"Certainly," was the reply.

"I desire the jury and the Court to remember," said Mr. Trueman, "that I

made no attack upon the _reputation_ of the witness in this case.

Doubtless _that_ is all which it is claimed to be. I freely concede it;

but the earnest prosecutor must permit me to distinguish between

_reputation_ and _character_. I did assail the character of the man, but

not hypothetically or by shrewd conjectures; 'out of his own mouth I

condemned him.' This is not the first instance of crime committed by a

man, who, up to the period of transgression, stood fair before the

world. The gentleman's own library will supply abundant proofs of the

success of strong temptation in its encounters with even _established

virtue_; and I care not if this willing witness could bolster up his

reputation with the voluntary affidavits of hosts of friends; his own

testimony, to-day, would have still produced and riveted the conviction

of his really base character. I thank the gentleman for his indulgence."

The prosecutor continuing, endeavored to show that the testimony was,

upon its face, entirely credible, and ought to have its weight with the

jury. He labored hard to reconcile its many and material contradictions,

reiterated his own opinion of the witness as a man of truth; and, with

an inflammatory warning against the _Abolition counsel_, who, he said,

was perhaps now "meditating in our midst some sinister design against

the peculiar institution of the South," he ended his fiery harangue.

When he had taken his seat, Mr. Trueman addressed the Court as follows:

"Before the jury retire, may it please your Honor, as the case is of a

serious nature, and as we have no witness for the defence, I would ask

permission merely to repeat the version of the circumstances of this

case detailed to me by the prisoner at the bar. Such a statement, I am

aware, is not legal evidence; but if, in your clemency, you would permit

it to go to the jury simply for what it is worth, the course of justice

I am sure would by no means be impeded."

The judge readily consented to this request, and Mr. Trueman rehearsed

my story, as narrated in the foregoing pages.

The Commonwealth's attorney then rejoined with a few remarks.

After a retirement of a few minutes, the jury returned with a verdict of

"guilty as charged in the indictment," ordering me to receive two

hundred lashes on my bare back, not exceeding fifty at a time. I was

then remanded to jail to await the execution of my sentence.

Very gloomy looked that little room to me when I returned to it, with a

horrid crime of which, Heaven knows, I was guiltless, affixed to my

name, and the prospect of a cruel punishment awaiting me. Who may tell

the silent, unexpressed agony that I there endured? Certain I am, that

the nightly stars and the old pale moon looked not down upon a more

wretched heart. There I sat, looking ever and again at the stolid Fanny,

who had been sentenced to the work-house for a limited time. Since the

death of her infant she had lost all her loquacity, and remained in a

kind of dreamy, drowsy state, between waking and sleeping.

Through how many scenes of vanished days, worked the plough-share of

memory, upturning the fresh earth, where lay the buried seeds of some

few joys! And, sometimes, a sly, nestling thought of Henry hid itself

away in the most covert folds of my heart. His melancholy bronze face

had cut itself like a fine cameo, on my soul. The old, withered flowers,

which he had sent, lay carefully concealed in a corner of the cell.

Their beauty had departed like a dim dream; but a little of their

fragrance still remained despite decay.

One day, after the trial, I was much honored and delighted by a visit

from no less a personage than Mr. Trueman himself.

I was overcome, and had not power to speak the thanks with which my

grateful heart ran over. He kindly pitied my embarrassment, and relieved

me by saying,

"Oh, I know you are thankful to me. I only wish, my good girl, that my

speech had rescued you from the punishment you have to suffer. Believe

me, I deeply pity you; and, if money could avert the penalty which I

know you have not merited, I would relieve you from its infliction; but

nothing more can be done for you. You must bear your trouble bravely."

"Oh, my kind, noble friend!" I passionately exclaimed, "words like these

would arm me with strength to brave a punishment ten times more severe

than the one that awaits me. Sympathy from you can repay me for any

suffering. That a noble white gentleman, of distinguished talents,

should stoop from his lofty position to espouse the cause of a poor

mulatto, is to me as pleasing as it is strange."

"Alas, my good girl, you and all of your wronged and injured race are

objects of interest and affection to me. I would that I could give you

something more available than sympathy: but these Southerners are a

knotty people; their prejudices of caste and color grow out, unsightly

and disgusting, like the rude excrescences upon a noble tree, eating it

away, and sucking up its vital sap. These Western people are of a noble

nature, were it not for their sectional blemishes. I never relied upon

the many statements which I have heard at the North, taking them as

natural exaggerations; but my sojourn here has proved them to be true."

I then told him of the discussion that I had overheard between him and

Mr. Winston.

"Did you hear that?" he asked with a smile. "Winston has been very cool

toward me ever since; yet he is a man with some fine points of

character, and considerable mental cultivation. This one Southern

feeling, or rather prejudice, however, has well-nigh corrupted him. He

is too fiery and irritable to argue; but all Southerners are so. They

cannot allow themselves to discuss these matters. Witness, for instance,

the conduct of their Congressional debaters. Do they reason? Whenever a

matter is reduced to argumentation, the Southerner flies off at a

tangent, resents everything as personal, descends to abuse, and thus

closes the debate."

I ventured to ask him some questions in relation to Fred Douglas; to all

of which he returned satisfactory answers. He informed me that Douglas

had once been a slave; that he was now a man of social position; of

very decided talent and energy. "I know of no man," continued Mr.

Trueman, "who is more deserving of public trust than Douglas. He

conducts himself with extreme modesty and propriety, and a quiet dignity

that inclines the most fastidious in his favor."

He then cited the case of Miss Greenfield (_the_ black swan), showing

that my race was susceptible of cultivation and refinement in a high

degree.

Thus inspired, I poured forth my full soul to him. I told him how, in

secret, I had studied; how diligently I had searched after knowledge;

how I longed for the opportunity to improve my poor talents. I spoke

freely, and with a degree of nervous enthusiasm that seemed to affect

him.

"Ann," he said, and large tears stood in his eyes, "it is a shame for

you to be kept in bondage. A proud, aspiring soul like yours, if once

free to follow its impulses, might achieve much. Can you not labor to

buy yourself? At odd times do extra work, and, by your savings, you may,

in the course of years, be enabled to buy yourself."

"My dear sir, I've no 'odd times' for extra work, or I would gladly

avail myself of them. Lazy I am not; but my mistress requires all my

time and labor. If she were to discover that I was working, even at

night for myself, she would punish me severely."

I said this in a mournful tone; for I felt that despair was my portion.

He was silent for awhile; then said,

"Well, you must do the best you can. I would that I could advise you;

but now I must leave. A longer stay would excite suspicion. You heard

what they said the other day about Abolitionists."

I remembered it well, and was distressed to think that he had been

abused on my account.

With many kind words he took his leave, and I felt as if the sunshine

had suddenly been extinguished.

During his entire visit poor Fanny had slept. She lay like one in an

opium trance. For hours after his departure she remained so, and much

time was left me for reflection.

CHAPTER XXXII.

EXECUTION OF THE SENTENCE--A CHANGE--HOPE.

On the last and concluding day of the term of the court, the jailer

signified to me that the constable would, on the morrow, administer the

first fifty lashes; and, of course, I passed the night in great

trepidation.

But the morning came bright and clear, and the jailer, accompanied by

Constable Calcraft, entered.

"Come, girl," said the latter, "I have to execute the sentence upon

you."

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

"Strip yourself to the waist," said the constable.

I dared not hesitate, though feminine delicacy was rudely shocked. With

a prayer to heaven for fortitude, I obeyed.

Then, with a strong cowhide, he inflicted fifty lashes (the first

instalment of the sentence) upon my bare back; each lacerating it to the

bone. I was afterwards compelled to put my clothes on over my raw,

bloody back, without being allowed to wash away the clotted gore; for,

upon asking for water to cleanse myself, I was harshly refused, and

quickly re-conducted to the cell, where, wounded, mortified, and

anguish-stricken, I was left to myself.

Oh, God of the world-forgotten Africa! Thou dost see these things; Thou

dost hear the cries which daily and nightly we are sending up to Thee!

On that lonely, wretched night Thou wert with me, and my prison became

as a radiant mansion, for angels cheered me there! Glory to God for the

cross which He sent me; for it led me on to Him.

Poor Fanny, after her sentence was pronounced, was soon sent to the

work-house; so I was alone. The little Testament which Louise had given

me, was all the company that I desired. Its rich and varied words were

as manna to my hungry soul; and its blessed promises rescued me from a

dreadful bankruptcy of faith.

Subsequently, and at three different times, I was led forth to receive

the remainder of my punishment.

After the last portion was given, I was allowed to go to the kitchen of

the jail and wash myself and dress in some clean clothes, which Miss

Jane had sent me. I was then conducted by the constable to the hotel.

Miss Jane met me very distantly, saying--

"I trust you are somewhat humbled, Ann, and will in future be a better

nigger."

I was in but a poor mood to take rebukes and reproaches; for my flesh

was perfectly raw, the intervals between the whippings having been so

short as not to allow the gashes even to close; so that upon this, the

final day, my back presented one mass of filth and clotted gore. I was

then, as may be supposed, in a very irritable humor, but a slave is not

allowed to have feeling. It is a privilege denied him, because his skin

is black.

I did not go out of Miss Jane's room, except on matters of business,

about which she sent me. I would, then, go slipping around, afraid of

meeting Henry. I did not wish him to see me in that mutilated condition.

I saw Louise in Miss Jane's room; but there she merely nodded to me.

Subsequently we met in a retired part of the hall, and there she

expressed that generous and friendly sympathy which I knew she so warmly

cherished for me.

Somehow or other she had contrived to insinuate herself wondrously into

Miss Jane's good graces; and all her influence she endeavored to use in

my favor.

In this private interview she told me that she would induce Miss Jane

to let me sleep in her room; and she thought she knew what key to take

her on.

"If," added she, "I get you to my apartment, I will care for you well. I

will wash and dress your wounds, and render you every attention in my

power."

I watched, with admiration, her tactics in managing Miss Jane. That

evening when I was seated in an obscure corner of the room, Miss Jane

was lolling in a large arm-chair, playing with a bouquet that had been

sent her by a gentleman. This bouquet had been delivered to her, as I

afterwards learned, by Louise. Miss Jane had grown to be fashionable

indeed; and had two favorite beaux, with whom she interchanged notes,

and Louise had been selected as a messenger.

On this occasion, the wily mulatto came up to her, rather familiarly, I

thought, and said--

"Ah, you are amusing yourself with the Captain's flowers! I must tell

him of it. Dear sakes! but it will please him;" she then whispered

something to her, at which both of them laughed heartily.

After this Miss Jane was in a very decided good humor, and Louise fussed

about the apartment pretty much as she pleased. At length, throwing open

the window, she cried out--

"How close the air is here! Why, Mrs. St. Lucian, the fashionable,

dashing lady who occupied this room just before you, Mrs. Somerville,

wouldn't allow three persons to be in it at a time; and her servant-girl

always slept in my room. By the way, that just reminds me how impolite

I've been to you; do excuse me, and I will be glad to relieve you by

letting Ann go to my room of nights."

"Oh, it will trouble you, Louise."

"Don't talk or think of troubling me; but come along girl," she said,

turning to me.

"Go with Louise, Ann," added Miss Jane, as she perceived me hesitate,

"but come early in the morning to get me ready for breakfast."

Happy even for so small a favor as this, I followed Louise to her room.

There I found everything very comfortable and neat. A nice, downy bed,

with its snowy covering; a bright-colored carpet, a little bureau,

washstand, clock, rocking-chair, and one or two pictures, with a few

crocks of flowers, completed the tasteful furniture of this apartment.

All this, I inly said, is the arrangement and taste of a mulatto in the

full enjoyment of her freedom! Do not her thrift and industry disprove

the oft-repeated charge of indolence that is made upon the negro race?

She seemed to read my thoughts, and remarked, "You are surprised, Ann,

to see my room so nice! I read the wonder in your face. I have marked it

before, in the countenances of slaves. They are taught, from their

infancy up, to regard themselves as unfit for the blessings of free,

civilized life; and I am happy to give the lie, by my own manner of

living, to this rude charge."

"How long have you been free, Louise, and how did you obtain your

freedom?"

"It is a long story," she answered; "you must be inclined to sleep; you

need rest. At some other time I'll tell you. Here, take this arm-chair,

it is soft; and your back is wounded and sore; I am going to dress it

for you."

So saying, she left the room, but quickly returned with a basin of warm

water and a little canteen of grease. She very kindly bade me remove my

dress, then gently, with a soft linten-rag, washed my back, greased it,

and made me put on one of her linen chemises and a nice gown, and giving

me a stimulant, bade me rest myself for the night upon her bed, which

was clean, white, and tempting.

When she thought I was soundly sleeping, she removed from a little

swinging book-shelf a well-worn Bible. After reading a chapter or so,

she sank upon her knees in prayer! There may be those who would laugh

and scoff at the piety of this woman, because of her tawny complexion;

but the Great Judge, to whose ear alone her supplication was made,

disregards all such distinctions. Her soul was as precious to Him, as

though her complexion had been of the most spotless snow.

On the following morning, whilst I was arranging Miss Jane's toilette,

she said to me, in rather a kind tone:

"Ann, Mr. Summerville wants to sell you, and purchase a smaller and

cheaper girl for me. Now, if you behave yourself well, I'll allow you to

choose your own home."

This was more kindness than I expected to receive from her, and I

thanked her heartily.

All that day my heart was dreaming of a new home--perhaps a kind, good

one! On the gallery I met Mr. Trueman (I love to write his name).

Rushing eagerly up to him, I offered my hand, all oblivious of the wide

chasm that the difference of race had placed between us; but, if that

thought had occurred to me, his benignant smile would have put it to

flight. Ah, he was the true reformer, who illustrated, in his own

deportment, the much talked-of theory of human brotherhood! He, with all

his learning, his native talent, his social position and legal

prominence, could condescend to speak in a familiar spirit to the

lowliest slave, and this made me, soured to harshness, feel at ease in

his presence.

I told him that I was fast recovering from the effects of my whipping. I

spoke of Louise's kindness, &c.

"I am to be sold, Mr. Trueman; I wish that you would buy me."

"My good girl, if I had the means I would not hesitate to make the

purchase, and instantly draw up your free papers; but I am, at the

present, laboring under great pecuniary embarrassments, which deny me

the right of exercising that generosity which my heart prompts in this

case."

I thanked him, over and over again, for his kindness. I felt not a

little distressed when he told me that he should leave for Boston early

on the following day. In bidding me adieu, he slipped, very modestly,

into my hand a ten-dollar bill, but this I could not accept from one to

whom I was already heavily indebted.

"No, my good friend, I cannot trespass so much upon you. Already I am

largely your debtor. Take back this money." I offered him the bill, but

his face colored deeply, as he replied:

"No, Ann, you would not wound my feelings, I am sure."

"Not for my freedom," I earnestly answered.

"Then accept this trifling gift. Let it be among the first of your

savings, as my contribution, toward the purchase-money for your

freedom." Seeing that I hesitated, he said, "if you persist in refusing,

you will offend me."

"Anything but that," I eagerly cried, as I took the money from that

blessed, charity-dispensing hand.

And this was the last I saw of him for many years; and, when we again

met, the shadow of deeper sorrows was resting on my brow.

* * * * *

Several weeks had elapsed since Miss Jane's announcement that I was to

be sold, and I had heard no more of it. I dared not renew the subject to

her, no matter from what motive, for she would have construed it as

impudence. But my time was now passing in comparative pleasure, for Miss

Jane was wholly engrossed by fun, frolic, and dissipation. Her mornings

were spent in making or receiving fashionable calls, and her afternoons

were devoted to sleep, whilst the night-time was given up entirely to

theatres, parties, concerts, and such amusements. Consequently my

situation, as servant, became pretty much that of a sinecure. Oh, what

delightful hours I passed in Louise's room, reading! I devoured

everything in the shape of a book that fell into my hands. I began to

improve astonishingly in my studies. It seemed that knowledge came to me

by magic. I was surprised at the rapidity of my own advancement. In the

afternoons, Henry had a good deal of leisure, and he used to steal round

to Louise's room, and sit with us upon a little balcony that fronted it,

and looked out upon a beautiful view. There lay the placid Ohio, and

just beyond it ran the blessed Indiana shore! "Why was I not born on

that side of the river?" I used to say to Henry, as I pointed across the

water. "Or why," he would answer, as his dark eye grew intensely black,

"were our ancestors ever stolen from Africa?"

"These are questions," said the more philosophical Louise, "that we must

not propose. They destroy the little happiness we already enjoy."

"Yes, you can afford to talk thus, Louise, for you are free; but we,

poor slaves, know slavery from actual experience and endurance," said

Henry.

"I have had my experience too," she answered, "and a dark one has it

been."

The evening on which this conversation occurred, was unusually fair and

calm. I shall ever remember it. There we three sat, with mournful

memories working in our breasts; there each looking at the other,

murmuring secretly, "Mine is the heaviest trouble!"

"Louise," I said, "tell us how you broke the chains of bondage."

"I was," said she, after a moment's pause, "a slave to a family of

wealth, residing a few miles from New Orleans. I am, as you see, but

one-third African. My mother was a bright mulatto. My father a white

gentleman, the brother of my mistress. Louis De Calmo was his name. My

mother was a housemaid, and only fifteen years of age at my birth. She

was of a meek, quiet disposition, and bore with patience all her

mistress' reproaches and harshness; but, when alone with my father, she

urged him to buy me, and he promised her he would; still he put her off

from time to time. She often said to him that for herself she did not

care; but, for me, she was all anxiety. She could not bear the idea of

her child remaining in slavery. All her bright hopes for me were

suddenly brought to a close by my father's unexpected death. He was

killed by the explosion of a steamboat on the lower Mississippi, and his

horribly-mangled body brought home to be buried. My mother loved him;

and, in her grief for his death, she had a double cause for sorrow. By

it her child was debarred the privilege of freedom. I was but nine years

of age at the time, but I well remember her wild lamentation. Often she

would catch me to her heart, and cry out, 'if you could only die I

should be so happy;' but I did not. I lived on and grew rapidly. We had

a very kind overseer, and his son took a great fancy to me. He taught me

to read and write. I was remarkably quick. When I was but fifteen, I

recollect mistress fancied, from my likely appearance and my delicate,

gliding movements, that she would make a dining-room servant of me. I

was taken into the house, and thus deprived of the instructions which

the overseer's son had so faithfully rendered me. I have often read half

of the night. Now I approach a melancholy part of my story. Master

becoming embarrassed in his business, he must part with some of his

property. Of course the slaves went. My mother was numbered among the

lot. I longed and begged to be sold with her; but to this mistress would

not consent,--she considered me too valuable as a house-girl. Well,

mother and I parted. None can ever know my wretchedness, unless they

have suffered a similar grief, when I saw her borne weeping and

screaming away from me. I have never heard from her since. Where she

went or into whose hands she fell, I never knew. She was sold to the

highest bidder, under the auctioneer's hammer, in the New Orleans

market. I lived on as best I could, bearing an aching heart, whipped for

every little offence, serving, as a bond-woman, her who was, by nature

and blood, _my Aunt_. After a year or so I was sold to James Canfield, a

bachelor gentleman in New Orleans, and I lived with him, as a wife, for

a number of years. I had several beautiful children, though none lived

to be more than a few months old. At the death of this man I was set

free by his will, and three hundred dollars were bequeathed me by him. I

had saved a good deal of money during his life-time, and this, with his

legacy, made me independent. I remained in the South but a short time.

For two years after his death I sojourned in the North, sometimes hiring

myself out as chambermaid, and at others living quietly on my means; but

I must work. In activity I stifle memory, and for awhile am happy, or,

at least, tranquil."

After this synopsis of her history, Louise was silent. She bent her

head upon her hand, and mused abstractedly.

"I think, Henry, you are a slave," I said, as I turned my eye upon his

mournful face.

"Yes, and to a hard master," was the quick reply; "but he has promised

me I shall buy myself. I am to pay him one thousand dollars, in

instalments of one hundred dollars each. Three of these instalments I

have already paid."

"Does he receive any hire for your services at this hotel?"

"Oh yes, the proprietor pays him one hundred and fifty dollars a year

for me."

"How have you made the money?"

"By working at night and on holidays, going on errands, and doing little

jobs for gentlemen boarding in the house. Sometimes I get little

donations from kind-hearted persons, Christmas gifts in money, &c. All

of it is saved."

"You must work very hard."

"Oh yes, it's very little sleep I ever get. How old would you think me?"

"Thirty-five," I answered, as I looked at his furrowed face.

"That is what almost every one says; yet I am only twenty-five. All

these wrinkles and hard spots are from work."

"You ought to rest awhile," I ventured to suggest.

"Oh, I'll wait until I am my own master; then I'll rest."

"But you may die before that time comes."

"So I may, so I may," he repeated despondingly. "All my family have died

early and from over-work. Sometimes I think freedom too great a blessing

for me ever to realize."

He brushed a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. I looked at

him, so young and energetic, yet lonely. Noble and handsome was his

face, despite the lines of care and labor. What wonder that a soft

feeling took possession of my heart, particularly when I remembered how

he had gladdened my imprisonment with kind messages and the gift of

flowers. I did but follow an irrepressible and spontaneous impulse, when

I said with earnestness,

"Do not work so hard, Henry."

He looked me full in the face. Why did my eye droop beneath that warm,

inquiring gaze; and why did he ask so low, in a half whisper:

"Should I die who will grieve for me?"

And did not my uplifted glance tell him who would? We understood each

other. Our hearts had spoken, and what followed may easily be guessed.

Evening after evening we met upon that balcony to pledge our souls in

earnest vows. Henry's eye grew brighter; he worked the harder; but his

pile of money did not increase as it had done. Many a little present to

me, many a rare nosegay, that was purchased at a price he was not able

to afford, put off to a greater distance his day of freedom. Like a

green, luxuriant spot in the wide desert of a lonely life, seems to me

the memory of those hours. On Sunday evenings, when his labor was over,

which was generally about eight o'clock, we walked through the city, and

on moonlight nights we strayed upon the banks of the Ohio, and planned

for the future.

Henry was to buy himself, then go North, and labor in some hotel, or at

whatever business he could make the most money; then he would return to

buy me. This was one of our plans; but as often as we talked, we made a

new one.

"Oh, we shall be so happy, Ann," he would exclaim.

Then I would repeat the often-asked question, "Where shall we live?"

Sometimes we decided upon New York city; then a village in the State of

New York; but I think Henry's preference was a Canadian town. Idle

speculators that we were, we seldom adhered long to our preference for

any one spot!

"At least, dear," he used to say, in his encouraging way, "we will hunt

a home; and, no matter where we find it, we can make it a happy one if

we are together."

And to this my heart gave a warm echo. I was beginning to be happy; for

imagination painted joys in the future, and the present was not all

mournful, for Henry was with me! The same roof covered us. Twenty times

a-day I met him in the dining-room, hall, or in the lobby, and he was

always with me in the evening.

Slaves as we were, I've often thought as we wandered beneath the golden

light of the stars, that, for the time being, we were as happy as

mortals could be. Young first-love knit the air in a charmed silver mist

around us; and, hand in hand, we trod the wave-washed shore, always with

our eyes turned toward the North, the bourne whither all our thoughts

inclined.

"Does not the north star point us to our future home?" Henry frequently

asked. I love to recall this one sunny epoch in my life. For months, not

an unpleasant thing occurred.

Immediately after my trial, Monkton left the city, and went, as I

understood, south. Miss Jane was busied with fashion and gayety. Mr.

Summerville was engaged at his business, and every one whom I saw was

kind to me. So I may record the fact that for a while I was happy!

CHAPTER XXXIII.

SOLD--LIFE AS A SLAVE--PEN--CHARLES' STORY--UNCLE PETER'S TROUBLE--A

STAR PEEPING FORTH FROM THE CLOUD.

Whilst the hours thus rosily slided away, and I dreamed amid the verdure

of existence, the syren charmed me wisely, indeed, with her beautiful

promises. Poor, simple-hearted, trusting slaves! We could not see upon

what a rocking bridge our feet were resting, how slippery and

unsubstantial was the flowery declivity whereon we stood. There we

reposed in the gentle light of a happy trance; we saw not the clouds,

dark and tempest-charged, that were rising rapidly to hide the stars

from our view.

One Sunday afternoon, Henry having finished his work much earlier than

usual, and done some little act whereby the good will of his temporary

master (the keeper of the hotel) was propitiated, and Miss Jane and Mr.

Summerville having gone out, I willingly consented to his proposal to

take a walk. We accordingly wandered off to a beautiful wood, just

without the city limits, a very popular resort with the negroes and

poorer classes, though it was the only pretty green woodland near the

city. Yet, because the "common people and negroes" (a Kentucky phrase)

went there, it was voted vulgar, and avoided by the rich and refined.

One blessing was thus given to the poor!

Henry and I sought a retired part of the grove, and, seating ourselves

on an old, moss-grown log, we talked with as much hope, and indulged in

as rosy dreams, as happier and lordlier lovers. For three bright hours

we remained idly rambling through the flower-realm of imagination; but,

as the long shadows began to fall among the leaves, we prepared to

return home.

That night when I assisted Miss Jane in getting ready for bed, I

observed that she was unusually gloomy and petulant. I could do nothing

to please her; she boxed my ears repeatedly; stuck pins in me, called me

"detestable nigger," &c. Even the presence of Louise failed to restrain

her, and I knew that something awful had happened.

For two or three days this cloud that hung about her deepened and

darkened, until she absolutely became unendurable. I often found her

eyes red and swollen, as though she had spent the entire night in

weeping.

Mr. Summerville was gloomy and morose, never saying much, and always

speaking harshly to his wife.

At length the explosion came. One morning he said to me, "gather up your

clothes, Ann, and come with me; I have sold you."

Though I was stricken as by a thunderbolt, I dared not express my

surprise, or even ask who had bought me. All that I ventured to say was,

"Master William, I have a trunk."

"Well, shoulder it yourself. I'm not going to pay for having it taken."

Though my heart was wrung I said nothing, and, lifting up my trunk,

beneath the weight of which I nearly sank, I followed Master William out

of the house.

"Good-bye, Miss Jane," I said.

"Good-bye, and be a good girl," she replied, kindly, and my heart almost

softened toward her; for in that moment I felt as if deserted by every

faculty.

"Come on, Ann, come on," urged Master William; and I mechanically

obeyed.

In the cross-hall I met Louise, who exclaimed, "Why, Ann, where are you

going?"

"I don't know, Louise, I'm sold."

"Sold! Who's bought you?"

"I don't know--Master William didn't tell me."

"Who's bought her, Mr. Summerville?"

"The man to whom I sold her," he answered, with a laugh.

"But who is he?" persisted Louise, without noticing the joke.

"Well, Atkins, a negro-trader down here, on Second street."

"Good gracious!" she cried out; then, turning to me, said, "does Henry

know it?"

"I have not seen him." She darted off from us, and we walked on. I hoped

that she would not see Henry, for I could not bear to meet him. It would

dispossess me of the little forced composure that I had; but, alas! for

the fulfilment of my hopes! in the lower hall, with a countenance full

of terror, he stood.

"What are you going to do with Ann, Mr. Summerville?" he inquired.

"I have sold her to Atkins, and am now taking her to the pen."

Alas! though his life, his blood, his soul cried out against it, he

dared not offer any objection or entreaty; but oh, that hopeless look of

brokenness of heart! I see it now, and "it comes over me like the raven

o'er the infected house."

"I'll take your trunk round for you, Ann, to-night. It is too heavy for

you," and so saying, he kindly removed it from my shoulder. This little

act of kindness was the added drop to the already full glass, and my

heart overflowed. I wept heartily. His tender, "don't cry, Ann," only

made me weep the more; and when I looked up and saw his own eyes full of

tears, and his lip quivering with the unspoken pang, I felt (for the

slave at least) how wretched a possession is life!

Master William cut short this parting interview, by saying,

"Never mind that trunk, Henry, Ann can carry it very well."

And, as I was about to re-shoulder it, Henry said,

"No, Ann, you mustn't carry it. I'll do it for you to-night, when my

work is over. She is a woman, Mr. Summerville, and it's heavy for her;

but it will not be anything for me."

"Well, if you have a mind to, you may do it; but I haven't any time to

parley now, come on."

Henry pressed my hand affectionately, and I saw the tears roll in a

stream down his bronzed cheeks. I did not trust myself to speak; I

merely returned the pressure of his hand, and silently followed Master

William.

Through the streets, up one and across another, we went, until suddenly

we stopped in front of a two-story brick house with an iron fence in

front. Covering a small portion of the front view of the main building,

an office had been erected, a plain, uncarpeted room, from the door of

which projected a sheet-iron sign, advertising to the passers-by,

"negroes bought and sold here." We walked into this room, and upon the

table found a small bell, which Mr. Summerville rang. In answer to this,

a neatly-dressed negro boy appeared. To Master William's interrogatory,

"Is Mr. Atkins in?" he answered, most obsequiously, that he was, and

instantly withdrew. In a few moments the door opened, and a heavy man

about five feet ten inches entered. He was of a most forbidding

appearance; a tan-colored complexion, with very black hair and whiskers,

and mean, watery, milky, diseased-looking eyes. He limped as he walked,

one leg being shorter than the other, and carried a huge stick to assist

his ambulations.

"Good morning, Mr. Atkins."

"Good morning, sir."

"Here is the girl we were speaking of yesterday."

"Well," replied the other, as he removed a lighted cigar from his mouth,

"she is likely enough. Take off yer bonnet, girl, let me look at yer

eyes. They are good; open your mouth--no decayed teeth--all sound; hold

up your 'coat, legs are good, some marks on 'em--now the back--pretty

much and badly scarred. Well, what's the damage?"

"Seven hundred, cash down. You can recommend her as a first-rate house

and lady's maid."

"What's your name, girl?"

"Ann," I replied.

"Ann, go within," he added, pointing to the door through which he had

entered.

I turned to Mr. Summerville, saying,

"Good-bye, Master William. I wish you well."

"Good-bye, Ann," and he extended his hand to me; "I hope Mr. Atkins will

get you a good home."

Dropping a courtesy and a tear, I passed through the door designated by

Mr. Atkins, and stood within the pen. Here I was met by the mulatto who

had answered the bell.

"Has you bin bought, Miss?"

"Yes, Mr. Atkins just bought me."

"Why did your Masser sell you?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, that's what the most of 'em says. It 'pears so quare ter me for a

Masser to sell good sarvants; but I guess you'll soon git a home; fur

you is 'bout the likeliest yaller gal I ever seed. Now, thim rale black

'uns hardly ever goes off here. We has to send 'em down river, or let

'em go at a mighty low price."

"How often do you have sales?"

"Oh, we don't have 'em at all. That's we don't have public 'uns. We

sells 'em privately like; but we buys up more; and when we gits a large

number, we ships 'em down de river."

Wishing to cut short his garrulity, I asked him to show me the room

where I was to stay.

"In here, wid de rest of 'em," he said, as he opened the door of a large

shed-room, where I found some ten or twelve negroes, women and men,

ranged round on stools and chairs, all neatly dressed, some of them

looking very happy, others with down-cast, sorrow-stricken countenances.

One bright, gold-colored man, with long, silky black hair, and raven

eyes, full of subdued power, stood leaning his elbow against the mantel.

His melancholy face and pensive attitude struck a responsive feeling,

and I turned with a sisterly sentiment toward him.

I have always been of a taciturn disposition, shunning company; but this

man impressed me so favorably, he seemed the very counterpart of myself,

that I forgot my usual reserve, and, after a few moments' investigation

of my companions, the faces of most of whom were unpleasant to me, I

approached him and inquired--

"Have you been long here?"

"Only a few days," he answered, as he lifted his mournful eyes towards

mine, and I could see from their misty light, that they were dimmed by

tears.

"Are you sold?" I asked.

"Oh yes," and he shuddered terribly.

I did not venture to say more; but stood looking at him, when, suddenly

he turned to me, saying,

"I know that you are sold."

"Yes," I replied, with that strong sort of courage that characterized

me.

"You take it calmly," he said; "have you no friends?"

"You do not talk like one familiar with slavery, to speak of a slave's

having friends."

"True, true; but I have--oh, God!--a wife and children, and from them I

was cruelly torn, and--and--and I saw my poor wife knocked flat upon the

floor, and because I had the manhood to say that it was wrong, they tied

me up and slashed me. All this is right, because my skin is darker than

theirs."

What a fearful groan he gave, as he struck his breast violently.

"The bitterness of all this I too have tasted, and my only wonder is,

that I can live on. My heart will not break."

"Mine has long since broken; but this body will not die. My poor

children! I would that they were dead with their poor slave-mother."

"Why did your master sell you?"

"Because he wanted _to buy a piano for his daughter_," and his lip

curled.

To gratify the taste of _his_ child, that white man had separated a

father from his children, had recklessly sundered the holiest ties, and

broken the most solemn and loving domestic attachments; and to such

heathenism the public gave its hearty approval, because his complexion

was a shade or so darker than Caucasians. Oh, Church of Christ! where is

thy warning voice? Is not this a matter, upon the injustice of which thy

great voice should pronounce a malison?

"My name is Charles, what is yours?"

"Ann."

"Well, Ann," he resumed, "I like your face; you are the only one I've

seen in this pen that I was willing to talk with. You have just come.

Tell me why were you sold?"

In a few concise words I told him my story. He seemed touched with

sympathy.

"Poor girl!" he murmured, "like all the rest of our tribe, you have

tasted of trouble."

I talked with him all the morning, and we both, I think, learned what a

relief it is to unclose the burdened heart to a congenial, listening

spirit.

When we were summoned out to our dinner, I found a very bountiful and

pretty good meal served up. It is the policy of the trader to feed the

slaves well; for, as Mr. Atkins said, "the fat, oily, smooth, cheerful

ones, always sold the best;" and, as this business is purely a

speculation, they do everything, even humane things, for the furtherance

of their mercenary designs. I had not much appetite, neither had

Charles, as was remarked by some of the coarser and more abject of our

companions; and I was pained to observe their numerous significant winks

and blinks. One of them, the old gray mouse of the company, an ancient

"Uncle Ned," who had taken it pretty roughly all his days, and who being

of the lower order of Epicureans, was, perhaps, happier at the pen than

he had ever been. And this fellow, looking at me and Charley, said,

"They's in lub;" ha! ha! ha! went round the circle. I noticed Charley's

brows knitting severely. I read his thoughts. I knew that he was

thinking of his poor wife and of his fatherless children, and inwardly

swearing unfaltering devotion to them.

Persuasively I said to him, "Don't mind them. They are scarcely

accountable."

"I know it, I know it," he bitterly replied, "but I little thought I

should ever come to this. Sold to a negro-trader, and locked up in a pen

with such a set! I've always had pride; tried to behave myself well, and

to make money for my master, and now to be sold to a trader, away from

my wife and children!" He shook his head and burst into tears. I felt

that I had no words to console him, and I ventured to offer none.

I managed, by aid of conversation with Charley, to pass the day

tolerably. There may be those of my readers who will ask how this could

be. But let them remember that I had never been the pampered pet, the

child of indulgence; but that I was born to the ignominious heritage of

American slavery. My feelings had been daily, almost hourly, outraged.

This evil had not fallen on me as the _first_ misfortune, but as one of

a series of linked troubles "long drawn out." So I was comparatively

fitted for endurance, though by no means stoical; for a certain

constitutional softness of temperament rendered me always susceptible of

anguish to a very high degree. At length evening drew on--the beautiful

twilight that was written down so pleasantly in my memory; the time that

had always heralded my re-union with Henry. Now, instead of a sweet

starlight or moonlight stroll, I must betake myself to a narrow,

"cribbed, cabined, and confined" apartment, through which no truant ray

or beam could force an entrance! How my soul sickened over the

recollections of lovelier hours! Whilst I moodily sat in one corner of

the room, hugging to my soul the thought of him from whom I was now

forever parted, a sound broke on my ear, a sound--a music-sound, that

made my nerves thrill and my blood tingle; 'twas the sound of Henry's

voice. I heard him ask--

"Where is she? let me speak to her but a single word;" and how that

mellow voice trembled with the burden of painful emotion! Eagerly I

sprang forward; reserve and maidenly coyness all forgotten. My only wish

was to lay my weary head upon that brave, protecting breast--weep, ay,

and die there! "Oh, for a swift death," I frantically cried, as I felt

his arms about me, while my head was pillowed just above his warm and

loving heart. I felt its manly pulsations as with a soft lullaby they

seemed hushing me to the deep, eternal sleep, which I so ardently

craved! Better, a thousand times, for death to part us, than the white

man's cruelty! So we both thought. I read his secret wish in the

hopeless, vacant, but still so agonized look, that he bent upon me. For

one moment, the other slaves huddled together in blank amazement. This

was to them "a show," as "uncle Ned" subsequently styled it.

"I've brought your trunk, Ann; Mr. Atkins ordered me to leave it

without; though you'll get it."

"Thank you, Henry; it is of small account to me now: yet there are in it

some few of your gifts that I shall always value."

"Oh, Ann, don't, pray don't talk so mournfully! Is there no hope? Can't

you be sold somewhere in the city? I have got about fifty dollars now in

money. I'd stop buying myself, and buy you; make my instalments in

fifties or hundreds, as I could raise it; but I spoke to a lawyer about

it, and he read the law to me, showing that I, as a slave, couldn't be

allowed to hold property; and there is no white man in whom I have

sufficient confidence, or who would be willing to accommodate me in this

way. Mine is a deplorable case; but I'm going to see what can be done.

I'll look about among the citizens, to see if some of them will not buy

you; for I cannot be separated from you. It will kill me; it will, it

will!"

"Oh, don't, Henry, don't! for myself I can stand much; but when I think

of _you_."

He caught me passionately to his breast; and, in that embrace, he seemed

to say, "_They shall not part us!_"

He seated himself on a low stool beside me, with one of my hands clasped

in his, and thus, with his tender eyes bent upon me, such is the

illusion of love, I forgot the terror by which I was surrounded, and

yielded myself to a fascination as absorbing as that which encircled me

in the grove on that memorable Sunday evening.

"Why, Henry, is this you?" and a strong hand was laid upon his

shoulder. Looking up, I beheld Charley.

"And is this you, Charles Allen?" asked the other.

"_Yes, this is me._ I dare say you scarcely expected to find me here,

where I never thought I should be."

At this I was reminded of the significant ejaculation that Ophelia makes

in her madness, "Lord, we know what we are, but we know not what we may

be!"

"I am sold, Henry," continued Charles, "sold away from my poor wife and

children;" his voice faltered and the big tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I see from your manner toward Ann, that she is or was expected to be

your wife."

"Yes, she was pledged to be."

"_Yes, and is_," I added with fervor. At this, Henry only pressed my

hand tightly.

"Yet," pursued Charles, "she is taken from you."

"_She is_," was the brief and bitter reply.

"Now, Henry Graham, are we men? and do we submit to these things?"

"Alas!" and the words came through Henry's set teeth, "we are _not_ men;

we are only chattels, property, merchandise, _slaves_."

"But is it right for us to be so? I feel the high and lordly instincts

of manhood within me. Must I conquer them? Must I stifle the eloquent

cry of Nature in my breast? Shall I see my wife and children left behind

to the mercy of a hard master, and willingly desert them simply because

another man says that, in exchange for this sacrifice of happiness and

hope, _his daughter_ shall play upon Chickering's finest piano?"

Heavens! can I ever forget the princely air with which he uttered these

words! His swarthy cheek glowed with a beautiful crimson, and his rich

eye fairly blazed with the fire of a seven-times heated soul, whilst the

thin lip curled and the fine nostril dilated, and the whole form towered

supremely in the majesty of erect and perfect manhood!

"Hush, Charley, hush," I urged, "this is no place for the expression of

such sentiments, just and noble as they may be."

Again Henry pressed my hand.

"It may be imprudent, Ann, but I am reckless now. They have done the

worst they can do. I defy the sharpest dagger-point. My breast is open

to a thousand spears. They can do no more. But how can you, Henry, thus

supinely sit by and see yourself robbed of your life's treasure? I

cannot understand it. Are you lacking in manliness, in courage? Are you

a coward, a _slave_ indeed?"

"Do not listen to him; leave now, Henry, dear, dear Henry," I implored,

as I observed the singular expression of his face. "Go now, dearest,

without saying another word; for my sake go. You will not refuse me?"

"No, I will not, dear Ann; but there is a fire raging in my veins."

"Yes, and Charley is the incendiary. Go, I beg you."

With a long, fond kiss, he left me, and it was well he did, for in a

moment more Mr. Atkins came to give the order for retiring.

I found a very comfortable mattress and covering, on the floor of a

good, neatly-carpeted room, which was occupied by five other women. One

of them, a gay girl of about fifteen, a full-blooded African, made her

pallet close to mine. I had observed her during the day as a garrulous,

racketty sort of baggage, that seemed contented with her situation. She

was extremely neat in her dress; and her ebony skin had a rich, oily,

shiny look, resembling the perfect polish of Nebraska blacking on an

exquisite's boot. Partly from their own superiority, but chiefly from

contrast with her complexion, shone white as mountain snow, a regular

row of ivory teeth. Her large flabby ears were adorned by huge

wagon-wheel rings of pinch-beck, and a cumbersome strand of imitation

coral beads adorned her inky throat, whilst her dress was of the

gaudiest colors, plaided in large bars. Thus decked out, she made quite

a figure in the assemblage.

"Is yer name Ann?" she unceremoniously asked.

"Yes," was my laconic reply.

"Mine is Lucy; but they calls me Luce fur short."

No answer being made, she garrulously went on:

"Was that yer husband what comed to see you this evenin'?"

"No."

"Your brother?"

"No."

"Your cousin?"

"Neither."

"Well, he's too young-lookin' fur yer father. Mought he be yer uncle?"

"No."

"Laws, then he mus' be yer sweetheart!" and she chuckled with mirth.

I made no answer.

"Why don't you talk, Ann?"

"I don't feel like it."

"You don't? well, that's quare."

Still I made no comment. Nothing daunted, she went on:

"Is yer gwine down the river with the next lot?"

"I don't know;" but this time I accompanied my reply with a sigh.

"What you grunt fur?"

I could not, though so much distressed, resist a laugh at this singular

interrogatory.

"Don't yer want to go South? I does. They say it's right nice down dar.

Plenty of oranges. When Masser fust sold me, I was mightily 'stressed;

den Missis, she told me dat dar was a sight of oranges down dar, and dat

we didn't work any on Sundays, and we was 'lowed to marry; so I got

mightily in de notion of gwine. You see Masser Jones never 'lowed his

black folks to marry. I wanted to marry four, five men, and he wouldn't

let me. Den we had to work all day Sundays; never had any time to make

anyting for ourselves; and I does love oranges! I never had more an' a

quarter of one in my life."

Thus she wandered on until she fell off to sleep; but the leaden-winged

cherub visited me not that night. My eye-lids refused to close over the

parched and tear-stained orbs. I dully moved from side to side, changed

and altered my position fifty times, yet there was no repose for me.

"Not poppy nor mandragora

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,

Could then medicine me to that sweet sleep

Which I owed yesterday."

I saw the dull gray streak of the morning beam, as coldly it played

through the gratings of my room. There, scattered in dismal confusion

over the floor, lay the poor human beings, for whose lives, health and

happiness, save as conducing to the pecuniary advantage of the

trafficker, no thought or care was taken. I rose hastily and adjusted my

dress, for I had not removed it during the night. The noise of my rising

aroused several of the others, and simultaneously they sprang to their

feet, apprehensive that they had slept past the prescribed hour for

rising. Finding that their alarm was groundless, and that they were by

the clock an hour too early, they grumbled a good deal at what they

thought my unnecessary awaking. I would have given much to win to my

heart the easy indifference as to fate, which many of them wore like a

loose glove; but there I was vulnerable at every pore, and wounded at

each. What a curse to a slave's life is a sensitive nature!

That day closed as had the preceding, save that at evening Henry did not

come as before. I wandered out in the yard, which was surrounded by a

high brick-wall, covered at the top with sharp iron spikes, to prevent

the escape of slaves. Through this barricaded ground I was allowed to

take a little promenade. There was not a shrub or green blade of grass

to enliven me; but my eyes lingered not upon the earth. They were turned

up to the full moon, shining so round and goldenly from the purple

heaven, and, scattered sparsely through the fields of azure, were a few

stars, looking brighter and larger from their scarcity.

"Will my death-hour ever come?" I asked myself despairingly. "Have I

not tasted of the worst of life? Is not the poisoned cup drained to its

last dregs?"

I fancied that I heard a voice answer, as from the clouds,

"No, there are a few bitterer drops that must yet be drunk. Press the

goblet still closer to your lips."

I shuddered coldly as the last tones of the imagined voice died away

upon the soft night air.

"Is that," I cried, "a prophet warning? Comes it to me now that I may

gird my soul for the approaching warfare? Let me, then, put on my helmet

and buckler, and, like a life-tired soldier, rush headlong into the

thickest of the fight, praying that the first bullet may prove a friend

and drink my blood!"

Yet I shrank, like the weakest and most fearful of my race, when the

distant cotton-fields rose upon my mental view! There, beneath the heat

of a "hot and copper sky," I saw myself wearily tugging at my assigned

task; yet my fear was not for the physical trouble that awaited me. Had

Henry been going, "down the river" would have had no terror for me; but

I was to part from joy, from love, from life itself! Oh, why, why have

we--poor bondsmen and bondswomen--these fine and delicate sensibilities?

Why do we love? Why are we not all coarse and hard, mere human beasts of

burden, with no higher mental or moral conception, than obedience to the

will or caprice of our owners?

Night closed over this second weary day. And thus passed on many days

and nights. I did some plain sewing by way of employment, and at the

command of a mulatto woman, who was the kept mistress of Atkins, and

therefore placed in authority over us. Many of the women were hired out

to residents of the city on trial, and if they were found to be

agreeable and good servants, perhaps they were purchased. Before sending

them out, Mr. Atkins always called them to him, and, shaking his cane

over their heads, said,

"Now, you d----d hussy, or rascal (as they chanced to be male or female)

if you behave yourselves well, you'll find a good home; but you dare to

get sick or misbehave, and be sent back to me, and I'll thrash you in an

inch of your cursed life."

With this demoniacal threat ringing in their ears, it is not likely that

the poor wretches started off with any intention of bad conduct.

We constantly received accessions to our number, but never acquisitions,

for the poor, ill-fed, ill-kept wretches that came in there, "sold (as

Atkins said) for a mere song," were desolate and revolting to see.

Charley found one or two old books, that he seemed to read and re-read;

indifferent novels, perhaps, that served, at least, to keep down the

ravening tortures of thought. I lent him my Testament, and he read a

great deal in it. He said that he had one, but had left it with his

wife. He was a member of the Methodist Church; had gone on Sunday

afternoons to a school that had been established for the benefit of

colored people, and thus, unknown to his master, had acquired the first

principles of a good education. He could read and write, and was in

possession of the rudiments of arithmetic. He told me that his wife had

not had the opportunities he had, and therefore she was more deficient,

but he added, "she had a great thirst for knowledge, such as I have

never seen excelled, and rarely equalled. I have known her, after the

close of her daily labors, devote the better portion of the night to

study. I gave her all the instruction I could, and she was beginning to

read with considerable accuracy; but all that is over, past and gone

now." And again he ground his teeth fiercely, and a wild, lurid light

gathered in his eye.

This man almost made me oblivious of my own grief, in sympathy for his.

I did all I could by "moral suasion," as the politicians say, to soften

his resentment. I bade him turn his thoughts toward that religion which

he had espoused.

"I have no religion for this," he would bitterly say.

And in truth, I fear me much if the heroism of saints would hold out on

such occasions. There, fastened to that impassioned husband's heart,

playing with its dearest chords, was the fang-like hand of the white

man! Oh, slow tortures! in comparison to which that of Prometheus was

very pleasure. There is no Tartarus like that of wounded, agonized

domestic love! Far away from him, in a lonely cabin, he beheld his

stricken wife and all his "pretty chickens" pining and unprotected.

Slowly, after a few days, he relapsed into that stony sort of despair

that denies itself the gratification of speech. The change was very

painfully visible to me, and I tried, by every artifice, to arouse him;

but I had no power to wake him.

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak,

Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break."

And soon learning this, I left him, a remorseless prey to that "rooted

sorrow" of the brain.

* * * * * * *

One day, as we all sat in the shed-room, engaged at our various

occupations, we were roused by a noise of violent weeping, and something

like a rude scuffle just without the door, when suddenly Atkins entered,

dragging after him, with his hand close about his throat, a poor negro

man, aged and worn, with a head white as cotton.

"Oh, please, Masser, jist let me go back, an' tell de ole 'ooman

farewell, an' I won't ax for any more."

"No, you old rascal, you wants to run away. If you say another word

about the old voman, I'll beat the life out of you."

"Oh lor', oh lor', de poor ole 'ooman an' de boys; oh my ole heart will

bust!" and, sobbing like a child, the old man sank down upon the floor,

in the most abandoned grief.

"Here, boys, some of you git the fiddle and play, an' I warrant that old

fool will be dancin' in a minnit," said Atkins in his unfeeling way.

Of course this speech met with the most signal applause from "de boys"

addressed.

I watched the expression of Charles' face. It was frightful. He sat in

one corner, as usual, with an open book in his hand. From it he raised

his eyes, and, whilst the scene between Atkins and the old negro was

going on, they flashed with an expression that I could not fathom. His

brows knit, and his lip curled, yet he spoke no word.

When Atkins withdrew, the old man lay there, still weeping and sobbing

piteously. I went up to him, kindly saying,

"What is the matter, old uncle?"

The sound of a kind voice aroused him, and looking up through his

streaming tears, he said,

"Oh, chile, I's got a poor ole 'ooman dat lives 'bout half mile in de

country. Masser fotch me in town to-day, an' say he was agwine to hire

me fur a few weeks. Wal, I beliebed him, bekase Masser has bin hard run

fur money, an' I was willin' to hope him 'long, so I consented to be

hired in town fur little while, and den go out an' see de ole 'ooman an'

de boys Saturday nights. Wal, de fust thing I knowed when I got to town

I was sold to a trader. Masser wouldn't tell me hisself; but, when I got

here, de gemman what I thought I was hired to, tole me dat Masser Atkins

had bought me; an' I wanted to go back an' ask Masser, but he laughed

an' say 'twant no use, Masser done gone out home. Oh, lor'! 'peared like

dere was nobody to trus' to den. I begged to go an' say good-bye; but

dey 'fused me dat, an' Masser Atkins 'gan to swear, an' he struck me

'cross de head. Oh, I didn't tink Masser wud do me so in my ole age!"

I ask you, reader, if for a sorrow like this there was any word of

comfort? I thought not, and did not dare try to offer any.

"Will scenes like these ever cease?" I fretfully asked, as I turned to

Charles.

"Never!" was the bitter answer.

This old man talked constantly of his little woolly-headed boys. When

telling of their sportive gambols, he would smile, even whilst the tears

were flowing down his cheeks.

He often had a crowd of slaves around him listening to his talk of

"wife and children," but I seldom made one of the number, for it

saddened me too much. I knew that he was telling of joys that could

never come to him again.

On one of these occasions, when uncle Peter, as he was called, was deep

in the merits of his conversation, I was sitting in the corner of the

room sewing, when Luce came running breathlessly up to me, with a bunch

of beautiful flowers in her hand.

"Oh, Ann," she exclaimed, "dat likely-lookin' yallow man, dat cum to see

you, an' fotch yer trunk de fust night yer comed here, was passin' by,

an' I was stanin' at de gate; an' he axed me to han' dis to you."

And she gave me the bouquet, which I took, breathing a thousand

blessings upon the head of my devoted Henry.

I had often wondered why Louise had never been to see me. She knew very

well where I was, and access to me was easy. But I was not long kept in

suspense, for, on that very night she came, bringing with her a few

sweetmeats, which I distributed among those of my companions who felt

more inclined to eat them than I did.

"I have wondered, Louise, why you did not come sooner."

"Well, the fact is, Ann, I've been busy trying to find you a home. I

couldn't bear to come without bringing you good news. Henry and I have

worked hard. All of our leisure moments have been devoted to it. We have

scoured this city over, but with no success; and, hearing yesterday that

Mr. Atkins would start down the river to-morrow, with all of you, I

could defer coming no longer. Poor Henry is too much distressed to come!

He says he'll not sleep this night, but will ransack the city till he

finds somebody able and willing to rescue you."

"How does he look?" I asked.

"Six years older than when you saw him last. He takes this very hard;

has lost his appetite, and can't sleep at night."

I said nothing; but my heart was full, full to overflowing. I longed to

be alone, to fall with my face on the earth and weep. The presence of

Louise restrained me, for I always shrank from exposing my feelings.

"Are we going to-morrow?" I inquired.

"Yes, Mr. Atkins told me so this evening. Did you not know of it?"

"No, indeed; am I among the lot?"

After a moment's hesitation she replied,

"Yes, he told me that you were, and, on account of your beauty, he

expected you would bring a good price in the Southern market. Oh

heavens, Ann, this is too dreadful to repeat; yet you will have to know

of it."

"Oh yes, yes;" and I could no longer restrain myself; I fell, weeping,

in her arms.

She could not remain long with me, for Mr. Atkins closed up the

establishment at half-past nine. Bidding me an affectionate farewell,

and assuring me that she would, with Henry, do all that could be done

for my relief, she left me.

A most wretched, phantom-peopled night was that! Ten thousand horrors

haunted me! Of course I slept none; but imagination seemed turned to a

fiend, and tortured me in divers ways.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

SCENE IN THE PEN--STARTING "DOWN THE RIVER"--UNCLE PETER'S TRIAL--MY

RESCUE.

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

"Well, niggers, git yourselves ready. You must all start down the river

to-day, at ten o'clock. A good boat is going out. Huddle up your clothes

as quick as possible--no fuss, now."

When he left, there was lamentation among some; silent mourning with

others; joy for a few.

Shall I ever forget the despairing look of Charley? How passionately he

compressed his lips! I went up to him, and, laying my hand on his arm,

said,

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

He looked at me, but made no reply. I thought there was the wildness of

insanity in his glance, and turned away.

It was now eight o'clock, and I had not heard from Henry or Louise.

Alas! my heart misgave me. I had been buoyed up for some time by the

flatteries and delusions of Hope! but now I felt that I had nothing to

sustain me; the last plank had sunk!

I did not pretend to "get myself ready," as Mr. Atkins had directed; the

fact is, I was ready. The few articles of wearing apparel that I called

mine were all in my trunk, with some little presents that Henry had made

me, such as a brooch, earrings, &c. These were safely locked, and the

key hung round my neck. But the others were busy "getting ready." I was

standing near the door, anxiously hoping to see either Henry or Louise,

when an old negro woman, thinly clad, without any bonnet on her head,

and with a basket in her hand, came up to me, saying,

"Please mam, is my ole man in here? De massa out here say I may speak

'long wid him, and say farwell;" and she wiped her eyes with the corner

of an old torn check apron.

I was much touched, and asked her the name of her old man.

"Pete, mam."

"Oh, yes, he is within," and I stepped aside to let her pass through the

door.

She went hobbling along, making her passage through the crowd, and I

followed after. In a few moments Pete saw her.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" he cried out, "Judy is come;" and running up to her,

he embraced her most affectionately.

"Yes," she said, "I begged Masser to let me come and see you. It was

long time before he told me dat you was sole to a trader and gwine down

de ribber. Oh, Lord! it 'pears like I ken never git usin to it! Dars no

way for me ever to hear from you. You kan't write, neither ken I. Oh,

what shill we do?"

"I doesn't know, Judy, we's in de hands ob de Lord. We mus' trus' to

Him. Maybe He'll save us. Keep on prayin', Judy."

The old man's voice grew very feeble, as he asked,

"An de chillen, de boys, how is dey?"

"Oh, dey is well. Sammy wanted to come long 'wid me; but it was too fur

for him to walk. Joe gib me dis, and say, take it to daddy from me."

She looked in her basket, and drew out a little painted cedar whistle.

The tears rolled down the old man's cheeks as he took it, and, looking

at it, he shook his head mournfully,

"Poor boy, dis is what I give him fur a Christmas gift, an' he sot a

great store to it. Only played wid it of Sundays and holidays. No, take

it back to him, an' tell him to play wid it, and never forget his poor

ole daddy dat's sole 'way down de ribber!"

Here he fairly broke down, and, bursting into tears, wept aloud.

"Oh, God hab bin marciful to me in lettin' me see you, Judy, once agin!

an' I am an ongrateful sinner not to bar up better."

Judy was weeping violently.

"Oh, if dey would but buy me! I wants to go long wid you."

"No, no, Judy, you must stay long wid de chillen, an' take kere ob 'em.

Besides, you is not strong enough to do de work dey would want you to

do. No, I had better go by myself," and he wiped his eyes with his old

coat sleeve.

"I wish," he added, "dat I had some little present to send de boys,"

and, fumbling away in his pocket, he at length drew out two shining

brass buttons that he had picked up in the yard.

"Give dis to 'em; say it was all thar ole daddy had to send 'em; but,

maybe, some time I'll have some money; and if I meet any friends down de

ribber, I'll send it to 'em, and git a letter writ back to let you and

'em know whar I is sold."

Judy opened her basket, and handed him a small bundle.

"Here, Pete, is a couple of shirts and a par of trowsers I fetched you,

and here's a good par of woollen socks to keep you warm in de winter;

and dis is one of Masser's ole woollen undershirts dat Missis sent you.

You know how you allers suffers in cold wedder wid de rheumatiz."

"Tell Missis thankee," and his voice was choking in his throat.

There was many a tearful eye among the company, looking at this little

scene. But, suddenly it was broken up by the appearance of Mr. Atkins.

"Well, ole woman," he began, addressing Uncle Pete's wife, "it is time

you was agoin'. You has staid long enough. Thar's no use in makin' a

fuss. Pete belongs to me, an' I am agoin' to sell him to the highest

bidder I can find down the river."

"Oh, Masser, won't you please buy me?" asked Judy.

"No, you old fool."

"Oh, hush Judy, pray hush," put in Pete; "humor her a little Masser

Atkins, she will go in a minnit. Now do go, honey," he added, addressing

Judy, who stood a moment, irresolutely, regarding her old husband; then

screaming out, "Oh no, no, I can't leave you!" fell down at his feet

half insensible.

"Oh, Lord Jesus, hab marcy!" groaned Pete, as he bent over his partner's

body.

"Take her out, instantly," exclaimed Atkins, as one of the men dragged

the body out.

"Please be kereful, don't hurt her," implored Pete.

"Behave yourself, and don't go near her," said Atkins to him, "or I'll

have both you an' her flogged. I am not goin' to have these fusses in my

pen."

All this time Charley's face was frightful. As Atkins passed along he

looked toward Charley, and I thought he quailed before him. That regal

face of the mulatto man was well calculated to awe such a sinister and

small soul as Atkins.

"Yes, yes, Charles, that proud spirit of yourn will git pretty well

broken down in the cotton fields," he murmured, just loud enough to be

heard. Charles made no answer, though I observed that his cheek fairly

blazed.

* * * * * *

When we were all bonneted, trunks corded down, and bundles tied up,

waiting, in the shed-room, for the order to get in the omnibus, Uncle

Pete suddenly spied the basket which Judy, in her insensibility, had

left. Picking it up, I saw the tears glitter in his eyes when the two

bright buttons rolled out on the floor.

"These puttys," he muttered to himself, "was fur de boys. Poor fellows!

Now dey won't have any keepsake from dar daddy; and den here's de little

cedar whistle; oh, I wish I could send it out to 'em." Looking round the

room he saw Kitty, the mulatto woman, of whom I have before spoken as

the mistress of Atkins.

"Oh, please, Kitty, will you have dis basket, dis whistle, and dese

putty buttons, sent out to Mr. John Jones', to my ole 'ooman Judy?'

"Yes," answered the woman, "I will."

"Thankee mam, and you'll very much oblige me."

"Come 'long with you all. The omnibus is ready," cried out Atkins, and

we all took up the line of march for the door, each pausing to say

good-bye to Kitty, and yet none caring much for her, as she had not been

agreeable to us.

"Going down the river, really," I said to myself.

"Wait a minnit," said Atkins, and calling to a sort of foreman, who did

his roughest work, he bade him handcuff us.

How fiercely-proud looked the face of Charles, as they fastened the

manacles on his wrists.

I made no complaint, nor offered resistance. My heart was maddened. I

almost blamed Louise, and chided Henry for not forcing my deliverance. I

could have broken the handcuffs, so strongly was I possessed by an

unnatural power.

"Git in the 'bus," said the foreman, as he riveted on the last handcuff.

Just as I had taken my seat in the omnibus, Henry came frantically

rushing up. The great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow; and his

thick, hard breathing, was frightful. Sinking down upon the ground, all

he could say was,

"Ann! Ann!"

I rose and stood erect in the omnibus, looking at him, but dared not

move one step toward him.

"What is the matter with that nigger?" inquired Atkins, pointing toward

Henry. Then addressing the driver, he bade him drive down to the wharf.

"Stop! stop!" exclaimed Henry; "in Heaven's name stop, Mr. Atkins,

here's a gentleman coming to buy Ann. Wait a moment."

Just then a tall, grave-looking man, apparently past forty, walked up.

"Who the d----l is that?" gruffly asked Mr. Atkins.

"It is Mr. Moodwell," Henry replied. "He has come to buy Ann."

"Who said that I wanted to sell her?"

"You would let her go for a fair price, wouldn't you?"

"No, but I would part with her for a first-rate one."

Just then, as hope began to relume my soul, Mr. Moodwell approached

Atkins, saying,

"I wish to buy a yellow girl of you."

"Which one?"

"A girl by the name of Ann. Where is she?"

"Don't you know her by sight?"

"Certainly not, for I have never seen her."

"You don't want to buy without first seeing her?"

"I take her upon strong recommendation."

With a dogged, and I fancied disappointed air, Atkins bade me stand

forth. Right willingly I obeyed; and appearing before Mr. Moodwell, with

a smiling, hopeful face, I am not surprised that he was pleased with me,

and readily paid down the price of a thousand dollars that was demanded

by Atkins. When I saw the writings drawn up, and became aware that I had

passed out of the trader's possession, and could remain near Henry, I

lifted my eyes to Heaven, breathing out an ardent act of adoration and

gratitude.

Quickly Henry stood beside me, and clasping my yielding hand within his

own, whispered,

"You are safe, dear Ann."

I had no words wherewith to express my thankfulness; but the happy tears

that glistened in my eyes, and the warm pressure of the hand that I

gave, assured him of the sincerity of my gratitude.

My trunk was very soon taken down from the top of the omnibus and

shouldered by Henry.

Looking up at my companions, I beheld the savagely-stern face of

Charles; and thinking of his troubles, I blamed myself for having given

up to selfish joy, when such agony was within my sight. I rushed up to

the side of the omnibus and extended my hand to him.

"God has taken care of you," he said, with a groan, "but I am

forgotten!"

"Don't despair of His mercy, Charley." More I could not say; for the

order was given them to start, and the heavy vehicle rolled away.

As I turned toward Henry he remarked the shadow upon my brow, and

tenderly inquired the cause.

"I am distressed for Charley."

"Poor fellow! I would that I had the power to relieve him."

"Come on, come on," said Mr. Moodwell, and we followed him to the G----

House, where I found Louise, anxiously waiting for me.

"You are safe, thank Heaven!" she exclaimed, and joyful tears were

rolling down her smooth cheeks.

The reaction of feeling was too powerful for me, and my health sank

under it. I was very ill for several weeks, with fever. Louise and Henry

nursed me faithfully. Mr. Moodwell had purchased me for a maiden sister

of his, who was then travelling in the Southern States, and I was left

at the G---- House until I should get well, at which time, if she should

not have returned, I was to be hired out until she came. I recollect

well when I first opened my eyes, after an illness of weeks. I was lying

on a nice bed in Louise's room. As it was a cool evening in the early

October, there was a small comfort-diffusing fire burning in the grate;

and on a little stand, beside my bed, was a very pretty and fragrant

bouquet. Seated near me, with my hand in his, was the one being on earth

whom I best loved. He was singing in a low, musical tone, the touching

Ethiopian melody of "Old Folks at Home." Slowly my eyes opened upon the

pleasant scene! Looking into his deep, witching eyes, I murmured low,

whilst my hand returned the pressure of his,

"Is it you, dear Henry?"

"It is I, my love; I have just got through with my work, and I came to

see you. Finding you asleep, I sat down beside you to hum a favorite

air; but I fear, that instead of calming, I have broken your slumber,

sweet."

"No, dearest, I am glad to be aroused. I feel so much better than I have

felt for weeks. My head is free from fever, and except for the absence

of strength, am as well as I ever was."

"Oh, it makes me really happy to hear you say so. I have been so uneasy

about you. The doctor was afraid of congestion of the brain. You cannot

know how I suffered in mind about you; but now your flesh feels cool and

pleasant, and your strength will, I trust, soon return."

Just then Louise entered, bearing a cup of tea and a nice brown slice of

toast, and a delicate piece of chicken, on a neat little salver. At

sight of this dainty repast, my long-forgotten appetite returned, with a

most healthful vigor. But my kind nurse, who was glad to find me so

well, determined to keep me so, and would not allow me a hearty

indulgence of appetite.

In a few days I was able to sit up in an easy chair, and, at every

opportunity, Louise would amuse me with some piece of pleasant gossip,

in relation to the boarders, &c. And Henry, my good, kind, noble Henry,

spent all his spare change in buying oranges and pine-apples for me, and

in sending rare bouquets, luxuries in which I took especial delight.

Then, during the long, cheerful autumnal evenings, when a fire sparkled

in the grate, he would, after his work was done, bring his banjo and

play for me; whilst his rich, gushing voice warbled some old familiar

song. Its touching plaintiveness often brought the tears to my eyes.

Thus passed a few weeks pleasantly enough for me; but like all the other

rose-winged hours, they soon had a close.

My strength had been increasing rapidly, and Mr. Moodwell, the brother

and agent of my mistress, concluded that I was strong enough to be hired

out. Accordingly, he apprized me of his intention, saying,

"Ann, sister Nancy has written me word to hire you out until spring,

when she will return and take you home. I have selected a place for you,

in the capacity of house-servant. You must behave yourself well."

I assured him that I would do my best; then asked the name of the family

to whom I was hired.

"To Josiah Smith, on Chestnut street, I have hired you. He has two

daughters and a young niece living with him, and wishes you to wait on

them."

After apprizing Henry and Louise of my new home, _pro tem._, I

requested the former to bring my trunk out that night, which he readily

promised. Bidding them a kind and cheerful adieu, I followed Mr.

Moodwell out to Chestnut street.

This is one of the most retired and beautiful streets in the city of

L----, and Mr. Josiah Smith's residence the very handsomest among a

number of exceedingly elegant mansions.

Opening a bronze gate, we passed up a broad tesselated stone walk that

led to the house, which was built of pure white stone, and three stories

in height, with an observatory on the top, and the front ornamented with

a richly-wrought iron verandah. Reposing in front upon the sward, were

two couchant tigers of dark gray stone.

Passing through the verandah, we stopped at the mahogany door until Mr.

Moodwell pulled the silver bell-knob, which was speedily answered by a

neatly-dressed man-servant, who bade Mr. Moodwell walk in the parlor,

and requested me to wait without the door until he could find leisure to

attend to me.

I obeyed this direction, and amused myself examining what remained of a

very handsome flower-garden, until he returned, when conducting me

around, by a private entrance, he ushered me into the kitchen.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE NEW HOME--A PLEASANT FAMILY GROUP--QUIET LOVE-MEETINGS.

I became domesticated very soon in Mr. Josiah Smith's family. I learned

what my work was, and did it very faithfully, and I believe to their

satisfaction.

The family proper consisted of Mr. Smith, his wife, two daughters, and a

niece. Mr. Smith was a merchant, of considerable wealth and social

influence, and the young ladies were belles par-excellence. Mrs. Smith

was the domestic of the concern, who carried on the establishment, a

little, busy, fussy sort of woman, that went sailing it round the house

with a huge bunch of keys dangling at her side, an incessant scold, with

a voice sharp and clear like a steamboat bell; a managing, thrifty sort

of person, a perfect terror to negroes; up of a morning betimes, and in

the kitchen, fussing with the cook about breakfast.

I had very little to do with Mrs. Letitia. My business was almost

exclusively with the young ladies. I cleaned and arranged their rooms,

set the parlors right, swept and dusted them, and then attended to the

dining-room. This part of my work threw me under Mrs. Letitia's dynasty;

but as I generally did my task well, she had not much objection to make,

though her natural fault-finding disposition sharpened her optics a good

deal, and she generally discovered something about which to complain.

Miss Adele Smith was the elder of the two daughters, a tall, pale girl,

with dark hair, carefully banded over a smooth, polished brow, large

black eyes and a pleasing manner.

The second, Miss Nellie, was a round, plump girl of blonde complexion,

fair hair and light eyes, with a rich peach-flush on her cheek, and a

round, luscious, cherry-red mouth, that was always curling and

curvetting with smiles.

The cousin, Lulu Carey, was a real romantic character, with a light,

fragile form, milk-white skin, the faintest touch of carmine playing

over the cheek, mellow gray eyes, earnest and loving, and a profusion of

chestnut-brown hair fell in the richest ringlets to her waist. Her

features and caste of face were perfect. She was habited in close

mourning, for her mother had been dead but one year, and the

half-perceptible shadow of grief that hung over her face, form and

manner, rendered her glorious beauty even more attractive.

It was a real pleasure to me to serve these young ladies, for though

they were the élite, the cream of the aristocracy, they were without

those offensive "airs" that render the fashionable society of the West

so reprehensible. Though their parlors were filled every evening with

the gayest company, and they were kept up late, they always came to

their rooms with pleasant smiles and gracious words, and often chided me

for remaining out of bed.

"Don't wait for us, Ann," they would say. "It isn't right to keep you

from your rest on our account."

I slept on a pallet in their chamber, and took great delight in

remaining up until they came, and then assisted them in disrobing.

It was the first time I had ever known white ladies (and young) to be

amiable, and seemingly philanthropic, and of course a very powerful

interest was excited for them. They had been educated in Boston, and had

imbibed some of the liberal and generous principles that are, I think,

indigenous to high Northern latitudes. Indeed, I believe Miss Lulu

strongly inclined toward their social and reformatory doctrines, though

she did not dare give them any very open expression, for Mr. and Mrs.

Josiah Smith were strong pro-slavery, conservative people, and would not

have countenanced any dissent from their opinions.

Mrs. Smith used to say, "Niggers ought to be exterminated."

And Miss Lulu, in her quiet way, would reply,

"Yes, as slaves they should be exterminated."

And then how pretty and naïvely she arched her pencilled brows. This was

always understood by the sisters, who must have shared her liberal

views.

Mr. Smith was so much absorbed in mercantile matters, that he seldom

came home, except at meals or late at night, when the household was

wrapped in sleep; and, even on Sundays, when all the world took rest, he

was locked up in his counting-room. This seemed singular to me, for a

man of Mr. Smith's reputed and apparent wealth might have found time, at

least on Sunday, for quiet.

The young ladies were very prompt and regular in their attendance at

church, but I used often to hear Miss Lulu exclaim, after returning,

"Why don't they give us something new? These old rags of theology weary,

not to say annoy me. If Christianity is marching so rapidly on, why have

we still, rising up in our very midst, institutions the vilest and most

revolting! Why are we cursed with slavery? Why have we houses of

prostitution, where beauty is sold for a price? Why have we pest and

alms-houses? Who is the poor man's friend? Who is there with enough of

Christ's spirit to speak kindly to the Magdalene, and bid her 'go and

sin no more'? Alas, for Christianity to-day!"

"But we must accept life as it is, and patiently wait the coming of the

millennium, when things will be as they ought," was Miss Adele's reply.

"Oh, now coz, don't you and sis go to speculating upon life's troubles,

but come and tell me what I shall wear to the party to-morrow night,"

broke from the gay lips of the lively Nellie.

In this strain I've many times heard them talk, but it always wound up

with a smile at the suggestion of the volatile Miss Nellie.

When I had been there but two days, I began to suspect Mrs. Smith's

disposition, for she several times declared her opinion that niggers had

no business with company, and that her's shouldn't have any. This was a

damper to my hopes, for my chief motive for wishing to be sold in L----

was the pleasure I expected to derive from Henry's society. Every night,

as early as eight, the servants were ordered to their respective

quarters, and, as I slept in the house, a stolen interview with him

would have been impossible, as Mrs. Smith was too alert for me to make

an unobserved exit. On the second evening of my sojourn there, Henry

called to see me about half-past seven o'clock; and, just as I was

beginning to yield myself up to pleasure, Mrs. Smith came to the

kitchen, and, seeing him there, asked,

"Whose negro is this?"

"Henry Graham is my name, Missis," was the reply.

"Well, what business have you here?"

Henry was embarrassed; he hung his head, and, after a moment, faltered

out,

"I came to see Ann, Missis."

"Where do you belong?"

"I belong to Mr. Graham, but am hired to the G---- House."

"Well, then, go right there; and, if ever I catch you in my kitchen

again, I'll send your master word, and have you well flogged. I don't

allow negro men to come to see my servants. I want them to have no false

notions put into their heads. A nigger has no business visiting; let him

stay at home and do his master's work. I shouldn't be surprised if I

missed something out of the kitchen, and if I do, I shall know that you

stole it, and you shall be whipped for it; so shall Ann, for daring to

bring strange niggers into my kitchen. Now, clear yourself, man."

With an humbled, mortified air, Henry took his leave. A thousand

scorpions were writhing in my breast. That he, my love, so honest,

noble, honorable, and gentlemanly in all his feelings, should be so

accused almost drove me to madness. I could not bear to have his pride

so bowed and his dearly-cherished principles outraged. From that day I

entertained no kind feeling for Mrs. Smith.

On another occasion, a Saturday afternoon, when Louise came to sit a few

moments with me, she heard of it, and, rushing down stairs, ordered her

to leave on the instant, adding that her great abomination was free

niggers, and she wouldn't have them lurking round her kitchen,

corrupting her servants, and, perhaps, purloining everything within

their reach.

Louise was naturally of a quick and passionate disposition; and, to be

thus wantonly and harshly treated, was more than she could bear. So she

furiously broke forth, and such a scene as occurred between them was

disgraceful to humanity! Miss Adele hearing the noise instantly came

out, and in a positive tone ordered Louise to leave; which order was

obeyed. After hearing from her mother a correct statement of the case,

Miss Adele burst into tears and went to her room. I afterward heard her

kindly remonstrating with her mother upon the injustice of such a course

of conduct toward her servants. But Mrs. Smith was confirmed in her

notions. They had been instilled into her early in life; had grown with

her growth and strengthened with her years. So it was not possible for

her young and philanthropic daughter to remove them. Once, when Miss

Adele was quite sick, and after I had been nursing her indefatigably for

some time, she said to me,

"Ann, you have told me the story of your love. I have been thinking of

Henry, and pitying his condition, and trying to devise some way for you

to see him."

"Thank you, Miss Adele, you are very kind."

"The plan I have resolved upon is this: I will pretend to send you out

of evenings on errands for me; you can have an understanding with Henry,

and meet at some certain point; then take a walk or go to a friend's;

but always be careful to get home before ten o'clock."

This was kindness indeed, and I felt the grateful tears gathering in my

eyes! I could not speak, but knelt down beside the bed, and reverently

kissed the hem of her robe. Goodness such as hers, charity and love to

all, elicited almost my very worship!

I remember the first evening that I carried this scheme into effect. She

was sitting in a large arm-chair, carefully wrapped up in the folds of

an elegant velvet _robe-de-chambre_. Her mother, sister, and cousin were

beside her, all engaged in a cheerful conversation, when she called me

to her, and pretended to give me some errand to attend to out in the

city, telling me _pointedly_ that it would require my attention until

near ten o'clock. How like a lovely earth-angel appeared she then!

I had previously apprized Henry of the arrangement, and named a point of

meeting. Upon reaching it, I found him already waiting for me. We took a

long stroll through the lamp-lit streets, talking of the blessed hopes

that struggled in our bosoms; of the faint divinings of the future; told

over the story of past sufferings, and renewed olden vows of devotion.

He, with the most lover-like fondness, had brought me some little gift;

for this I kindly reproved him, saying that all his money should be

appropriated to himself, that, by observing a rigid economy, we but

hastened on the glorious day of release from bondage. Before ten I was

at home, and waiting beside Miss Adele. How kindly she asked me if I had

enjoyed myself; and with what pride I told her of the joy that her

kindness had afforded me! Surely the sweet smile that played so

luminously over her fair face was a reflex of the peace that irradiated

her soul! How beautifully she illustrated, in her single life, the holy

ministrations of true womanhood! Did she not, with kind words and

generous acts, "strive to bind up the bruised, broken heart." At the

very mention of her name, aye, at the thought of her even, I never fail

to invoke a blessing upon her life!

Thus, for weeks and months, through her ingenuity, I saw Henry and

Louise frequently. Otherwise, how dull and dreary would have seemed to

me that long, cold winter, with its heaped snow-banks, its dull, gray

sky, its faint, chill sun, and leafless trees; but the sunbeam of her

kindness made the season bright, warm and grateful!

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE NEW ASSOCIATES--DEPRAVED VIEWS--ELSY'S MISTAKE--DEPARTURE OF THE

YOUNG LADIES--LONELINESS.

In Mr. Smith's family of servants was Emily, the cook, a sagacious

woman, but totally without education, knowledge, or the peculiar

ambition that leads to its acquisition. She was a bold, raw, unthinking

spirit; and, from the fact that she had been kept closely confined to

the house, never allowed any social pleasure, she resolved to be

revenged, and unfortunately in her desire for "spite" (as she termed

it), had sacrificed her character, and was the mother of two children,

with unacknowledged fathers. Possessed of a violent temper, she would,

at periods, rave like a mad-woman; and only the severest lashing could

bring her into subjection. She was my particular terror. Her two

children, half-bloods, were little, sick, weasly things that excited the

compassion of all beholders, and though two years of age (twins), were,

from some physical derangement, unable to walk.

There was also a man servant, Duke, who attended to odd ends of

housework, and served in the capacity of decorated carriage-driver, and

a girl, Elsy, a raw, green, country concern, good-natured and foolish,

with a face as black as tar. They had hired her from a man in the

country, and she being quite delighted with town and the off-cast finery

of the ladies, was as happy as _she_ could be--yet the mistakes she

constantly made were truly amusing. She had formed quite an attachment

for Duke, which he did not in the slightest degree return; yet, with

none of the bashfulness of her sex, she confessed to the feeling, and

declared that "Duke was very mean not to love her a little." This never

failed to excite the derision of the more sprightly Emily.

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

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

"Does he love you?" asked Emily.

"_Well_, he doesn't."

"_Then I'd hate him_," replied Emily, as, with a great force, she

brought her rolling-pin down on the table.

"No, I wouldn't," answered the loving Elsy.

"You ain't worth shucks."

"Wish I was worth Duke."

"Hush, fool."

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

"I is mad bekase you is a fool."

"Who made me one?"

"You was born it, I guess."

"Then I aren't to blame fur it. Them that made me is."

Conversations like this were of frequent occurrence, and once, when I

ventured to ask Elsy if she wouldn't like to learn to read, she laughed

heartily, saying:

"Does you think I wants to run off?"

"Certainly not."

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

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

"Oh, yes, so as to try to git my freedom! You is jist a spy fur de white

folks, and wants to know if I'll run away. Go off, now, and mind yer own

business, kase I has hearn my ole Masser, in de country, say dat

whenever niggers 'gan to read books dey was ob no 'count, and allers had

freedom in dar heads."

Finding her thus obstinate, I gave up all attempts to persuade her, and

left her to that mental obscuration in which I found her. Emily

sometimes threatened to apply herself, with vigor, to the gaining of

knowledge, and thus defeat and "spite" her owners; but knowledge so

obtained, I think, would be of little avail, for, like religion, it

must be sought after from higher motives--sought for itself _only_.

I could find but little companionship with those around me, and lived

more totally within myself than I had ever done. Many times have I gone

to my room, and in silence wept over the isolation in which my days were

spent; but three nights out of the seven were marked with white stones,

for on these I held blissful re-unions with Henry. Our appointed spot

for meeting was near an old pump, painted green, which was known as the

"green pump," a very favorite one, as the water, pure limestone, was

supposed to be better, cooler, and stronger than that of others. Much

has been written, by our popular authors, on the virtues and legends of

old town pumps, but, to me, this one had a beauty, a charm, a glory

which no other inanimate object in wide creation possessed! And of a

moonlight night, when I descried, at a distance, its friendly handle,

outstretched like an arm of welcome, I have rushed up and grasped it

with a right hearty good feeling! Long time afterwards, when it had

ceased to be a love-beacon to me, I never passed it without taking a

drink from its old, rusty ladle, and the water, like the friendly

draught contained in the magic cup of eastern story, transported me over

the waste of time to poetry and love! Even here I pause to wipe away the

fond, sad tears, which the recollection of that old "green pump" calls

up to my mind, and I should love to go back and stand beside it, and

drink, aye deeply, of its fresh, cool water! There are now many stately

mansions in that growing city, that sits like a fairy queen upon the

shore of the charmed Ohio; but away from all its lofty structures and

edifices of wealth, away from her public haunts, her galleries and

halls, would I turn, to pay homage to the old "green pump"!

Some quiet evenings, too, had I in Louise's room, listening to Henry

sing, while he played upon his banjo. His voice was fine, full, and

round, and rang out with the clearness of a bell. Though possessed of

but slight cultivation, I considered it the finest one I ever heard.

But again my pleasures were brought to a speedy close. As the winter

began to grow more cold, and the city more dull, the young ladies began

to talk of a jaunt to New Orleans. Their first determination was to

carry me with them; but, after calculating the "cost," they concluded it

was better to go without a servant, and render all necessary toilette

services to each other. They had no false pride--thanks to their

Northern education for that!

Before their departure they gave quite a large dinner-party, served up

in the most fantastic manner, consisting of six different courses. I

officiated as waiter, assisted by Duke. Owing to the scarcity of

servants in the family, Elsy was forced to attend the door, and render

what assistance she could at the table.

Whilst they were engaged on the fourth course, a violent ring was heard

at the door-bell, which Elsy was bound to obey.

In a few moments she returned, saying to one of the guests:

"Miss Allfield, a lady wishes to speak with you."

"_With me?_" interrogated the lady.

"Yes, marm."

"Who can she be?" said Miss Allfield, in surprise.

"Bid the lady be seated in the parlor, and say that Miss Allfield is at

dinner," replied Mrs. Smith.

"If the company will excuse me, I will attend to this unusual visitor,"

said Miss Allfield, as she rose to leave.

"_It is a colored lady_, and she is waitin' fur you at the door," put in

Elsy.

The blank amazement that sat upon the face of each guest, may be better

imagined than described! Some of them were ready to go into convulsions

of laughter. A moment of dead silence reigned around, when Miss Nellie

set the example of a hearty laugh, in which all joined, except Mr. and

Mrs. Smith, whose faces were black as a tempest-cloud.

But there stood the offending Elsy, all unconscious of her guilt. When

she first came to town, she had been in the habit of announcing company

to the ladies as "a man wants to see you," or "a woman is in the

parlor," and had, every time, been severely reprimanded, and told that

she should say "a lady or gentleman is in the parlor." And the poor,

green creature, in her great regard for "ears polite," did not know how

to make the distinction between the races; but most certainly was she

taught it by the severe whipping that was administered to her afterwards

by Mr. Smith. No intercession or entreaty from the ladies could be of

any avail. Upon Elsy's bare back must the atonement be made! After this

public whipping, she was held somewhat in disgrace by the other

servants. Duke gave her a very decided cut, and Emily, who had never

liked her, was now lavish in her abuse and ill-treatment. She even

struck the poor, offenceless creature many blows; and from this there

was no redemption, for she was in sad disrepute with Mr. and Mrs. Smith;

and, after the young ladies' departure, she had no friend at all, for I

was too powerless to be of use to her.

* * * * * * *

The remainder of the winter was dull indeed. My interviews with Henry

had been discontinued; and I never saw Louise. I had no time for

reading. It was work, work, delve and drudge until my health sank under

it. Mrs. Smith never allowed us any time on Sundays, and the idea of a

negro's going to church was outrageous.

"No," she replied, when I asked permission to attend church, "stay at

home and do your work. What business have negroes going to church? They

don't understand anything about the sermon."

Very true, I thought, for the most of them; but who is to blame for

their ignorance? If opportunities for improvement are not allowed them,

assuredly they should not suffer for it.