Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998

Languages Used:

• English

LC Subject Headings:

• Williams, Sally, b. ca. 1796.
• African Americans -- North Carolina -- Biography.
• African American women -- North Carolina -- Biography.
• Slaves -- North Carolina -- Biography.
• Freedmen -- Michigan -- Detroit -- Biography.
• Slavery -- North Carolina -- Fayetteville -- History -- 19th century.
• Slavery -- Alabama -- History -- 19th century.
• Plantation life -- North Carolina -- History -- 19th centur
• Plantation life -- Alabama -- History -- 19th century.
• Williams, Isaac, Rev.

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  Natalia Smith, project manager,
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AUNT SALLY:
Or,
THE CROSS THE WAY OF FREEDOM.
A NARRATIVE OF THE SLAVE-LIFE AND PURCHASE
OF THE MOTHER OF REV. ISAAC
WILLIAMS, OF DETROIT,
MICHIGAN.

"Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken, . . . . for the Lord delighteth in thee."

--ISAIAH lxii:4.

CINCINNATI:
WESTERN TRACT AND BOOK SOCIETY.

Copyright secured to the
AMERICAN REFORM TRACT AND BOOK SOCIETY,

Cincinnati, Ohio.

Stereotyped by C. F. O'Driscoll & Co.

PREFACE.

        There are very few Anti-Slavery books adapted to the young, yet no field could furnish a more attractive literature for children than this. Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian Nights would seem lifeless and uninteresting by the side of hundreds of true and simple narratives which might be written of slave life in our Southern States. This story of "Aunt Sally" is, probably, no more remarkable than multitudes of others; only it has chanced to come to notice. It is strictly true in all its incidents. It has not been embellished, or wrought up for effect, but

is given, as nearly as possible, in the words in which it was related to the writer. "Aunt Sally" is a veritable person, and is now living in Detroit, Michigan, with her son, Rev. Isaac Williams, who is pastor of a Methodist church there.

        The portraits in this book have been engraved from daguerreotypes, which are faithful likenesses of "Aunt Sally," her son and his family.

        The writer hopes that this little story may be the means of leading those who read it to think and feel deeply upon the truths which it involves, and that many more similar books may be written for our Sabbath Schools, so that the young may grow up imbued with the spirit of liberty, and rejoicing to labor for that

oppressed and unhappy race which "Aunt Sally" represents, so, at length, this unfortunate be slaves no longer, but shall find that, to them all, the Cross has been the Way of Freedom.

BROOKLYN, N. Y., May, 1858.

CONTENTS.

• Chap. I.--Introductory . . . . . 9
• II.--Introductory . . . . . 16
• III.--Sunshine and Clouds of Childhood . . . . . 24
• IV.--The Camp Meeting . . . . . 33
• V.--The Wedding . . . . . 46
• VI.--A Slave's Work and a Slave's Home . . . . . 55
• VII.--A Husband Sold . . . . . 66
• VIII.--A New Husband--Children Sold . . . . . 78
• IX.--The Home Desolate--the Mother Sold too . . . . . 88
• X.--The Slave-Pen . . . . . 98
• XI.--The Slave-Gang . . . . . 113
• XII.--Almost Despair . . . . . 127
• XIII.--Sold Again--Gleams of Light . . . . . 138
• XIV.--The Lash--Flight and Return . . . . . 149
• XV.--The Tyrannical Mistress--A Slave's Sabbath . . . . . 162
• XVI.--News from a long-lost Son . . . . . 170
• XVII.--The Light of Hope at last . . . . . 180
• XVIII.--Hope Realized . . . . . 192
• XIX.--A Home in Freedom and Peace . . . . . 207

AUNT SALLY.

CHAPTER I.

        INTRODUCTORY.

                         Mother! it is the holiest word
                         That ever out of heaven was heard!
                         Her heart beats on, though free or slave,
                         All warm for those whose life she gave;
                         And sooner can the verdant cane
                         Forget its liquid sweets to gain,
                         And the magnolia's flowers of snow
                         To open when the soft winds blow,
                         And the lone stars to shine above,
                         Than I'll forget her faithful love!

        SOME twenty-five years ago, in Fayetteville, North Carolina, a slave boy, named Isaac Williams, was suddenly told that his mother had been sold to a speculator, and was going to Alabama. He loved her with the ardor of a young heart which had nothing else to cling to, and when these terrible words fell on his ear, he sank down, overcome with

anguish and dismay. All the past came back to him, sorrowful indeed, but endurable because shared with her. His earliest recollections were of those long days in the rice-fields, when she carried him securely fastened to her back, with his baby brother tucked in her dress in front, because she would not leave them to be neglected in her cabin, nor lay them down, where snakes might crawl over them, by the side of the fence. How weary she must have been, his young mother; for then she was scarcely seventeen; but yet how kind she was; how patient when he was tired and fretful! He thought of the many evenings he had seen her spinning by the light-wood fire, that she might have yarn for knitting socks, wherewith to purchase a jacket or a hat or a pair of shoes for his Sunday wear, or sewing industriously to make or mend some needful garment, when so fatigued with the day's labor that she nodded between the stitches, and at last sat down in heavy slumber over her work. He thought of all the prayers she had offered for him, and of her faithful counsels as he came to maturer years, He remembered her grief when his father was sold from her, and yet the meekness with

which she yielded to what she could not prevent, and the quiet cheerfulness and energy with which she toiled to provide a comfortable home for herself and her children when she had hired her time of her master. All these and a thousand recollections more flashed upon his mind as he heard of her fate, and ran to ask his master's permission to go and bid her farewell. It was granted, and first he went to the little home which she had rented, and where she had earned her living by the sale of cakes and beer. He opened the door. All was confusion. The few articles of furniture, which she had labored so hard to obtain, were either removed or lying in disorder about the room. The bright fire was out, the welcoming voice was silent. Upon inquiry, he learned that her purchaser had taken her, with many others, to a "wagon-yard," or, more properly, slave-pen, where they would be kept securely till he was ready to start on his distant journey. Thither he bent his steps. When he reached the place, he found that his old grandmother, who lived several miles farther in the country, had heard also of her daughter's sale, and had come with tears and tremblings to bid her adieu.

        Can you imagine a scene like this? Can you think of your mother, who, dear as she is, is no dearer to you than Isaac's was to him, torn by brute force from her home, shut up in a narrow yard like a wild animal in a cage, her every look and tear watched by her purchaser, who walks about, whip in hand, to quell any who may be refractory, and. her last agonized words of affection spoken to you through a crack in the fence which guards the enclosure? Yet all this the poor boy had to suffer, and his heart was as tender as yours.

        What would you do? Would you become almost frantic in your grief, and rave wildly at the master, and strive to break down the bars and release your mother from so terrible a captivity? Would you? Then you would be guilty of treason and rebellion in the eyes of the law, and her owner would be justified in imprisoning you--nay, in taking your life if he deemed it expedient. Merciful Father! pity those whom no man pities, and by thine own power elevate those on whom the world and the world's law tramples!

        So poor Isaac could only sob as if his heart would break, and wonder why he and she

were ever born (was it strange?) and resolve with his whole soul, that if God spared his life, he would one day be free, and seek out his mother, and redeem her, though she were sold to a thousand Alabama. Thus they parted.

        The slave-train moved off, and Isaac and his old grandmother returned to their respective masters. How dark seemed the way to him now. He could no longer anticipate, as heretofore, a Sunday visit to his mother, and a treat of cakes and beer. There was no one to speak an affectionate or encouraging word to him. Sometimes he was tempted to he wholly discouraged, but he determined to rise above such a feeling, and to keep unchanged his faith in God and his purpose of freedom. So several years passed away, during which he grew to manhood, when a death occurred in his master's family which rendered a division of the property--that is, to the men and women--necessary, and Isaac fell to a relative in Mississippi. Farewell to North Carolina! True, he was still a slave, but he felt that in some way he was moving toward liberty, and so gladly over the mountains and rivers to his untried home.

He had not been long settled there when, in 1833, he married a young colored woman, on an adjacent plantation. And now that he had a wife and children growing up about him, did he lose sight of his early resolution? By no means. He was always revolving in his mind how he should compass his own freedom and regain his mother. In 1838, his master went to Mobile, and Isaac accompanied him as his waiting-man. There was then living there a cousin of his mother's, an intelligent slave woman, named Mary Ann Williams. To her he applied, hoping she could give him some information. He was disappointed; she knew nothing of her cousin's fate, but promised to remember her and as she could write, to communicate to him everything she might be able to learn. Meanwhile his wife's freedom was purchased by her father, and Isaac, hiring his time of his master, went to Orleans and worked as a carpenter until he had gained his own. But he did not forget his mother; she was always the burden of his thoughts and his prayers. How many plans did he make to ascertain where she was; how many letters did he write to Tuscaloosa and Mobile, and to every

place where he thought there could be the least possibility of gaining the desired intelligence! At length, when he had almost despaired of success, he received a letter from Mary Ann Williams, at Mobile, telling him that, by a singular incident, which will be narrated hereafter, she had learned that his mother was living, and owned by a man, whose name she gave, in Dallas county, Alabama. She was alive then! She had not died on the fatiguing journey, nor been beaten to death by a cruel overseer, nor allowed herself to waste away with grief at her ruthless separation from all she loved. He thanked God, and wrote to her master, telling him of his purpose to redeem her, and asking him to name the price at which she would be sold. Long he waited for an answer; she was doubtless valuable to her owner, and he was unwilling to part with her. Again and again he wrote, but to be disappointed.

        And now Isaac resolved to leave Mississippi. He wanted to breathe the free air. After various adventures, he at last reached the Northern States with his family, and finally settled in Detroit, Michigan. ^*

        * The details of Mr. Williams's life are not given, as he intends eventually to publish his own memoirs.

CHAPTER II.

        INTRODUCTORY.

                         IT may gladden the diver's heart to gain,
                         From the depths of the Indian sea,
                         A pearl as fair as the dew-drops are
                         That lie on the summer lea.
                         And sweet to the hunter passing through
                         The woodland's leafy door,
                         May come the song of a timid bird
                         That never was heard before;
                         And the breath of a flower by the brooklets side,
                         That all unseen till then
                         Has opened its buds to the wooing airs
                         Of the silent forest glen.
                         And blest it may be to the lover's thought,
                         To win from the world so cold,
                         The bride with her warm and trustful heart,
                         In his tender arms to fold.
                         But the love for her who gave me birth
                         Is richer than ocean mines;
                         I would rather gaze on my mother's face
                         Than the purest pearl that shines!
                         And list to her songs when day is done
                         Than the notes of the rarest bird,--
                         More grateful than choicest flowers' perfume,
                         Would be every soothing word.

                         And the lover's delight is weak and faint
                         To the joy that would fill my breast,
                         If far from her sad and ceaseless toil,
                         I could bear her away to rest.
                         Oh Thou, who dost pity the poor, look down
                         And grant to my life this glorious crown!

        YEARS of anxiety and effort and hope Deferred went by. At length, in 1852, Isaac received from his mother's master the long-desired letter, saying he would sell her to him for the sum of four hundred dollars. But now that the old trouble was over, a new fear tormented the faithful son. Was this woman really his mother? More than twenty years had passed since they were separated, and the only evidence he had of her existence was the testimony of her cousin in Mobile. Slight foundation it seemed upon which to rest so weighty a matter. Might it not be merely a plan of her master's to lure him into the of slavery and punish him for his free spirit; or else to dispose probably of an old and useless servant? His heart sickened at the thought. He must be sure that he was right before he went further, for to be disappointed at last would be more than he could bear. So he wrote a letter to the master, asking him to put

various questions to her, relative to incidents in his early life, with which she only was acquainted.

        If your mother had been lost for twenty years, and you hoped to regain her through the remembrances or your childhood, how would you recall the birthday festival, and the prayers for you beside your little bed when your head was on her bosom, and the twilight walk through the rose-scented lanes when she told you a story of her girlish days, and that sad morning when, for an outbreak of passion, you fell into disgrace with your father, and she soothed and calmed you, and gently led you back to the path of duty and of love! Isaac was a poor slave boy when he knew a mother's care, but servitude can not crush out the heart's flowers, and he had remembrances which were sweet to him, and which he knew would wake a response in her heart if living she were. How anxiously did he wait for that letter which would be life or death to his hopes! It came at last. His questions were more than answered. Taking up the incidents as he narrated them, she had gone farther and recalled many things which he had forgotten, and sent them to him in

her simple words with messages of affection.

        That night what fervent thanksgiving did he send up to heaven for the blessed knowledge that he had a mother--he who had been so friendless in the world; that she loved and trusted him, and perhaps was even then supplicating their common Father for her distant son.

        He now set about preparing to raise the money for her liberation. In March, 1856, he left Detroit, stopping wherever he had friends, or could make them, and finally reached New York in early autumn, having some two hundred and fifty dollars collected.

        After a few weeks in the city and vicinity, he raised the balance of the amount, and then a new difficulty arose. How was the money to be transmitted, and his mother brought North? For experience has shown that it is a less troublesome and delicate thing to deal with Japan, and China, and Algiers, than with our Southern States, when it is desired to give to any of the colored population their birthright of freedom. Various plans were proposed and abandoned. At last he went to the office of Adams's Express Company, to see

if it could be accomplished through their means. They declined doing it directly, but referred him to a well-known merchant of New York, as one who would advise and assist him, and for whom they would willingly undertake the matter. This gentleman listened to the story, and going to the Bank of the Republic, which is very popular at the South, deposited the money there, and arranged with the officers to have their correspondent in Selma, Alabama, purchase the woman and see her, with the requisite papers, consigned to the care of the Express company.

        The burden of care was now taken from Isaac; the responsibility rested upon others. He had been buoyant and full of courage while active exertion remained, but when that was ended and nothing was left for him but patient waiting, the very intensity of his feelings gave birth to fears, and led him to count the chances for her safe release, and to brood over every possible disaster. She had been lost to him for a score of years, and he could have heard of her death at any time with comparative resignation, but now that she had come back to him in blessed resurrection, and the meeting seemed so near,

her loss would be like shipwreck to the storm-tossed mariner, when just in sight of the green fields, and the peaceful spire, and the cottage of love for which his heart had yearned through all the dreary voyage. Disturbed and anxious, he went that evening to his lodgings, and retiring to rest, was soon lost in uneasy slumber.

        And he dreamed. Some of his life-scenes passed before him like the moving pictures of a panorama, so real that the present was forgotten in the past they restored. He saw himself a boy, sitting on the dirt-floor of his mother's little cabin at Fayetteville, after a hard day's work, and pouring his sorrows into her sympathizing ear. He had just began to realize who it is to be a slave. He had been accustomed to play with the master's children, and had had many little privileges about the house, but now that he was old enough to labor, he was kept in the field from dawn till dusk, under the eye of an overseer who had no leniency for his youth nor compassion for his fatigue. The poor mother could not point her boy to a brighter lot, so she only said, with a sigh, as she drew the "hoe-cake" from the ashes for their evening

meal, "Well, Isaac, you must try and do your duty by mas'r and the Lord Jesus 'll stand by ye. Near as I can find out, He had heaps o' trouble all His days."

        The cabin faded away, and, almost a man in years and size, he stood by the "slave-pen," bidding her farewell before she went to Alabama. With unutterable grief he turned to depart, but her faith would not let her go without one word of comfort, so she called after him, "Keep a good heart, Isaac, and the Lord help ye! Put your trust in Him and He'll never leave nor forsake ye. Perhaps we shall see each other before we die!" This great anguish passed over, and he was in Louisiana, toiling for his freedom. Hundreds of dollars had been paid to his master, but obstacles were constantly thrown in his way, and he was sometimes on the point of rebellion and despair. But he thought of his mother, and seemed to hear her saying, as of old, "Be patient; keep on, and the good Lord 'll bring it all right one o' dese mornins." And then he was a free man in Detroit, and the pastor of a Methodist church; longing earnestly that his mother might share the advantages of his position, and feeling

inspired every day to labor by the remembrance of her christian virtues. And then he was in the actual present, and the money had been sent for her redemption, and he was trembling lest after all, the scheme might fail, In his dream he cried to heaven, "O merciful Father! shalt all her faith and trust in Thee be for nought? Wilt thou not reward the love and service of sixty years?" And then he thought an angel bent over him and whispered, "Fear not, thy fidelity and hers have been chronicled. Wait a little while and thou shalt clasp thy mother in thine arms."

        He awoke. The sun was shining brightly into the room, and having faith now that he was soon to meet her, he rose and prepared to leave New York for a little while, in order to raise the money necessary to defray their expenses till they should reach Detroit.

CHAPTER III.

        SUNSHINE AND CLOUDS OF CHILDHOOD.

                         A CHILD should be a merry thing,
                         A butterfly upon the wing;
                         A bee upon a crimson clover,
                         With honey-dew half silvered over;
                         A crystal brook that 'neath the moon,
                         Glides onward through the nights of June;
                         A heart's-ease by a garden wall,
                         The loveliest of the lovely all;
                         A lark in heavenly circles singing,
                         Till the wide air with music's ringing;
                         A sunbeam dancing in and out,
                         Reflecting golden joy about;
                         Now sparkling like a rainbow braid,
                         Now lapsing when it likes to shade;
                         A soft and perfume-scented breeze,
                         Full of the tenderest harmonies;
                         Now showering roses from the tree,
                         Now opening roses yet to be.

                         Ah me! how few are born to this!
                         How few have felt love's sacred kiss
                         Upon their foreheads when they came
                         All radiant from the Eternal Flame!
                         The birds of song are cold and mute,
                         The honey-dew is gone for them,

                         Joy brings them but a broken lute,
                         And Life's tree but a flowerless stem.
                         Thank God! there is a brighter world,
                         Where every hope shall be unfurled
                         In sweet fruition to the air;
                         And all who yearn for love shall there
                         Upon the dear Redeemer's breast,
                         Find perfect love and perfect rest!

        HAVING thus far followed the son, let us leave him among his Northern friends, and return to trace the history of the mother.

        About the year 1796, (a slave's precise age is a matter of conjecture,) in a small cabin on a plantation not many miles from Fayetteville, North Carolina, a little colored girl was born. There were no great rejoicings when she came into the world. Her parents had been all their lives in servitude, and knew no higher pleasures than it afforded, but they felt, despite their ignorance, that their days passed wearily, and it was no joy to them to rear children for the same fate. No dainty wardrobe was ready for her use; no tiny caps nor embroidered dress, nor soft flannel blanket, but with her midnight earnings the mother had purchased two frocks of cheap print, to which her mistress had added one of her own

children's cast-off dresses; and in this coarse apparel the little Sally, for so she was called, rolled about and stretched her chubby limbs as complacently as if she had been enveloped in a princess' lace and linen.

        In a few weeks the mother returned to her labor in the field, and Sally was placed with old "Aunt Katy," who had charge of all the children on the plantation. At night, when the tasks were done, her mother took her to her own dwelling, returning her in the morning to the nurse. So she passed through babyhood and grow into a stout little girl, running about the cabin and over the grounds, as unconscious of her relations to life as the dog with which she played, or the bird that sang in the old sycamore above the door. No pains were taken to develop anything but her animal nature--no one taught her to lisp the name of God, or to trace His hand in every object which surrounded her, or to regard His holy law in her daily life. Why should they? She was only a piece of property! Her mother, although possessed of more than ordinary intelligence and energy, was not then a religious woman. In spite of her hard labor, she managed to keep her cabin in better

order, and her children more comfortably clad than most of the other servants; indeed, so full of life and spirit was she, that when the toilsome week was over, none enjoyed more highly the Saturday-evening dance or the Sunday holiday. She was a good mother, as far as she knew, and trained her children to habits of industry and activity. Speaking of those days, Aunt Sally said: "I tell you how my mother done me--she whipped me when I didn't work to please her, but 't was the gloriousest thing!"

        The master required but little work of the child. It is policy to leave the slaves to grow and strengthen, unfatigued by labor, until they are old enough to be constantly occupied, as a colt is loft unshackled, with free range of the pastures, until the "breaking" time comes. When about nine years old, Sally began to be employed in doing errands for her mistress, in sweeping the leaves from the walks, and in weeding the garden. She was full of fun and frolic, but she meant to be a good girl, and whenever she was blamed for any thing, although she tried to escape the threatened whipping, yet she was careful not to be guilty of the same offense again. There was a little girl, named Mary, about her own age

who shared all her tasks. Rare play-fellows they were--talking and singing and running about together from morning till night. One bright day in Sally's tenth summer, Mary suddenly sickened and died. So full of life when the still arose--so silent, so motionless, when it went down! It was the first bereavement Sally had ever known, and she was almost frantic in her grief. No one told her of death's brighter meaning; she saw only its sternness and gloom. Throwing herself beside the unconscious child, and sleeping only at momentary intervals, she consumed the night in calling upon her name, and when morning came, she went to the garden, and, gathering the choicest flowers, placed them in her hand, as if death were an ugly dream which daylight and bloom would scare away. So the weary hours went by, and when at evening preparations were made for the funeral, she begged to be allowed to join the procession. How strange and solemn it seemed as all the servants of the household, bearing lighted torches, walked two by two, through the forest path to the burying-ground, preceded by the preacher, singing these dirge-like words--

                         "Bear her gently, calm and slow,
                         To the home where she must go:
                         One by one we'll follow on,
                         By and by we'll all be gone
                         Over Jordan.

                         "Deep within the pine tree's shade
                         Has her quiet grave been made;
                         Sleeping here and sleeping there,
                         We shall meet from everywhere
                         Over Jordan.

                         "Now we leave her to her rest;
                         Jesus! Savior! ever blest,
                         Take us soon from earth's alarms,
                         Safe within Thy sheltering arms
                         Over Jordan!"

        The little coffin was lowered, the earth was thrown upon it, and with another wailing song the party returned. But Sally did not forget.

        It was a balmy day in October. The fervid heats of Summer were over, and there was a refreshing coolness in the air. The garden was gay with autumn flowers, and every waft of wind that went over the trees, bore to the ground the broad leaves of the sycamore to rest upon the myriad needles of the pine. In one of the paths stood Sally, broom in

hand, busy in removing them as they fell. She looked up and saw, approaching, her young master, a handsome youth, elegantly attired, and having in his face, and manner a certain reckless frankness which defied the judgment and straightway won the heart. Sally's quickness pleased him, and he often stopped to exchange a kind word with her.

        "This wind keeps you busy, eh, Sally?"

        "Yes, Mas'r. Don't more'n got 'em swept away 'fore down they comes agin."

        "Is that what makes you look so sober?"

        "No. Mas'r. I's thinkin' 'bout Mary, an' wonderin whar she is, 'cause the preacher said, when they put her in the ground, she'd gone ober Jordan, an' we must all got religion an' follow on arter, an' 'pears like I dunno 'xactly what he meant."

        "Now, Sally, don't you believe any such canting nonsense. When we die, that's the end of us; there's no hereafter. Look here,"--and as he spoke he trod one of the yellow sycamore leaves into the earth--"see this leaf! In a few days it will be crumbled into dust; it's so with us when we die, and that is all."

        "But, Mas'r, I thought mebbe we might

come up out of the ground sometime, like the flowers do in the spring."

        "O, no, Sally, I tell you there's nothing after death. Don't bother yourself with such things," and he sauntered down the walk, and was soon out of sight under the arching trees. Just then a shower of leaves came pattering to the earth. Poor Sally sighed as she thought of their swift decay, and wondered if "young Mas'r," who was an oracle in her eyes, were right, and resolved that at least she would take his advice, and trouble herself no more about the matter.

        She was now employed to carry every day to the field-hands their dinner. It was a long walk that she had to take across the pastures, with the bread and meat and boiled rice, borne in a large wooden bowl upon her head. A fence lay in her way, and one day, in climbing it, the bowl was upset and the provisions strewn upon the grass. In a tremor of fear she replaced them in the bowl and hastened on. Her delay was noticed, and the overseer coming up to her, whip in hand, demanded its cause. When he discovered some grains of sand sticking to the rice, she confessed the whole and begged him to

forgive her. But forgiveness was not in his heart. He called her careless and lazy, and, seizing her by the shoulder, whipped her severely. She went home miserable indeed. She had nothing to turn to for comfort, and her future--

                         "It rambled out in endless aisles of mist,
                         The farther still the darker."

        Every night she had to sit up late, carding rolls for her mother to spin, or spinning herself under her direction. Her only recreation was an occasional dance on Saturday evening. So in dreary monotony her days went on.

CHAPTER IV.

        THE CAMP MEETING.

                         OUT in the woods where the violet blows,
                         And the south wind opens the climbing rose;
                         Where the pale moss hangs from the lofty trees,
                         Banner-like, swaying with every breeze;
                         Where the fleet deer bounds at the break of day,
                         Light through the dewy paths away,
                         And the wild bird warbles his sweetest song
                         In the quiet of shadows when eves are long;--
                         There, afar from the noisy street,
                         Glad will I hasten my God to greet,--
                         And breeze and blossom, and bird and tree,
                         Gently shall speak of His love to me.

                         And then, when the pine trees sob and shiver,
                         And cast a gloom on the forest river,
                         I'll think of the errors that darken my years,
                         And pray for their pardon with bitter tears;
                         And when the sun through a vista beams,
                         And lightens the dimness with golden gleams,
                         My heart shall o'erflow in a song of praise
                         To Him who brightens the darkest days;
                         And prayer and song, where the boughs are riven,
                         Shall rise through the placid blue to Heaven!

        COULD Sally banish from her mind all troublesome thoughts and reproaches of conscience because her young master had bid

her do it? Ah no! Her heart was full of yearning and dissatisfaction.

        When she was twelve years old she was a tall and comely girl, and went regularly to labor in the field. The only thing to which she looked forward with pleasure, was the dance at the close of the week; and her little earnings were parted with to procure now and then a bit of finery for this occasion. Sometimes she went to the Sunday prayer meeting, but was usually so fatigued that she slept through most of the services. If an alarming word felt upon her ear, and awakened uneasy thoughts, she tried to forget it, and to persuade herself that she had no cause for fear. But often, when returning exhausted from the field through the dim twilight, with the fading sunset glories before her, and the songs of happy birds in her ear, she would be so weary of the life she lived, and so full of vague longing for comfort and peace, that she would throw herself upon the ground in uncontrollable tears. Who was to help her? An ignorant girl on a lonely plantation, away from all exterior influences for good; obliged to toil from morning till night; surrounded by those as poor and simple as herself; with

the only educated and refined person who ever noticed her, the only one to whom she looked up as to a superior being, telling her that there was "no hereafter;" that she had only to work by day and sleep by night, till at last she would drop into the ground and crumble to dust like the autumn leaves, Ah! there is One who never slumbers, and the poorest and most neglected child is as dear to Him as the loftiest king. He who feedeth the young ravens when they cry, and without whose notice not a sparrow falls to the ground, was even then preparing her for rest and joy through knowledge of Him.

        September came, and with it a series of camp meetings. There was great joy on the plantation when it was announced that one was to be held in the immediate vicinity of Fayetteville. It was years since such a thing had happened, and all the servants had the promise of spending a day at least on the camp-ground. As it was only two miles distant it was easy for them to go and come, according to the wish of the master. Sally was wild with delight. She should see something of the great world, whose faint murmur sometimes reached the plantation[.] There

would be the handsome carriages which occasionally drove up to her mistress' door, and the fine ladies and gentlemen with their servants, from all the country round, and so many preachers, and such singing--it was bewildering to think of!

        The important week came with cloudless skies. It was arranged that the servants should attend the meeting in turn, and Sally was not to go until the last day, Friday, Her excitement was in no degree lessened by the glowing accounts of those who preceded her. She could hardly wait for the time to arrive. Her calico dress was smoothed, a new ribbon was tied over her bonnet, and at five o'clock on Thursday afternoon she was ready to start with the others, in order to spend the night on the ground. How happy she was to have a week-time holiday, and to walk so blithe and free across the fields! Beneath this outward gladness, too, there was an undefined hope that she might obtain something to satisfy the craving of her nature. With snatches of hymns and merry words to her companions, she beguiled the way. An occasional tree obstructed the view, but at length she began to hear the faint hum of voices, and

soon a quick turn in the path revealed the scene. A pleasant pine-grove had been chosen for the camp, and the white tents gleamed here and there through the dusky boughs. The horses and carriages were grouped upon the outskirts, and in the center many hundreds of men, women, and children were gathered round the preacher's stand, in the red light of the setting sun. A solemn hush was over the assembly, and as Sally drew nearer, the wind bore to her ear the words of the hymn with which the services were concluding:

                         "O! every weary, wounded soul,
                         Come away;
                         'Tis Jesus waits to make you whole,
                         Come away.
                         His precious blood was freely spilt
                         To cleanse you from your dreadful guilt;
                         He says, 'I'll save thee if thou wilt,
                         Come away.

                         "The judgment day is stealing on,
                         Come away;
                         Your hours of hope will soon be gone,
                         Come away.
                         With Jesus do you wish to dwell,
                         And all his wondrous mercy tell,
                         Who saved your soul from burning hell?
                         Come away."

        The music and the somber pines brought back that other evening when she had soon her little playmate buried, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as she passed through the crowd and sought the tent belonging to her master.

        The wind sighed all night through the trees, and the stars shone overhead. Sally lay down to sleep upon the straw floor, sorely puzzled to reconcile what she heard about the mysterious future. In her dreams, she thought her young master died, but came to her again in the garden-path, looking wan and wretched, and told her, in a voice like the wind in the pines, that he had been mistaken; that there was a hereafter, and that she must take warning by his miserable fate, and prepare to meet it. Then she thought she lay calmly on her own death-bed, and all who stood around rejoiced with her that her toilsome days were over, and that she was sinking into the sleep from which no master's call could rouse her, and from which she never could rise to pain.

        The sun shone brightly into the tent, and she woke. The morning was glorious out there in the forest. The birds sang and the dew glistened, as they might have done in

Eden when the world was young. The early meal was soon despatched, and the tents put in order, for a, new preacher was expected, and the closing exercises were eagerly anticipated by all. Carriages began to arrive, and by ten o'clock a vast congregation had assembled in the grove. Just in front of the platform sat Sally, in a seat which she had taken pains to secure an hour before. The people were becoming impatient, when a murmur was heard, and the expected preacher, who had ridden hastily from another meeting, passed through the crowd and gained the stand. He was a tall, slender man, with an impetuous manner, and a face which seemed to say:

                         "Be earnest, earnest., earnest;
                         Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven,
                         And that thy last deed ere the judgment day."

        He throw aside his traveling coat, and without delay began to sing, in a rich, minor voice, these words:

                         "Hark! 'tis the trump of judgment
                         That God's archangel blows!
                         O, sinner! will you hasten
                         To Jesus with your woes?

                         For on this little moment,
                         Before the hour of doom,
                         Hang endless years of glory,
                         Or endless years of gloom.

                         "Perhaps you do not hear it,
                         Perhaps your heart is cold,
                         And earth's enticing pleasures
                         Are all that you behold.
                         O, sinner! look and listen,
                         And loud for mercy cry;
                         For in His sweet compassion
                         The Savior passes by."

        There was no heart that was not awed by the solemn music, and every head was bowed, as the preacher knelt to pray. Sally had never heard such a prayer, It was the outpouring of a heart that said-- "I will not lot thee go except thou bless me," me and all this waiting congregation. It was talking with God as friend talks with friend, till Sally believed in His existence with her whole soul, and expected to see Him appear in the parted sky, and answer with audible voice the strong petition. When it was ended, the preacher rose, and, opening the Bible, read the parable of the tares of the field, selecting for his text the closing verses:

        "The Son of man shall send forth His

angels, and they shall gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire; there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth."

        "There shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear."

        There was no logical introduction, no display of doctrines, but the truth was sent straight home to every hearer as if he, and the speaker, and God alone were present. In simple words, and with imagery drawn from the scenes about them, the preacher portrayed their duty and their danger. "This morning," said he, "as I was riding through the forest, I saw a bird trembling and fluttering in the snare of a serpent. It would have been devoured had I not sprung from my horse and killed the monster. Ah! thought I, this is just the way the devil snares poor sinners. Those of you who are in high stations he charms with riches, and honors, and worldly ease; and to those who are poor, and have little to hope for in life he whispers, 'You have no need to trouble yourselves about doing right; you must take what

comfort you can now, and rely upon happiness hereafter;' or else, he tells you, 'You may do as you please, for death will end your existence.' No matter what he says, you are in his power, and he is luring you on to destruction, and unless you call to Christ to vanquish him with speedy blows, he will swallow you up in infinite ruin."

        Sometimes he rose to a higher, wilder strain. "Did you ever think what it would be to be cast out for ever from God? If it were for a million of years, you could endure that; but for ever!--that is unbearable. What is hell? Why, it is a great burning desert, over which the lost wander without shelter, or cooling draught, or momentary repose, unable to be quiet because of the fires of rage and remorse that torment them from within. In the center of this desert there rises a mountain, and on it is a huge clock. Once in a thousand years it strikes one, and as the mournful sound vibrates through the burning air, the wretched souls shriek out in echo, Eternity just begun! Eternity just begun!"

        Having, with rapid gesture and passionate utterance, pictured the condition of the sinner, he began to speak in gentle tones of "the

Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world." And he sang:

                         "Whose is that voice so kind and sweet,
                         That seems my inmost heart to greet?--
                         That whispers, 'sinner, come to me,
                         And thou shalt rest and glory see'--
                         'Tis Jesus.

                         "And can the Lord of glory mean
                         That I upon his breast may lean?
                         Will He, so great beyond compare,
                         Help me my heavy load to bear?
                         Will Jesus?

                         "He will; and when this life is o'er,
                         And toil and burdens are no more,
                         How gladly from the earth I'll rise
                         To endless bliss in Paradise
                         With Jesus."

        Sally had listened with her whole soul to the preacher, and now these tender words quite overpowered her. Was she not a sinner? Had she not a heavy load to bear? Did she not yearn for sympathy and rest? She looked up with streaming eyes and saw just before her her young master, who, out of idle curiosity, had come to the camp ground. In spite of his irreligion, he was momentarily affected by the scene.

        "So you like this, Sally?"

        "O mas'r! 'pears like it's what I's been wantin' dis long time."

        "Well, well," he answered, as he turned away, "get it if you can."

        There was a fervent prayer that none there assembled might be among the lost in the Great Day, and then with shouts, and sobs, and fervent ejaculations, the meeting broke up.

        It was almost dark when the servants reached the plantation. In distress and uncertainty Sally lay down that night to sleep, and, for the first time in her life, tried to pray. So guilty did she feel herself, that she would not have dared to do it, if that gentle invitation had not rung in her ears--

                         "Sinner, come to me,
                         And thou shalt rest and glory see."

        In dreams she lived over the excitements of the day. She was aroused in the morning by the call to labor, and, bewildered, hurried to her plowing in the field. She was not the only anxious one. Many of the servants were awakened, and the usual merriment was hushed. Silently she went her weary rounds. She wanted the Savior, but she know not

how to find Him. Would He accept one so poor as she? And if He would, was she willing to give up all her known sins and follies for His sake? She thought she was, but she was ignorant, and had no one to guide her. She was distracted with her emotions. Her brain seemed on fire. Noontime came, and she stopped her team by the side of the field. The earth seemed to spin around her, and losing her consciousness, she fell, as if lifeless, to the ground. Her companions gathered about her, and bore her to the nearest cabin, where she lay for two days moveless and insensible. On the third day this trance-like state passed away, and she revived and was herself again. And in her dream she believed herself in heaven, and she thought the Lord Jesus came to her with the most loving words, and told her to be His child, and follow his precepts, and He would be with her in every trial, and bring her at last to His "rest and glory." Then she arose and went cheerfully about her accustomed labor, feeling that she was no longer friendless and alone.

        "So," said Aunt Sally, "dat's de way I come through in dis low ground o' sorrow."

CHAPTER V.

        THE WEDDING.

                         The wind sang soft in the sycamore trees
                         As tender and sweet a roundelay,
                         As if it had been some heaven-born breeze,
                         That out of Eden had crept away.

                         And the stars looked down with mildest eyes,
                         As if, like the wind so soft and low,
                         Their shining had been o'er Paradise,
                         Which only the souls of the blessed know.

                         No wail rang out on the silent air,
                         No groan from the earth beneath their feet,
                         But, all unconscious, the hapless pair
                         Went forth, the future so dim to meet.

        Sally's real owner was a maiden lady who was deaf and dumb. She had nearly a hundred slaves, but as she could not bear the loneliness of the plantation, she hired them out principally to her brother, and spent her time in traveling from place to place. Sally's mother was now taken to be her waiting-maid, and accompanied her wherever she went. This was great grief to Sally, for as long as her mother was there, there was always a degree of neatness and comfort and enjoyment even, in their poor cabin. What

household is there out of which the careful, provident mother could be taken, and not leave need and desolation behind her? The mother! why the family happiness centers in her; and this poor slave woman, in her narrow sphere, was as important as any white mother who graces an elegant house, and counts her children as her jewels! Somewhat stern she was, rarely talking much with her children, but training them to the best of her ability in all industry and honesty. Every moment she could gain from labor, was spent in spinning, and knitting, and sewing to keep them decently clothed. Her husband worked on a plantation fourteen miles away. Once a month he came to see his family.

        "We was allers glad to see father come," said Aunt Sally, "cause he brought us 'coons an' 'possums, an' we had meat to eat. I thought drefful hard o' mother for makin' me spin nights; but she didn't say nothin', --'peared like she kep' it all in her head. One day he says to me, 'Sally,' says she, 'you dunno whar you'll eat your last pound o' bread;' but I thought to be sure I know; I shall eat it down in the rice-field."

        Now there was no motherly care, and the

children were scattered. Sally would have been quite inconsolable, had it not been for her new-found trust and hope in the Master above. She was very young; she was very ignorant; she had nothing to help her to understand the Gospel; but the Spirit was teaching her, and in her poverty and loneliness she was learning those great life lessons which, in one way or another, all must apprehend who would enter the Kingdom. When she was tempted to do wrong and to despair, she thought of her heavenly vision, and the Savior again stood near her, and she was comforted, and the temptation flow away. She was fond of singing, and readily catching the hymns which she heard, she lightened thus many a toilsome hour. This, which she learned from a visitor at "the house," was a great favorite in those days:

                         "Jesus once was poor and lonely,
                         And a manger was his bed;
                         He, the radiant King of Glory,
                         Had not where to lay his head.

                         "'Come,' He says, 'all ye that labor,
                         And ye heavy laden, come;
                         I to every soul am Neighbor,
                         I will give you welcome home.'

                         ' 'Days to me were dark and dreary,
                         Lighted only from within;
                         Listen, every heart that's weary,
                         I will take away your sin.'

                         "'Fear not; on this bosom tender
                         The disciple found repose;
                         If thy love to Me thou'lt render,
                         I will banish all thy woes.'

                         "Lord! I'll worship and adore Thee,
                         Through my darkened earthly days;
                         And in heaven, at last, before Thee,
                         Sing in nobler notes Thy praise."

        A change occurred in the family. The old master died, and the slaves were transferred to the rule of "young Mas'r Harry," who has before been mentioned. A wayward youth, he had grown into an intelligent and active, but worldly and violent man. Soon after his accession to power, he married a lively young lady, from one of the aristocratic families in the vicinity, and made her mistress of the plantation. Sally now went constantly to her work in the field, but the lady's quick eye observed her, and she soon singled her out from the rest as the one upon whom to call when she needed any extra service in the house. Sally liked the change, and strove to please her.

        Among the servants who worked on a distant part of the plantation, was a young man named Abram Williams. Sally was now thirteen years old, and her mistress decided that she should be married, and that this young man should be her husband. Both were her property, therefore the only part they had to play was to acquiesce in the arrangement. It happened very well in this case, but the same power could have been employed, had they disliked each other. What think you of a system which gives such unlimited control, not only over the time and labor of men and women, but over their most sacred affections? Sally had never seen him, and knew nothing about the matter, till one day, when she was in the house, her mistress said--

        "Well, Sally, you 're thirteen years old, and I want you to be married. There's a young man over on the plantation who'll make you a good husband. He'll come here soon, and you'll see him," and then followed an enumeration of his good qualities.

        "Laws, Missis!" was the only reply Sally could make. After that she missed no opportunity to speak of him to the

simple-hearted girl, till Sally said, "'Pears like I loved him 'fore ever I saw him." True to her word, the mistress sent for him. They were pleased with each other, as she had predicted, and as there was no reason for delaying their union, it was agreed that they should be married as soon as the hurry of the planting time was over. He was a kind, good-hearted man, and Sally was happier than she had been for a long time, in feeling that she had some one to love who would love her.

        One pleasant Saturday afternoon, a few weeks after this, was fixed upon for the wedding. Work was closed early, so that the servants might participate in the festivities. Sally's scanty wardrobe had been growing less in her careful mother's absence, and now she had no decent dress for the occasion. Her mistress produced from her own stores an old white muslin. frock, and added to it a bright ribbon for her waist, and a gauze handkerchief to tie around her head. Abram was equally destitute, and his coarse field dress was exchanged for the time for some cast off clothes of his master's, which made him look, so Sally thought, quite like a gentleman. As

a special mark of favor, the Ceremony was to be performed in the house. The hour came, and with their bridemaid and groomsman they stood up before the colored Methodist preacher who was in waiting. He opened the Bible and read the account of the marriage at Cana. Sally had never heard it before, and the thought that Jesus had been present at an earthly wedding, impressed her, more than anything had ever done, with the importance of what she was about to do. No one had ever taught her the sacredness of the marriage tie. She had heard it jested about, and had seen it lightly broken, and so it was to her rather an incident of life than one of its solemnities. But now an awe crept over her; she felt as if God were there, and resolved, in heart, to do all in her power for her new-found friend. The reading was followed by a prayer, and then they were pronounced husband and wife. There was a momentary hush in the room. All seemed touched by the services save the master, who had condescended to grace them with his presence, and stood leaning in the door-way, with a satirical smile upon his face. What were to him the words, "whom God hath joined together let

no man put asunder?" Did he not know that if for any reason he wished to raise a sum of money, he should separate them, and sell them, with as little feeling as he would a horse or a bushel of rice? No wonder he smiled and thought it folly! The mistress rose, and going up to the young couple, wished them much of happiness and prosperity. She was followed by all the servants in their turn, and when the congratulations were over, she led the way to the open air, where a table was set upon the lawn. It was ornamented with a handsome cake, which she herself had made, and adorned with flowers. Sally, as lady of the day, was made to sit down and pour coffee for the company. When the repast was ended, the lawn was quickly cleared for a dance, in which the mistress insisted that the newly married pair should take the lead. Sally had never danced since the camp-meeting, but they all insisted that she would not be properly married unless she did so, and she was forced to comply. "Dat was de last time I danced," said she, in relating it; "'pears like 't want right, noway."

        It was a gay party, and as evening came on, Sally's light-heartedness returned, and she

thought she had never been so happy in her life. Ah! could she have looked into the future, and seen what deepest griefs would come to her through her a affections, what gloom would have o'ershadowed her marriage eve! The light wind in the trees would have changed to a mournful wail, and the stars that now seemed to smile, would have gazed down upon her with saddest eyes. And the birds singing good-night songs in the sycamores above her--the happy birds who could choose their mates and live lovingly all the summer through without one fear of separation, how would their notes have pierced her heart, could she but have looked forward!

        But no "coming event cast its shadow before," and in a merry mood the party broke up, and the servants sought their cabins.

CHAPTER VI.

        A SLAVE'S WORK AND A SLAVE'S HOME.

                         IN her humble cot, the wife
                         Led a toilsome, happy life.
                         Busy, blithesome as a bee,
                         Not an idle hour had she.
                         When the day began to dawn,
                         Light and active as a fawn,
                         Up she sprang from slumber sweet,
                         The ascending sun to greet.
                         Hers the task, the pleasant care,
                         Simplest viands to prepare,
                         And the little ones to guide,
                         Nestling fondly at her side.
                         Sweet, when toilsome day was over,
                         'T was to see the husband-lover
                         From his labor home returning,
                         Find the cheerful hearth-fire burning;
                         And his wife, in comely dress,
                         Adding to her loveliness,
                         Waiting with the kindest smile
                         All his weariness to wile.
                         When the last "good-night" was said
                         O'er the children's cradle-bed,
                         How they talked, the happy pair,
                         Of the lot they loved to share!

                         Then, with prayer and heart-felt praise
                         To the God who crowned their days,
                         Laid them down to hours of slumber,
                         Such as angels love to number.
                         Pity not a home like this,
                         Lowly, yet so rich in bliss.
                         Pity those who ne'er can feel
                         They are one for woe or weal
                         Who must toil from day to day,
                         'Neath a selfish master's sway;
                         And whose only joys arise
                         From the home beyond the skies!

        THE Sabbath morning rose clear out of the starry night, and with it came the necessity of Abram's return to his plantation, in order to be ready for Monday's work. Sally was distressed at this immediate separation. He was much older than herself, and her young heart was happy to have something to cling to, and to call its own. She prepared him the best breakfast in her power from the remnants of the wedding table, and then, tying a handkerchief over her head, set out to accompany him as far as she was able, on his homeward way. Hand in hand they walked through the dewy fields, trying to encourage each other with the hope that there would come a time when they should

know no separation, The merry birds flow singing above them, the early flowers gave out their odor, the pines waved their branches in the breeze, clad in the fresh green of spring. Sally tried to restrain her tears, but when they reached the bounds of her master's plantation, beyond which she could not go without special permission, they burst forth anew.

        "I know I's wicked, Abram', but I jest wish Mas'r Harry had to go 'way leave Missis like you leave me; I do! De white folks ken do jest as dey please, why can't we?"

        "Don't cry, Sally," said kind-hearted Abram, "I'll 'come'' back an' see you soon as dey'll let me."

        Sally had thrown herself down beneath the shadow of a pine, and sat for some minutes quietly. At length she exclaimed:

        "I's wonderin' if de Lord knows how bad I feels dis morning'. He had such heaps o' trouble, I specs He's sorry for us. Come an' kneel down, Abram, an' I'll pray to Him de bes' way I ken."

        Together they knelt, and in simple, broken words she poured out her heart to Him who never slights the humblest cry. A strange peace filled her soul, and, rising, she bade her

husband a calm farewell. He was awed by the prayer, for to know much loss of religion than she, and promising to see her on Monday night, if possible, he turned away, and was soon lost to the gaze amid the somber pines.

        It was high noon when Sally reached home. As she walked up the long avenue that led to the house, the first object which attracted her attention was the carriage of her old mistress before the door. Then her mother had come--her mother, whom she had not seen for months! She ran quickly to the house to see if it were so, and was told by one of the servants that "Ole Missis" had really returned. She had been prevented from reaching home the night before by finding one of the bridges gone on the road to Fayetteville, and had arrived about an hour previous. To Sally's eager inquiries for her mother, she answered, that, after helping her tired mistress to bed, she had left the house. "I specs she's lookin' arter you, Sally; she took on powerful when she heard you'd done got married."

        Sally hastened to her mother's old cabin, which now was hers, and, sure enough, there she was sitting on the low bed, She looked so neat in her trim waiting-maid's dress, that

her daughter, who had approached unperceived, could not help stopping to regard her with admiration. A moment, and she was in her arms.

        "Oh, mother, I's so glad you've come."

        "Chile, chile," said the mother, while unwonted wonted tears ran down her cheeks, "what have ye done? De Lord knows I'd rather have soon ye in yer grave than married. S'pose ye thought ye'd be better off, but chile, yer mistaken. Mebbe Abram Williams is a good man, an'll be kind to ye; but de kinder he is, an de more ye loves him, de worse ye'll feel by an' by. Don't I know? Didn't I love your father better than all de world, an' wa'nt he allers kep' way on de big plantation, till now dey say he's is sold to a speculator? An' den, when I laid out to take some comfort in my chil'n, an' worked so hard to take care of 'em, wan't dey all scattered an' carried off, de Lord knows whar, an' you only left in de ole cabin when I come home? Oh, Sally, gettin' married's de beginnin' o' sorrow; my heart aches to think what ye've got to bar! De white folks ken get married an' live happy all der days, but 'pears like dere's no peace for us no whar."

        "Don't talk so, mother. Abram says he'll ask Mas'r to let him come an' live on de place, an' den we'll have good times."

        "No, chile, it's no use. I knows. Dat' allers de way. Ole Missis goin' away to-morrow, an' I shall have to leave ye to suffer as I've done."

        Poor mother! poor daughter! Silent they sat with their arms around each other, till the sycamore trees threw their evening shadows across the door. They had no plans to talk over, no hopes to impart; for what plans can they form who have no independent will? and what individual hopes can they cherish who exist solely for the benefit of others?

        Sally's usual light-heartedness was not proof against her mother's despair. There was nothing in the past to which they cared to turn, and the anticipated future weighed them down with pain. At length, the gathering twilight warned the mother that her services would be required by her mistress, and she rose to go.

        "Good night, chile; I must go now. Missis 'll want me, an' I shan't see ye again. Ye'll be gone to de field 'fore I ken come down here in de mornin.' Do de bes' ye ken, an' tell

Abram, yer mother says ye mus' be kind to each, other while ye live togeder--de Lord knows how long dat'll be! Try to please young Mas'r an' Missis, so's to put off de evil day--but it'll come, chile, it'll come, an, ye mus' be spectin' on't. 'Bove all, don't forget yer prars, 'cause if de Lord aint yer friend, whar'll ye go?"

        "Oh, mother, I's allers a prayin'--'pears like it's de greatest comfort I's got."

        "Well, Chile, dat's right. May de dear Lord bless ye! Far'well."

        At daybreak the next morning, Sally was on her way to the rice-field. Her marriage had come and gone like any other incident in life, and now she must resume her daily toil. The hours went by slowly as she dropped the rice into the drills, and covered it lightly with her hoe. She had little disposition to talk with her companions, and had she desired it, it would not have been permitted. There was a new overseer on the plantation; a harsh, unfeeling man, who restricted the servants in every possible way. When the hot noon came on, they stopped to take their scanty dinner--a small piece of broad and meat, and some boiled rice. At a little distance was a

spring of clear cold water, to which they had been accustomed to go to quench their thirst. But now even this was refused, because it occupied too much time, and their only drink was the water which ran along between the ridges of the rice-field. The mid-day meal over, in silence they returned to their monotonous tasks. Had they been free men and women working for themselves and their children, with the stimulating hope of better fortune, which their labor should achieve, they would not have been monotonous; but when they could see nothing in the future but the same thankless toil, with the liability of losing, at any moment, the few domestic joys they possessed, it was weary work to scatter the grain and handle the hoe.

        In the twilight, fatigued and hopeless, they sought their cabins. Abram did not come, as Sally had expected, and a week went by before she saw him again. "Now," said she, "I begun to see de hardes' times I ever see any whar in my life." With hard work, scanty food, a cruel overseer, an indifferent master, and a gay mistress, growing every day more careless and forgetful of her dependents, what chance had she for comfort?

        A year of hardship passed away, and Sally's son Isaac was born. She loved him with a mother's tenderness, but not with a mother's joy; for, young as she was, she had soon so in much of trial and privation that she could not regard life to one in her condition as a blessing. When she was able to return to her work, she could not bear to leave her baby behind her to be neglected, so she tied him into her dress, and carried him with her to the field. He was a sturdy little fellow, and grow apace, in spite of all his disadvantages. Once a month his father came to see him, giving what help and encouragement he could to the mother, and bringing her his little earnings, to assist her in providing for their child. Sorrowful meetings and partings they were, and yet pleasant, because all they knew of affection and sympathy was in them.

        Two years more, during which nothing occurred to vary the dreary round of their existence, and another son was born, whom they called Daniel. It was the season of the year when all the fieldhands were engaged in plowing, and when he was three weeks old, Sally took her place with the rest. Now she

had two children whom she would not leave behind, so one was placed securely in her bosom, and the other fastened to the skirt of her dress, which was rolled up in front to make a resting place for him. Thus burdened, she worked on, never losing her rounds, for a mother is a mother every where, in the rice fields of Carolina, or amid northern snows. It was not unusual for the women to take their children to the field, but they were accustomed to lay them down upon the grass by the fences. Sally would not do this, for upon a neighboring plantation a child so left had been strangled by a snake, and was found quite dead when the work was over. How many prayers did Sally send up to heaven in these dismal days! Were they not registered there?

        The master grew daily more reckless and extravagant for himself, and more indifferent to the comfort of his slaves. "He fed us mos'ly on skim milk an' Irish potaters," said Aunt Sally, "an' peared like sometimes we should starve." On one of the adjoining plantations there was a kind and liberal master who gave his servants plenty of provisions. There is a strong community of

feeling among the slaves, and they are always ready to assist those who are less fortunate than themselves. Sally knew that she should not appeal in vain to her neighbors, so many a night after all the household were in bed, she would take the horse which she used in plowing, and ride stealthily over to their hospitable cabins, sure always to got some dried meat, or a bag of meal, from the generous occupants. Then hastening back, in silence and watchfulness, she would cook a little for herself and her children, In ways like this she eked out their scanty fare, always anxious, and fearful of being discovered.

        During this miserable time another child was born to her, but its little life was soon closed; and at evening, after working hours were over, it was buried in a rough box out among the pines. Sally did not mourn for it; she was glad it had escaped the misery of their earthly lot. No stone marked its grave, but the mother knew the spot, and sometimes stole out there at night to pray. She was always comforted, for God seemed near to her there, and she fancied the wind in the trees above her was singing her child's lullaby, and hushing it to sweet repose.

CHAPTER VII.

        A HUSBAND SOLD.

                         SEE! the moon is over the hill;
                         Hark! the wind in the trees is still;
                         Only the stars shine out on high,
                         In the azure depths of the midnight sky.
                         The master sleeps in his downy bed,
                         And watch and care for a while have fled,
                         Wake, my children! and we'll away,
                         Ere in the east is the dawn of day.
                         Whither? Alas! I know not whither
                         This side of the cold and fatal River!
                         The earth has many a pleasant dell
                         Where ye and I might be sheltered well,
                         But ne'er secure on the land or sea
                         Can the slave from his white pursuers be!
                         God of mercy, and truth, and right,
                         Guide our steps through the silent night!

        The master grew every day more reckless in his expenditures, and more unreasonable in his demands upon his servants. Among the household duties which Sally occasionally performed, was that of seeing that the milk was properly strained and taken care of. One morning her mistress was out of humor, and imagining taken that Sally had not taken pains with her work, she complained to her husband.

        "Look here, Sally," said he, "do you put the milk in a pan that is n't washed?"

        "Oh, no, mas'r, I takes partikler pains to have it clean."

        "Do you mean to contradict your mistress?"

        "I didn't, mas'r."

        "You didn't, did you? I'll see!"

        Seizing her by the arm, he whipped her severely, and at length desisting from very weariness, he called out, "Now see if you'll tell the truth the next time."

        Half crazed with pain and terror, she crept away to the field. She dared not neglect her tasks, and all through that wretched day she followed the plow, smarting from the blows. It was the crisis of her fate. Year after year she had suffered on, and now she felt that she could endure no longer. With her buoyant nature, she would not have despaired could she have seen one distant gleam of hope, but matters were daily getting worse on the plantation, and she know not where to turn for light.

        Revolving those things in her mind as she went her weary rounds, she came to the desperate resolution of running away, and with

uplifted heart, she asked God to pardon her if she was wrong, and to help her if she was right. Communicating to no one her intention, he sought her cabin at the usual hour, and procuring her children's supper, eating none herself, so oppressed was she by her pain, and by the thought of what she was about to do. She dared not leave the grounds till all was quiet, and while the children slept upon the floor, she busied herself in collecting their little clothing, and tying it up in a bundle, which she could conveniently carry. The early moon was shining in the sky, and she must wait till it went down. As she sat there in silence, she wondered if she were about to commit a sin, for she had been trained to such implicit obedience to her master, that she hardly dared think of resisting his will. Suddenly she heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and of voices, coming up the walk. She remembered that her master had ridden over to Fayetteville in the morning, and it was his voice, and that of the overseer, to which she listened.

        "Here's that girl, Sally, Mr. Green, you must look after her a little. She's never been

fairly broken in yet. I made a beginning, this morning. You must train her."

        "Ah! leave me alone for that, sir. I'll fetch her up to the mark. I'll give her a bigger task to-morrow, and if she don't do it, she'll see what she'll get."

        "The fact is, Mr. Green, I don't care how much you got out of 'em. Things are going to ruin, and I must make more money in some way."

        The voices died away, and with them Sally's irresolution. She would go at all risks. The moon went down, and all was still. Taking the sleeping Daniel in her arms, she gently shook the older boy, saying, "Isaac, Isaac, wake up chile. Don't you want to go an' see yer father?" He opened his eyes at the words, and accustomed to obey his mother in all things, took her hand as she passed out--out into the night so pure and calm, with the holy stars above her, and the dewy earth beneath her feet. Abram was then at work on a plantation a few miles away, and thither she directed her steps. Avoiding the roads lest she should be discovered by some belated traveler, she hurried on through the fields, keeping, where

it was possible, under the deep shadow of trees and fences. Now and then the cattle stirring in the pastures, or the neigh of a horse startled by her footsteps, would make her heart beat quick, and she would stop to listen, but no harm came to her, and carrying one, and sometimes both, of the children, and hushing their questioning cries, she at length reached her destination. Going softly up to the door of Abram's cabin, she entered and roused him from his heavy slumber. He was terrified to see her there with her children, but soon understood wherefore she had come.

        "There's no time to lose, Abram. I heerd that Aunt Marthy was a-takin' in washin' in Fayetteville, an' I know she'll let me an' de chil'n stay with her."

        Breaking in two a piece of hoe-cake which she had saved from her supper, she gave it to the boys, and rising from the low bed where she had seated herself for a moment, she took Daniel again in her arms, saying to her husband, "You mus' tote Isaac, Abram, he's done tired out, poor chile."

        It was past midnight. Fayetteville was four miles distant, and Abram must return

for his morning's work, so they hurried on. He knew the road, and as it passed through a quiet neighborhood, he was not afraid to keep it. They talked little, for fear of being on some way overheard, but arranged that Sally and the boys should keep hid for a while with "Aunt Marthy," and that Abram should see them as often as possible. Sally knew not what was before her, but in spite of the haste and the danger, it was delightful to be walking so far from the plantation and away from the overseer's eye. Stiff and sore from the whipping she had received, her heart was yet lighter than it had been for many a day. The dawn had not yet begun to glimmer in the east when they reached the town and sought the narrow street and humble cottage of "Aunt Marthy." A good old creature she was; owned by a man in Fayetteville, but hiring her time and supporting herself and her children by washing. She received Sally with open arms, without manifesting much surprise at her appearance. She had had the experience of many years, and she knew too well the chances and changes in the life of a slave to be astonished by them. "Laws, chile, I's been through it

all, an' I knows ye can't bear it unless ye loves do Lord."

        While it was yet dark Abram bid them good-bye and hastened away. It was now October, and from this time until New Year's she lived quietly with Marthy, assisting her daily toil. The boys were so young that they would hardly be recognized, so they played about the street with the other children, but Sally never went out except at night; and then cautiously, and for short distances. During this time Abram was sold on to a plantation near Fayetteville, and he often stole in at evening to see his wife. He took pains to hear about her master, and learned from one of the servants that he was fearfully angry when he found Sally had gone, and threatened to kill her if he ever saw her again; also, that his slaves were not to work at home any more, but were all to be hired out at New Year's. Sally knew she could not long remain undetected where she was, and believing that her master would not touch her on account of his own interest, she resolved to go boldly when the day came and hire herself out with the rest.

        The important morning arrived, and Sally

took her children and went out to a field on the old plantation where she had heard the business of the day would be transacted. What fervent prayers did her heart send up as she walked along! She believed they were heard, and her stop was firmer and her courage stronger as she reached the ground. Her old companions were already assembled there, and a crowd of the neighboring planters were standing about, talking of the price and capacity of those they wished to secure. Among them was her master. He saw her, and muttering something between his teeth, appeared as if he would confront her as she advanced, but the gentleman with whom he was speaking, said something in a dissuasive voice, and he turned away. Sally's heart was full of thanksgiving as she took her place with the rest. She believed the Lord was with her as he was with Daniel in the lion's den. The sales went on, and her turn at last arriving, she was hired by a citizen of Fayetteville, an easy, compassionate man, who had heard of the unjust treatment she had received. A new hope dawned upon her. Perhaps he would let her hire her time as her aunt did. She ventured to propose it to him, and he

agreed that for six dollars a mouth, regularly paid to him, she should be her own mistress, and do what she pleased. The moment that she was free to act for herself, with what spirit and energy did she take hold of life. She had always had a natural fondness and aptitude for cooking, and now she resolved to rent a small house, and commence the sale of cakes and beer of her own baking and brewing. Before a week had passed she had rented a little tenement of two rooms, and having procured a barrel of flour and other necessaries in advance, she was ready to sell to any one who would patronize her humble store. Her children were both with her at first. When she had time, she took in washing, and then she accustomed them to help her to beat the clothes. In a month she had not only paid for the flour, but she had also given to her new master the first installment of hire-money. Very judiciously she made her small purchases. She would watch the market-wagons as they came in from the country, and often buy her provisions to great advantage. Every morning she carried a gallon of hot coffee to the market for sale. The gentlemen soon learned to know her, and would

buy a cup, sometimes throwing her fifty cents in return. She had never dreamed of having so much money as she now earned. She bought comfortable clothes for herself and her children, and obtained, from time to time, little articles of furniture for her house. And when, at the end of the year the same arrangement was made with her master for a much longer time, her heart overflowed with gratitude to God, and she resolved more and more to dedicate herself to Him. What was it that made her so happy? The privilege of working every moment for the support of herself and her children, and of paying out of her earnings six dollars every month to her master? Verily happiness is not absolute, but relative, in this world.

        Abram still worked in the vicinity, and often came to see her and the children. He was a kind and affectionate man, but he had not Sally's strength of character and firmness of principle, and he was easily led astray. He had lately fallen into a habit of gambling, at which she was exceedingly distressed and alarmed. She knew from young "Mas'r Harry," the ruin to which it led, and while she begged him to abandon it, she loved him so

well that she would sometimes give him money when he came and told her of his losses. At length his master discovered his visits to the gambling-room. He was not grieved at his sin, but angry at his disobedience; and, going to Sally, in a dreadful rage, he told her that, if her husband ever gambled again, he would put him into jail, and he never should come out from there as his servant. This frightened Abram, and for a year he kept away. But one night the old temptation returned again, and he went. His master heard of it, and threw him into jail the following day, as he had threatened. Sending for Sally, he told her what he had done, and that he should sell him to Now Orleans.

        "Oh, Mas'r de Lord bless ye, won't ye try him once more? He was allers such a good man, an' so kind to me an' the chil'n!"

        "Now, Sally, you may just stop your crying around here, for as sure as there's a God in heaven, he never shall come out mine."

        There was no hope, then. He must be sold, and selling to New Orleans was to her like death. How many whom she had known had gone the same way and never been heard of

more! She would rather have soon him in his coffin.

        It was late when she reached home, too late to go to the jail, and the night must wear away in prayers and tears. She was up with the dawn, and baking some fresh biscuit, and making a pot of her nicest coffee, she took them to the jail, and sat down upon the stone steps until the doors should be opened. Her mother's words came to her mind, and she wept bitterly. Her "evil day" had indeed come. The passers by looked coldly upon her. It was a common thing to see poor slave-women sitting, in tears, upon the steps of the jail. At length she was admitted. Abram was quite overcome, when he saw her, with remorse for his fault and grief at their separation. For they had loved each other, even as people do whose faces are fair! Sally strove with her stronger heart to sustain him and to lift his thoughts to God. But sorrow would have its way, and from nine o'clock till one, they sat weeping and holding each other's hands, as if it were indeed the death hour. At length the rude voice of the jailer was heard ordering her away. They

clasped each other convulsively for a moment, but the husband could not speak. Amid her sobs, Sally exclaimed,

        "Oh, Abram, far'well! Remember de Lord! Remember de Lord! I shall pray for ye, ye poor soul! Far'well, far'well!"

CHAPTER VIII.

        A NEW HUSBAND--CHILDREN SOLD.

                         ON the brink of a flowery meadow,
                         A lamb by its mother lay,
                         All in the golden sunshine
                         Sleeping the noon away.

                         The mother watches her darling
                         And opens her half-shut eye,
                         When over the flowery meadow
                         The wind goes whispering by.

                         What