled away from the door, with its precious burden of gentle trusting hearts. Tears gathered in dark eyes that gazed fondly after the travvellers; and fond adieus to loving favorites were tossed back by tiny hands.

“'Pears like,” sobbed Aunt Ceely, “somethin's gwine happen. I's had mighty bad dreams dese las' nights.”

“Oh! you's allers a dreamin'; reckon yer dreams aint much 'count,” replied a cheerful girl at her side.

“I reckon nuthin' aint gwine hurt dem, no how; dey's been to Kaintucky 'fore dis,” said another, who, though sad herself, would fain dispel Aunt Ceely's gloom.

The old woman turned towards the kitchen, and her croaking was soon forgotten. But when at night she smoked her pipe before her kitchen door, the shadow of impending ill darkened her heart.

Summer came with its heat, and wearying toil, and September passed away, and still the house was closed. Now and then, for a few hours the windows were thrown open, that the fresh air of morning might wander through the deserted rooms. But it would not tarry long; for it missed the merry children, to whose radiant eyes and blooming cheeks it had been wont to lend a deeper glow. So, after kissing lovingly each little couch, and chair, and scattered toy, the soft air flew away, to dally with the summer leaves that danced at its approach.

Early in October, new life seemed to have awakened on the plantation. The laborers stepped more briskly out at morning, and the house servants went bustling through the lonely rooms, “clarin' up, and putting things to rights for Missus.”

There were no gloomy faces now—no dark foreboding of approaching woe; Aunt Ceely herself forgot her dreams, she was so busy planning a nice supper, such as she knew suited “Mars Levi when he come home hongry.”

The last day of September was the time appointed for the family to leave Lexington, and though the summer had passed most pleasantly in the society of valued friends, yet not one of the little group wished to remain longer.

On the day previous to their intended departure, a few friends sat down with them to a farewell dinner, at the house of an uncle of Mr. Gist.

The party were in fine spirits, albeit a shadow of regret that they were so soon to part, did now and then steal over them. Plans of future re-unions, however, were proposed, and promises of more frequent visits interchanged.

“What is it?” whispers with bloodless lips, the beautiful young wife, as her husband sways towards her, and she sees that his face is ashy pale. Quickly his friends spring to his assistance. They bear him from the table, and support him in their arms upon, the sofa.

Ah! they saw not the Death Angel, as with white wings he approached, and gently sealed those loving eyes and stilled that throbbing heart. No! they saw him not. They did not know how vain were all their agonized endeavors to restore the warm breath to that manly form. “He has only fainted—give him air!”

Vain hope! The warm hands grow rigid—cold. The features become fixed. Can it be he is dead?

God pity thee! fond wife—and grant thee tears—that thy young heart break not.

In the parlor, at his childhood's home, was laid all that was mortal of Levi Gist. His father and mother, with great tears on their aged cheeks, gazed tenderly upon the face of their first-born son; and his little children stole up on tiptoe to look at dear papa; and wondered that he lay so still, when only yesterday, he told them they should start for home to-day. Dear little ones! too soon shall ye learn the full meaning of that cold word—fatherless!

The funeral was over. Fond eyes had gazed for the last time on those clear features, and to the earth had been consigned the sacred dust. Words of condolence had been duly uttered—Oh! how they rent her heart!—and curious eyes had scrutinized the widow's face and manner, to ascertain how keenly she felt the stroke. All these were satisfied. They saw her glazed eye, and pallid cheek; and even their morbid jealousy for grief could exact no more.

The desolate woman returned, with her children to her thenceforth darkened home.

No smiles greeted her coming now; but great hot tears glistened on the dark cheeks of the faithful band that came forth to meet her.

Well might they weep that their only protector had fallen! Where, in all the country round, could be found another such master? His servants had been, in some sense, his children; subject, it is true to his passions and caprices—and who is free from these? Still he had ever protected them from the violence of overseers and other ruffians, and their supply of wholesome food and comfortable clothes had not been scant.

Equally kind, and even more indulgent, had been their mistress, and she was spared to them. But now the government would, partially, at least, fall into other hands; there was no will, and the estate must be settled according to law.

Deeply, notwithstanding her own grief, did the kind mistress sympathize with her people in their peculiar sorrow; and earnestly did she resolve to do her utmost to alleviate the hardships of their lot.

Mr. John Gist, a brother of the deceased, proceeded to administer upon the estate, while Mrs. Gist remained on the place, and preserved, as far as possible, the accustomed order of affairs.

She was now a stately woman, of somewhat haughty presence, and with an eye whose lightning few would dare to brave. Usually, her voice was gentle, and her manners mild; but when the helpless were outraged, she summoned all her powers to awe and to command—for their relief. One instance will suffice to show her spirit.

It was Sunday evening, and Peter and Allison, who had been to visit some of their friends on a neighboring plantation, were returning home, when, to make their road shorter, they crossed a field belonging to Col. John D—.

Now, the gallant Colonel had made a law that no negro belonging to his neighbor, should cross his field on Sunday; and his overseer, named S—, by chance spying those trespassers, ran after them cowhide in hand.

They heard him on their track, and made all speed for home. Bounding over the door-yard fence, they imagined themselves safe; but in an instant, their pursuer leaped over after them, and even followed them to the kitchen, where they hastened to take refuge.

Here the slaves determined to do battle, and one of them had seized the rolling-pin, and the other a large knife, when their mistress, hearing the tumult, came to the door.

The overseer quailed beneath her haughty eye. “What is your business here, sir,” said she, in a voice steady and brave.

He explained his errand; with much trepidation however, for her great eyes were fixed upon him, and her majestic form seemed to grow taller every instant.

“Well, sir,” said she, when he ceased speaking, “leave these premises immediately, and let this be the last time your foot approaches my house on such an errand. My boys are not subject to your authority; if they do wrong, it is not your business to punish them.”

The overseer departed in silence, seeming much smaller in his own eyes than he had appeared an hour before.

JUST a year after the death of his master, Levin's health, which had been poor for several years, began rapidly to decline; and it was soon plain to all who saw him that his work was done.

His sufferings soon became intense, but he endured them with great patience. Levin was a Christian. His intellect, it is true, had possessed few means of development, but he had heard of the Lamb that was slain. Upon that bleeding sacrifice his hopes had long been fixed; and though in much ignorance and weakness, yet earnestly had he sought to follow his Redeemer. Now as the death-hour approached, he heard a voice, saying, “My peace I give unto you, not as the world giveth, give I unto you;” and, calmly resigning himself into His arms who is a Saviour of the weakest and the lowliest, he waited quietly the coming of the last Messenger.

Poor Fanny was permitted to spend the last days by his side. This was a great comfort to both, for they had suffered much for each other, and it was very hard to part so soon. But Levin talked so sweetly of the green fields and still waters of that better land, that she could not wish to prolong his painful sojourn here.

It was the twenty-eighth of December. Peter had gone to Bainbridge, to make his usual Christmas visit to his wife and little ones, and by the bed-side of her dying husband sat the devoted Fanny. Yet, though her eye watched every sign of change, she knew not that he was departing.

Sadly she gazed upon his placid face. Ah! did he not look happy? Why should she weep?—and yet the tearswould flow.

“Call Peter, Fanny,” said he, suddenly waking from a gentle sleep.

“Peter's gone to Bainbridge.”

A shade of disappointment passed over his face— for a few moments he remained silent. Then suddenly, with all his strength he cried, “Peter! Peter! O, Peter!”

But the loved brother answered not. Ah! little thought he, as he sat fondling his children, and holding pleasant converse with their mother, that poor Levin's heart, even at that hour, was breaking.

There was but a slight struggle,—a faint gasp,—and the freed spirit of the lowly slave was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom.

They placed the lifeless form in a rude coffin, and bore it to its lowly grave. No stone marks his resting place; no fragrant flowers adorn the sod that covers his silent house. Yet he sleeps sweetly there. The loud horn of the overseer reaches not his ear at dawn; the harsh tone of command and the bitter blasphemous curse break not his peaceful slumbers.

The death of this clear brother cast a heavy gloom upon Peter's spirits. He felt that he was now alone. The memories of their early childhood, of their mother's love, and of the sad, sad day when they were stolen from their home, there was now none to share. And the fond hope, which through all their years of bondage had lived far down in some hidden recess of his heart—even that one hope went out—and all was dark.

PATIENTLY, month after month, Aunt Sally pursued her labors on the plantation of Mr. Peoples. She had a kind master, and her boys were near her, as was also Uncle Moses, the husband of her latter years. Of poor Silas, to whom her heart's young affections had been given, she never heard. He might be dead, and—oh! what torture in the thought!—he might be enduring sufferings compared with which, even death itself were naught. She could only pray for his weal; and trust, as she ever found it sweet to do, to that compassionate father, who loves the prayers of the humble, while “the proud he knoweth afar off.”

But it was concerning her daughter that Aunt Sally's spirit was most deeply troubled. She was so young to be taken away—and alone among strangers too—how often would she need her mother's sympathy and counsel!

“Well,” said she to Uncle Moses, at the close of one of their frequent conversations on the subject. “I's mighty glad de pore chile done got married, 'Pears like she wont be so lonesome now. I'd like to see her ole man. But her missus—she's a screamer. Laws! Vine say de little gal whar waits in de house gits her back cut up powerful, and she's a sickly little thing. Hi! wont dem kind o' ladies cotch it mightily when de bad man gits 'em? Reckon he wont think dey's so mons's nice, kase dey's white. De Lord years all de screams o' his chilluns, and he aint gwine put harps o' gold in dem dare hands, whar allers a playin wid de cowhide yer.”

There were at this time two sets of slaves on Mr. Peoples' place; his own, and those belonging to the estate of a deceased brother, with whom he had been in partnership. Many of these were united by family ties, and all were strongly attached to each other, as they had lived together for many years.

Suddenly, late in the autumn of 1827, the gloomy tidings came among them that they were to be separated. Their master, having heard tempting accounts of the beauty and fertility of Florida's fair plains, had determined to remove there with his working hands: while those belonging to his brother's estate, as well as the children and any that were unfit for labor, should remain on the home place, in the guardianship of an overseer.

Aunt Sally was overwhelmed with sorrow. She was more fortunate than many of her companions, for her husband and her oldest son were to go with her; but poor Quall must stay behind, and Vina—she had not seen her for two years. She longed to make her a farewell visit, but such was now the haste to secure the crop, and to complete the needful preparations for the journey, that she could not go even to “tell” her darling child “good-bye.”

The master strove to comfort them by the promise that they should some day return; or, if he liked the country so well as to wish to remain in Florida, then their friends should come to them. But the dim hope in the distant future could not dispel the present gloom; and with bitter lamentations fond mothers pressed their weeping children to their aching breasts, and loving husbands turned back for one more look on those dear faces which they never more might see.

They have gone! Their friends stand mournfully watching the sad procession till it passes out of sight and their stricken hearts breathe earnest prayers for the safe keeping of their dearest treasures.

Vina did not hear of Mr. Peoples' intended removal till his family had already arrived in Florida; and her grief was then extreme. To lose her mother thus, without receiving so much as a parting message, was harder far than all her previous trials. Not even the laughing prattle of her little Peter could dispel this heavy sorrow; not even her husband's love could soothe her aching heart.

But a kind Providence was better to them than their fears. Mr. Peoples did not like Florida; and when he had “made one crop,” he returned with all his slaves in glad procession, to his former home.

Ah! earth is not all gloomy, for there be sometimes glad reunions, when the partings have been dismal— hopeless. There be transient gleams of joy, though misery hath hung her heavy clouds over all the sky. There is an Infinite Father who looketh down in love on the weakest of his children; and though he suffer them to drink a bitter cup, he often mingles therewith rare drops of sweetness.

The summer following her return from Florida, Aunt Sally paid a visit to her daughter.

What changes have been wrought during the four years that had passed since she had seen her child. Vina had grown quite tall, and her face, instead of the timidity and sadness that then marked its expression, now wore a careful mother-look. Poor child! she was not strong and the fatiguing labor of the hot summer days, together with the care which her two children claimed at night, taxed her exertions to the utmost.

Aunt Sally had not been long on the plantation, before she learned the policy pursued by Mr. McKiernan towards his slaves. Their lot was truly hard. Not an article of furniture or clothing did they receive from their master, except, that once a year he gave a coarse plantation suit to such as were old enough to work. Even this, however, was sometimes withheld, and then those who had no means of procuring garments for themselves, went to their daily tasks in such a ragged filthy state, that the more respectable of the overseers could not endure their presence. Several of these, at different times, left the plantation, for no other reason than that they could not stay in the field with such a miserable gang of negroes.

Little cared the master for their departure. Others were always ready to be hired, who heeded not such trifles, so that they could have full power over the half-naked wretches that instinctively recoiled at their approach.

But Vina and her children, thanks to Peter's industry and self-denial, had always decent clothing, and their cabin boasted many convenient articles of furniture, such as slaves seldom possess. They had also better food than most of their companions, for to the scant allowance of bacon and corn meal which was doled out to Vina on Sunday mornings, Peter often found means to add a little coffee and sugar, or pounds of flour.

All this Aunt Sally learned during her short stay, and for each kindness thus bestowed upon her child, she rendered thanks to Him, whose hand she recognized in every good.

Too soon the time allotted to this precious visit passed away; yet much of hope lingered in the sad farewell. “Dat dar jaunt to Florida,” Aunt Sally thought, had cured her master of his thirst for novelty; and now, she trusted, she should never more be widely separated from her daughter.

Vina's eyes were dim, as from her cabin door, she watched her mother's departing form. A heavy sadness oppressed her spirits; and the kind voice of her husband, who stood beside her, could scarce dispel her gloom. But many little motherly duties claimed her thoughts. Young Peter wanted his supper, while little Levin raised his pleading voice to beg for her attendance; and soon the pleasure of contributing to the comfort of those she loved restored her accustomed cheerfulness.

AUNT SALLY rode briskly homeward. She had not felt so happy in many years as now. Her children were all comfortably situated; even Vina, about whom she had been so anxious, had now so kind a husband, and such fine “peart” children, that she could no longer repine at her lot.

A few weeks glided calmly on. Summer stole noiselessly away, and Autumn came with quiet steps, to cool the parched earth.

The cotton fields grow brown with age, and snowy tufts burst from the ripened bolls. Tremulous they hung—those fleecy tassels—and the cool breeze, as with mock sympathy it sighed among the withering leaves, lingered to whisper softly to these fair strangers, and toss in amorous sport their dainty tresses.

The crops were all gathered in. Beside the gin-house lay great heaps of hoary cotton-seed, and the mighty press had uttered the last creak of the season. Under a shed hard-by, the old-fashioned, tight-laced bales were huddled close together, and yet it was not winter.

The hands upon the place were very proud. There was not another plantation in all the country round, but had great fields, where still in fleecy clusters the precious cotton gleamed.

It is night—and the people are all in their cabins. The smiles of triumph which but a few hours since brightened their faces have departed, and a wail of anguish resounds through all the quarter. Mr. Peoples has bought a sugar farm away down on the dreadful Gulf Coast, and thither his slaves are all to be conveyed, as soon as they can make the necessary preparations for the journey.

Look! Aunt Sally comes forth alone from her cabin door. Tears are upon her cheeks, and her breast is convulsed with sorrow.

She walks slowly and with drooping head along a narrow footpath leading to the woods. She kneels upon the rustling leaves. Oh! with what humble trustfulness she offers her agonized petitions! Has she heard that it is written, “Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him?”

The preparations for emigration were conducted with the bustle and confusion usual on large plantations. There were full three hundred slaves; and their master intended to carry along provisions sufficient for one year's consumption, as well as corn for the horses, mules and cattle. Then all the utensils of the farm were collected and repaired; and each family had to arrange its own little store of clothes and furniture.

During the day, the constant occupation of the slaves prevented the contemplation of their gloomy prospects. At night, however, they had time to think; and then the torrent of their grief broke forth afresh. In every cabin might be heard the voice of weeping; and the rude pallets, on which reposed their weary limbs, were wet with bitter tears.

When all was ready, and the cattle and stores had been conveyed to the river's bank, then came the final leave-taking. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, parents and children, who belonged on neighboring plantations, came with sobs and tears to say “farewell” to those whose hearts were breaking.

Aunt Sally came hurriedly, with a small bundle in her hand, from her empty cabin. Hastily she walked along the road to Courtland, and paused not until she reached the residence of Mr. B—, where dwelt her youngest child.

Poor Quall! henceforth he would be motherless! He saw her form approaching, and ran to meet her. Oh! the tender agony of that last long embrace.

He was her darling boy, how could she leave him? He clung around her neck. She felt his warm breath on her check. O Saviour! pity them! It is their last fond meeting—their last heart-crushed “good bye.”

With desperate strength she tore herself from his arms; and with one prayer to Heaven to bless and keep her boy, she thrust the little bundle into his powerless hand, and hastened on to join her gloomy comrades.

The rendezvous was Bainbridge. To this point some came on foot, and others on the boats over the shoals. Here they were obliged to wait till all the boats arrived; and now a faint hope sprang up in Aunt Sally's heart that she might yet see her daughter. She determined at least to make one effort.

A gentleman on horseback was slowly riding by. It was Andrew Gist. Hastily she approached him. He pitied her evident distress, and listened kindly to the recital of her sorrows.

“So your daughter is at McKiernan's. What is her name?”

“Her name Vina, Sir.”

“Vina? why that is Peter's wife.”

“Yes, Sir, her man name Peter. He belongs to Mars Levi Gist.”

“Well, I'll find her myself, and send her down to see you. Come, cheer up, Auntie, you'll have good times yet.”

The field where Mr. McKiernan's people were at work was three miles from the landing, but the Kentuckian's fine horse soon bore him there.

“Which of you all has a mother at Peoples'?” said he, as he rode up to a group of women.

“It's Vina's mother whar lives dar, Sir:—yon's Vina,” replied a young girl, pointing as she spoke, to the object of his search. She was working alone, at a short distance from her companions, and did not look up till she was addressed.

“Howd'y' Vina, does your mother belong to Peoples?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, if you go down to the landing, you'll see the last of her, I reckon, for she's going down the river. Peoples is moving down to the coast.”

He rode away, and Vina gazed after him in speechless terror. Her mother—the coast—could it be? One moment she started towards the overseer to ask permission to go to the river—the next her courage failed her, and she felt sure he would not let her go. She tried to work, but her limbs seemed palsied, and her eyes were full of blinding tears.

After nearly an hour had passed, she summoned all her strength, and left the field. With fearful steps she walked to the house, and fortunately her master and mistress were both at home. She told them what Mr. Gist had said, and touched with pity, they bade her go immediately to the landing and stay with her mother as long as the boats remained.

A strange picture met her eye as she approached the river. Along the bank in the dim twilight, gleamed the blaze of numerous fires, and around these were gathered groups of unhappy slaves. Some were cooking their simple suppers, and others close huddled together, warmed their benumbed limbs, while they bewailed, in low sad tones, their gloomy destiny. Mothers hovered tenderly over the dear little ones that never more might hear their fathers' voices, and here and there, like a majestic tree by lightning blasted, stood a lone father, who had left all—wife, children, hope, behind.

Vina, paused, and listened, but in the sad murmur that met her ear she heard not her mother's voice. She passed on. Four large flat boats were tied to the bank, and one of these she timidly entered.

A great fire was glowing at the further end of the boat, and dark figures were moving slowly about in the uncertain light. She heard no mirthful voices, no gay laugh; but heavy sighs and mournful wailings filled her ears.

On a low stool near the fire sat a female figure. Her bowed head rested on both her hands, and her body swayed to and fro, in unison with the melancholy measure of her thoughts. Vina came very near. She paused. Aunt Sally raised her head, and with a cry, half joy—half anguish, she clasped her daughter to her breast.

“O my chile! I's studyin' 'bout you, whether I's ever gwine see you agin or not,” and she sobbed aloud. “Oh! how can I go and leave you, honey? I shan't never come back no more! 'Way down on de sugar farm I shall die, and der wont be no daughter dar to see 'em lay me in de grave!”

Long sat Vina and her mother close together, conversing in low tones, and weeping over their sad doom.

The slaves who had been gathered around the fires upon the bank came in, and wrapping themselves in their blankets, lay down to sleep.

As midnight approached, it was announced that the boats would probably not leave Bainbridge until Monday morning; and Aunt Sally obtained permission of the overseer who had charge, to go home with her daughter, and spend the next day which was Saturday, at her cabin. Immediately they left the boat, and hastened home.

The hours of that short Saturday passed swiftly by, and at night Vina accompanied her mother back to the boat. There she left her, promising to come again in the morning, that they might spend one more day together.

The dawn of the Sabbath-day saw the affectionate daughter on her way to the river. She walked rapidly for every minute of that day was precious.

She comes in sight of the landing. Why does she pause? and Oh! what means that heavy groan?

The boats have gone! The fires are smouldering on the bank. Here and there lies a fragment of hoe-cake or a bit of an old blanket that has been forgotten. All is silent.

Slowly the freighted boats pursued their way between the lonely banks of the Tennessee. The trees that overhung the stream shivered as they saw their leafless branches in the still clear water, but the bright mistletoe clung closely to the desolate trunks, and strove, with its rich green, to hide their rigid outlines.

Slowly they floated on. The broad Ohio bore them on her breast to the Father of Waters, and still they stayed not. The tall cotton-woods that guard the Mississippi's banks listened to the murmur of the slaves' sad voices; and every breeze they met went sighing past as though it sorrowed with them.

Their fears were all too true. The sugar farm upon the coast was to them as the “Valley of the Shadow of Death.”

So many of his slaves died during the first year, that Mr. Peoples, when he had made one crop of cane, sold his plantation and left the coast. He could not endure to see his faithful servants dying there, even though he knew the profits of the business would enable him to buy others in their stead. So he purchased a plantation in the north part of Mississippi, and returned, with the remnant of his people, to the culture of corn and cotton.

Here, after several years, Aunt Sally sank peacefully to her last, long slumber, She had no dread of Death. Long had she waited for his coming; and now that she knew he hovered near, her heart was filled with holy joy, and all who saw the light of love and hope that beamed from her faded eye, knew well that she had been with Jesus. And when her pulse was still, and her cold hands lay meekly folded across her breast, a heavenly smile still lingered on her face; blest token that her weary spirit had reached at length that happy home where she had so longed to rest.

Her master, who, during her sickness, had done all in his power for her comfort, wrote to inform her absent children of her decease. He told them of her faith and patience, and of her final triumph over the terrors of the grave; and added that he provided a neat shroud and coffin for her sleeping dust, and buried her with every token of respect.

Happy Aunt Sally. She had never known other than the “sunny side” of slavery. Neither of her masters had been capable of wanton cruelty, and her excellent character had made her a favorite with both. Yet the system of slavery cursed her life. It bereaved her of the husband of her youth, and robbed her of her beloved children. It tore her from scenes endeared by association with all her pleasures, and dragged her away into strange lands, of which, from her childhood, she had heard nought but tales of horror.

And for all these, what compensation reaped she from the institution? Verily, none—save such as is bestowed upon the faithful ox. Even the unusual kindness of her master could grant no other boon than a shroud, a coffin, and a promised letter to tell her children that they were motherless.

Such is a “South Side View.”

ON the twelfth of November, 1833, Mrs. Gist was married to Mr. John Hogun, a man more than twenty years her senior. He possessed few personal attractions, and still fewer intellectual or social accomplishments. But he owned two large plantations, one in the neighborhood of Mrs. Gist's residence; and another in Mississippi. Both of these were well stocked, the slaves numbering more than one hundred.

The marriage of their beloved mistress caused great grief among the slaves on the plantation, for it foreshadowed the partings that must come.

The servants, thirty-four in number, were to be divided equally between the mother and her four children (one daughter was born after her father's death). In order to this, they were placed in five lots, and these were so arranged as to keep the families together. These lots were not of equal value; but the discrepancy was to be made up by a corresponding difference in the distribution of the other property, so that the revolting scenes of an auction might be avoided.

The mistress drew first. Old Frank, and Aunt Peggy, with their three daughters, together with a yellow boy named Nelson, fell to her share. She felt disappointed for she had always hoped to retain Peter in her service; but notwithstanding he loved and honored his mistress, he was grateful that he had not fallen under the dominion of her husband. The remaining lots were not drawn at that time, as the children were still very young.

About a month after the marriage—a sad and gloomy month to all upon the place—Mrs. Hogun, with her children and servants, left the quiet home where she had spent so many happy hours, and went to the residence of her husband.

This was a large framed house, situated on a rich plantation, about four miles from her late abode, and four and a half miles from Tuscumbia. The former Mrs. Hogun had been dead four or five years, and her oldest daughter, Miss Louisa, had since her decease, resided at her father's table. This young lady was married soon after her father, and there were then three children left at home, John, Robert, and Thirmuthis.

Mr. Hogun was emphatically a hard man. His heart knew no mercy to those upon whom the laws of his State, as well as the customs; of surrounding society allowed him to trample. To his own children he was ever indulgent; to his neighbors and acquaintances, smooth-tongued and polite; but he had at will that could not brook resistance, and a temper which, when roused, was capable of inflicting any cruelty. He considered his servants as his, body and soul, and stove to compel them to make his wishes their law in all things. He allowed none of them to marry off the the place, and by watching them carefully, and pursuing prompt measures, he usually managed to bring them together according to his mind.

When he saw a young man and woman engaged in any little sport together, or noticing each other in any way, if he thought they would make a good match, he ordered the overseer to build them a house. Accordingly, on the first convenient day thereafter, a sufficient number of the hands were called to the work, and the cabin was erected. It was but a small task to complete the structure—one little log-room, having a door on one side, a small unglazed window with a wooden shutter on the other, and at one end a chimney, built of sticks and smeared with mud. Nothing further was considered necessary. The ground sufficed for all the purposes of floor, bed, table, and chairs; unless the inmates, by working on holidays, or by selling eggs or chickens, managed to procure some little comforts for themselves.

When the house was finished, the master ordered Bob, the head man to bring Joe and Phillis, and put them into their house. Then, putting a small padlock on the door, he gave the key to Bob, saying, “Here, Bob, I have put my seal on this door; now here is the key; you keep this nigger and this wench together, or, by jings, you'll pay for it. Do you make Joe build a fire for Phillis, and see that Phillis cooks for Joe, and washes his clothes; and, mind, Bob, I shall look to you.”

No expostulations from either party could alter his decree. He had been to the trouble of building a house for them, and now they should live in it, or take the consequences of braving his authority.

THE last Christmas came which these doomed people were to spend together at the old place, and instead of the mirth which usually reigned at that season, mourning and weeping filled its hours. The slaves had all been hired out here and there, and, after the holidays, they were to go to their new homes. Fourteen of the number, including Peter, were destined to spend the ensuing year on the plantation of a Mr. Threat, about four miles from Bainbridge.

The one great dread, that of being conveyed still further from his wife, was now removed, but otherwise his situation was not bettered. Mr. Threat had immigrated from Virginia, about four years before, and had bought a small plantation. He owned no slaves, and was therefore obliged to hire them year by year.

Peter, having led the hands on the old place, was still retained as head-man, and his labors were in no degree diminished. His fare too, was scanty, for the young master was just beginning in the world, and could ill afford an abundance of wholesome food to other people's negroes.

The Threat family, as we have said, came from Virginia, and though the young man to whom Peter and his companions were hired, was not rich, yet his parents, who resided in the neighborhood, possessed a competency. His mother, we should have said, for the elder Mr. Threat had failed in business in Virginia, and his property was all sold under the hammer. Two brothers of his wife, men of great wealth, bid it in, and settled it upon their sister and her children; giving to her the entire control during her lifetime. The family then removed to Alabama, where Mrs. Threat assumed the reins of government. Her husband lived with her, and she permitted her servants to wait upon him, but in business matters, he was not consulted.

Mrs. Threat kept no overseer, and hesitated not to show her subjects that the sole authority over them was vested in herself, and that her arm was strong to punish their transgressions. She frequently rode over her fields with cowhide and rope at hand, and inspected the labor of her slaves. If she found one of them dilatory or otherwise remiss, she quickly dismounted, and ordered him to strip. Then after commanding one of his fellow slaves to tie him, she vigorously applied the cowhide to his naked back, until she deemed that he had expiated his offence.

One spring morning, while Peter was hired to her son, she mounted one of her carriage horses, a large bay, and rode to the field. She had, the day before, whipped a large, powerful negro, and on this morning she started with her rope and cowhide, intending to inflict the same punishment upon another who had incurred her wrath. But when she had nearly reached the spot where her people were at work, her horse took fright, and springing aside, threw her to the ground. The slaves hastened to her assistance. They bore her home, and a doctor was soon summoned. Her hip was badly injured, and it was a long time before she recovered. Ever after, she used a crutch, and dragged one foot after her when she walked. Her good right arm, however, was not weakened, as the scarred backs of many of her slaves could testify.

This may be regarded as an extraordinary instance of female “chivalry,” but in truth, similar cases are not rare. Frail, delicate ladies, whom one would instinctively shield from a rude breath of the free air, can strip and tie their slaves, both men and women, and beat them with the zest of a base-born overseer.*

During the summer which Peter spent at Mr. Threat's—1840—the well remembered political excitement of “Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” spread through that vicinity. A Convention was held at Tuscumbia, and party men on both sides were lead in the defence of the liberties of their country. Speeches were made, songs were sung; and each busy patriot seemed to imagine himself destined to save the nation from misrule and consequent destruction. The excitement was contagious. Ladies' fair hands embroidered banners, and their soft voices joined in the exciting songs of the times.

The slaves could not remain uninterested listeners to the conversations concerning liberty that were held everywhere—at the dinner-table, and on the street. They interpreted literally the language of their masters, and in their simple hearts imagined that the dawn of liberty had come. What else could it mean? The white people were already free; and if liberty was to become universal—and people on each side declared it would become so, if their party should succeed in the election—then the “black folks” would enjoy its blessings, “sure.”

On Sundays the slaves from “town” met their plantation friends at their fish-traps on the river, and there the joyful news was communicated—in whispers at first—but as they became more certain that their hopes were well-grounded, they gradually grew bolder, till at length they dared to discuss the subject in their religious meetings. The preachers were inspired by this bright hope of freedom, and as it grew nearer its imagined fulfilment they preached it to their people with thrilling eloquence.

“ 'Taint no dream, nor no joke,” cried one of these; “de time's a'most yer. Der won't be no mo' whippin', no mo' oversee's, no mo' patrollers, no mo' huntin' wid dogs; everybody's a gwine to be free, and de white mass's a gwine to pay 'em for der work. O, my brudders! de bressed time's a knockin' at de door! De good Lord 'll ramshackle de devil, and all de people in dis yer world, bof white and black, is a gwine to live togedder in peace.”

Alas! their bright visions were speedily shadowed. Their masters learned the subject of their earnest discussions, and then a system of espionage was established, which pursued its objects with a vindictive energy worthy of the best days of the Inquisition.

The black preachers were silenced; all assembling of the slaves forbidden; and patrols established through all the country. Every negro encountered by the patrols was whipped, if he had no pass; and even that important slip of paper often lost its magic, if the bearer chanced to have the reputation of being a man of spirit.

A panic pervaded the whole community. “The negroes intend to rise,” was whispered with white lips by timid ladies in their morning visits; and every sigh of the night-wind through the lofty trees was interpreted by the fearful into the rush of black assassins. Old stories of negro insurrections were revived, and the most faithful and attached servants became objects of suspicion.

This excitement, however, like that to which it owed its origin, at length passed away. The few old privileges were restored to the slaves, and the services of the patrols were no longer in constant requisition. Yet the confidence of the slaveholder is always imperfect, and easily shaken. When injustice constitutes the base of the system, how can faith adorn the super-structure?

Some of the better class of servants about Tuscumbia have not to this day recovered from the effects of the suspicions which they then incurred. Many, in their joyful excitement, had run after the wagons that bore in procession the log cabin with its admirers, and cried, “The year of jubilee is come! We all's a gwine to be free!” These were almost crushed by the disappointment, and by the sufferings consequent on too frank an expression of their hopes. They were scourged and persecuted in a manner befitting the nature of their offence.

Toward the close of 1840, Peter was hired for the ensuing year to Mr. McKiernan. To this he was greatly opposed, even though he would by such an arrangement be able daily to enjoy the society of his family. He loved his wife and children most fondly, but their master had long sought to buy him, and Peter feared that if he went there, he might succeed in accomplishing his wish. The idea of becoming the property of such a man was dreadful to him, and this fear shadowed the otherwise bright prospect of living constantly with his beloved Vina. Yet he carefully concealed his feelings on the subject from any that would report them to Mr. McKiernan. His wife was in the tyrant's power, and he dared not offend him.

WE left Vina at the landing straining her weeping eyes to retain the images of the flat-boats that were bearing the goods of Mr. Peoples down the river. Long she stood gazing there; even till the last faint outline of a boat was lost, and than with swollen eyes and aching heart she returned to her cabin.

She had then two children, Peter, the eldest was a little more than three years old, and Levin, who was born on the twenty-fourth of June previous, had seen about six months. They were ‘peart,’ healthy little fellows, and they received much better care than is usually bestowed upon the children of a field woman.

At that time there was no old woman on the place to take care of the children; and every mother, when she went to the field in the morning, locked her little ones in her cabin, leaving some bread where they could get it when they became hungry. Or, if there was one too small to help itself to bread, the thoughtful mother tied a little mush in a rag upon its finger so that when, as babies will, it thrust its finger in its mouth, it could suck, the mush through the rag, and that would keep it quiet.

Sometimes, when the day was very hot, the mothers left their cabin doors open, that the little ones might have air. Then those that were able would creep out over the low threshold, and perhaps fall asleep on the hot ground, “Many's the time,” says Vina, “I come home and find my baby sleepin' with the sun a beatin' on its head, enough, 'peared like, to addle its brains.”

Very few infants lived on this plantation. The mothers were obliged to work so hard before their birth, and so often suffered cruel beatings while in a situation that required the utmost kindness, that most of the children, if born alive, died in spasms when a few days old.

When Vina's children were small, not an article of clothing was provided for them by the master, till they were old enough to be employed in some light work about the house. Their mother might manage to clothe them, or let them go naked. But for the last few years, they have lost so many in consequence of the total lack of necessaries, that now they give each mother clothing for her child. But if the baby dies, every little garment must be carried back to the mistress, not even excepting a covering for the tiny corpse. If the mother cannot provide something to shroud her baby, she may have it buried without. Those clothes must be laid by for some future necessity.

In 1831, October twenty-fifth, another little voice was heard in Vina's cabin, pleading for care. She called the baby William, and he was a fine brave boy, His little brothers gave him a joyous welcome, and so did his fond parents; though, in truth, they scarcely knew how they were to supply his baby wants. “But 'pears like,” says the mother, “every baby I had I growed smarter, so 't when I had three, I tuck just as good care of 'em all as I did of the first one.”

When little William was a few months old, a child belonging to a woman named Ann, was burned to death while its mother was away in the field at work. It was winter, and the mother, as was necessary at that season, had built sufficient fire to keep her half-naked children comfortable; and then, locking her door, had left them to amuse themselves during her absence. When she came in, her child was lying lifeless upon the clay hearth. It had crept too near the pretty blaze, and had probably fallen on the burning coals.

The burning of Ann's child brought about a new order of things on the plantation. Thereafter, every mother was required to leave her little children at the kitchen when she went to the field, and then the cook could mind them.

One morning, not long after this law was made, Vina was “pushed” to get out in time. She had slept but little during the night, and she did not wake as early as usual. So she thought she would leave the children in the cabin till she came in to nurse her baby, and then she would carry them to the kitchen.

The other little ones were crowing and crying about when the mistress's eye missed Vina's. She counted them all over.

“Where are Vina's children?”

“She never brought 'em dis mornin', ma'am.”

“Well, I'll settle with her when she comes. I've told them all not to leave their children at home—they don't care whether they're burnt up or not.”

When Vina came at breakfast time to her cabin, (all but the mothers of young children ate their breakfast before they went out) she took her three little ones to the kitchen, and sat down there to nurse the baby. Soon the mistress came in, holding the cowhide partly behind her.

“How's this, Vina?” said she, “I thought I told you that you wasn't to leave your children in your house of a morning.”

“Well, Missus, I's pushed this mornin'. I hadn't time—”

“I don't care how much you was pushed. I told you to bring them here; and if the sun was an hour high you should obey me. Lay down your child; I'm going to whip you now, for I said I would do it. If your children had got burnt up, you would have blamed me about it.”

“No, ma'am, I wouldn't—”

“Lay your child down. I'll let you know you are to obey me.”

Vina obeyed; and when her weary shoulders had received twenty hard lashes, she went out to her work. Verily, as a lady in that neighborhood remarked, not long since, to a Northern friend: “The negroes ought to be very thankful to us for taking care of them: they make us a great deal of trouble.”

AMONG the slaves on Mr. McKiernan's plantation were a number of handsome women. Of these the master was extremely fond, and many of them he beguiled with vile flatteries, and cheated. by false promises of future kindness, till they, became victims to his unbridled passions.

Upon these unfortunate women fell the heavy hatred of their mistress; and year after year, as new instances of her husband's perfidy came to her knowledge, her jealousy ran higher, till at length reason seemed banished from her mind, and kindliness became a stranger to her heart. Then she sought a solace in the wine-cup; and the demon of intoxication fanned the fires of hatred that burned within her, till they consumed all that was womanly in her nature, and rendered her an object of contempt and ridicule, even among her own dependents.

The master was, at the time of which we are writing, not far from fifty years of age. He was short and burly in person, with a large head, and a very red face. His hair was quite grey, and as he walked towards the quarter in the morning with his hat on one side, cursing and spitting with equal zeal, he looked, as some of his slaves remarked, “like a big buzzard just ready to fly.”

Vina thoroughly understood her master's character; she knew also the temper of her mistress; and she strove by her prudence and correctness of demeanor, to avoid exciting the evil passions of either. But one day, when William was a baby, her trial came. The following is her own account of her contest with her master, and it shows that she possessed a brave, true spirit:

“I was in my house a spinnin' one rainy day, and firs' I knowed, Mass'r he come to the door, and ax me what was I doin'. I told him I's a spinnin' fine yarn. ‘Who's thar with you?’ says he, ‘Thar aint no person yer but my chillerns,’ says I; and so he come in and sent Peter and Levin out. I knowed what was a comin' then, for his eyes looked mighty mean.

“He sot down and talked till I got tired a hearin', and I told him I wished he'd go 'way and leave me alone. I told him he got a wife o' his own, and I didn't never want no fuss with her. Well, he 'lowed she wouldn't never know nothin' about it, no how, so it wouldn't do her no hurt.

“I told him that thar wasn't my principle, to wrong any person behind their back, thinkin' they wouldn't know it. I wouldn't like any body should do me so. At las' I told him I got a task to do, and if he wouldn't go off, and let me do it, I'd go myself;—so I started for the door.

“He sprung after me, and cotch me by the neck of my coat, and tore it half way down the skirt behind. That made me mad, and I fell at him, and tore his shirt mighty nigh off his back. I pulled his hair too, right smart, and scratched his face, and then tripped and flung him on the floor.

He was powerful mad when he got up, and he say he gwine whip me well for that. I told him just so sure as he give me a lick, I'd tell Missus what it's for; and he knowed he never'd git no chance to whip me 'bout my work, so he needn't make no such pretence. ‘You tell her one word,’ says he,‘ 'bout this yer, and I'll cut your two ears off close to your head!’ ‘No, sir, you wont,’ says I, ‘I you know you dares not crap one of your servants.’

“Then he went up to the house, and slipped in sly, and put on a clean shirt. But that thar raggety one never was seen. His wife missed it, though, for she knowed he put on a clean shirt that day. She axed all the house servants had they seen it, but none of 'em didn't know nuthin' 'bout it. Then she 'lowed some of 'em done stole it, and she laid it to Jinny,— she was cook then. She 'lowed she done give it to Jacob her husband. They both 'clared they's innocent; but the missus and the overseer give 'em more'n three hundred lashes to make 'em own they got it.

“ ‘One of your best shirts is gone,’ says she to the Mass'r, ‘and I'm determined to whip the servants till I make them tell where it is. I've had Jinny and Jacob whipped well, but they wont own any thing about it. I shall have to try the others!’

“ ‘Jinny,’ says Mass'r, ‘what about that shirt of mine?’

“ ‘Missus has whipped me 'bout that shirt, sir,’ says Jinny, ‘an' I don't know no more 'bout whar it is an' you does yourself.’

ON the first day of January 1841, Peter commenced his labors on the plantation of Mr. McKiernan. Now came his most intimate acquaintance with the realities of slavery. He had witnessed much suffering both in Kentucky, and also since his removal to Alabama; and had even endured, in his own person, enough to give him some idea of the meaning of the word slave, but never did he comprehend its full, fearful import till he learned it here.

Not that he suffered personal abuse, for aside from two or three violent cursings, he received during the year, no unkind treatment. This exemption he owed partly to his own cautious avoidance of any act or word that could annoy his irritable master; and partly, no doubt, to the fact that Mr. McKiernan wished to buy him, but was well aware that he could not purchased from the estate of his late master without his own consent. Mrs. Hogun, his former mistress, was still his kindest friend; and though she had now no real authority over any of the slaves except the six that had been allotted to herself, she still possessed great influence with those who managed the estate; and she would never sanction the sale, against his will, of one of her favorite servants. So Mr. McKiernan was wondrous kind to Peter. He employed him during part of the year as moulder in making brick, with the professed intention of building new brick cabins for his people; but to this day the old log huts remain their habitations.

It was not in personal sufferings or privations that Peter found the bitterest woes of slavery. It was the stifling influence of the deep degradation of his race that most oppressed his spirit. The moral malaria of the place filled his blood with hatred of the oppressions by which it was engendered; and his own consciousness of higher aspirations than those indulged who called themselves his masters taught him that, though his skin was black, they were, in truth, beneath him in all that constitutes a man.

But though Peter found much to sadden his spirit while he remained on Mr. McKiernan's place, his constant presence there was a rich blessing to his family.

Vina had now, in addition to the three children we have previously named, a little daughter about three years old. She had, during the autumn of 1883, buried a baby a week old; and little Silas, after remaining with her just one year, was borne away to the hill-side in August, 1836. Again in March, 1840, a little daughter, five months, old, was strangled by the croup.

In July, 1841, another little boy was welcomed to their humble cabin. They called him Bernard, and for three years he remained the pet of all the little household. Then he was seized with spasms—and soon his merry voice was hushed, and his little form grew cold and stiff in death.

The three boys, Peter, Levin and William, were now old enough to work on the plantation, and their obedience and kindness to their mother fully rewarded all the care she had bestowed upon them. Yet she was forced even now to labor very hard to keep them comfortably clad. She made all their clothes herself, and washed and mended them by night. Their stockings, too, she knit, though she was obliged first to card the wool and spin it. Of this the slaves had usually as much as they needed for stockings, if they could get time to manufacture it. The master had plenty of sheep, and was not in the habit of selling the wool.

All the fragments of their worn-out clothes the careful mother saved, and pieced them into bed-quilts. She managed to get help to quilt these, by inviting in the other women on Saturday nights. They were not allowed to leave their cabins after the blowing of the horn for them to go to bed; but they were welcome to sit up and work till morning, if they could furnish themselves with lights.

Thus, in exhausting and continual toil, had passed the years of Vina's motherhood. Her husband had been unable to share her cares, except on Sundays, when he had done all he could to aid her in her labors. No wonder she was glad when every night his smile brightened her cabin, and his pleasant voice beguiled her hour of toil; and yet, in her unselfish heart, she wished his lot had fallen elsewhere.

Peter, as we have seen, had been long accustomed to plantation life; and, during the ten years that had elapsed since his master's death, he had seen many hardships. But still, the kindness of his mistress had never failed him; and even when she no longer possessed the power to ameliorate his condition, the knowledge that she pitied him, and exerted all her influence in his behalf, endued him with new strength to bear his troubles. But on this plantation a phase of slave-life was presented for his observance, new, and more revolting than any he had elsewhere witnessed; for here the women suffered most, and oftenest by their mistress' hand, or in obedience to her orders.

The main house-servant, at this time, was Ann Eliza, whom with her husband, Edward, Mr. McKiernan had bought several years before in Mississippi. She knew how to read well, understood all the branches of good housewifery, and was withal possessed of excellent sense and real piety. Yet, although her services in the house were invaluable, and her conduct was above reproach, her mistress hated her. She was too handsome, and had “such a tongue!”

Ann Eliza was not impudent or bold; but when her mistress violently upbraided her, and accused her falsely, she threw back her head, and fixed her large, clear eyes upon her face, while with a steady voice she declared her innocence. This dignified defence the passionate lady could only answer with the cowhide, and she frequently exhausted her own strength in fruitless efforts to subdue the spirit of her slave.

Once, during the year that Peter spent there, the mistress, as a punishment for some offence, sent Ann Eliza to the gin-house, to assist in moving a quantity of cotton. After she had gone, a messenger was despatched for a man named Anderson, who was in the habit of attending to any necessary business on the place during the master's absence.

“Look here, Mr. Anderson,” said the lady, when that personage presented himself before her, “I want you to go to the gin-house, and get Ann Eliza, and give her one good whipping. I have whipped her myself till I am tired, but it does no good. She needs bringing down, for she is the torment of my life. Lay it on well; you needn't be afraid. It is a good time now, as Mr. McKiernan is away from home. He is mighty careful of the pretty girl, himself, and that is what makes her so impudent.”

“Yes, ma'am,” replied Anderson, “I'll give her a lesson she'll remember;” and he departed to the gin-house.

Ann Eliza saw him coming, and she knew her doom. She cast one imploring look at her husband, who was working at her side. Edward returned it with a glance so full of terror, pity, and an intense longing to avenge her wrongs, that all her powers were roused, and she felt strong to endure the worst.

She stood calmly by her husband's side, while, with his rope, the ruffian bound her hands; and then, at his command, she followed him towards the house, leaving poor Edward gazing after her in silent terror. One moment a flash of vengeance gleamed from his dark eyes; and then he realized his utter helplessness, and his head drooped low, while great tears fell upon the heap of cotton.

Peter stood in the shelter of one of the out-buildings, and watched Anderson as he led his victim to the orchard. There he “staked her out” upon the ground, and, with a zest unknown to uncultivated natures, he applied the cowhide to her naked back and limbs. Her screams of agony only excited his demoniac mirth. “That's right,” he cried, “I like to hear you shout; that's the way ye all shout at the camp-ground. Shout away! you're gittin' happy now.”

He beat her there, mockin' the while her cries of pain, till she became too much exhausted to utter another sound; and then, untying her, he delivered her to her mistress. “Thar, ma'am,” said he, “she ain't got use for no more this time. She's got the devil in her, but I reckon he'll keep still till she gits over this ere.”

Much religious excitement existed at this time among the slaves in the neighborhood, and particularly upon the plantation of Mr. McKiernan. An old Baptist preacher, named Archie Eggleston, had been hired here the preceding year; and he had zealously preached to his brethren in bonds the love and compassion of Jesus; and had sought, in his simple way, to encourage them to hope for a home among “the spirits bright.” His language, it is true, was full of the quaint idioms of his race; but it spoke to the hearts of his unlearned auditory; for the little which he could tell them of the blessed Saviour was just what they loved to hear. They “received the word with gladness,” and, with its warm and cheering rays, it illumined their darkness, and strewed the thorny path they trod, not with the roses of content, but with the trembling violets of hope.

Sweet, when their daily toil was done, was the hour which, borrowed from their needed rest, they spent alone in prayer; and, as the breath of their humble souls ascended on the soft air of evening, their trusting hearts were filled with heavenly consolations.

THE overseer on Mr. McKiernan's place was usually a representative of the lowest order of his profession. The master could tolerate no other, and those of the better class would not remain in his employ. If, by chance, he hired one of a higher grade than the brutish fellows to whom his business was wont to be intrusted, his stay was short.

“Why don't you put on some decent clothes?” said such a one to a half-naked negro, soon after he entered upon his duties in the field.

“Ain't got none but dese yer, sir.”

“Where's the clothes your master gave you this fall?”

“He ain't never give us no clothes, sir, in more'n a year.”

“Humph! I'll not have anything to do with his lousy niggers; I shall get lousy myself.”

“Mr. McKiernan, I can't do business for you; your niggers are too filthy and ragged; I can't oversee such a gang.”

“Well, I'm going to get them new clothes soon; I've been intending to get some this long time, but it has been neglected.”

AT the beginning of the year 1842, Peter was hired to Mr. James A. Stoddard, at that time teacher of the boys school in Tuscumbia. He was a New England man, an elder in the Presbyterian church, and an exception to the often-quoted rule, that “persons who have been raised in the free States make tile worst masters.”

The peaceful home of Mr. Stoddard, with the light labor which devolved upon him, formed a pleasant contrast to the plantation where he had spent the preceding year. He was now well-fed; and was furnished during the year with four suits of clothes, which was one more than he had been accustomed to receive. These suits consisted each of a coarse cotton shirt, with roundabouts and trousers of blue jean. They were not rich, nor costly, it is true, but they were always clean.

During this year, he went regularly once in two weeks to see his family, and on these occasions he was often able to carry them some little comforts. These he earned by performing little services for others at times when Mr. Stoddard had nothing for him to do. Sometimes he went on foot to the plantation, twelve miles distant, but often some kind gentleman lent him a horse; and then with the little package of coffee and sugar, or perhaps with a comfortable jacket for one of his beloved sons, he rode along with a hopeful heart.

Eagerly did his three boys, with their little sister, watch for their father's coming; and when they heard his approaching footsteps, although the night was dark, they bounded forth to meet him with shouts of joy. Ah! they knew he brought the sunshine in his heart.

In October of this year, Miss Sarah Gist, the second daughter of his deceased master, was married to young John H. Hogun, a son of her mother's husband. The eldest daughter, Mary, had died about two years after the second marriage of her mother.

A division of the property was now made. The slaves numbered thirty-four, but to one old man, Uncle Pompey, the guardians of the estate granted his liberty. The remaining thirty-three were examined and appraised by a committee of five men; and then, after being divided into three lots, they were drawn by the agents of the three heirs.

The lot in which Peter was placed was drawn by Miss Sarah's agent; and the guardianship of his affairs was consequently transferred to her father-in-law. He took charge of the property of his children until they should become of age, the young bridegroom at his marriage being but eighteen years old, while the bride was only sixteen.

Uncle Pompey, who was kindly set free on this occasion was about eighty years old. His wife was the property of Rev. Mr. L. of Leighton. The poor old man was not wanted there, and for some time he wandered to and fro, a prey to the cruelty of patrols and other ruffians who abounded in that region. By these he was persecuted and beaten till Miss Sarah, pitying his sufferings, took him home and cared for him during the remainder of his life.

Great was the consternation among the slaves that were drawn by Miss Sarah and her young husband, when they learned that the elder Hogun was, at least for a time, to be their master. They knew his character, and feared that he might take them home to work on the plantation. He, however, allowed them to remain where they were during the year, and at Christmas time, he hired them out again.

Mr. Stoddard was, throughout the year, a kind friend to Peter; and at its close, he recommended him so warmly to his pastor, the Rev. Mr. Stedman, that he hired him for the ensuing year of Mr. Hogun. Mr. Stoddard soon after quitted teaching, and re-opened his store in Tuscumbia, where he still remains—a highly respected merchant, and one of the best citizens in town.

To Mr. and Mrs. Stedman, Peter soon became ardently attached. In all their dealings with him they respected his humanity; and no effort on their part was spared that could promote his happiness.

His duties were various, and required all his time; but he performed them cheerfully, for his heart was in his work. He took the whole care of the Church— kept it clean, rang the bell, and built fires when they were needed. Then he hauled all the wood for the family, and prepared it for the fire; “hauled water” from the spring for two families besides his own; and performed also the duties of waiter and errand boy. If the cook chanced to be sick a day or two, he took her place, and filled it with ability—in short, he spared no effort that could conduce to the comfort of those who showed by their steady kindness, that they regarded him as a man.

Morning and evening when they knelt at the family altar, the servants were called in, and as the man of God poured forth his petitions to the Great Father, the heart of the lowly slave was lifted upward, and from the loving household band a pure offering of thanksgiving ascended to the throne of the Invisible.

Mrs. Stedman was a native of New England and from her conversation and manners, Peter received his first impressions of life in “the North.” Oh! how ardently he wished that he might one day behold that wondrous land where all are free!

The Christmas Holidays arrived, but Peter instead of going, as was the usual custom, to spend them with his fellow-servants at his mistress' home, remained in town with his good friend, Mrs. Stedman. She had need of his services until the end of the year, and though his time for that week was his own, he had no wish to leave her.

His failure to come out with his fellow-servants, Mr. Hogun construed into a sign of increasing independence of his master's family. Such an offence must needs be punished. He therefore hired him for the next year to Mr. John Pollock, a merchant of Tuscumbia. He knew this would be distasteful to Peter, because he would naturally choose to remain in the service of the kind Pastor; but when the slave ventured to express this preference, he received only curses, and an assurance that he “asked no odds of a nigger.” “You've got mighty independent all at once;” said he, “couldn't come out Christmas to tell me where you wanted to live; so now you shall go where I say, d—n you.”

On New Years Day, 1844, Peter went to Mr. Pollock's. Here, too, he was kindly treated, and his labor was not severe. He filled vacancies among the house servants, worked in the garden, and was drayman for the store, where he slept whenever the clerk chanced to be absent. He was diligent and faithful; and his employer ever after spoke in his praise.

In August of this year, Mr. Pollock, at Peter's request, hired him out to go as cook with a company of gentlemen to the Whig Mass Convention at Nashville.

The party numbered sixty-three; and they were well supplied with tents, provisions, and various conveniences for camping out on the road. They had quantities of bread and bacon, with a store of meal for the indispensable hot corn cake.

At about nine o'clock on the morning of the fifteenth day of August, the procession passed gaily through the town. At the doors and windows, bright eyes were beaming, and fair hands waved hopeful adieus to husbands, sons, and lovers; and though the day was intensely hot, the merry band responded in high spirits.

Many of the gentlemen rode their own horses, while others went in the wagons; and conversation, mirth, and song, enlivened all the hours. They stopped occasionally to rest their horses, and to enjoy for a little while the delicious shade at the bright springs which sparkle here and there in the pleasant Valley of the Tennessee.

Just before sunset, they reached Blue Water, a quiet little stream, that flows between banks of softest green into the lovely river. Here they encamped for the night. The gentlemen proceeded to put up the tents, while the servants built a fire, and prepared the supper. The cooking devolved on Peter, and a man belonging to Mr. W—, of Florence; and while they vied with each other in displaying their knowledge of the elegancies of their art, the two remaining servants were sent to the neighboring Whig farmers to bring straw for the floors of the tents.

Forked sticks were then driven into the ground to support two or three long planks which had been brought in one of the wagons. These formed their table, on which were set the bread and bacon, and the hot coffee which had been prepared in a great kettle over the fire.

Each of the party was supplied with a little tin plate, which he filled himself, and with this he seated himself on a stump or on the soft green turf. Here he enjoyed his simple supper with a relish unknown to those who pine for appetite beside the heavy-laden board of luxury.

After supper, wine, cards and merry conversation filled the hours, till as sleep began to steal over their senses, they sought their tents, where on the clean straw were spread their mattresses and blankets, inviting them to gentle slumbers.

The early morning found them all astir. Hot coffee steamed on the rude table, and a hearty breakfast was soon dispatched. Then the tents were struck, and, with the blankets and cooking utensils, the slaves replaced them in the wagons. The horses, which after being well fed, had been hitched to the trees at night, were soon prepared for motion, and, with a loud “Hurrah!” the party commenced their second day's journey.

At every town through which they passed, they were greeted with welcoming shouts. Ladies waved their hands as they passed by, and little children raised their tiny flags, and cried, “Hurrah for Clay!”

They reached Nashville on the eighteenth, at noon. The Convention was already in session; and the white tents of other visitors dotted the green fields and groves in the suburbs, while in the wood southeast of the city, were set long tables for the entertainment of the guests from abroad. These tables were abundantly furnished by the Whigs of the city with substantial viands, suited to the taste of all. Bands of music enlivened the groves, and it seemed a universal gala day.

Stands for speakers were erected at various places in the city; and wordy politicians talked themselves hoarse on the beauties of high tariffs, and the disastrous consequences that would follow the election of Mr. Polk. Banners with full-length portraits of the great Kentucky statesman were borne in front of processions through the streets—though Mr. Clay himself sat in his quiet home.

The Tuscumbia delegation pitched their tents on a hill near the city, and at once entered heartily into the excitement. Their four servants also, keenly enjoyed these lively times, which formed a variation in their monotonous existence; and to this day the stirring scenes and noisy crowds of the great Convention form the basis of many a tale, which beguiles the dreary hours of toil.

They spent a week in the city; though the Convention adjourned three days after their arrival. The remaining time was spent by the gentlemen in visiting friends, or in such other amusements as were suited to their various tastes and habits.

Peter had hoped that, during his stay at Nashville, he might find some chance to escape from slavery; and it was with this purpose in his heart, that he asked leave to go. He had brought with him his little stock of money—only fifteen dollars, it is true, but it seemed to him a large sum, and he was sure it would do him “a heap of good” if he were free. Thoughts of leaving his dear wife and children made him very sad; but the idea of freedom was mighty; and he resolved to try.

He walked in the evening down to the river, but on no boat could he espy a corner where he might hide and sail away to the far land of the free. He could not be long absent from the camp without being missed by some of his many masters; and when the week had passed away, and the company were about to return, he had been able to discover no avenue of escape. So he aided in the preparations for the homeward journey; and smothered in his heart those wild longings for liberty that had so long been struggling there for breath.

The gentlemen all noticed with approval his active industry, and enjoyed the comforts which they owed to his quick perceptions of order and fitness in the arrangement of their few conveniences; yet not one of them guessed what a brave, true heart he bore; or how that heart, like a caged bird, was even then beating and struggling to be free. Their return home was gayer even than their outward journey. Jests and merriment abounded. Amusing experiences during their sojourn in the city were reviewed; and none noticed or cared that the servant was less happy than his masters.

Arrived once more at home, Peter moved on in the old channels. His failure to escape from thraldom had not caused him to despair; and as each day he fulfilled his round of duties, the hope was strong within him that a brighter morn would yet appear.

On the first day of 1845, Peter entered the service of Mr. Michael Brady, a wealthy Irishman, also a merchant of Tuscumbia. He was a young bachelor of pleasing manners and strict business habits.

Peter had now better opportunities than he had ever before enjoyed for gaining general information. He was employed about the store, in waiting on his young master, and doing errands; and he was frequently an interested listener to conversations which they did not dream he had the sense to understand. He had also many opportunities of becoming acquainted with the citizens of the town, and his habits of close observation tended to his rapid advancement in a knowledge of human nature. Even at this time few more correct judges of character could be found in town than this quiet, docile slave. He seemed to see beneath the surface, and to glance deep at the motives of the heart.

Mr. Brady, although extremely kind to Peter, had some peculiar notions. He paid for his board at a hotel, instead of letting him earn it by waiting on the table, as was the custom with young men who hired a slave; and he positively forbade Peter's performing the slightest service for any person except his partner and himself. In this prohibition Peter felt the galling chains of slavery. He loved to do a kindness; and it was so natural to bring a bucket of water, or to black a pair of boots for some young gentleman who addressed him kindly, that he could scarcely avoid offering such little services, though he knew that thus he should incur the displeasure of his young master.

But Mr. Brady was firm. He did not intend that his servant should need favors from others. He preferred supplying his wants himself: and often, when Peter was going on Saturday night to make his accustomed visit to his family, the young man gave him some little present for them from the store.

For all these kindnesses Peter was duly grateful, but they did not sweeten the slave-cup. It still overflowed with bitterness; and in his heart he spurned the draught, and vowed he would be free.

The next year, 1846, the young master, John H. Hogun, having become of age, assumed the control of his wife's property, and hired Peter to Mr. Allen Pollock, a bookseller of Tuscumbia.

Mr. Pollock had, some weeks before Christmas, proposed to Peter that he should live with him the ensuing year, and hire his own time. He had not much for him to do, he said, and after cutting his wood, putting his store in order, blacking his boots, and doing such other small jobs as might be necessary, he could get work elsewhere in town; and all he earned above the eighty-five dollars hire which Hogun must receive, should be his own. True, this arrangement was against the law, but if it were kept secret, it could do no harm.

For a long time Peter hesitated. Mr. Pollock was said to be a close, penurious man, and our student of human nature doubted the disinterestedness of his motives. Still there was a chance that he might succeed in saving something; he might, at least, procure more comforts for his family than they had yet possessed and he at length resolved to try.

PETER commenced the year 1848 with high hopes. His last year's gains had greatly encouraged him, for he had laid up, besides expending over thirty dollars for his family, one hundred and five dollars; which, with thirty dollars which he had saved before he hired his time, and the seventy-five that he had accumulated while with Mr. Pollock, made two hundred and ten dollars now in his possession.

The hope of being free he had thus far communicated to none but his true-hearted wife; but now, as he had become satisfied that Mr. Friedman was his friend, he determined to seek his co-operation in his plan. This resolution was not formed without the most careful consideration; and yet, when he approached the counting-room for the purpose of opening to the Jew his cherished plans, his heart throbbed painfully, and his knees trembled so that he could scarcely walk.

“Mr. Friedman,” said he, “I've got something I want to tell you, but it 's a great secret.”

“Well, Peter—”

“I've been a thinkin', sir, I'd like to buy myself and you've always dealt so fa'r with me, I didn't know but you mought buy me, and then give me a chance.”

ON the twentieth of July, all preliminaries being arranged, Mr. Friedman and his servant took the boat for Louisville.

“Now, Peter,” said Dr. W—, as he shook hands with him upon the sidewalk, “mind what I tell you; if those Jews go to sell you, just telegraph to me.”

“Thank you, sir, I will; but I reckon they ain't gwine to sell me, any how.”

Several other gentlemen, as he passed along, gave him similar assurances; and with the kindest wishes of all the citizens, he left the town.

“That is outrageous,” said a kind hearted gentleman, who watched the faithful servant as he passed out of sight—“for that Jew to carry off such a fellow as old Peter, and to have a right to sell him whenever he likes.”

Peter paid his fare to Louisville by working on the boat—The Greek Slave—Captain Francis. When they reached that city, the cholera was raging fearfully; and Mr. Friedman thought best to make no stop, but to hasten on to Cincinnati. Thither also, Peter obtained permission to accompany him; and at six o'clock on the morning of the twenty-sixth of July, the free soil of Ohio was pressed by his weary feet.

MRS. Byas herself answered the bell. She was a bright mulatto woman, with a kind smile and a pleasant voice. Dr. Byas, she said, was not at home—he had gone to Cincinnati. Peter explained to her that he was sent there by some friends in Pittsburg.

“Oh, well, then, come right in,” said she, “I can take care of you.”

He entered the house, and sat down, while the good woman proceeded to explain to him the cause of her husband's absence. To this he hearkened not. “Do you know how fur it is to the Delaware river?” said he.

“Why, yes—it is right down here at the wharf.”

He sprang to his feet. “That is just the river I'm a huntin' for. I was born on that river; and I want to go down and find the old house where my father and mother lived—right on the side of the hill.”

“Oh, stay till I get you some dinner,” said Mrs. Byas,“ and then I will show you the way to the river.”

“No, no—I must go now—I believe I can find the house.”

GLADLY would his friends have retained Peter in their midst, but his plan was fixed. He determined to return immediately to the South, that he might acquaint his family with his success, and arrange some plan for their redemption. He felt that he could not himself enjoy the blessings of freedom, and the sweet society of those who loved him while his own wife and children toiled in hopeless bondage.

To his proposed return his friends, at first, refused to listen. They could not bear to lose him now, when they had just learned to love him, and they felt sure that if he went again to Alabama they should see his face no more.

It would be far better, they said, for his family to gain their liberty by flight, and perhaps if he would remain, some one would go and aid them to escape. It would be so hazardous for him to venture where, if his secret were discovered, he might be thrust into jail, and sold upon the block. But he was firm. He knew the dangers which awaited him, yet he had promised his family that he would return; and he would rather lose his life than forfeit his word to them. He knew how anxiously they would watch for his coming; he knew how their hearts would faint if he delayed;— ah! he knew that his love was the one blessed light which shone upon poor Vina's darkened path. From his own lips she should first hear of his great happiness, and together they would try to devise a plan by which herself and children might come to share his joy.

Perhaps he could purchase their freedom. This had ever been his hope; and though his friends believed it was impossible, they failed to shake his confidence in the wisdom of making the attempt. He had rescued himself from bondage, and he knew “no such word as fail.” “I can die,” said he, “but I cannot live without tryin' to do something for my family—I must go back.”

With many tears, the affectionate circle bade him adieu. “O, my child! my child!” sobbed his aged mother. “I never shall see your face again. You can't get back; and your poor old mother will go down to the grave a mournin' for her son. May the Lord bless you wherever you go, and deliver you from every danger!”

On the eighth of August, Peter left Philadelphia, on his return to Alabama. He feared that if he remained longer in that city, he might meet some, merchant whom he knew; as at that season they were accustomed to come on for their Fall goods. If a Tuscumbian should see him there, the news would swiftly fly, that he had run away from Mr. Friedman; and then he could not return, even with free papers, to complete his cherished plan.

LATE at night, on the thirtieth of November, Peter reached his brother's house in Philadelphia. He trembled not now, as when at first his foot approached his kinsman's threshold. A sense of personal security rested upon his heart, and the light of quiet happiness beamed from his smiling face.

During the few days which he spent with his brother William, the idea of sending a man to rescue his family was again suggested. Many of his brother's friends were earnest advocates of such a plan. It would take too long to raise the sum requisite to purchase them, and besides, the offering of money for their ransom would in some sense recognize the right of the slaveholder to claim property in human flesh. “We are anxious” they said, “to aid your loved ones in escaping from bondage, but we cannot bear to give gold to him who has so long defrauded the helpless laborers of their hire.”

To all these arguments of his friends, Peter opposed the dangers of their scheme. It would, he said, be very difficult for them to escape; and then, if they should be pursued and taken, the sufferings of their whole past lives were nothing to the punishment they might receive. And worst of all, they might be sold; and then all chance of getting them would be for ever lost.

But those to whose proposal he objected were educated men, while he was but a poor emancipated slave, who never in his life had read a book—and their persuasions triumphed. He described to them, though with reluctance, the location of the premises where his family might be found, and also the persons of his wife and children.

He then left these friends to mature their plan, while he went to visit his mother. He was deeply anxious concerning the result of the deliberations then going on in Philadelphia, for he could not yet give up the idea which he had so long cherished—that of attempting the purchase of those whose safety he prized above all other objects.

Many people in the vicinity of his mother's home had heard of the return of the long-lost son and brother, and now, when they learned his anxiety to redeem his family they kindly volunteered to aid him. He accepted with a grateful heart the contributions which they offered, though how they could be made available was still a question.

When he had been two weeks in New Jersey, he received a letter requesting his immediate return to Philadelphia, and he hasted to obey the summons. He had already received one hundred dollars as the beginning of a fund to ransom those he loved, and that he took with him to the city.

During his absence, a man named Seth Concklin, who had heard of his case, had offered to go to Alabama, and bring his wife and children. He asked no further equipment for the journey than sufficient money to defray his necessary expenses, and some sign whereby the family would recognize him as a friend.

Peter's heart trembled. To the proposal of his friends he had assented; but then it was indefinite, and he doubted the possibility of their finding a man who would face the dangers of such an undertaking. He had all the time cherished a secret hope that they would yet abandon this project, and aid him in accomplishing the plan which he so much preferred. Not that he thought it would be unjust or wrong to aid them to escape. Ah, no! He had never yet become so thoroughly enslaved in spirit as for a moment to recognize the right of man to hold his brother man in bonds; but merely as a matter of policy he had chosen to purchase their freedom—though to do so would cost him both toil and patience.

Now, however, the scheme was all arranged, and these good friends had manifested so warm an interest in promoting his happiness that he could not refuse them all the aid which it was in his power to give.

He accordingly gave Concklin an accurate description of Mr. McKiernan's place, with directions concerning the best methods of approaching it. He told him also the names and ages of his family; and gave him a cape of Vina's— one of the articles of dress which she had given him as a keepsake. “When she sees this,” said he, “she will know that you are a friend; but please, sir, be careful and don't get 'em into trouble. It'll go mighty hard with 'em if they try to run off, and Mr. McKiernan cotches 'em.”

The one hundred dollars which Peter had received in New Jersey was now devoted to defraying the cost of this expedition, and early in January, all the arrangements having been completed, Concklin entered upon his perilous undertaking.

We subjoin the account which is given by Rev. Dr. Furness, of Concklin's introduction to the friends of the slave in Philadelphia, and also of the first steps that were taken in this daring enterprise.

“Of this remarkable person, whose history, and heroic tragedy, must not be suffered to die, but very little was known at that time. He was not a member of any Abolition Society, nor was it known that he had any fixed residence. A man, plainly dressed, and slightly built, but evidently active and vigorous, with a face expressive of great decision, had come occasionally to the Anti-Slavery Office in Philadelphia, to inquire about Mr. Chaplin, then in prison in Maryland, for aiding certain slaves in an attempt to escape from the District of Columbia. The stranger manifested a deep interest in Mr. Chaplin's fate, contributed a small sum monthly to the Chaplin fund, and on one occasion produced a statement in writing of a plan, which he had devised, subject to the approval of Mr. Chaplin's friends, whereby he offered to go to Maryland, liberate Mr. Chaplin, and bring him safely into the Free States; requiring only a moderate sum to defray his expenses. The scheme was striking for its boldness and sagacity, but all participation in it was declined by the agents of the Anti-Slavery Society, on the obvious ground that it was not by such methods that they were seeking the Abolition of Slavery. (It is not an object of the Society to assist, directly or indirectly, in the abduction of slaves.) The proposals, however, on the part of Mr. Concklin, served to show the character of the man. It was made apparent that he was an Abolitionist on his own account. He was understood to be one of those few men in whom the hatred of slavery has become a ruling passion. He was a whole Abolition Society in himself; with very limited pecuniary means indeed, but with, what is infinitely better than uncounted gold, a single and commanding purpose, which danger could not shake, but only animate. His subsequent history, and all that was afterwards ascertained of his previous life, only corroborated the impressions received of his character “upon the occasions of these visits to the Anti-slavery office. He was a man whose constitutional love of adventure, exercised from early boyhood by a series of privations and trials that would have broken down any ordinary man, had come to be consecrated to the knightly office of succoring the miserable; and especially the enslaved, as of all men the most to be commiserated. In contrast with his tried heroism, the wordy chivalry of the South shows as rags and tinsel.

“As soon as he was informed of the condition of Peter's family, he offered, with the help of a small sum to defray his travelling expenses, to go to Alabama, and bring them into the free State of Pennsylvania. He asked for no companion, and no compensation; only for the means of paying the expenses of the journey, and for credentials to satisfy Peter's wife that he came from her husband.

“A daring enterprise, indeed! It is not easy to conceive of an undertaking more hazardous, or one that more peremptorily demanded, in him who should attempt it, all the qualities that give the world assurance of a man.

“The plantation that Seth Conklin was to reach lay in the north-western part of Alabama, eight hundred miles from Cincinnati. He was to traverse two slave States—Kentucky and Tennessee. To penetrate thus deep into slave-land, at a time when the ferocity and the fear that guard it had been startled from their long slumber by the far-off coming of the step of doom, for the purpose of plucking therefrom a poor bondwoman and her children, outdoes all the fabled feats of old knighthood.

“Our hero took with him neither pistol nor bowie-knife, although he knew how to use them, for, as has since been learned, he had been a soldier. ‘He should be tempted to use them,’ he said, ‘and then he should be sure to be overborne.’

“His first object was to explore the route, to discover safe hiding-places, and to ascertain who in the border free States would be willing to befriend and aid him, when he should have succeeded—if he should succeed—in escaping with his protégées from the slave States. At Cincinnati, he met with devoted friends, who appreciated all the hazards of the attempt. But he soon ascertained that his perils would be far from being at an end when he should have got, on his return, beyond the limits of Kentucky. Indeed, when he entered the slave States, it was under the impression that the chief hazard of the undertaking, as the result most fearfully proved, would be encountered in the bordering free States. In seeking to provide places of refuge in Illinois and Indiana, he found the southern boundaries of these States, free as they claim to be, infested with men thirsting for the rewards offered to those who are willing to cast aside their humanity, and do the work of bloodhounds—hunting the outcast, and seeking and dragging back the fugitive. ‘Searching the country opposite Paducah, Ky., I found,’ he wrote, in a letter dated Eastport. Miss., Feb. 3d, ‘the whole country, fifty miles around, is inhabited by Christian wolves. It is customary, when a strange negro is seen, for any white man to seize him, and convey him through and out of the State of Illinois to Paducah, and lodge such stranger in Paducah jail, and then claim such reward as may be offered by the master.’

“Failing in the attempt to secure friends on the borders of Illinois, to meet him upon his return, yet, trusting, nevertheless, to his own address, and to a good Providence, he crossed to Paducah, and took a steamboat on the Tennessee river for South Florence, the final point of his journey. This was a little town, four hundred miles up the river, containing about twenty families, and a post-office, but no school!”

This place he reached on the twenty-eighth of January, having been four days coming up the Tennessee.

Soon after his arrival at South Florence, Concklin made his way to the plantation of Mr. McKiernan, and succeeded in obtaining an interview with Vina. It was a cold, dark night. Trembling, the faithful wife went forth form her cabin to the place where it had been intimated to her she should hear from her husband. Every few steps she stopped and listened, for fear some curious neighbor had watched her exit, and would follow her, or—what was worse—report her absence to the overseer. And then she grew afraid to venture forward, lest some trap were laid for her unwary feet.

At last, however, the thought of Peter, and the hope of hearing of his welfare, conquered all her fears, and she walked on. Soon she discerned a figure at a little distance, but the darkness was so intense that she could not tell whether it was friend or foe. She paused. “Is your name Vina?” said a strange voice.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“Are you Peter Friedman's wife?”

“Yes, sir, I's his wife.”

“How would you like to go to him?”

“I'd like it mons's well, sir, if I could git thar.”

“Well, I have come on purpose to take you to see him. Do you believe me?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Can you see me, so as to know me if you should meet me again?”

“No, sir, it's so dark; I can't see your face good.”

He held up one hand. “Do you see my hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you see me again, you will know me by that hand. You see that half the forefinger is cut off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe that I came from Peter?”

“I don't know, sir.”

He drew forth from his pocket the gingham cape which Peter had given him as a sign. She could see its form, and she recognized it in a moment. That moment her doubts of his sincerity were gone.

Yet she hesitated. She well knew the difficulties and dangers that would attend an effort to escape; especially when a family of four should make the attempt together; and nothing but her deep love for her husband, and her faith in his discretion could have tempted her to dare it. “But,” thought she, “he never, would 'a'sent a man 'way here to help as if he didn't think we mought git off. Leastways we'll try. He knows best what we can do, for he's done took the journey twice.”

“When does you want us to go?” said she aloud.

“Just as soon as you can get ready. How long will it take you, do you think?”

“I don't know, Sir. I don't believe we could git ready short o' four weeks.”

“Well, I can wait. I must go back to Louisville to do some business before I take you on. But I want first to see the boys, where are they?”

“Oh, they're off on the Island, they won't come home 'fore Saturday night.”

“Well, you tell them to come down to the landing on Sunday. I will be there walking about, and if I see two young men, I will keep this hand in sight. You describe it to them, that they will know me. Now, good bye. Don't be afraid. I will do all I can for you, but you must help yourselves.”

Vina returned to her cabin. Her heart was full. One moment the hope was strong within her that they should all escape in safety. She saw the face of her husband, she listened to his voice; again she heard the fierce pursuer on her track, and felt herself dragged back to meet a tenfold darker doom than she had yet encountered. “I couldn' b'ar,” she says, “the idea of totin' a scabby back from one year to another, and sometimes 'peard like I couldn't tell whether to go or not. One mind say, yes, and t'other mind say, no, but at last I des' thought I would start, any how, whether I prevailed or not.

The next Sunday, Peter and Levin walked down towards the river, and when about half-way to the landing, they met a stranger. He were an old pair of low quarter shoes without stockings, and his pantaloons were rolled up half-way to the knee. Altogether his appearance was that of the “poor white men,” who inhabit the mountainous districts back of the rich plantations. As he approached they noticed the mutilated finger, but they did not speak, they would not appear too hasty.

The stranger stopped. “Do you know me?” said he.

“No, Sir.”

“Did you ever see me before?”

“No, Sir.”

“Your name is Peter, is it not?” said he, addressing the oldest.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And yours is Levin?”

“Yes, Sir, but how did you a know it?”

“I know you by your resemblance to your father.”

“Where did you see our father?”

“I saw him only once, in Philadelphia.”

They then turned aside into the woods, and there, seated upon a log, they held a long consultation concerning the best means of escape. Concklin told them all his plans, and listened patiently to their suggestions, and then, lest some wanderer in the woods should discover them in council, they separated.

The next Wednesday the stranger left the neighborhood on board the boat for Louisville. On the same boat Mr. McKiernan started for his usual annual visit to New Orleans; but as Concklin appeared in humble garb, and neither drank nor gambled, he came into no contact with the planter.

This trip down the Tennessee confirmed Concklin in the opinion he had already formed—that it would be unsafe to depend upon escaping with his poor helpless friends upon a steamboat. He procured a skiff, and early in March he returned, having made all possible arrangements for their speedy transport beyond the bounds of slavery's domain.

For two weeks he was obliged to wait for them to complete their preparations, or rather, for an opportunity for the whole family to leave the place without exciting suspicion. At last, on Saturday night, the boys obtained of the overseer passes to go to South Florence on Sunday, to buy sugar and coffee for their mother. Vina and her daughter also procured passes to go to Mrs. Jackson's, a few miles distant, where they were to remain until the boys returned. They asked for the passes at night in order , as they said, that they might start soon in the morning, and get to Mrs. Jackson's before breakfast.

When all was still throughout the quarter—and it seemed that night as though some of the people never would go to bed,” the little family went out into the night. Vina locked the door, and gave the key to a young girl named Susanna, desiring her to go in and Prepare supper for them the next evening.

The mother and her children walked away in silence, and at first with stealthy steps. Their hearts quaked with fear, but they had gone too far to recede. Choking down the sobs that strove to break the midnight silence, they pressed each other's hands to renew their courage, and hastened on.

The clear sky hovered lovingly over the trembling fugitives, the stars, all silent, shone upon their pathway; but they saw neither sky nor stars, one faint dim hope beamed on them from afar, but the thick clouds of terror often obscured its light.

With timid steps they approached the river, and walking along the bank, they soon descried the skiff. Levin whistled. No answer. Could it be that Concklin had disappointed them?

They turned and walked down the stream thinking perhaps he had gone in search of them. “Thar!” said the mother, “this yer jaunt's a gwine to turn out bad, for nobody has good luck when they turns back after started on a long journey.” Failing to perceive the object of their search in this direction, they returned to the skiff, and stooping down, saw Concklin lying fast asleep in the bottom. He had waited for them till he was weary, and Levin's timid whistle had failed to waken him from his first sound slumber.

It was now nearly three o'clock, and entering the skiff, they hastened off. The two boys, as well as Conklin, knew how to use the oars with skill and power, and they fairly flew over the water.

At daylight they passed Eastport, distant about forty miles from Bainbridge Landing. Just below that town they met a steamboat, but by the direction of a kind Providence, she kept on the south side of a small island in the river, while Concklin guided his skiff towards the north bank, and thus they escaped the notice of the crew. Upon that boat was Mr. McKiernan, then on his return from Louisiana; and had the skiff been noticed, he might easily have recognized the two boys, who were both at the oars.

“During Sunday,” wrote Concklin to a friend, “we were hailed once by half a dozen men on shore, to know where we were from, where going,&c. There being a strong head-wind, I appeared as if I could not hear them. I know not what they would have done if they had had a good skiff. Several parties of men gazed at us along the river. I had previously informed myself of the scarcity of good skiffs on the Tennessee river, on which thing alone rested a part of my safety. I stood at the helm whenever we were in sight of anybody, keeping Levin and Peter at the oars. At all other times, and during the nights, I was principally at the oars. In the daytime I caused Vina and Catharine to lie under the blankets, so as not to be seen. They had a hard time of it. Having a strong head-wind, the water dashed into the boat, so as to keep the blankets all the time wet. Peter and Levin got sleepy Sunday evening, and were so by times all the way through.

“At five o'clock, Monday evening, for the first time, I lay down under a blanket, when the boys said two men were calling to us in a skiff near the shore, and coming towards us. I ordered that no effort should be made to run. The two men came alongside, eagerly demanding where they were going, and ‘whar from? Are you all black men a'board?’ My boys replied in Southern phrase, ‘White Massa lyin' thar, sir.’ When I arose on my knees, partly throwing off my blanket, and staring my assailants in the face, they bowed, with ‘How de do, sir.’ I returned the compliment. They demanded where I was going, and from whence I came. I dignifiedly replied, ‘To Paducah, and from Eastport.’ They bowed, gave my boat a scrutinizing look, and retired.

“During Monday night a squall of wind came near dashing our craft to pieces against the large trees, but by good management I succeeded in getting between the trees to the shore, and there remained one hour before we could start. Arrived on the Ohio at sunrise Tuesday morning—fifty-one hours time. It should have been done,— under favorable circumstances in thirty-six hours. The current of the Tennessee is very stiff. On the Ohio I intended to travel exclusively at nights. Circumstances were against me, and I was compelled to travel as much by day as by night. One half of two nights it was so dark, that I could not navigate. My crew murmured in consequence of the hardships. They did not seem to understand that they were to work for themselves and for their lives. I had no fair wind from the time I started till I arrived at Harmony. It would be impossible to describe the difficulties I have encountered.”

At ten o'clock on Sunday morning March 23d, they landed at New Harmony, Ia. Seven days they had rowed in that frail skiff, exposed each moment to the danger of discovery and seizure by some one of Slavery's numerous spies. Seven nights had chilled their limbs, and well nigh exhausted their energies, both of mind and body, for except the mother, they were all unused to patient labors. Theirs had been years of toil without an object, and they were at this time scarcely capable of self-imposed endurance of fatigue.

Now, although their feet pressed the soil of a Free State, their perils were not passed, and they pursued their way on foot towards the North with anxious hearts.

Concklin, who had assumed the name of Miller, had doffed the shabby garb which he had worn before, and now appeared neatly and comfortably clad. The boys wore pants of Kentucky jean and black cloth coats, while Vina and her daughter in their plaid shawls and comfortable hoods would scarcely have been recognized, even by those who had often seen them at their labor, as field hands from McKiernan's place.

All day they travelled on the public road; and though they “met a heap of people,” they were not questioned. There was nothing, indeed, in their appearance to excite remark, except that they were dark in hue and journeying towards the North. At night they reached the house of a friend, where they were received most kindly. A bountiful supper was quickly prepared for them, and they soon lay down to peaceful slumbers. All the next day, too, they rested, for in their future journeyings, it was deemed wisest to accept the friendly guidance of the stars.

After supper on Monday night came another friend to carry them northward to his home. He brought two horses which the women rode; while himself and Concklin, with the two re-animated brothers, walked beside them. At three o'clock on Tuesday morning they reached their second resting place, where they remained till Wednesday night. They then resumed their journey, and travelled all night on foot. Cheerfully they walked along, for every hour their hope became stronger as their old master's success in overtaking them grew more and more improbable. At late breakfast time on Thursday they reached another station, where they rested till Friday morning. They were then so far from the river that Concklin thought they might venture to travel in the day-time, so he proposed to continue their journey. But Vina had awaked that morning with a burdened spirit. She “had bad dreams all night,” and she feared to start by daylight. “'Pears like,” said she, “something will happen if we starts to-day. You can do as you likes, sir, but if I was you, I'd put off this yer jaunt till night. 'Pears like 'taint safe, no how.” But Concklin was naturally hopeful and bold, and the presentiments of the ignorant slave woman he regarded as mere idle superstition. They were so nearly out of danger, that he felt extremely anxious to push on.

Vina started with reluctance. The kind friend at whose house they were, lent her a horse for a few miles, and sent his son to ride the animal back. Soon the rain began to fall, and all day long “it rained constant.” All day, too, they journeyed on, for they dared not stop where they were not sure of finding friends.

Late in the afternoon, as with dripping umbrellas and weary feet they walked along, a spotted horse which had escaped from a field by the road side, came galloping before them. His owner called upon the travellers to stop him, but Vina, in a low tone, bade the boys go on. Peter, however, naturally obliging, caught the horse, and delivered him to his owner. A little further on they passed a saw-mill, in front of which a large man stood gazing at the little company. “How d'y', Aunt Lucy,” cried he, “which way are, you travelling?” No answer was given as they hastened on, but their hearts beat quick with fear.

ONE glance at the window sent a shudder through the little party—for there, halting at the gate, were seven men on horseback.

“They done come after us;” hoarsely whispered one of the boys.

“Yes,” answered their mother, “I'll lay anything we're gwine to be tooken now.”

The men dismounted and tied their horses to the fence. Foremost was the owner of the spotted horse, upon the very animal which Peter had delivered into his hand, and next was he who had accosted “Aunt Lucy” but an hour or two before.

What to do the helpless creatures did not know. Concklin was away. Oh! why did he leave them? The house was small, and the only place of egress they could discover was the door by which they had just entered, and this their foes were even then approaching. They saw no place to hide, and the young man and woman, whose house they had so recently entered, stood petrified with amazement, and gazed upon the scene.

The seven men entered the little dwelling. Three or four of them remained near the door, while the others advanced into the middle of the room and opened a conversation with the boys. The heart beat wildly beneath each dark-hued breast, but they strove to look indifferent while they replied to the questioners as they had been previously instructed.

“Where are you going?”

“To Springfield, Sir.”

“Do you belong to the man that brought you here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Where did you come from?”

“From Kaintucky, Sir. Mass'r died last year, and left us to his brother, and now he's a takin' us on to his farm.”

“What did he bring you through here for? Did n't he know that it was against the law?”

“Don't know, Sir, reckon he 'lowed 'twas right.”

“I'll be d—d if I don't believe he stole you all.”

The brave seven then stood aside and consulted for a few minutes, and then one of their number went out. Soon he returned with a half-gallon jug of liquor, and a wagon. The besieging party then took a drink all round to raise their courage. They offered, too, to treat Levin and Peter, but the boys declined the honor.

Another brief consultation was held, and then, producing ropes, these zealous priests of the Moloch of Slavery, proceeded to bind their victims for the sacrifice. How the boys longed to resist !—but they were all unarmed, while their assailants carried both bowie-knives and pistols. Besides, their host, who stood silent by, would, for aught they knew, join with their enemies against them. It would be idle to attempt to fight against such fearful odds; so they stood still while their hands were tied behind them, and then, obeying the orders of the foreman of the band, they climbed into the wagon.

The women followed in silence. Despair was written on their faces, but their captors had no pity for their helpless woe. The coarse jest, and the blasphemous oath went round, while now and then a burst of boisterous laughter came from the “law-abiding” band that guarded their return towards the “land of chivalry.”

When they had proceeded a short distance, Concklin came running after them. Oh! that he had never left them! then had they been safe. He sprang into the wagon, and commenced untying the captives. But he was soon discovered by the ruffians in attendance, who, pointing their pistols at his head, swore that they would blow out his brains if he did not desist.

He remained in the wagon, however, until they reached the jail at Vincennes. It was very late. The lights were extinguished in all the houses, and the jailor was asleep. “Ho! Hallo!” cried the leader of the band.

The jailor at length appeared.

“Do you want some more stock ?”

“I don't know; that depends on what sort it is.”

“Well, its a sort you've not had here lately. Take them in; they're tired, and want to go to bed.”

The jailor held up his light and took a survey of the captives. “Well,” said he, “if they're tired, I don't think they're sleepy; say, are you sleepy, old woman?”

“No, Sir,” replied Vina, “I don't feel like sleepin'.”

“So I thought; I should'nt if I were in your place.”

After some further conversation with the chief of the band, he took the prisoners in and locked them up “But he acted,” Vina says, “like he felt mighty sorry for us; and I believe, if we had'nt been watched so close, he mought 'a' let us go.”

In the jail they were visited every day by Concklin, who came and talked with them through the window; and daily Vina begged him to leave them there and seek his own safety. “Now you can't do us no good, Sir, no how, and 'pears like you best take care o'youself.”

“Oh,” replied he, “I don't feel at all uneasy.”

“Well, Sir, I feels oneasy about you, and you best not stay round yer no longer. It wont make it no better for us, and you'll git into trouble, sure.”

But some dream of rescuing them haunted his mind; he could not bear to leave them. It was something new for him to be foiled in any undertaking; and he had set his heart upon delivering this family to the husband and father, who he know was waiting, with trembling heart, to welcome them.

Immediately after lodging them in jail, the chief of the marauding band had telegraphed in all directions to ascertain if four negroes, answering the description of these had anywhere been missed; and also what reward was offered for their capture. The “lightning postboy” hasted to execute their mission, and soon returned them answer. “Four likely negroes had been stolen from Bernard McKiernan, near South Florence, Ala., and their owner had offered a reward of four hundred dollars for the property, and six hundred for the apprehension of the thief; and his delivery in South Florence.”

As soon as Mr. Concklin left Philadelphia, Peter returned to his mother's house, and there remained, restless and anxious, for many weeks. At last his brother William, who had received a letter from Concklin, dated Princeton, Ia., March 24th, wrote to him that his family had arrived in a Free State. Immediately he hastened to Philadelphia, his heart swelling with the hope of soon embracing them; but the day after his arrival, alas! these glorious visions of approaching joy suddenly faded away.

“O, Peter,” said his sister Mary, as he entered the room where she was sitting, “have you heard the news?”

He noticed that her voice trembled, and that her eyes were filled with tears; and his heart interpreted but too faithfully her emotion. Still he answered calmly, “No.”

“Sit down,” said she, “and I will read it to you.” She had the “Ledger” in her hand, and she read several extracts from Indiana papers, giving an account of the seizure of four slaves who had escaped from Bernard McKiernan, of South Florence, Ala., and also of a white man, calling himself Miller, who had them in charge.

PETER received from his friends at parting but small encouragement to hope. The sum required was so enormous, and the idea of paying gold to him who had already robbed them of the earnings of long years was so repugnant to the feelings of the best men, that it seemed almost useless to attempt to raise the money. A few days before he started, his brother William said to him, “You ought not to feel so uneasy—so perfectly restless because your family are slaves. There are thousands of people as good as they who are in the same condition. Do you see that woman across the street? She is just as good as you are, and she has a mother and sisters in slavery. You cannot expect people to give you five thousand dollars to buy your family, when so many others, equally deserving, are just as badly off.”

“Look here,” replied Peter, “I know a heap of men, as good, and as smart as I am, that are slaves now; but—I've bought my liberty, and my family shall be free.”

On the eighth of November, 1852, he left Burlington on his travels, carrying with him the kindest wishes of all who him, and also the following certificates from those whom he had served in that city.

Peter went first to Brooklyn, where he visited his brother John, who by his advice and sympathy did much to cheer him on his way. “Now, Peter,” said he, ”you can call on me at any time for fifty or a hundred dollars, and whenever you need clothes, or anything else that I can furnish you, just let me know. And be careful whom you trust. Yon will find. plenty of friends, if it is known you have a little money. Be careful, and watch well for rogues.”

On the sixteenth of November, he reached Syracuse, and delivered a letter of introduction and recommendation from Mr. McKim, of Philadelphia, to Rev. Mr. May. This lover of humanity listened with great interest to his thrilling story, examined his papers, which gave ample testimony to the integrity of his character, as well as to the truthfulness of his tale; and the next day sent him to the residence of the friend whom he had come to seek—the writer of this narrative. Here he remained until the nineteenth, when, with a letter to Mr. May, corroborating such facts in his statement as had come to her knowledge, and certifying to his character for truthfulness and industry while a slave, he returned to Syracuse.

He was now thoroughly furnished for his arduous undertaking; and with letters of introduction from Mr. May to various co-laborers in the work of benevolence, he left Syracuse, and journeyed westward.

His first stop was at Auburn, where a letter from Mr. May, together with his other papers, and above all, his modest earnestness of manner, won him a favorable reception. He visited first the clergymen of the different churches, to some, of whom he brought letters; and they commended him to the charity of their people. Here, in Rev. Mr. Millard's church, on Sunday evening, he appeared for the first time before the public. “I was mighty skeered,” said he, “when Mr. Millard took me with him into the pulpit, and told me I must stand up, myself, and tell my story to the people. 'Peared like I couldn't stand, no how; but I said a few words, and Mr. Millard, he helped me out; so I got along mighty well.”

He remained a week in Auburn, and received while there fifty dollars. This success encouraged him, and he went on to Rochester, stopping by the way at Waterloo, where, also he received some assistance.

At Rochester he staid two or three weeks, and was kindly entertained at the houses of worthy citizens, and about the middle of December he returned to Syracuse with two hundred dollars. This, Mr. May deposited for him in the bank, and giving him letters to Messrs. William Lloyd Garrison, Theodore Parker, T. Starr King, and others, in Boston, bade him hasten thither, in order to be there before the Holidays.

As soon as he had delivered his letters of introduction from Mr. May, in Boston, he sought Andover, for the purpose of visiting the Author of “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” to whom also he had a letter of recommendation. Mrs. Stowe received him cordially, and after heading his subscription list in Andover, gave him the following, brief letter, which, he says “helped him mightily.”

BEFORE noon on Saturday, the fifth of April, 1851, Vina and her children returned to their deserted cabin. Through what an age of anxiety and suffering had they passed during the three weeks which had elapsed since they forsook the shelter of its lowly roof. Then the hope of liberty had caused their hearts to throb, and their dark eyes to gleam with an unwonted light; now their hearts were hard, and still in their deep anguish, and a heavy shadow dwelt beneath their downcast eyelids.

The best of the furniture and clothing which they had left, had all been stolen and conveyed away during their absence, but this they heeded not in their despair. True, many hours of tedious toil, by night, had been required to purchase these few comforts, but now that liberty had been rudely snatched from their eager grasp, they had no tears to shed for minor losses.

At noon, the people came in from the field. Most of them looked wistfully upon the captured fugitives, and when they said “Howd'y',” their voices had a mournful tone. Others, however, were glad they had been brought back, “bekase,” they said, “dey's nuthin' but niggers, no how, and dey's allers so mighty good, and never gits de cowhide; now dey'll des find out how good it feels to git a cuttin' up.”

After dinner, the family were sent out with the other hands to plant cotton. Ah! their labor just then was greatly needed, and for that reason, probably, the day of vengeance was postponed. They knew it was not forgotten; for dark hints were often uttered in their hearing, and threatening looks were cast upon the runaways.

In gloomy silence they pursued their regular labors, till Wednesday morning, when Mr. McKiernan, attended by Smith, the overseer, entered the field. Vina knew their errand, and her indignation rose—but she was helpless. She saw them approaching the spot where young Peter was at work, and heard them order him to strip. Poor fellow! he was wholly in their power, and he obeyed.

There stood the mother and counted the two hundred heavy lashes that fell upon the naked back of her first-born son. He bore his torture bravely. Not one cry for mercy did he utter; not one imploring look did he vouchsafe the fiends, who sought to bend his spirit; and not till they had finished, did, he speak. “This is the last time,” said he then to the overseer, “that you shall ever strike me. I never will be whipped again by any man.”

“Hush your mouth, you d—d rascal,” cried his master, “or I'll have as much more put on you.”

They left the young man, and came to his mother. Smith attempted to tie her. “No, Sir,” said she, “I don't belong to you, and you aint gwine to whip me. Yer's my mass'r—I belong to him, and he may kill me if he want to; but I'm not gwine let you tie me nor whip me. You don't like me, and I never did like you no how. If my mass'r wants me beat, he must do it hisself.”

Mr. McKiernan was sitting on his horse, but at this he dismounted, and bade the overseer give him his whip. Smith complied, and the chivalrous master ordered her to take off her coat. He then tied her hands, and gave her less than a hundred blows, a slight punishment for a runaway. He did it very gently too, for the skin, though sorely bruised, was not cut by the cowhide.

This done, the two worthies repaired to the blacksmith's shop, where Levin was at work; and then his manly form was bared, while the fierce lash of the overseer whizzed through the air as though it loved the sport.*

Catharine escaped the cowhide. Her master questioned her minutely concerning her knowledge of the plan of the escape, but she appeared so ignorant that he told the overseer it was not worth while to whip her. “It's that devilish Peter that's been at the bottom of all this,” said he, “and I believe the Jew has done the work. There's Catherine, she didn't understand any of their plans; but her mother—d—n her, she's got sense enough. It would be just like her to try it again, but she'll never go and leave her daughter. She's always doted on her girl, and I'll be d—d if I blame her, for Catharine is a devilish likely wench. So it's best to keep one of them on the island, I reckon the old woman. She wouldn't be long starting off again d—n her, if she took it into her head. She was always bound to have her own way, though to tell the truth, she's as clever a woman as ever I owned.”

The next Sunday, Vina received the order to prepare to go to the island. It did not seem to move her. “I don't keer whar they sends me,” said she, “any place is better 'n this yer.” So with desperate promptness she packed up the few articles necessary to furnish the cabin which she was to inhabit there, and that very day she departed.

“I liked stayin' on the island a heap the best,” she says, “out o' sight mostly of both mass'r and Missus. Me and them had fell out, and I didn't never want to make friends with 'em no more. I didn't keer about bein' called in every time any person was took sick, and I just determined that if they ever sent for me agin, I wouldn't go without they driv me like a dog.”

Of all the beating hearts on the plantation, none thrilled with such a commingling of delight and grief at the return of Vina and her family, as did that of a maiden named Susanna.

She was a bright mulatto, the daughter of “Aunt Patsey,” who for the last few years, had taken charge of the young children. Susanna was a quiet well-behaved girl, that had been raised on the place, and ever since they were children, young Peter and herself had loved each other. But when his father went away, and left to his family the assurance that if he lived they should be free. Peter determined to obey his counsel; and so the union of the devoted pair was postponed for an indefinite period.

Now that their great effort to achieve their liberty had failed, the young man's heart would whisper that perhaps his father would consider his request no longer binding. Yet he kept these thoughts hid deep in his own breast, for he saw that in his mother's heart, all hope of freedom was not yet extinct.

But the masters watchful eye had long noticed their attachment, and, imagining that if Peter had a wife he would be less likely to ran off again, he determined that now they should be married. No favorable opportunity however occurred for him to urge the matter, until the crop was laid by in August; when, according to his annual custom, he gave his slaves a barbacue. Then he determined that the marriage should take place.

The long trench was duly prepared with its bed of glowing coals, over which were roasting numerous pigs and chickens, with the flesh of sheep and oxen in abundance. Peter was aiding in the preparation of the feast, when he was summoned into the presence of his master.

“How would you like to marry Susanna, boy?”

“I don't care about marryin' any body now, Sir.”

“But Susanna says she loves you, and you ought to have her.”

“No , Sir, I don't care about marryin' without my people's willin'.”

“It's no matter about your mother, boy, I give you leave, and you needn't ask her anything about it. Go and dress yourself.”

“I've got nothin' to dress in.”

“Well, go and put on clean clothes, any how, and then come back to me.”

Peter went to his mother's cabin. For a time he hesitated, but his master's command was absolute, and he had bid him hasten. His long-years' love for Susanna was not silent, but that voice he knew how to quell at duty's bidding. His mother, he could not bear to vex her.

Half undecided what course would be the wisest, he dressed mechanically in clean working-clothes. (He had a suit of Sunday clothes which he had bought himself, but these he would not wear to please his master) His toilette completed, he sat down again to think. He could not long defer his decision, for his master would be as angry at his delay, as if he should refuse obedience to his orders; so at last, scarcely knowing whether he was doing right or wrong, he left the cabin, and approached the spot where he had left McKiernan.

Susanna, having previously received an order from her master to dress and come to him, was already there.

One of their fellow-slaves, a preacher, named William Handy was now called to marry them; and in a few minutes they were marching around the field at the head of a troop of their young companions, who with gay songs and merry laughter were celebrating the marriage of their friends.

Vina soon heard what had occurred; but she was one of the cooks, and she continued quietly to baste the meat, though every moment her wrath was rising higher. Levin stood by her side, and he, too, was indignant. Soon the master approached. “Why don't you march with the others?” said he to Vina.

“I aint a soldier,” replied she, “and I don't know nuthin' about marchin'.”

“Why, what is the matter with you?”

“Nuthin' more'n common; and things that's common yer is shockin' to strangers.”

“What's that? Say that again.”

She repeated her words. “There's not a plantation in a million o' miles whar thar's such works as thar is yar.”

“Better mind how you talk, girl, or I'll give you a slap.”

“I don't keer what you do. I would n't keer if you killed him and me too. You've done made a heap o' matches, and none of 'em never prospered, no how.”

“Oh, I was so mad!” she says, “every time I looked down, 'peared like I could see sparks o' fire a comin' out o' my eyes. Then he went to the house and told the missus I was powerful mad. She 'lowed he ought to be ashamed o' himself, kase she said he'd done me mean, and she did n't blame me if I was mad. Well, he said, when they wanted to marry, nobody should n't hinder 'em. He'd marry 'em hisself when he liked.”

The young people lived in the cabin with Aunt Patsey, and for some time the current of their lives flowed calmly on. After about a year, a little boy was folded to Susanna's breast—a fine, “peart,” healthy child. She named him Edmund; and he soon became very dear to the hearts of all his kindred. But Vina now that the tide which had whelmed her in despair had fallen, lived in hourly expectation of a summons to her husband; and she was sad at the advent of this little one. She, too, loved the baby dearly; but she knew it formed another tie to bind the young father fast to slave-land.

When little Edmund was a few months old, he was seized with whooping-cough, and then he needed his mother's care. But she was forced to go each morning to the field; and though Aunt Patsey was not heedless of her little grandchild, yet she had so many children to look after that she could not always watch him. So he took cold, and then his cough became worse; and week after week, he continued to grow weaker, till it was plain that he could live but little longer.

Oh! how his mother longed to stay in and nurse him for the last few days! But in vain she begged this privilege of the overseer—and when, in her sorrow she sought her mistress, who had seen four of her own little ones laid in the grave, the lady sharply bade her “Go out to work.” “It's no use,” said she, “for you to stay in—you don't know how to take care of children—if you did, your baby never would have been so bad.”

A week later, a messenger was sent to the field to bid Peter and his wife come and see the last of their child; and, first obtaining permission of the overseer, they hastened to the cabin. The baby did not know them now—and though the young mother fondly kissed his lips, and breathed his name in tenderest accents, she could awake no answering smile. A fierce convulsion shook his little frame—it passed—the child was dead.

FOR more than two years after her return from “dat dar jaunt to de Norf,” Vina remained upon the island. Sometimes both of her sons were with her there; but Catharine was kept constantly upon the home place.

“Well, girl,” said her master, some months after her return, “do you remember the road you travelled when that rascal carried you all off ?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Vina, “I remember every inch I went; and I could go over it again with my eyes shot.”

The boys also were questioned concerning their knowledge of the route, and they gave similar answers; “though to tell the truth,” says Vina, “I should n't know no more about it when I got off o' the river, than if I was blind.”

Their prompt assertions that they knew “every inch of the road,” did not diminish their master's fear that they might repeat the attempt to escape, and he determined to take every possible means to prevent another trial. But he could not control his own base passions; and though Vina never smiled, and seldom spoke cheerfully in his presence, his evil nature impelled him to make one more effort to accomplish the base purpose in which, years before, she had so signally foiled him. Her gloom, the consequence of disappointed hope and stern resolve to make another effort to escape his hated rule, he construed into the effect of shame at her disgrace; and now, if ever, he deemed he might succeed in depriving her of her honor.

It was winter. She was upon the island engaged in picking up trash and burning it to prepare the land for plowing.

The master came, and sat down by the fire. She took no notice of his approach, but continued picking up the rubbish, and adding it to the heap.

“Vina! O, Vina!”

She did not answer—there was something in his tone that made her angry.

“Girl! O, Girl! Come here!”

She turned her head towards him, but continued her work.

“Here—this fire don't burn much.”

“No, sir—its just kindled—it'll burn to-reck'ly.”

“Well, you bring some more trash to crowd in here.”

She brought him a handful of sticks.

“Look here, Vina,” said he in his most insinuating tone, “I intend to stay here on the island to-night— won't you come to my house, and stay with me?”

“What you mean, sir, by askin' me such a thing as that? You mought as well sing a psalm to a dead cow as to name such a thing as that to me. I hav n't forgot how you've used me and my chillern just bekase I done what any person else would do. I did n't do no wrong, and I ain't ashamed o' goin' off ; but you ought to be ashamed, sir, to talk to me this way—after my knowin' all about you that I do.”

“Well, now look here,”urged the gracious master, “I've forgiven all that—it's all dead and buried.”

“No, sir, it ain't buried so but what I can scratch it up, and it never will be forgot—not by me.”

“Well, won't you come to my house? If you will, I'll do all I can for you; and you never shall want for anything.”

“No, sir, I never will come to your house. Thar's a little old hut yon', that you built for me, whar don't keep the rain out nights; I cun stay thar like I has done. You think I done forgot seein' poor Lydia, only a few months ago, bucked down afore that very door o' yourn, and all the five hundred blows the poor thing tuck just for you?”

“Well, I didn't do that.”

“No, sir, but your son did; and your wife sent him the note tellin' him to whip her till he just left the breath o' life in her, and Aunt Lucy heard him a readin' the note. Thar in the mornin', when thar's a white fross on the ground, she was stripped by your son—a right young man, not of age yet, and beat with whips and an oak paddle as thick as my hand till the breath was a'most gone out of her body. That too, after you'd whipped her yourself for killin' her child. She would n't a killed it only 'twas yourn, and she knowed what she'd suffer about it if it was seen.*

* The whole history of the affair here referred to is in the possession of the writer, but it is too horrid for publication.

TOWARDS the close of the year 1854, their being no immediate need of Vina's presence on the “low place,” she went back to the island. Susanna had died during the summer, and now the boys were both with their mother, leaving Catharine sole tenant of the old home cabin.

“The island,” although it was five miles above the home plantation, was not a lonely place. There were good neighbors on the river bank opposite, and with some of these, the slaves who were kept here, formed lasting friendships; even Vina, though she had been so morose and sad during these last years, had not been unmindful of the sympathy of her own people.

On Sunday morning, December seventeenth, as she was sitting alone in her cabin, a woman belonging to Mr. Hawkins, who owned a plantation on the North bank of the river, came over to pay her a visit.

“What do, you think, Vina?” said she, as soon as she was sure there were no listeners, “I heard a great secret in town last night.”

“Oh, I don't know what I thinks till I yers what it's about,” replied Vina.

“Well, Peter's sent for you all I and dar's a man in town whar's come from some place 'way off to de Norf dar, to tote you all off.”

“How does you know?” asked Vina, her eyes dilated, and her whole frame trembling with excitement.

“Why, I's to town last night to Mr. Simpson's store, and I yer Mr. Simpson say so hisself. Dey all's a makin out de papers, and dey'll send for you 'fore many days.”

The visitor soon departed, and Vina sat down to think, but her brain whirled, and she was glad when her sons came in, that she might share with them the great joy that was swelling in her heart. She did not for one moment doubt the truth of the report, for it was what she had expected. “O poor faithful loving heart! thou hast borne grief with patience, wait but a little longer, and thy joy shall overflow.

The mother and her sons now held a consultation on the most judicious course for them to take; and they determined to say nothing on the subject until they should hear more. Catharine they could not see before the next Sunday. Oh, how they wished that she could share this joy.

On Monday morning, they went to work, as usual. The bright glad hope with which their hearts were warm shone not in their dark faces, they had schooled their features to wear ever the same calm look. Full well they knew that any change of countenance might be construed into a token of some hidden hope. Slaves must not seem to hope for aught save Christmas Holidays, though they may laugh, and dance, and sing, so they evince no thought beyond the present.

Soon after midnight the next Wednesday, the island people were all called up. They were to kill hogs that day, and every one upon the place was obliged to be in motion.

Great fires were built here and there for scalding the fated animals, and sharp knives, gleaming in their strange light, seemed impatient to begin the sport. Soon all was noise and bustle. The merry butchers talked and laughed, their victims squealed, and grave old women scolded at the trifling of the youngsters; for though the day's work was no trifle, it was a change in their monotonous life, and fun and frolic reigned.

About ten o'clock in the morning, Vina, who amid all the confusion, was watching for a messenger, saw her master coming up the hill from the river. He walked towards the cabins, and soon called—“Vina! O Vina!”

She strove to quell the tumultuous throbbings of her heart, and she suceeeded in subduing all appearance of emotion—so that when she reached the spot where the master stood, her face was calm, and her voice was clear as usual.

“Well, Vina,” said he, “how would you like to see Peter?”

“Mons's well, Sir,” replied she.

“Do you know where he is?”

“I reckon, sir, he's in Cincinnati.”

“No—he lives in Philadelphia, and he's bought you all.”

“Bought us?”

“Yes, he's bought you;—how would you like to go to him?”

“Why, if it's true, sir, I'd like to go mighty well.”

“If it's true?—don't you believe it?”

“I don't know, sir, whether I believes it or not.”