How dead and lifeless lay upon my spirit that dull, cold winter! The

snow-storm was without; and ice was within. Constant fault-finding and

ten thousand different forms of domestic persecution well-nigh crushed

the life out of me. Then there was not one break of beauty in my

over-cast sky! No faint or struggling ray of light to illume the

ice-bound circle that surrounded me!

But the return of spring began to inspire me with hope; for then I

expected the arrival of my unknown mistress. Henry and Louise both knew

her, and they represented her as possessed of very amiable and

philanthropic views. How eagerly I watched for the coming of the May

blossoms, for then she, too, would come, and I be released from torture!

How dull and drear seemed the howling month of March, and even the

fitful, changeful April. Alternate smiles and tears were wearying to me,

and sure I am, no school-girl elected queen of the virgin month, ever

welcomed its advent with such delight as I!

With its first day came the young ladies. Right glad was I to see them.

They returned blooming and bright as flowers, with the same gentle

manners and kindly dispositions that they had carried away.

Miss Nellie had many funny anecdotes to tell of what she had seen and

heard; really it was delightful to hear her talk in that mirth-provoking

manner! In her accounts of Southern dandyisms and fopperies, she drew

forth her father's freest applause.

"Why, Nellie, you ought to write a book, you would beat Dickens," he

used to say; but her more sober sister and cousin never failed to

reprove her, though gently, for her raillery.

"Well, Elsy," she cried, when she met that little-respected personage,

"Have any more 'colored ladies' called during our absence?" This was

done in a kind, jocular way; but the poor negro felt it keenly, and held

her head down in mortification.

* * * * * * *

At length the second week of the month of May arrived, and with it came

my new mistress! A messenger, no less a person than Henry, was

despatched for me. The time for which I was hired at Mr. Smith's having

expired two weeks previously, I hastily got myself ready, and Henry once

again shouldered my trunk.

With a feeling of delight, I said farewell to Mrs. Smith and the

servants; but when I bade the young ladies good-bye, I own to the

weakness of shedding tears! I tried to impress upon Miss Adele's mind

the sentiment of love that I cherished for her, and I had the

satisfaction of knowing that she was not too proud to feel an interest

in me.

All the way to the G---- House, Henry was trying to cheer me up, and

embolden me for the interview with Miss Nancy. I had been looking

anxiously for the time of her arrival, and now I shrank from it. It was

well for my presence of mind that Miss Jane and her husband had returned

to their homestead, for I do not think that I could have breathed freely

in the same house with them, even though their control over me had

ceased.

Arriving at the G---- House, I had not the courage to venture instantly

into Miss Nancy's presence; but sought refuge, for a few moments, in

Louise's apartment, where she gave me a very _cordial_ reception, and a

delightful beverage compounded of blackberries.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE NEW MISTRESS--HER KINDNESS OF DISPOSITION--A PRETTY HOME--AND

LOVE-INTERVIEWS IN THE SUMMER DAYS.

At last I contrived to "screw my courage to the sticking-place," and go

to Miss Nancy's room.

I paused at the closed door before knocking for admission. When I did

knock, I heard a not unpleasant voice say--

"Come in."

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

There, resting upon the bed, was one of the sweetest and most benign

faces that I ever beheld. Age had touched it but to beautify. Serene and

clear, from underneath the broad cap frill shone her mild gray eyes. The

wide brow was calm and white as an ivory tablet, and the lip, like a

faded rose-leaf, hinted the bright hue which it had worn in health. The

cheek, like the lip, was blanched by the hand of disease. "Ah," she

said, as with a slight cough she elevated herself upon the pillow, "it

is you, Ann. You are a little tardy. I have been looking for you for the

last half-hour."

"I have been in the house some time, Miss Nancy, but had not the courage

to venture into your presence; and yet I have been watching for your

arrival with the greatest anxiety."

"You must not be afraid of me, child, I am but a sorry invalid, who

will, I fear, often weary and overtax your patience; but you must bear

with me; and, if you are faithful, I will reward you for it. Henry has

told me that you are pretty well educated, and have a pleasant voice for

reading. This delights me much; for your principal occupation will be to

read to me."

Certainly this pleased me greatly, for I saw at once that I was removed

from the stultifying influences which had so long been exercised over my

mind. Now I should find literary food to supply my craving. My eyes

fairly sparkled, as I answered,

"This is what I have long desired, Miss Nancy; and you have assigned to

me the position I most covet."

"I am glad I have pleased you, child. It is my pleasure to gratify

others. Our lives are short, at best, and he or she only lives _truly_

who does the most good."

This was a style and manner of talk that charmed me. Beautiful example

and type of womankind! I felt like doing reverence to her.

She reached her thin hand out to help herself to a glass of water, that

stood on a stand near by. I sprang forward to relieve her.

"Ah, thank you," she said, in a most bland tone; "I am very weak; the

slightest movement convinces me of the failure of my strength."

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

everything that she needed.

"I came here to serve you, and I assure you, my dear Miss Nancy, I shall

be most happy in doing it. Mine will, I believe, truly be a 'labor of

love.'"

Another sweet smile, with the gilded light of a sunbeam, broke over her

calm, sweet face! Bless her! she and all of her class should be held as

"blessed among women;" for do they not walk with meek and reverent

footsteps in the path of her, the great model and prototype of all the

sex?

* * * * * * *

When I had been with her but a few days, she informed me that, as soon

as her health permitted, she intended being removed to her house on

Walnut street. I was not particularly anxious for this; for my sojourn

at the G---- House was perfectly delightful. My frequent intercourse

with Henry and Louise, was a source of intense pleasure to me. I was

allowed to pass the evenings with them. Truly were those hours dear and

bright. Henry played upon his banjo, and sang to us the most

enrapturing songs, airs and glees; and Louise generally supplied us with

cakes and lemonade! How exquisite was my happiness, as there we sat upon

the little balcony gazing at the Indiana shore, and talking of the time

when Henry and I should be free.

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

"I have paid all but three hundred and fifty; one hundred of which I

already have; so, in point of fact, I lack only two hundred and fifty,"

said Henry.

"I am very anxious to leave here this fall. I wish to go to Montreal.

Now, if you could make your arrangements to go on with me, I should be

glad. I shall require the services and attentions of a man; and, if you

have not realized the money by that time, I think I can lend it to you,"

returned Louise.

A bright light shone in Henry's eye, as he returned his thanks; but

quickly the coming shadow banished that radiance of joy.

"But think of her," he said tenderly, laying his hand on my shoulder;

"what can she do without us, or what should I be without her?"

"Oh, think not of me, dearest, I have a good home, and am well cared

for. Go, and as soon as you can, make the money, and come back for me."

"Live years away from you? Oh, no, no!" and he wound his arm around my

waist, and, most naturally, my head rested upon his shoulder. Loud and

heavy was his breathing, and I knew that a fierce struggle was raging in

his breast.

"I will never leave her, Louise," he at length replied. "That tyrant,

the law, may part us; but, my free will and act--_never_."

"Ah, well," added she, as she looked upon us, "you will think better of

this after you give it a little reflection. This is only love's

delusion;" and, in her own quiet, sensible way, she turned the stream of

conversation into another channel.

I think now, with pleasure, of the lovely scenes I enjoyed on those

evenings, with the fire-flies playing in the air; and many times have I

thought how beautifully and truly they typify the illusive glancings of

hope darting here and there with their fire-lit wings; eluding our

grasp, and sparkling e'en as they flit.

* * * * * * *

A few weeks after my installation in the new office, my mistress, whose

health had been improving under my nursing, began to get ready to move

to her sweet little cottage residence on Walnut street. I was not

anxious for the change, notwithstanding it gave me many local

advantages; for I should be removed from Henry, and though I knew that I

could see him often, yet the same roof would not cover us. But my life,

hitherto, had been too dark and oppressed for me to pause and mourn over

the "crumpled rose-leaf;" and so, with right hearty good will I set to

work "packing Miss Nancy's trunk," and gathering up her little articles

that had lain scattered about the room.

An upholsterer had been sent out to get the house ready for us. When we

were on the eve of starting, Henry came to carry the luggage, and Miss

Nancy paid him seventy-five cents, at which he took off his hat, made a

low bow, and said,

"Thank you, Missis."

Miss Nancy was seated on the most comfortable cushion, and I directly

opposite, fanning her.

We drove up to the house, a neat little brick cottage, painted white,

with green shutters, and a deep yard in front, thickly swarded, with a

variety of flowers, and a few forest trees. Beautiful exotics, in rare

plaster, and stone vases, stood about in the yard, and a fine cast-iron

watch-dog slept upon the front steps. Passing through the broad hall,

you had a fine view of the grounds beyond, which were handsomely

decorated. The out-buildings were all neatly painted or white-washed. A

thorough air of neatness presided over the place. On the right of the

hall was the parlor, furnished in the very perfection of taste and

simplicity.

The carpet was of blue, bespeckled with yellow; a sofa of blue

brocatelle, chairs, and ottomans of the same material, were scattered

about. A cabinet stood over in the left corner, filled with the

collections and curiosities of many years' gathering, whilst the long

blue curtains, with festoonings of lace, swept to the floor! Adjoining

the parlor was the dining-room, with its oaken walls, and cane-colored

floor-cloth. Opposite to the parlor, and fronting the street, was Miss

Nancy's room, with its French bedstead, lounge, bureau, bookcase, table,

and all the et ceteras of comfort. Opening out from her room was a small

apartment, just large enough to contain a bed, chair, and wardrobe, with

a cheap little mirror overhanging a tasteful dresser, whereon were laid

a comb, brush, soap, basin, pitcher, &c. This room had been prepared for

me by my kind mistress. Pointing it out, she said,

"That, Ann, is your _castle_." I could not restrain my tears.

"Heaven send me grace to prove my gratitude to you, kind Miss Nancy," I

sobbed out.

"Why, my poor girl, I deserve no thanks for the performance of my duty.

You are a human being, my good, attentive nurse, and I am bound to

consider your comfort or prove unworthy of my avowed principles."

"This is so unlike what I have been used to, Miss Nancy, that it excites

my wonder as well as gratitude."

"I fear, poor child, that you have served in a school of rough

experience! You are so thoroughly disciplined, that, at times, you

excite my keenest pity."

"Yes, ma'm, I have had all sorts of trouble. The only marvel is that I

am not utterly brutalized."

"Some time you must tell me your history; but not now, my nerves are too

unquiet to listen to an account so harrowing as I know your recital must

be."

As I adjusted the pillow and arranged the beautiful silk spread (her own

manufacture), I observed that her eyes were filled with tears. I said

nothing, but the sight of _those tears_ served to soften many a painful

recollection of former years.

I am conscious, in writing these pages, that there will be few of my

white readers who can enter fully into my feelings. It is impossible for

them to know how deeply the slightest act of kindness impressed

_me_--how even a word or tone gently spoken called up all my

thankfulness! Those to whom kindness is common, a mere household

article, whose ears are greeted morning, noon and night, with loving

sounds and kind tones, will deem this strange and exaggerated; but, let

them recollect that I was a _slave_--not a mere servant, but a perpetual

slave, according to the abhorred code of Kentucky; and their wonder will

cease.

The first night that I threw myself down on my bed to sleep (did I state

that I had a bedstead--that I had _actually_ what slaves deemed a great

luxury--a _high-post bedstead_?) I felt as proud as a queen. Henry had

been to see me. I entertained him in a nice, clean, carpeted kitchen,

until a few minutes of ten o'clock, when he left me; for at that hour,

by the city ordinance, he was obliged to be at home.

"What," I thought, "have I now to desire? Like the weary dove sent out

from the ark, I have at last found land, peace and safety. Here I can

rest contentedly beneath the waving of the olive branches that guard the

sacred portal of _home!_" _Home!_ home this truly was! A home where the

heart would always love to lurk; and how blessed seemed the word to me,

now that I comprehended its practical significance! No more was it a

fable, an expression merely used to adorn a song or round a verse!

That first night that I spent at home was not given up to sleep. No, I

was too happy for that! Through the long, mysterious hours, I lay

wakeful on my soft and pleasant pillow, weaving fairest fancies from the

dim chaos of happy hopes. Adown the sloping vista of the future I

descried nought but shade and flowers!

With my new mistress, I was more like a companion than a servant. My

duties were light--merely to read to her, nurse her, and do her sewing;

and, as she had very little of the latter, I may as well set it down as

the "extras" of my business, rather than the business itself.

I rose every morning, winter and summer, at five o'clock, and arranged

Miss Nancy's room whilst she slept; and, so accustomed had she become to

my light tread, that she slept as soundly as though no one had been

stirring. After this was done, I placed the family Bible upon a stand

beside her bed; then took my sewing and seated myself at the window,

until she awoke. Then I assisted her in making her morning toilette,

which was very simple; wheeled the easy chair near the bed, and helped

her into it. After which she read a chapter from the holy book, followed

by a beautiful, extemporaneous prayer, in which we were joined by Biddy,

the Irish cook. After this, Miss Nancy's breakfast was brought in on a

large silver tray,--a breakfast consisting of black tea, Graham bread,

and mutton chop. In her appetite, as in her character, she was simple.

After this was over, Biddy and I breakfasted in the kitchen. Our fare

was scarcely so plain, for hearty constitutions made us averse to the

abstemiousness of our mistress. We had hot coffee, steaming steaks,

omelettes and warm biscuits.

"Ah, but she is a love of a lady!" exclaimed Biddy, as she ate away

heartily at these luxuries. "Where in this city would we find such a

mistress, that allows the servants better fare than she takes herself?

And then she never kapes me from church. I can attend the holy mass, and

even go to vespers every Sunday of my life. The Lord have her soul for

it! But she is as good as a canonized saint, if she is a Protestant!"

Sometimes I used to repeat these conversations to Miss Nancy. They never

failed to amuse her greatly.

"Poor Biddy," she would say, in a quiet way, with a sweet smile, "ought

to know that true religion is the same in all. It is not the being a

member of a particular church, or believing certain dogmas of faith,

that make us religious, heirs of God, and joint heirs with Christ. It is

the living religion, not the simple believing of it, that constitutes us

_Christians_. We must feel that all men are our brothers, and all women

our sisters; for in the kingdom of heaven there will be no distinction

of race or color, and I see no reason why we should live differently

here. The Saviour of the world associated with the humblest. His chosen

twelve were the fishermen of Galilee. I want to live in constant

preparation for death; but, alas! my weak endeavor is but seldom crowned

with success."

How reverently I looked upon her at such times! What a beautiful saint

she was!

One evening in the leafy month of June, when the intensity of summer

begins to make itself felt, I took my little basket, filled with some

ruffling that I was embroidering for Miss Nancy's wrapper, and seated

myself upon the little portico at the back of the house. I had been

reading to her the greater portion of the day, and felt that it was

pleasant to be left in an indolent, dreamy state of mind, that required

no concentration of thought. As my fingers moved lazily along, I was

humming an old air, that I had heard in far less happy days. Everything

around me was so pleasant! The setting sun was flinging floods of glory

over the earth, and the young moon was out upon her new wing, softening

and beautifying the scene. Afar off, the lull of pleasant waters and the

music-roar of the falls sounded dreamily in my ear! I laid my work down

in the basket, and, with closed eyes, thought over the events and

incidents of my past life of suffering; and, as the dreary picture of my

troubles at Mr. Peterkin's returned to my mind, and my subsequent

imprisonment in the city, my trials at "the pen," and then this my safe

harbor and haven of rest, so strange the whole seemed, that I almost

doubted the reality, and feared to open my eyes, lest the kindly,

illusive dream should be broken forever. But no, it was no dream; for,

upon turning my head, I spied through the unclosed door of the

dining-room the careful arrangement of the tea-table. There it stood,

with its snowy cover, upon which were placed the fresh loaf of Graham

bread, the roll of sweet butter, some parings of cheese, the glass bowl

of fruit and pitcher of cream, together with the friendly tea-urn of

bright silver, from which I, even _I_, had often been supplied with the

delightful beverage. And then, stepping through the door, with a calm

smile on her face, was Miss Nancy herself! How beautifully she looked in

her white, dimity wrapper, with the pretty blue girdle, and tiny lace

cap! She gazed out upon the yard, with the blooming roses, French pinks,

and Colombines that grew in luxuriance. Stepping upon the sward, she

gathered a handful of flowers, clipping them nicely from the bush with a

pair of scissors, that she wore suspended by a chain to her side. Seeing

me on the portico, she said,

"Ann, bring me my basket and thread here, and wheel my arm-chair out; I

wish to sit with you here."

I obeyed her with pleasure, for I always liked to have her near me. She

was so much more the friend than the mistress, that I never felt any

reserve in her presence. All was love. As she took her seat in the

arm-chair, I threw a shawl over her shoulders to protect her from any

injurious influence of the evening air. She busied herself tying up the

flowers; and their arrangement of color, &c., with a view to effect,

would have done credit to a florist. My admiration was so much excited,

that I could not deny myself the pleasure of an expression of it.

"Ah, yes," she answered, "this was one of the amusements of my youth.

Many a bouquet have I tied up in my dear old home."

I thought I detected a change in her color, and heard a sigh, as she

said this.

"Of what State are you a native, Miss Nancy?"

"Dear old Massachusetts," she answered, with a glow of enthusiasm.

"It is the State, of all others in the Union, for which I have the most

respect."

"Ah, well may you say that, poor girl," she replied, "for its people

treat your unfortunate race with more humanity than any of the others."

"I have read a great deal of their liberality and cultivation, of both

mind and heart, which has excited my admiring interest. Then, too, I

have known those born and reared beneath the shadow of its wise and

beneficent laws, and the better I knew them, the more did my admiration

for the State increase. Now I feel that Massachusetts is doubly dear to

me, since I have learned that it is your birth-place."

She did not say anything, but her mild eyes were suffused with tears.

Just as I was about to speak to her of Mr. Trueman, Biddy came to

announce tea, and, after that, Miss Nancy desired to be left alone. As

was his custom, with eight o'clock came Henry. We sat out on the

portico, with the moonlight shining over us, and talked of the future! I

told him what Miss Nancy said of Massachusetts, and, I believe, he was

seized with the idea of going thither after purchasing himself.

He was unusually cheerful. He had made a great deal in the last few

months; had grown to be quite a favorite with the keeper of the hotel,

and was liberally paid for his Sunday and holiday labors, and, by

errands for, and donations from, the boarders, had contrived to lay up a

considerable sum.

"I hope, dearest, to be able soon to accomplish my freedom; then I shall

be ready to buy you. How much does Miss Nancy ask for you?"

"Oh, Henry, I cannot leave her, even if I were able to pay down every

cent that she demands for me. I should dislike to go away from her. She

is so kind and good; has been such a friend to me that I could not

desert her. Who would nurse her? Who would feel the same interest in her

that I do? No, I will stay with her as long as she lives, and do all I

can to prove my gratitude."

"What do you mean, Ann? Would you refuse to make me happy? Miss Nancy

has other friends who would wait upon her."

"But, Henry, that does not release me from my obligation. When she was

on the eve of starting upon a journey, you went to her with the story of

my danger. She promptly consented to buy me without even seeing me. I

was not purchased as an article of property; with the noble liberality

of a philanthropist, she ransomed, at a heavy price, a suffering

sister, and shall I be such an ingrate as to leave her? No, she and Mr.

Trueman of Boston, are the two beings whom I would willingly serve

forever."

Just then a deep sigh burst from the full heart of some one, and I

thought I heard a retreating footstep.

"Who can that have been?" asked Henry.

We examined the hall, the dining-room, my apartment; and I knocked at

Miss Nancy's door, but, receiving no answer, I judged she was asleep.

"It was but one of those peculiar voices of the night, which are the

better heard from this intense silence," said Henry, and, finding that

my alarm was quieted, he bade me an affectionate good-night, and so we

parted.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

AN AWFUL REVELATION--MORE CLOUDS TO DARKEN THE SUN OF LIFE--SICKNESS AND

BLESSED INSENSIBILITY.

I slept uninterruptedly that night, and, on awaking in the morning, I

was surprised to find it ten minutes past five. Hurrying on my clothes,

I went to Miss Nancy's apartment, and was much surprised to find her

sitting in her easy chair, her toilette made. Looking up from the Bible,

which lay open on the stand before her, she said,

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

"Yes, ma'm," replied I, in a mortified tone, "I am ten minutes behind

the time; I am very sorry, and hope you will excuse me."

"No apologies, now; I hope you do not take me for a cruel, exacting

task-mistress, who requires every inch of your time."

"No, indeed, I do not, for I know you to be the kindest mistress and

best friend in the world."

"And now, Ann, I will read some from the Lamentations of Jeremiah; and

we will unite in family prayer."

At the ringing of the little bell Biddy quickly appeared, and we seated

ourselves near Miss Nancy, and listened to her beautiful voice as it

broke forth in the plaintive eloquence of the holy prophet!

"Let us pray," she said, fervently, extending her thin, white hands

upward, and we all sank upon our knees. She prayed for grace to rest on

the household; for its extension over the world; that it might visit the

dark land of the South; that the blood of Christ might soften the hearts

of slave-holders. She asked, in a special manner, for power to carry out

her good intentions; prayed that the blessing of God might be given to

me, in a particular manner, to enable me to meet the trials of life, and

invoked benedictions upon Biddy.

When we rose, both Biddy and I were weeping; and as we left her, Biddy

broke forth in all her Irish enthusiasm, "The Lord love her heart! but

she is sanctified! I never heard a prettier _prayer said in the

Cathedral_!"

* * * * *

Miss Nancy's health improved a great deal. She began to walk of evenings

through the yard, and a little in the city. I always attended her. Of

mornings we rode in a carriage that she hired for the occasion, and of

evenings Henry came, and always brought with him his banjo.

One evening he and Louise came round to sit with me, and after we had

been out upon the portico listening to Henry's songs, Miss Nancy bade me

go to the sideboard and get some cake and wine. Placing it on the table

in the dining-room, I invited them, in Miss Nancy's name, to come in and

partake of it. After proposing the health of my kind Mistress, to which

we all drank, Biddy joining in, Louise pledged a glass to the speedy

ransom of Henry. Just then Miss Nancy entered, saying:

"My good Henry, when you buy yourself, and find a home in the North,

write us word where you have established yourself, and I will

immediately make out Ann's free papers, and remove thither; but I cannot

think of losing my good nurse. So, for her's, your's and my own

convenience, I will take up my residence wherever you may settle. Stop

now, Ann, no thanks; I know all about your gratitude, for I was a

pleased, though unintentional listener to a conversation between

yourself and Henry, in which I found out how deep is your attachment to

me."

Hers, then, was the sigh which had so alarmed me! It was all explained.

I had no words to express my overflowing heart. My whole soul seemed

melted. Henry's eyes were filled with grateful tears. He sank upon his

knees and kissed the hem of Miss Nancy's dress.

"No, no, my brave-hearted man, do not kneel to me. I am but the humble

instrument under Heaven; and, oh, how often have I prayed for such an

opportunity as this to do good, and dispense happiness."

And so saying she glided out of the room.

"Well," exclaimed Biddy, "she is more than a saint, she is an angel,"

and she wiped the tears from her honest eyes.

"I have known her for some time," said Louise, "and never saw her do, or

heard of her doing a wrong action. She is very different from her

brother. Does he come here often, Ann?"

"Not often; about once a fortnight."

"He is too much taken up with business; hasn't a thought outside of his

counting-room. He doesn't share in any of her philanthropic ideas."

"She hasn't her equal on earth," added Henry. "Mr. Moodwell is a good

man, though not good enough to be _her_ brother."

Thus passed away the evening, until the near approach of ten o'clock

warned them to leave.

I was too happy for sleep. Many a wakeful night had I passed from

unhappiness, but now I was sleepless from joy.

* * * * * * *

The next morning, after Miss Nancy had breakfasted, I asked her what I

should read to her.

"Nothing this morning, Ann. I had rather you would talk with me. Let us

arrange for the future; but first tell me how much money does Henry lack

to buy himself?"

"About one hundred dollars."

"I think I can help him to make that up."

"You have already done enough, dear Miss Nancy. We could not ask more of

you."

"No, but I am anxious to do all I can for you, my good girl. You are

losing the greenest part of your lives. I feel that it is wrong for you

to remain thus."

Seeing that I was in an unusually calm mood, she asked me to tell her

the story of my life, or at least the main incidents. I entered upon the

narrative with the same fidelity that I have observed in writing these

memoirs. At many points and scenes I observed her weeping bitterly.

Fearing that the excitement might prove too great for her strength, I

several times urged her to let me stop; but she begged me to go on

without heeding her, for she was deeply interested.

When I came to the account of my meeting with Mr. Trueman, she bent

eagerly forward, and asked if it was Justinian Trueman, of Boston. Upon

my answering in the affirmative, she exclaimed:

"How like him! The same noble, generous, disinterested spirit!"

"Do you know him, Miss Nancy?"

"Oh yes, child, he is one of our prominent Northern men, a very able

lawyer; every one in the State of Massachusetts knows him by reputation,

but I have a personal acquaintance also."

Just as I was about to ask her something of Mr. Trueman's history, Biddy

came running in, exclaiming:

"Oh, dear me! Miss Nancy! what do you think? They say that Mr. Barkoff,

the green grocer, has let his wife whip a colored woman to death."

"Oh, it can't be true," cried Miss Nancy, as she started up from her

chair. "It is, I trust, some slanderous piece of gossip."

"Oh, the Lord love your saintly heart, but I do believe 'tis true, for,

as I went down the street to market, I heard some awful screaming in

there, and I asked a girl, standing on the pavement, what it meant; and

she said Mrs. Barkoff was whipping a colored woman; then, when I came

back there was a crowd of children and colored people round the back

gate, and one of them told me the woman was dead, and that she died

shouting."

"Oh, God, how fearful is this!" exclaimed Miss Nancy, as the big tears

rolled down her pale cheeks. "Give me, oh, sweet Jesus, the power to

pray as Thou didst, to the Eternal Father, 'to forgive them, for they

know not what they do!'"

"Come, Ann," continued the impetuous Biddy, "you go with me, and we'll

try to find out all about it. We will go to see the woman."

"I cannot leave Miss Nancy."

"Yes, go with her, Ann; but don't allow her to say anything imprudent.

Poor Biddy has such a good, philanthropic heart, that she forgets the

patient spirit which Christianity inculcates."

With a strange kind of awe, I followed Biddy through the streets,

scarcely heeding her impassioned garrulity. The blood seemed freezing in

my veins, and my teeth chattered as though it had been the depth of

winter. As we drew near the place, I knew the house by the crowd that

had gathered around the back and side gates.

"Let us enter here," said Biddy, as she placed her hand upon the heavy

plank gate at the back of the lot.

"Stop, Biddy, stop," I gasped out, as I held on to the gate for support,

"I feel that I shall suffocate. Give me one moment to get my breath."

"Oh, Ann, you are only frightened," and she led me into the yard, where

we found about a dozen persons, mostly colored.

"Where is the woman that's been kilt?" inquired Biddy, of a mulatto

girl.

"She ain't quite dead. Pity she isn't out of her misery, poor soul,"

said the mulatto girl.

"But where is she?" demanded Biddy.

"Oh, in thar, the first room in the basement," and, half-led by Biddy, I

passed in through a mean, damp, musty basement. The noxious atmosphere

almost stifled us. Turning to the left as directed, we entered a low,

comfortless room, with brick walls and floor. Upon a pile of straw, in

this wretched place, lay a bleeding, torn, mangled body, with scarcely

life in it. Two colored women were bathing the wounds and wrapping

greased cloths round the body. I listened to her pitiful groans, until I

thought my forbearance would fail me.

"Poor soul!" said one of the colored women, "she has had a mighty bad

convulsion. I wish she could die and be sot free from misery."

"Whar is de white folks?" asked another.

"Oh, dey is skeered, an' done run off an' hid up stairs."

"Who done it?"

"Why, Miss Barkoff; she put Aunt Kaisy to clean de harth, an' you see,

de poor ole critter had a broken arm. De white folks broke it once when

dey was beatin' of her, and so she couldn't work fast. Well den, too,

she'd been right sick for long time. You see she was right sickly like,

an' when Miss Barkoff come back--she'd only bin gone a little while--an'

see'd dat de harth wasn't done, she fell to beatin' of de poor ole sick

critter, an' den bekase she cried an' hollered, she tuck her into de

coal-house, gagged her mouth, tied her hands an' feet, an' fell to

beatin' of her, an' she beat her till she got tired, den ole Barkoff

beat her till he got satisfied. Den some colored person seed him, an'

tole him dat he better stop, for Aunt Kaisy was most gone."

"Yes, 'twas me," said the other woman, "I was passin' 'long at de back

of de lot, an' I hearn a mighty quare noise, so I jist looked through

the crack, an' there I seed him a beatin' of her, an' I hollered to him

to stop, for de Lor' sake, or she would die right dar. Den he got

skeered an' run off in de house."

The narration was here interrupted by a fearful groan from the sufferer.

One of the women very gently turned her over, with her face full toward

me.

Oh, God have mercy on me! In those worn, bruised anguish-marked

features, in the glance of that failing, filmy eye, I recognized my

long-lost mother! With one loud shriek I fell down beside her! After

years of bitter separation, thus to meet! Oh that the recollection had

faded from my mind, but no, that awful sight is ever before my eyes! I

see her, even now, as there she lay bleeding to death! Oh that I had

been spared the knowledge of it!

There was the same mark upon the brow, and, I suppose, more by that

than the remembered features, was I enabled to identify her.

My frantic screams soon drew a crowd of persons to the room.

My mother, my dear, suffering mother, unclosed her eyes, and, by that

peculiar mesmerism belonging to all mothers, she knew it was her child

whose arms were around her.

"Ann, is it you?" she asked feebly.

"Yes, mother, it is I; but, oh, how do I find you!"

"Never mind me, child, I feel that I shall soon be at peace! 'Tis for

you that I am anxious. Have you a good home?"

"Yes; oh, that you had had such!"

"Thank God for that. You are a woman now, I think; but I am growing

blind, or it is getting dark so fast that I cannot see you. Here, here,

hold me Ann, child, hold me close to you, I am going through the floor,

sinking, sinking down. Catch me, catch me, hold me! It is dark; I can't

see you, where, where are you?"

"Here, mother, here, I am close to you."

"Where, child, I can't see you; here catch me;" and, suddenly springing

up as if to grasp something, she fell back upon the straw----_a corpse_!

After such a separation, this was our meeting--and parting! I had hoped

that life's bitterest drop had been tasted, but this was as "vinegar

upon nitre."

When I became conscious that the last spark of life was extinct in that

beloved body, I gave myself up to the most delirious grief. As I looked

upon that horrid, ghastly, mangled form, and thought it was my mother,

who had been butchered by the whites, my very blood was turned to gall,

and in this chaos of mind I lost the faculty of reason.

* * * * * * * *

When my consciousness returned I was lying on a bed in my room, the

blinds of which were closed, and Miss Nancy was seated beside me,

rubbing my hands with camphor. As I opened my eyes, they met her kind

glance fixed earnestly upon me.

"You are better, Ann," she said, in a low, gentle voice. I was too

languid to reply; but closed my eyes again, with a faint smile. When I

once more opened them I was alone, and through one shutter that had

blown open, a bright ray of sunlight stole, and revealed to me the care

and taste with which my room had been arranged. Fresh flowers in neat

little vases adorned the mantel; and the cage, containing Miss Nancy's

favorite canary, had been removed to my room. The music of this

delightful songster broke gratefully upon my slowly awakening faculties.

I rose from the bed, and seated myself in the large arm-chair. Passing

my hand across my eyes, I attempted to recall the painful incidents of

the last few days; and as that wretched death-bed rose upon my memory,

the scalding tears rushed to my eyes, and I wept long, long, as though

my head were turned to waters!

Miss Nancy entered, and finding me in tears she said nothing; but turned

and left the room. Shortly after, Biddy appeared with some nourishment,

"Laws, Ann, but you have been dreadfully sick. You had fever, and talked

out of your head. Henry was here every evening. He said that once afore,

when you took the fevers, you was out of your head, just the same way.

He brought you flowers; there they are in the vase," and she handed me

two beautiful bouquets.

In this pleasant way she talked on until I had satisfied the cravings of

an empty stomach with the niceties she had brought me.

That evening Henry came, and remained with me about half an hour. Miss

Nancy warned him that it was not well to excite me much. So with

considerable reluctance he shortened his visit.

CHAPTER XXXVIX.

GRADUAL RETURN OF HAPPY SPIRITS--BRIGHTER PROSPECTS--AN OLD

ACQUAINTANCE.

When I began to gain strength Miss Nancy took me out in a carriage of

evenings; and had it not been for the melancholy recollections that hung

like a pall around my heart, life would have been beautiful to me. As we

drove slowly through the brightly-lighted streets, and looked in at the

gaudy and flaunting windows, where the gayest and most elegant articles

of merchandise were exhibited, I remarked to Miss Nancy, with a sigh,

"Life might be made a very gay and cheerful thing--almost a pleasure,

were it not for the wickedness of men."

"Ah, yes, it might, indeed," she replied, and the big tears rested upon

her eyelids.

One evening when we had returned from a drive, I noticed that she ate

very little supper, and her hand trembled violently.

"You are sick, Miss Nancy," I said.

"Yes, Ann, I feel strangely," she replied.

"To-morrow you must go for my brother, and I will have a lawyer to draw

up my will. It would be dreadful if I were to die suddenly without

making a provision for you; then the bonds of slavery would be riveted

upon you, for by law you would pass into my brother's possession."

"Don't trouble yourself about it now, dear Miss Nancy," I said; "your

life is more precious than my liberty."

"Not so, my good girl. The dawn of your life was dark, I hope that the

close may be bright. The beginning of mine was full of flowers; the

close will be serene, I trust; but ah, I've outlived many a blessed hope

that was a very rainbow in my dreaming years."

I had always thought Miss Nancy's early life had been filled with

trouble; else why and whence her strange, subdued, melancholy nature!

How much I would have given had she told me her history; yet I would not

add to her sadness by asking her to tell me of it.

The next morning I went for Mr. Moodwell, who, at Miss Nancy's instance,

summoned a notary. The will was drawn up and witnessed by two competent

persons.

After this she began to improve rapidly. Her strength of body and

cheerfulness returned. About this time my peace of mind began to be

restored. Of my poor mother I never spoke, after hearing the particulars

that followed her death. She was hurriedly buried, without psalm or

sermon. No notice was taken by the citizens of her murder--why should

there be? She was but a poor slave, grown old and gray in the service of

the white man; and if her master chose to whip her to death, who had a

right to gainsay him? She was his property to have and to hold; to use

or to kill, as he thought best!

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

Venetian oligarchy!

Miss Nancy, in her kind, persuasive manner, soon lured my thoughts away

from such gloomy contemplations. She sought to point out the pleasant,

easy pathway of wisdom and religion, and I thank her now for the good

lessons she then taught me! Beneath such influence I gradually grew

reconciled to my troubles. Miss Nancy fervently prayed that they might

be sanctified to my eternal good; and so may they!

Louise came often to see me, and I found her then as now, the kindest

and most willing friend; everything that she could do to please me she

did. She brought me many gifts of books, flowers, fruits, &c. I may have

been petulant and selfish in my grief; but those generous friends bore

patiently with me.

Pleasant walks I used to take with Henry of evenings, and he was then

so full of hope, for he had almost realized the sum of money that his

master required of him.

"Master will be down early in September," he said, as we strolled along

one evening in August, "and I think by borrowing a little from Miss

Nancy, I shall be able to pay down all that I owe him, and then,

dearest, I shall be free--free! only think of it! Of _me_ being a free

man, master of _myself_! and when we go to the North we will be married,

and both of us will live with Miss Nancy, and guard her declining days."

Happy tears were shining in his bright eyes, like dew-pearls; but, with

a strong, manly hand he dashed them away, and I clung the fonder to that

arm, that I hoped would soon be able to protect me.

"There is one foolish little matter, dearest, that I will mention, more

to excite your merriment, than fear," said Henry with an odd smile.

"What is it?"

"Well, promise me not to care about it; only let it give you a good

laugh."

"Yes, I promise."

"Well," and he paused for a moment, "there is a girl living near the

G---- House. She belongs to Mr. Bodley, and has taken a foolish fancy to

me; has actually made advances, even more than advances, actual offers

of love! She says she used to know you, and, on one occasion, attempted

to speak discreditably of you; though I quickly gave her to understand

that I would not listen to it. Why do you tremble so, Ann?"

And truly I trembled so violently, that if it had not been for the

support that his arm afforded me, I should have fallen to the ground.

"What is her name?" I asked.

"Melinda, and says she once belonged to Mr. Peterkin."

"Yes, she did. We used to call her Lindy."

I then told him what an evil spirit she had been in my path; and

ventured to utter a suspicion that her work of harm was yet unfinished,

that she meant me further injury.

"I know her now, dearest. You have unmasked her, and, with me, she can

have no possible power."

I seemed to be satisfied, though in reality I was not, for apprehension

of an indefinable something troubled me sorely. The next day Miss Nancy

observed my troubled abstraction, and inquired the cause, with so much

earnestness, that I could not withhold my confidence, and gave her a

full account.

"And you think she will do you an injury?"

"I fear so."

"But have you not forestalled that by telling Henry who she is, and how

she has acted toward you?"

"Yes, ma'm, and have been assured by him that she can do me no harm; but

the dread remains."

"Oh, you are in a weak, nervous state; I am astonished at Henry for

telling you such a thing at this time."

"He thought, ma'm, that it would amuse me, as a fine joke; and so I

supposed I should have enjoyed it."

She did all she could to divert my thoughts, made Henry bring his banjo,

and play for me of evenings; bought pleasant romances for me to read;

ordered a carriage for a daily ride; purchased me many pretty articles

of apparel; but, most of all, I appreciated her kind and cheerful talk,

in which she strove to beguile me from everything gloomy or sad.

Once she sent me down to spend the day with Louise at the G---- House.

There was quite a crowd at the hotel. Southerners, who had come up to

pass their summer at the watering-places in Kentucky, had stopped here,

and, finding comfortable lodgment, preferred it to the springs; then

there were many others travelling to the North and East _via_ L----, who

were stopping there. This increased Henry's duties, so that I saw him

but seldom during the day. Once or twice he came to Louise's room, and

told me that he was unusually busy; but that he had earned four dollars

that day, from different persons, in small change, and that he would be

able to make his final payment the next month.

All this was very encouraging, and I was in unusually fine spirits. As

Louise and I sat talking in the afternoon, she remarked--

"Well, Ann, early next month Henry will make his last payment; and we

have concluded to go North the latter part of the same month. When will

Miss Nancy be ready to go?"

"Oh, she can make her arrangements to start at the same time. I will

speak to her about it this evening."

And then, as we sat planning about a point of location, a shadow

darkened the door. I looked up--and, after a long separation, despite

both natural and artificial changes, I recognized _Lindy_! I let my

sewing fall from my hands and gazed upon her with as much horror as if

she had been an apparition! Louise spoke kindly to her, and asked her to

walk in.

"Why, how d'ye do, Ann? I hearn you was livin' in de city, and intended

to come an' see you."

I stammered out something, and she seated herself near me, and began to

revive old recollections.

"They are not pleasant, Lindy, and I would rather they should be

forgotten."

"Laws, I's got a very good home now; but I 'tends to marry some man that

will buy me, and set me free! Now, I's got my eye sot on Henry."

I trembled violently, but did not trust myself to speak. Louise,

however, in a quick tone, replied:

"He is engaged, and soon to be married to Ann."

"Laws! I doesn't b'lieve it; Ann shan't take him from me."

Though this was said playfully, it was easy for me to detect, beneath

the seeming levity, a strong determination, on her part, to do her very

_worst_. No wonder that I trembled before her, when I remembered how

powerful an enemy she had been in former times.

With a few other remarks she left, and Louise observed:

"That Lindy is a queer girl. With all her ignorance and ugliness, she

excites my dread when I am in her presence--a dread of a supposed and

envenomed power, such as the black cat possesses."

"Such has ever been the feeling, Louise, that she has excited in me.

She has done me harm heretofore; and do you know, I think she means me

ill now. I have uttered this suspicion to Henry and Miss Nancy, but they

both laughed it to scorn--saying _she_ was powerless to injure _me_; but

still my fear remains, and, when I think of her, I grow sick at heart."

Upon my return home that evening I told Miss Nancy of the meeting with

Lindy, and of the conversation, but she attached no importance to it.

No one living beneath the vine and fig-tree of Miss Nancy's planting,

and sharing the calm blessedness of her smiles, could be long unhappy!

Her life, as well as words, was a proof that human nature is not all

depraved. In thinking over the rare combination of virtues that her

character set forth, I have marvelled what must have been her childhood.

Certainly she could never have possessed the usual waywardness of

children. Her youth must have been an exception to the general rule. I

cannot conceive her with the pettishness and proneness to quarrel, which

we naturally expect in children. I love to think of her as a quiet

little Miss, discarding the doll and play-house, turning quietly away

from the frolicsome kitten--seeking the leafy shade of the New England

forests--peering with a curious, thoughtful eye into the woodland

dingle--or straining her gaze far up into the blue arch of heaven--or

questioning, with a child's idle speculation, the whence and the whither

of the mysterious wind. 'Tis thus I have pictured her childhood! She was

a strange, gifted, unusual woman;--who, then, can suppose that her

infancy and youth were ordinary?

To this day her memory is gratefully cherished by hundreds. Many little

pauper children have felt the kindness of her charity; and those who are

now independent remember the time when her bounty rescued them from

want, and "they rise up to call her blessed!"

Often have I gone with her upon visits and errands of charity. Through

many a dirty alley have those dainty feet threaded a dangerous way; and

up many a dizzy, dismal flight of ricketty steps have I seen them

ascend, and never heard a petulant word, or saw a haughty look upon her

face! She never went upon missions of charity in a carriage, or, if she

was too weak to walk all the way, she discharged the vehicle before she

got in sight of the hovel. "Let us not be ostentatious," she would say,

when I interposed an objection to her taking so long a walk. "Besides,"

she added, "let us give no offence to these suffering poor ones. Let

them think we come as sisters to relieve them; not as Dives, flinging to

Lazarus the crumbs of our bounty!"

Beautiful Christian soul! baptized with the fire of the Holy Ghost,

endowed with the same saintly spirit that rendered lovely the life of

her whom the Saviour called Mother! thou art with the Blessed now! After

a life of earnest, godly piety, thou hast gone to receive thine

inheritance above, and wear the Amaranthine Crown! for thou didst obey

the Saviour's sternest mandate--sold thy possessions, and gave all to

the poor!

CHAPTER XL.

THE CRISIS OF EXISTENCE--A DREADFUL PAGE IN LIFE.

I have paused much before writing this chapter. I have taken up my pen

and laid it down an hundred times, with the task unfulfilled--the duty

unaccomplished. A nervous sensation, a chill of the heart, have

restrained my pen--yet the record must be made.

I have that to tell, from which both body and soul shrink. Upon me a

fearful office has been laid! I would that others, with colder blood and

less personal interest, could make this disclosure; but it belongs to my

history; nay, is the very nucleus from which all my reflections upon the

institution of slavery have sprung. Reader, did you ever have a wound--a

deep, almost a mortal wound--whereby your life was threatened, which,

after years of nursing and skilful surgical treatment, had healed, and

was then again rudely torn open? This is my situation. I am going to

tear open, with a rude hand, a deep wound, that time and kind friends

have not availed to cure. But like little, timid children, hurrying

through a dark passage, fearing to look behind them, I shall hasten

rapidly over this part of my life, never pausing to comment upon the

terrible facts I am recording. "I have placed my hand to the

ploughshare, and will not turn back."

Let me recall that fair and soft evening, in the early September, when

Henry and I, with hand clasped in hand, sat together upon the little

balcony. How sweet-scented was the gale that fanned our brows! The air

was soft and balmy, and the sweet serenity of the hour was broken only

by that ever-pleasant music of the gently-roaring falls! Fair and

queenly sailed the uprisen moon, through a cloudless sea of blue, whilst

a few faint stars, like fire-flies, seemed flitting round her.

Long we talked of the happiness that awaited us on the morrow. Henry had

arranged to meet his master, Mr. Graham, on that day, and make the final

payment.

"Dearest, I lack but fifty dollars of the amount," he said, as he laid

his head confidingly on my shoulder.

"Ten of which I can give you."

"And the remaining forty I will make up," said Miss Nancy as she stepped

out of the door, and, placing a pocket-book in Henry's hand, she added,

"there is the amount, take it and be happy."

Whilst he was returning thanks, I went to get my contribution. Drawing

from my trunk the identical ten-dollar note that good Mr. Trueman had

given me, I hastened to present it to Henry, and make out the sum that

was to give us both so much joy.

"Here, Henry," I exclaimed, as I rejoined them, "are ten dollars, which

kind Mr. Trueman gave me."

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

"How different is your life now from what it was when that money was

given you."

"Yes, indeed," I answered; "and, thanks, my noble benefactress, to you

for it."

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

I immediately handed it to her. Could I be mistaken? No; she actually

pressed it to her lips! But then she was such a philanthropist, and she

loved the note because it was the means of bringing us happiness. She

handed it back to me with another sigh.

"When he gave it to me, he bade me receive it as his contribution toward

the savings I was about to lay up for the purchase of myself. Now what

joy it gives me to hand it to you, Henry." He was weeping, and could not

trust his voice to answer.

"And Ann shall soon be free. Next week we will all start for the North,

and then, my good friends, your white days will commence," said Miss

Nancy.

"Oh, Heaven bless you, dear saint," cried Henry, whose utterance was

choked by tears. Miss Nancy and I both wept heartily; but mine were

happy tears, grateful as the fragrant April showers!

"Why this is equal to a camp-meeting," exclaimed Louise, who had,

unperceived by us, entered the front-door, passed through the hall, and

now joined us upon the portico.

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

"Will you not let me make one of the party for the North?" she inquired

of Miss Nancy.

"Certainly, we shall be glad to have you, Louise; but come, Henry, get

your banjo, and play us a pleasant tune."

He obeyed with alacrity, and I never heard his voice sound so rich,

clear and ringing. How magnificent he looked, with the full radiance of

the moonlight streaming over his face and form! His long flossy black

hair was thrown gracefully back from his broad and noble brow; whilst

his dark flashing eye beamed with unspeakable joy, and the animation

that flooded his soul lent a thrill to his voice, and a majesty to his

frame, that I had never seen or heard before. Surely I was very proud

and happy as I looked on him then!

Before we parted, Miss Nancy invited him and Louise to join us in family

devotion. After reading a chapter in the Bible, and a short but eloquent

and impressive prayer, she besought Heaven to shed its most benign

blessings on us; and that our approaching good fortune might not make us

forget Him from whom every good and perfect gift emanated; and thus

closed that delightful evening!

After Henry had taken an affectionate farewell of me, and departed with

Louise, he, to my surprise, returned in a few moments, and finding the

house still open, called me out upon the balcony.

"Dearest, I could not resist a strange impulse that urged me to come

back and look upon you once again. How beautiful you are, my love!" he

said as he pushed the masses of hair away from my brow, and imprinted a

kiss thereon. He was so tardy in leaving, that I had to chide him two or

three times.

"I cannot leave you, darling."

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

At last, and at Miss Nancy's request, he left, but turned every few

steps to look back at the house.

"How foolish Henry is to-night," said Miss Nancy, as she withdrew her

head from the open window. "Success and love have made him foolishly

fond!"

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

"Oh, yes, he will find that life is an earnest work, as well for the

freeman as the bondsman."

I lay for a long time on my bed in a state of sleeplessness, and it was

past midnight when I fell asleep, and then, oh, what a terrible dream

came to torture me! I thought I had been stolen off by a kidnapper, and

confined for safe keeping in a charnel-house, an ancient receptacle for

the dead, and there, with blue lights burning round me, I lay amid the

dried bones and fleshless forms of those who had once been living

beings; and the vile and loathsome gases almost stifled me. By that dim

blue light I strove to find some door or means of egress from the

terrible place, and just as I had found the door and was about to fit a

rusty key into the lock, a long, lean body, decked out in shroud,

winding-sheet and cap, with hollow cheek and cadaverous face, and eyes

devoid of all speculation, suddenly seized me with its cold, skeleton

hand. Slowly the face assumed the expression of Lindy's, then faded into

that of Mr. Peterkin's. I attempted to break from it, but I was held

with a vice-like power. With a loud, frantic scream I broke from the

trammels of sleep. A cold, death-like sweat had broken out on my body.

My screaming had aroused Miss Nancy and Biddy. Both came rushing into my

room.

After a few moments I told them of my dream.

"A bad attack of incubus," remarked Miss Nancy, "but she is cold; rub

her well, Biddy."

With a very good will the kind-hearted Irish girl obeyed her. I could

not, however, be prevailed upon to try to sleep again; and as it wanted

but an hour of the dawn, Biddy consented to remain up with me. We

dressed ourselves, and sitting down by the closed window, entered into a

very cheerful conversation. Biddy related many wild legends of the

"_ould country_," in which I took great interest.

Gradually we saw the stars disappear, and the moon go down, and the pale

gray streaks of dawn in the eastern sky!

I threw up the windows, exclaiming: "Oh, Biddy, as the day dawns, I

begin to suffocate. I feel just as I did in the dream. Give me air,

quick." More I could not utter, for I fell fainting in the arms of the

faithful girl. She dashed water in my face, chafed my hands and temples,

and consciousness soon returned.

"Why, happiness and good fortune do excite you strangely; but they say

there are some that it sarves just so."

"Oh no, Biddy, I am not very well,--a little nervous. I will take some

medicine."

When I joined Miss Nancy, she refused to let me assist her in dressing,

saying:

"No, Ann, you look ill. Don't trouble yourself to do anything. Go lie

down and rest."

I assured her repeatedly that I was perfectly well; but she only smiled,

and said in a commendatory tone,

"Good girl, good girl!"

All the morning I was fearfully nervous, starting at every little sound

or noise. At length Miss Nancy became seriously uneasy, and compelled me

to take a sedative.

As the day wore on, I began to grow calm. The sedative had taken

effect, and my nervousness was allayed.

I took my sewing in the afternoon, and seated myself in Miss Nancy's

room. Seeing that I was calm, she began a pleasant conversation with me.

"Henry will be here to-night, Ann, a free man, the owner of himself, the

custodian of his own person, and you must put on your happiest and best

looks to greet him."

"Ah, Miss Nancy, it seems like too much joy for me to realize. What if

some grim phantom dash down this sparkling cup; just as we are about to

press it to our eager and expectant lips? Such another disappointment I

could not endure."

"You little goosey, you will mar half of life's joys by these idle

fears."

"Yes, Miss Nancy," put in Biddy. "Ann is just so narvous ever since that

ugly dream, that she hain't no faith to-day in anything."

"Have you baked a pretty cake, and got plenty of nice confections ready

to give Henry a celebration supper, good Biddy?" inquired Miss Nancy.

"Ah, yes, everything is ready, only just look how light and brown my

cake is," and she brought a fine large cake from the pantry, the savory

odor of which would have tempted an anchorite.

"Then, too," continued the provident Biddy, "the peaches are unusually

soft and sweet. I have pared and sugared them, and they are on the ice

now; oh, we'll have a rale feast."

"Thanks, thanks, good friends," I said, in a voice choked with emotion.

"Only just see," exclaimed Biddy, "here comes Louise, running as fast as

her legs will carry her; she's come to be the first to tell you that

Henry is free."

I rushed with Biddy to the door, and Miss Nancy followed. We were all

eager to hear the good news.

"Mercy, Louise, what's the matter?" I cried, for her face terrified me.

She was pale as death; her eyes, black and wild, seemed starting from

their sockets, and around her mouth there was that ghastly, livid look,

that almost congealed my blood.

"Oh, God!" she cried in frenzy, "God have mercy on us all!" and reeled

against the wall.

"Speak, woman, speak, in heaven's name," I shouted aloud. "Henry! Henry!

Henry! has aught happened to him?"

"Oh, God!" she said, and her eyes flamed like a fury's; "_he has cut his

throat_, and now lies weltering in his own blood."

I did not scream, I did not speak. I shed no tears. I did not even close

my eyes. Every sense had turned to stone! For full five minutes I stood

looking in the face of Louise.

"Why don't you speak, Ann! Cry, imprecate, do something, rather than

stand there with that stony gaze!" said Louise, as she caught me

frantically by the arm.

"Why did he kill himself?" I asked, in an unfaltering tone.

"He went, in high spirits, to make his last payment to his master, who

was at the hotel. 'Here, master,' he said, 'is all that I owe you;

please make out the bill of sale, or my free papers.' Mr. Graham took

the money, with a smile, counted it over twice, slowly placed it in his

pocket-book, and said, 'Henry, you are my slave; I hired you to a good

place, where you were well treated; had time to make money for yourself.

Now, according to law, you, as a slave, cannot have or hold property.

Everything, even to your knife, is your master's. All of your earnings

come to me. So, in point of law, I was entitled to all the money that

you have paid me. Legally it was mine, not yours; so I did but receive

from you my own. Notwithstanding all this I was willing to let you have

yourself, and intended to act with you according to our first

arrangement; but upon coming here the other day, a servant girl of Mr.

Bodly's, named Lindy, informed me that you were making preparations to

run off, and cheat me out of the last payment. She stated that you had

told her so; and you intended to start one night this week. I was so

enraged by it, that yesterday I sold you to a negro trader; and you

must start down the river to-morrow.'"

"'Master, it is a lie of the girl's; I never had any thought of running

off, or cheating you out of your money.' Henry then told him of Lindy's

malice.

"'Yes, you have proved it was a lie, by coming and paying me: but

nothing can be done now; I have signed the papers, and you are the

property of Atkins. I have not the power to undo what I have done.'

"'But, Master,' pleaded Henry, 'can't you refund the money that I have

paid you, and let me buy myself from Mr. Atkins?'

"'Refund the money, indeed! Who ever heard of such impertinence? Have I

not just shown that all that you made was by right of law mine? No; go

down the river, serve your time, work well, and may be in the course of

fifteen or twenty years you may be able to buy yourself.'

"'Oh, master!' cried out the weeping Henry, 'pity me, please save me, do

something.'

"'I can do nothing for you; go, get your trunk ready, here comes Mr.

Atkins for you.'

"Henry turned towards the hard trader, and with a face contracted with

pain, and eyes raining tears, begged for mercy.

"'Go long you fool of a nigger! an' git ready to go to the pen, without

this fuss, or I'll have you tied with ropes, and taken.'

"Henry said no more; I had overheard all from an adjoining room. I tried

to avoid him; but he sought me out.

"'Louise,' he said, in a tone which I shall never forget.

"'I have heard all,' was my reply.

"'Will you see Ann for me? Take her a word from me? Tell how it was,

Louise; break the news gently to her.' Here he quite gave up, and,

sinking into a chair, sobbed and cried like a child.

"'Be a friend to her, Louise; I know that she will need much kindness to

sustain her. Thank Miss Nancy for all her kindness; tell her that I

blest her before I went. Tell Ann to stay with her, and oh,

Louise'--here he wrung his hands in agony--'tell Ann not to grieve for

me; but she mustn't forget me. Poor, wretched outcast that I am, I have

loved her well! After awhile, when time has softened this blow, she must

try to love and be happy with---- No, no, I'll not ask that; only bid

her not be wretched;--but give me pen and ink, I'll write just one word

to her.'

"I gave him the ink, pen and paper, and he wrote this."

As Louise drew a soiled, blotted paper from her bosom, I eagerly

snatched it and read:

"Ann, dearest, Louise will tell you all. Our dream is broken forever! I

_am sold_; but I shall be a slave _no more_. Forgive me for what I am

going to do. Madness has driven me to it! I love you, even in death I

love you. Say farewell to Miss Nancy--I _am gone_!"

I read it over twice slowly. One scalding tear, large and round, fell

upon it! I know not where it came from, for my eyes were dry as a

parched leaf.

The note dropped from my hands, almost unnoticed by me. Biddy picked it

up, and handed it to Miss Nancy, who read it and fainted. I moved about

mechanically; assisted in restoring Miss Nancy to consciousness; chafed

her hands and temples; and, when she came to, and burst into a flood of

tears, I soothed her and urged that she would not weep or distress

herself.

"I wonder that the earth don't open and swallow them," cried the weeping

Biddy.

"Hush, Biddy, hush!" I urged.

"They ought to be hung!"

"'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord,'" I replied.

"Oh, Ann, you are crazy!" she uttered.

And so, in truth, I was. That granite-like composure was a species of

insanity. I comprehended nothing that was going on around me. I was in a

sort of sleep-waking state, when I asked Louise if she thought they

would bury him decently; and gave her a bunch of flowers to place in the

coffin.

And so my worst suspicion was realized! Through Lindy came my heaviest

blow of affliction! I fear that even now, after the lapse of years, I

have not the Christianity to ask, "Father, forgive her, for she knew not

what she did!" Lying beside me now, dear, sympathetic reader, is _that

note--his last brief words_. Before writing this chapter I read it over.

Old, soiled and worn it was, but by his trembling fingers those blotted

and irregular lines were penned; and to me they are precious, though

they awaken ten thousand bitter emotions! I look at the note but once a

year, and then on the fatal anniversary, which occurs to-day! I have

pressed it to my heart, and hearsed it away, not to be re-opened for

another year. This is the blackest chapter in my dark life, and you will

feel, with me, glad that it is about to close. I have nerved myself for

the duty of recording it, and, now that it is over, I sink down faint

and broken-hearted beside the accomplished task.

CHAPTER XLI.

A REVELATION--DEATH THE PEACEFUL ANGEL--CALMNESS.

Months passed by after the events told in the last chapter--_passed_, I

scarce know how. They have told me that I wandered about like one in the

mazes of a troubled dream. My reason was disturbed. I've no distinct

idea how the days or weeks were employed. Vague remembrances of kindly

words, music, odorous flowers, and a trip to a beautiful, quiet

country-house, I sometimes have; but 'tis all so misty and dream-like,

that I can form no tangible idea of it. So this period has almost faded

out of mind, and is like lost pages from the chronicle of life.

When the winter was far spent, and during the snowy days of February, my

mind began to collect its shattered forces. The approach of another

trouble brought back consciousness with rekindled vigor.

One day I became aware that Miss Nancy was very ill. It seemed as if a

thick vapor, like a breath-stain on glass, had suddenly been wiped away

from my mind; and I saw clearly. There lay Miss Nancy upon her bed,

appallingly white, with her large eyes sunken deeply in their sockets,

and her lips purple as an autumn leaf. Her thin, white hand, with

discolored nails, was thrown upon the covering, and aroused my alarm. I

rushed to her, fearing that the vital spark no longer animated that

loved and once lovely frame.

"Miss Nancy, dear Miss Nancy," I cried, "speak to me, only one word."

She started nervously, "Oh, who are you? Ah, Ann--is it Ann?"

"Yes, dear Miss Nancy, it is _I_. It appears as though a film had been

removed from my eyes, and I see how selfish I have been. You have

suffered for my attention. What has been the matter with me?"

"Oh, dear child, a fearful dispensation of Providence was sent you; and

from the chastisement you are about recovering. Thank God, that you are

still the mistress of your reason! For its safety, I often trembled. I

did all for you that I could; but I was fearful that human skill would

be of no avail."

"Thanks, my kind friend, and sorry I am for all the anxiety and

uneasiness that I have given you."

"Oh, I am repaid, or rather was pre-paid for all and more, you were so

kind to me."

Here Biddy entered, and I took down the Bible and read a few chapters

from the book of Job.

"What a comfort that book is to us," said Biddy. "Many's the time, Ann,

that Miss Nancy read it to you, when you'd sit an' look so

wandering-like; but you are well now, Ann, an' all will be right with

us."

"_All_ can never be, Biddy, as once it _was_," and I shook my head.

"Oh, don't spake of it," and she wiped her moist eyes with her apron.

Days and weeks passed on thus smoothly, during which time Louise came

often to see us; but the fatal sorrow was never alluded to. By common

consent all avoided it.

Daily, hourly, Miss Nancy's health sank. I never saw the footsteps of

the grim monster approach more rapidly than in her case. The wasting of

her cheek was like the eating of a worm at the heart of a rose.

Her bed was wheeled close to the fire, and I read, all the pleasant

mornings, some cheerful book to her.

Her brother came often, and sat with her through the evenings. Many of

her friends and neighbors offered to watch with her at night; but she

bade me decline all such kindness.

"You and Biddy are enough. I want no others. Let me die calmly, in the

presence of, my own household, with no unusual faces around," she said

in a low tone.

She talked about her death as though it were some long journey upon

which she was about starting; gave directions how she should be

shrouded; what kind of coffin we must get, tomb-stone, &c. She enjoined

that we inscribe nothing but her age and name upon the tomb-stone.

"I wish no ostentatious slab, no false eulogium; my name and age are all

the epitaph I deserve, and all that I will have."

Several ministers came to see her, and held prayer. She received them

kindly, and spoke at length with some.

"I shall meet the great change with resignation. I had hoped, Ann, to

see you well settled somewhere in the North; but that will be denied me.

In my will, I have remembered both you and Biddy. I have no parting

advice for either of you; for you are both, though of different faith,

consistent Christians. I hope we shall meet hereafter. You must not

weep, girls, for it pains me to think I leave you troubled."

When Biddy withdrew, she called me to her, saying,

"Ann, I am feeble, draw near the bed whilst I talk to you. I hold here

in my hand a letter from my nephew, Robert Worth."

"Robert Worth? Why I--"

"Yes, he says that he was at Mr. Peterkin's and remembers you well. He

also speaks of Emily Bradly, who is now in Boston; says that she

recollects you well, and is pleased to hear of your good fortune. Robert

is the son of my elder sister, who is now deceased; a favorite he always

was of mine. He read law in Mr. Trueman's office, and has a very

successful practice at the Boston bar. Long time ago, Ann, when I was a

young, blooming girl, my sister Lydia (Robert's mother) and I were at

school at a very celebrated academy in the North. During one of our

vacations, when we were on a visit to Boston--for we were country

girls--we were introduced to two young barristers, William Worth and

Justinian Trueman. They were strong personal friends.

"The former became much attached to my sister, and came frequently to

see her. Justinian Trueman came also. By the force of circumstance, Mr.

Trueman and I were thrown much together. From his lofty conversation and

noble principles, I gained great advantage. I loved to listen to his

candid avowal of free, democratic principles. How bravely he set aside

conventionality and empty forms; he was a searcher after the soul of

things! He was the very essence of honor, always ready to sacrifice

himself for others, and daily and hourly crucified his heart!

"Chance threw us much together, as I have said. You may infer what

ensued. Two persons so similar in nature, so united in purpose (though

he was vastly my superior), could not associate much and long together

without a feeling of love springing up! Our case did not differ from

that of others. _We loved._ Not as the careless or ordinary love; but

with a fervor, a depth of passion, and a concentration of soul, which

nothing in life could destroy.

"My sister was the chosen bride of William Worth. This fact was known to

all the household. Justinian and I read in each other's manner the

secret of the heart.

"At length, in one brief hour, he told me his story; he was the only

child of a widowed mother, who had spent her all upon his education.

Whilst he was away, her wants had been tenderly ministered to by a very

lovely young girl of wealth and social position. Upon her death-bed his

mother besought him to marry this lady. He was then inflamed with

gratitude, and, being free in heart, he mistook the nature of his

feelings. Whilst in this state of mind, he offered himself to her and

was instantly accepted. Afterwards when we met he understood how he had

been beguiled!

"He wrote to his betrothed, told her the state of his feelings, that he

loved another; but declared his willingness to redeem his promise, and

stand by his engagement if she wished.

"How anxiously we both awaited her reply! It came promptly, and she

desired, nay demanded, the fulfilment of the engagement; even reminded

him of his promise to his mother, and of the obligation he was under to

herself.

"No tongue can describe the agony that we both endured; yet principle

must be obeyed. We parted. They were married. Twice afterwards I saw

him. He was actively engaged in his profession; but the pale cheek and

earnest look told me that he still thought lovingly of me! My sister

married William Worth, and resided in Boston; but her husband died early

in life, leaving his only child Robert to the care of Mr. Trueman. After

my mother's death, possessing myself of my patrimony, I removed west, to

this city, where my brother lived. I had been separated from him for a

number of years, and was surprised to find how entirely a Southern

residence had changed him. Owing to some little domestic difficulties, I

declined remaining in his family.

"Last winter, when Justinian Trueman was here, I was out of the city;

and it was well that I was, for I could not have met him again. Old

feelings, that should be cradled to rest, would have been aroused! My

brother saw him, and told me that he looked well.

"Now, is it not strange that you should have been an object of such

especial interest to both of us? It seems as though you were a centre

around which we were once more re-united. I have written him a long

letter, which I wish you to deliver upon your arrival in Boston." Here

she drew from the portfolio that was lying on the bed beside her, a

sealed letter, directed to Justinian Trueman, Boston, Mass.

I was weeping violently when I took it from her.

She lingered thus for several weeks, and on a calm Sabbath morning, as I

was reading to her from the Bible, she said to me--

"Ann, I am sleepy; my eyelids are closing; turn me over."

As I attempted to do it she pressed my hand tightly, straightened her

body out, and the last struggle was over! I was alone with her. Laying

her gently upon the pillow, I for the first time in my life pressed my

lips to that cold, marble brow. I felt that she, holy saint, would not

object to it, were she able to speak. I then called Biddy in to assist

me. She was loud in her lamentation.

"She bade us not weep for her, Biddy. She is happier now;" but, though I

spoke this in a composed tone, my heart was all astir with emotion.

Soon her brother came in, bringing with him a minister. He received the

mournful intelligence with subdued grief.

We robed her for Death's bridal, e'en as she had requested, in white

silk, flannel, and white gloves. Her coffin was plain mahogony, with a

plate upon the top, upon which were engraved her name, age, and

birth-place.

A funeral sermon was preached, by a minister who had been a strong

personal friend. In a retired portion of the public burial-ground we

made her last bed. A simple tombstone, as she directed, was placed over

the grave, her name, age, &c., inscribed thereon.

Bridget and I slept in the same house that night. We could not be

persuaded to leave it, and there, in Miss Nancy's dear, familiar room,

we held, as usual, family devotion. I almost fancied that she stood in

the midst, and was gazing well-pleased upon us.

That night I slept profoundly. My rest had been broken a great deal, and

now the knowledge that duty did not keep me awake, enabled me to sleep

well.

On the next day Mr. Worth arrived, and was much distressed to find that

he was too late to see his aunt alive.

Though he looked older and more serious than when I last saw him, I

readily recognized the same noble expression of face. He received me

very kindly, and thanked Biddy and me for our attentions to his beloved

aunt. He showed us a letter she had written, in which she spoke of us in

the kindest manner, and recommended us to his care.

"Neither of you shall ever lack for friendship whilst I live," he said,

as he warmly shook us by the hands.

He told me that he had ever retained a vivid recollection of my sad

face; and inquired about "young Master." When I told him that he was

dead, and gave an account of his life and sufferings, Mr. Worth

remarked--

"Ah, yes, he was one of heaven's angels, lent us only for a short

season."

I accompanied him to his aunt's grave.

* * * * * *

Upon the reading of the will, it was discovered that Miss Nancy had

liberated me, and left me, as a legacy, four thousand dollars, with the

request that I would live somewhere in the North. To Biddy she had left

a bequest of three thousand dollars; the remainder of her fortune, after

making a donation to her brother, was left to her nephew, Robert Worth.

The will was instantly carried into effect; as it met with no

opposition, and she owed no debts, matters were arranged satisfactorily;

and we prepared for departure.

Louise had made all her arrangements to go with us. I was now a free

woman, in the possession of a comparative fortune; yet I was not happy.

Alas! I had out-lived all for which money and freedom were valuable, and

I cared not how the remainder of my days were spent. Why cannot the

means of happiness come to us when we have the capacity for enjoyment?

On the evening before our departure, I called Louise to me and asked,

"Where is Henry's grave?" It was the first time since that fatal day

that I had mentioned his name to her.

"He is buried far away, in a plain, unmarked grave; but, even if it were

near, you should not go," she replied.

"Tell me, who found him, after--after--after _the murder_?"

"Mr. Graham and Atkins went in search of him, and I followed them;

though he had told me what he was going to do, Ann, I could not oppose

or even dissuade him."

I wept freely; and, as is always the case, was relieved by it.

"I am glad to see that you can weep. It will do you good," said Louise.

CHAPTER XLII

CONCLUSION.

But little more remains to be told of my history.

When Louise, Biddy and I, under the protection of Mr. Worth, sailed on a

pleasant steamer from the land of slavery, I could but thank my God that

I was leaving forever the State, beneath the sanction of whose laws the

vilest outrages and grossest inhumanities were committed!

Our trip would, indeed, have been delightful, but that I was constantly

contrasting it in my own mind with what it might have been, had HE not

fallen a victim to the white man's cupidity.

Often I stole away from the company, and, in the privacy of my own room,

gave vent to my pent-up grief. Biddy and Louise were in ecstacies with

everything that they saw.

All along the route, after passing out of the Slave States, we met with

kind friends and genuine hospitality. The Northern people are noble,

generous, and philanthropic; and it affords me pleasure to record here a

tribute to their worth and kindness.

In New York we met with the best of friends. Everywhere I saw smiling,

black faces; a sight rarely beheld in the cities and villages of the

South. I saw men and women of the despised race, who walked with erect

heads and respectable carriage, as though they realized that they were

men and women, not mere chattels.

When we reached Boston I was made to feel this in a particular manner.

There I met full-blooded Africans, finely educated, in the possession of

princely talents, occupying good positions, wielding a powerful

political influence, and illustrating, in their lives, the oft-disputed

fact, that the African intellect is equal to the Caucasian. Soon after

my arrival in Boston I found out, from Mr. Worth, the residence of Mr.

Trueman, and called to see him.

I was politely ushered by an Irish waiter into the study, where I found

Mr. Trueman engaged with a book. At first he did not recognize me; but I

soon made myself known, and received from him a most hearty welcome.

I related all the incidents in my life that had occurred since I had

seen him last. He entered fully into my feelings, and I saw the tear

glisten in his calm eyes when I spoke of poor Henry's awful fate.

I told him of Miss Nancy's kindness, and the tears rolled down his

cheeks. I did not speak of what she had told me in relation to their

engagement; I merely stated that she had referred to him as a particular

personal friend, and when I gave him the letter he received it with a

tremulous hand, uttered a fearful groan, and buried his face among the

papers that lay scattered over his table. Without a spoken good-bye, I

withdrew.

I saw him often after this; and from him received the most signal acts

of kindness. He thanked me many times for what he termed my fidelity to

his sainted friend. He never spoke of her without a quiver of the lip,

and I honored him for his constancy.

He strongly urged me to take up my residence in Boston; but I remembered

that Henry's preference had always been for a New England village; and I

loved to think that I was following out his views, and so I removed to a

quiet puritanical little town in Massachusetts.

And here I now am engaged in teaching a small school of African

children; happy in the discharge of so sacred a duty. 'Tis surprising to

see how rapidly they learn. I am interested, and so are they, in the

work: and thus what with some teachers is an irksome task, is to me a

pleasing duty.

I should state for the benefit of the curious, that Biddy is living in

Boston, happily married to "a countryman," and is the proud mother of

several blooming children. She comes to visit me sometimes, during the

heat of summer, and is always a welcome guest.

Louise, too, has consented to wear matrimony's easy yoke. She lives in

the same village with me. Our social and friendly relations still

continue. I have frequently, when visiting Boston, met Miss Bradly. She,

like me, has never married. She has grown to be a firmer and more

earnest woman than she was in Kentucky. I must not omit to mention the

fact, that when travelling through Canada, I by the rarest chance met

Ben--Amy's treasure--now grown to be a fine-looking youth.

He had a melancholy story--a life, like every other slave's, full of

trouble--but at length, by the sharpest ingenuity, he had made his

escape, and reached, after many difficulties, the golden shores of

Canada!

Now my history has been given--a round, unvarnished tale it is; and

thus, without ornament, I send it forth to the world. I have spoken

freely; at times, I grant, with a touch of bitterness, but never without

truth; and I ask the wise, the considerate, the earnest, if I have not

had cause for bitterness. Who can carp at me? That there are some fiery

Southerners who will assail me, I doubt not; but I feel satisfied that I

have discharged a duty that I solemnly owed to my oppressed and

down-trodden nation. I am calm and self-possessed; I have passed firmly

through the severest ordeal of persecution, and have been spared the

death that has befallen many others. Surely I was saved for some wise

purpose, and I fear nought from those who are fanatically wedded to

wrong and inhumanity. Let them assail me as they will, I shall still

feel that

"Thrice is he armed who has his quarrel just,

And he but naked, though wrapped up in steel,

Whose bosom with injustice is polluted."

But there are others, some even in slave States, kind, noble, thoughtful

persons, earnest seekers after the highest good in life and nature; to

them I consign my little book, sincerely begging, that through my weak

appeal, my poor suffering brothers and sisters, who yet wear the galling

yoke of American slavery, may be granted a hearing.

From the distant rice-fields and sugar plantations of the fervid South,

comes a frantic wail from the wronged, injured, and oh, how innocent

African! Hear it; hear that cry, Christians of the North, let it ring in

your ears with its fearful agony! Hearken to it, ye who feast upon the

products of African labor! Let it stay you in the use of those

commodities for which their life-blood, aye more, their soul's life, is

drained out drop by drop! Talk no more, ye faint-hearted politicians, of

"expediency." God will not hear your lame excuse in that grand and awful

day, when He shall come in pomp and power to judge the quick and dead.

And so, my history, go forth and do thy mission! knock at the doors of

the lordly and wealthy: there, by the shaded light of rosy lamps, tell

your story. Creep in at the broken crevice of the poor man's cabin, and

there make your complaint. Into the ear of the brave, energetic

mechanic, sound the burden of your grief. To the strong-hearted

blacksmith, sweating over his furnace, make yourself heard; and ask

them, one and all, shall this unjust institution of slavery be

perpetuated? Shall it dare to desecrate, with its vile presence, the new

territories that are now emphatically free? Shall Nebraska and Kansas

join in a blood-spilling coalition with the South?

Answer proudly, loudly, brave men; and answer, _No, No!_ My work is

done.

REDFIELD'S PUBLICATIONS.--POETRY AND THE DRAMA.

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