Aunt Phillis's cabin : or, Southern life as it is

OR,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS.

CJ.

BY MRS MARY-H.-EA3TMAN

c 1 p 1) i g

1852.

AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN;

OR,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS.

BY

MRS. MAKY H. EASTMAN.

TENTH THOUSAND.

PHILADELPHIA:
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.

1852.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.

PEE FACE.

AM //V

A WRITER on Slavery has no difficulty in tracing back its
origin. There is also the advantage of finding it, with its con
tinued history, and the laws given by God to govern his own in
stitution, in the Holy Bible. Neither profane history, tradition,
nor philosophical research are required to prove its origin or
existence; though they, as all things must, come forward to sub
stantiate the truth of the Scriptures. God, who created the
human race, willed they should be holy like himself. Sin was com
mitted, and the curse of sin, death, was induced : other punish
ments were denounced for the perpetration of particular crimes
— the shedding of man's blood for murder, and the curse of
slavery. The mysterious reasons that here influenced the mind
of the Creator it is not ours to declare. Yet may we learn
enough from his revealed word on this and every other subject
to confirm his power, truth, and justice. There is no Christian
duty more insisted upon in Scripture than reverence and obe
dience to parents. " Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy
days may be long 'in the land which the Lord thy God giveth
thee." The relation of child to parent resembles closely that of
man to his Creator. He who loves and honors his God will
assuredly love and honor his parents. Though it is evidently
the duty of every parent so to live as to secure the respect and
affection of his child, yet there is nothing in the Scriptures to

411449

12'.: ;•';'

PREFACE.

authorize a cliild treating with disrespect a parent, though he be
unworthy in the greatest degree.

The human mind, naturally rebellious, requires every com
mand and incentive to submission. The first of the ten com
mandments, insisting on the duty owing to the Creator, and the
fifth, on that belonging to our parents, are the sources of all
order and good arrangement in the minor relations of life; and
on obedience to them depends the comfort of society.

Jleverence to age, and especially where it is found in the p^r-
son of those who by the will of God were the authors of their
being, is insisted upon in the Jewish covenant — not indeed less
required now; but as the Jews were called from among the
heathen nations of the earth to be the peculiar people of God,
they were to show such evidences of this law in their hearts, by
their conduct, that other nations might look on and say, " Ye are
the children of the Lord your God."

It was after an act of a child dishonoring an aged father,
that the prophecy entailing slavery as a curse on a portion of the
human race was uttered. Nor could it have been from any
feeling of resentment or revenge that the curse was made known
by the lips of a servant of God ; for this servant of God was a
parent, and with what sorrow would any parent, yea, the worst
of parents, utter a malediction which insured such punishment
and misery on a portion of his posterity ! Even the blessing which
was promised to his other children could not have consoled him
for the sad necessity. He might not resist the Spirit of God :
though with perfect submission he obeyed its dictates, yet with
what regret ! The heart of any Christian parent will answer
this appeal !

We may well imagine some of the reasons for the will of God
in thus punishing Ham and his descendants. Prior to the un-

PREFACE. 13

filial act which is recorded, it is not to be supposed he had been
a righteous man. Had he been one after God's own heart, he
would not have been guilty of such a sin. What must that
child be, who would openly dishonor and expose an erring pa
rent, borne down with the weight of years, and honored by
God as Noah had been ! The very act of disrespect to Noah, the
chosen of God, implies wilful contempt of God himself. Ham
was not a young man either : he had not the excuse of the impe
tuosity of youth, nor its thoughtlessness — he was himself an old
man ; and there is every reason to believe he had led a life at
variance with God's laws. When he committed so gross and
violent a sin, it may be, that the curse of God, which had lain
tranquil long, was roused and uttered against him : a curse
not conditional, not implied — now, as then, a mandate of the
Eternal.

Among the curses threatened by the Levites upon Mount
Ebal, was the one found in the 16th verse of the 27th chapter of
Deuteronomy : " Cursed be he that setteth light by his father or
his mother." By the law of Moses, this sin was punished with
death : " Of the son which will not obey the voice of his father
or the voice of his mother/' " all the men of his city shall stone
him with stones that he die." (Deut. xxi. 21.) God in his wis
dom instituted this severe law in early times; and it must con
vince us that there were reasons in the Divine mind for insisting
on the ordinance exacting the most perfect submission and re
verence to an earthly parent.

" When, after the deluge," says Josephus, " the earth was
settled in its former condition, Noah set about its cultivation ;
and when he had planted it with vines, and when the fruit was
ripe, and he had gathered the grapes in the season, and the wine
was ready for use, he offered a sacrifice and feasted, and, being

14 PREFACE.

inebriated, fell asleep, and lay in an unseemly manner. When
Ham saw this, he came laughing, and showed him to his
brothers." Does not this exhibit the impression of the Jews as
regards the character of Ham ? Could a man capable of such an
act deserve the blessing of a just and holy God ?

" The fact of Noah's transgression is recorded by the inspired
historian with that perfect impartiality which is peculiar to the
Scriptures, as an instance and evidence of human frailty and im
perfection. Ham appears to have been a bad man, and probably
he rejoiced to find his father in so unbecoming a situation, that,
by exposing him, he might retaliate for the reproofs which he had
received from his parental authority. And perhaps Canaan first
discovered his situation, and told it to Ham. The conduct of
Ham in exposing his father to his brethren, and their behaviour
in turning away from the sight of his disgrace, form a striking
contrast." — Scoffs Com.

We are told in Gen. ix. 22, " And Ham, the father of Ca
naan, saw the nakedness of his father, and told his two brethren
without;" and in the 24th, 25th, 26th, and 27th verses we read,
"And Noah awoke from his wine, and knew what his younger son
had done unto him; and he said, Cursed be Canaan, a servant of
servants shall he be unto his brethren. And he said, Blessed be
the Lord God of Shem, and Canaan shall be his servant. God
shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem,
and Canaan shall be his servant." Is it not preposterous that any
man, any Christian, should read these verses and say slavery was
not instituted by God as a curse on Ham and Canaan and their
posterity ?

And who can read the history of the world and say this curse
has not existed ever since it was uttered ?

" The whole continent of Africa/' says Bishop Newton, " was

PREFACE. 15

peopled principally by the descendants of Ham; and for how
many ages have the better parts of that country lain under the
dominion of the Romans, then of the Saracens, and now of the
Turks ! In what wickedness, ignorance, barbarity, slavery, mi
sery, live most of the inhabitants ! And of the poor negroes, how
many hundreds every year are sold and bought like beasts in the
market, and conveyed from one quarter of the world to do the
work of beasts in another \"

But does this curse authorize the slave-trade ? God forbid.
He commanded the Jews to enslave the heathen around them,
saying, "they should be their bondmen forever;" but he has
given no such command to other nations. The threatenings and
reproofs uttered against Israel, throughout the old Testament, on
the subject of slavery, refer to their oppressing and keeping in
slavery their own countrymen. Never is there the slightest impu
tation of sin, as far as I can see, conveyed against them for hold
ing in bondage the children of heathen nations.

Yet do the Scriptures evidently permit slavery, £ven to the
present time. The curse on the serpent, (" And the Lord God
said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art
cursed above all cattle and above every beast of the field/')
uttered more than sixteen hundred years before the curse of Noah
upon Ham and his race, has lost nothing of its force and true
meaning. " Cursed is the ground for thy sake : in sorrow shalt
thou eat of it, all the days of thy life," said the Supreme Being.
Has this curse failed or been removed ?

Remember the threatened curses of God upon the whole
Tewish tribe if they forsook his worship. Have not they been
fulfilled?

However inexplicable may be the fact that God would appoint
the .curse of continual servitude on a portion of his creatures,

16 PREFACE.

will any one dare, with the Bible open in his hands, to say the
fact does not exist ? It is not ours to decide why the Supreme
Being acts ! "We may observe his dealings with man, but we
may not ask, until he reveals it, Why hast thou thus done ?

" Cursed is every one who loves not the Lord Jesus Christ."
Are not all these curses recorded, and will they not all be fulfilled ?
God has permitted slavery to exist in every age and in almost
every nation of the earth. It was only commanded to the Jews,
and it was with them restricted to the heathen, (" referring en
tirely to the race of Ham, who had been judicially condemned
to a condition of servitude more than eighteen hundred years
before the giving of the law, by the mouth of Noah, the medium
of the Holy Ghost.") No others, at least, were to be enslaved
" forever." Every book of the Old Testament records a history
in which slaves and God's laws concerning them are spoken of,
while, as far as profane history goes back, we cannot fail to see
proofs of the existence of slavery. " No legislator of history,"
says Voltaire, " attempted to abrogate slavery. Society was so
accustomed to this degradation of the species, that Epictetus,
who was assuredly worth more than his master, never expresses
any surprise at his being a slave." Egypt, Sparta, Athens, Car
thage, and Rome had their thousands of slaves. In the Bible,
the best and chosen servants of God owned slaves, while in pro
fane history the purest and greatest men did the same. In the
very nation over whose devoted head hung the curse of God,
slavery, vindictive, lawless, and cruel slavery, has prevailed. It
is said no nation of the earth has equalled the Jewish in the
enslaving of negroes, except the negroes themselves ; and exami
nation will prove that the descendants of Ham and Canaan have,
as God foresaw, justified by their conduct the doom which he
pronounced against them.

PREFACE. 17

But it has been contended that the people of God sinned in
holding their fellow-creatures in bondage ! Open your Bible,
Christian, and read the commands of God as regards slavery — the
laws that he made to govern the conduct of the master and the
slave !

But again — we live under the glorious and new dispensation
of Christ; and He came to establish God's will, and to confirm
such laws as were to continue in existence, to destroy such rules
as were not to govern our lives !

"When there was but one family upon the earth, a portion of
the family was devoted to be slaves to others. God made a
covenant with Abraham : he included in it his slaves. " He that
is born in thy house, and he that is bought with thy money,"
are the words of Scripture. A servant of Abraham says, " And
the Lord has blessed my master greatly, and he is become great,
and he hath given him flocks and herds, and silver and gold, and
men-servants and maid-servants, and camels and asses."

The Lord has called himself the God of Abraham and5 Isaac
and Jacob. These holy men were slaveholders !

The existence of slavery then, and the sanction of God on his
own institution, is palpable from the time of the pronouncing of
the curse, until the glorious advent of the Son of God. When
he came, slavery existed in every part of the world.

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came from heaven and dwelt
upon the earth : his mission to proclaim the will of God to a
world sunk in the lowest depths of iniquity. Even the dear and
chosen people of God had departed from him — had forsaken his
worship, and turned aside from his commands.

He was born of a virgin. He was called Emmanuel. He
was God with us.

Wise men traveled from afar to behold the Child-God — they

2*

18 PREFACE.

knelt before him — they opened their treasures — they presented to
them gifts. Angels of God descended in dreams, to ensure the
protection of his life against the king who sought it. He
emerged from infancy, and grew in favour with God and man.
He was tempted but not overcome — angels came again from
heaven to minister to him. He fulfilled every jot and tittle of
the law, and entered upon the duties for which he left the glories
of heaven.

That mission was fulfilled. " The people which sat in dark
ness saw great light, and to them which sat in the region and
shadow of death light is sprung up."

Look at his miracles — the cleansing of the leper, the healing
of the sick, the casting out unclean spirits, the raising of the
dead, the rebuking of the winds and seas, the control of those
possessed with devils — and say, was he not the Son of God — yea,
was he not God ?

Full of power and goodness he came into the world, and light
and glory followed every footstep. The sound of his voice, the
glance of his eye, the very touch of the garment in which his
assumed mortality was arrayed, was a medicine mighty to save.
He came on an errand of mercy to the world, and he was all
powerful to accomplish the Divine intent; but, did he eman
cipate the slave ? The happiness of the human race was the
object of his coming; and is it possible that the large portion of
them then slaves could have escaped his all-seeing eye ! Did he
condemn the institution which he had made ? Did he establish
universal freedom ? Oh ! no ; he came to redeem the world from
the power of sin; his was no earthly mission; he did not inter
fere with the organization of society. He healed the sick servant
of the centurion, but he did not command his freedom ; nor is there
a word that fell from his sacred lips that could be construed into

PREFACE. 19

a condemnation of that institution which had existed from the
early ages of the world, existed then, and is continued now. The
application made by the Abolitionist of the golden rule is absurd :
it might then apply to the child, who ivould have his father no
longer control him ; to the appentice, who would no longer that
the man to whom he is bound should have a right to direct him.
Thus the foundations of society would be shaken, nay, destroyed.
Christ would have us deal with others, not as they desire, but
as the law of God demands: in the condition of life in which
we have been placed, we must do what we conscientiously believe
to be our duty to our fellow-men.

Christ alludes to slavery, but does not forbid it. "And the
servant abideth not in the house forever, but the son abideth
ever. If the Son therefore shall make you free, you are free
indeed."

In these two verses of the Gospel of St. John, there is a ma
nifest allusion to the fact and condition of slaves. Of this fact the
Saviour took occasion, to illustrate, by way of similitude, the con
dition of a wicked man, who is the slave of sin, and to show that
as a son who was the heir in a house could set a bondman free,
if that son were of the proper age, so he, the Son of God, could
set the enslaved soul free from sin, when he would be free in
deed." Show me in the history of the Old Testament, or in the
life of Christ, authority to proclaim as a sin the holding of the
race of Ham and Canaan in bondage.

In the times of the apostles, what do we see ? Slaves are still
in bondage, the children of Ham are menials as they were before.
Christ had come, had died, had ascended to heaven, and slavery
still existed. Had the apostles authority to do it away ? Had
Christ left it to them to carry out, in this instance, his revealed
will?

20 PREFACE.

"Art thou," said Paul, "called being a slave? care not for it;
but if thou mayest be made free, use it rather. Let every man
abide in the same calling wherein he is called." " Let as many
servants as are under the yoke count their own masters worthy of
all honor, that the name of God and his doctrines be not blas
phemed. And they that have believing masters, let them not des
pise them, because they are brethren, but rather do them service,
because they are faithful and beloved, partakers of the benefit."

It is well known and often quoted that the holy apostle did all
he could to restore a slave to his master — one whom he had been
the means of making free in a spiritual sense. Yet he knew
that God had made Onesimus a slave, and, wnen he had fled from
his master, Paul persuaded him to return and to do his duty
toward him. Open your Bible, Christian, and carefully read the
letter of Paul to. Philemon, and contrast its spirit with the in
cendiary publications of the Abolitionists of the present day. St.
Paul was not a fanatic, and therefore could not be an Abolitionist.
The Christian age advanced and slavery continued, and we ap
proach the time when our fathers fled from persecution to the
soil we now call our own, when they fought for the liberty to
which they felt they had a right. Our fathers fought for it, and our
mothers did more when they urged forth their husbands and sons,
not knowing whether the life-blood that was glowing with reli
gion and patriotism would not soon be dyeing the land that had
been their refuge, and where they fondly hoped they should find
a happy home. Oh, glorious parentage ! Children of America,
trace no farther back — say not the crest of nobility once adorned
thy father's breast, the gemmed coronet thy mother's brow — stop
here ! it is enough that they earned for thee a home — a free, a
happy home. And what did they say to the slavery that existed
then and had been entailed upon them by the English govern-

PREFACE. 21

ment? Their opinions are preserved among us — they were dic
tated by their position and necessities — and they were wisely
formed. In the North, slavery was useless ; nay, more, it was a
drawback to the prosperity of that section of the Union — it
was dispensed with. In other sections, gradually, our people
have seen their condition would be more prosperous without
slaves — they have emancipated them. In the South, they are ne
cessary : though an evil, it is one that cannot be dispensed with ;
and here they have been retained, and will be retained, unless
God should manifest his will (which never yet has been done) to
the contrary. Knowing that the people of the South still have
the views of their revolutionary forefathers, we see plainly that
many of the North have rejected the opinions of theirs. Slaves
were at the North and South considered and recognized as pro
perty, (as they are in Scripture.) The whole nation sanc
tioned slavery by adopting the Constitution which provides for
them, and for their restoration (when fugitive) to their owners.
Our country was then like one family — their souls had been
tried and made pure by a united struggle — they loved as bro
thers who had suffered together. Would it were so at the
present day !

The subject of slavery was agitated among them; many diffi
culties occurred, but they were all settled — and, they thought,
effectually. They agreed then, on the propriety of giving up run
away slaves, unanimously. Mr. Sherman, of Connecticut, " saw no
more impropriety in the public seizing and surrendering a slave or
servant than a horse I" (Madison's Papers.) This was then consi
dered a compromise between the North and South. Henry Clay
and Daniel Webster — the mantle of their illustrious fathers de
scended to them from their own glorious times. The slave-trade
was discontinued after a while. As long as England needed the

22 PREFACE.

sons and daughters of Africa to do her bidding, she trafficked in
the flesh and blood of her fellow-creatures ; but our immortal fa
thers put an end to the disgraceful trade. They saw its heinous
sin, for they had no command to enslave the heathen ; but they
had no command to emancipate the slave ; therefore they wisely
forbore farther to interfere. They drew the nice line of distinc
tion between an unavoidable evil and a sin.

Slavery was acknowledged, and slaves considered as property
all over our country, at the North as well as the South — in Penn
sylvania, New York, and New Jersey. Now, has there been any
law reversing this, except in the States that have become free ?
Out of the limits of these States, slaves are property, according to
the Constitution. In the year 1798, Judge Jay, being called
on for a list of his taxable property, made the following observa
tion: — " I purchase slaves and manumit them at proper ages, when
their faithful services shall have afforded a reasonable retribu
tion." "As free servants became more common, he was gra
dually relieved from the necessity of purchasing slaves." (See
Jay's Life, by his son.)

Here is the secret of Northern emancipation : they were re
lieved from the necessity of slavery. Rufus King, for many years
one of the most distinguished statesmen of the country, writes
thus to John B. Coles and others : — " I am perfectly anxious not
to be misunderstood in this case, never having thought myself at
liberty to encourage or assent to any measure that would affect
the security of property in slaves, or tend to disturb the political
adjustment which the Constitution has made respecting them."

John Taylor, of New York, said, " If the weight and influence
of the South be increased by the representation of that which
they consider a part of their property, we do not wish to diminish
them. The right by which this property is held is derived

PREFACE. 23

from the Federal Constitution ; we have neither inclination nor
power to interfere with the laws of existing States in this particu
lar ; on the contrary, they have not only a right to reclaim their
fugitives whenever found, but, in the event of domestic violence,
(which God in his mercy forever avert !) the whole strength of
the nation is bound to be exerted, if needful, in reducing it to
subjection, while we recognize these obligations and will never
fail to perform them."

How many more could be brought ! opinions of great and
good men of the North, acknowledging and maintaining the
rights of the people of the South. Everett, Adams, Cambrelengj
and a host of others, whose names I need not give. "Time
was," said Mr. Fletcher in Boston, (in 1835, at a great meet
ing in that city,) "when such sentiments and such language
would not have been breathed in this community. And here, on
this hallowed spot, of all places on earth, should they be met and
rebuked. Time was, when the British Parliament having de
clared 'that they had a right to bind us in all cases what
soever/ and were attempting to bind our infant limbs in fetters,
when a voice of resistance and notes of defiance had gone forth
from this hall, then, when Massachussets, standing for her liber
ty and life, was alone breasting the whole power of Britain, the
generous and gallant Southerners came to our aid, and our
s refused not to hold communion with slaveholders. When
the blood of our citizens, shed by a British soldiery, had stained
our streets and flowed upon the heights that surround us, and
sunk into the earth upon the plains of Lexington and Concord,
then when he, whose name can never be pronounced by American
lips without the strongest emotion of gratitude and love to every
American heart, — when he, that slaveholder, (pointing to a full-
length portrait of Washington,) who, from this canvass, smiles

24 PKEFACE.

upon his children with paternal benignity, came with other slave
holders to drive the British myrmidons from this city, and in this
hall our fathers did not refuse to hold communion with them.

" With slaveholders they formed the confederation, neither
asking nor receiving any right to interfere in their domestic rela
tions : with them, they made the Declaration of Independence."

To England, not to the United States, belongs whatever odium
may be attached to the introduction of slavery into our country.
Our fathers abolished the slave-trade, but permitted the conti
nuation of domestic slavery.

Slavery, authorized by God, permitted by Jesus Christ, sanc
tioned by the apostles, maintained by good men of all agv3S, is
still existing in a portion of our beloved country. How long it
will continue, or whether it will ever cease, the Almighty Ruler
of the universe can alone determine.

I do not intend to give a history of Abolition. Born in fana
ticism, nurtured in violence and disorder, it exists too. Turning
aside the institutions and commands of God, treading under foot
the love of country, despising the laws of nature and the nation,
it is dead to every feeling of patriotism and brotherly kindness ;
full of strife and pride, strewing the path of the slave with thorns
and of the master with difficulties, accomplishing nothing good,
forever creating disturbance.

The negroes are still slaves — "while the American slave
holders, collectively and individually, ask no favours of any man
or race that treads the earth. In none of the attributes of men,
mental or physical, do they acknowledge or fear superiority else-
w.here. They stand in the broadest light of the knowledge, civili
zation, and improvement of the age, as much favored of Heaven
as any other of the sons of Adam. ;;

AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN.

CHAPTER I.

THERE would be little to strike the eye of a traveler
accustomed to picturesque scenes, on approaching the

small town of L . Like most of the settlements in

Virginia, the irregularity of the streets and the want of
similarity in the houses would give an unfavorable first
impression. The old Episcopal church, standing at the
entrance of the town, could not fail to be attractive from
its appearance of age; but from this alone. No monu
ments adorn the churchyard; head-stones of all sizes
meet the eye, some worn and leaning against a shrub or
tree for support, others new and white, and glistening in
the sunset. Several family vaults, unpretending in their
appearance, are perceived on a closer scrutiny, to which
the plants usually found in burial-grounds are clinging,
shadowed too by large trees. The walls where they are
visible are worn and discolored, but they are almost co
vered with ivy, clad in summer's deepest green. Many a
stranger stopped his horse in passing by to wonder at its
look of other days ; and some, it may be, to wish they were
sleeping in the shades of its mouldering walls.

The slight eminence on which the church was built,
commanded a view of the residences of several gentlemen

26 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

of fortune who lived in the neighborhood. To the near
est one, a gentleman on horseback was directing his
way. The horse required no direction, in truth, for so
accustomed was he to the ride to Exeter, and to the good
fare he enjoyed on arriving there, that neither whip nor
spur was necessary; he traced the familiar road with
evident pleasure.

The house at Exeter was irregularly built ; but the white
stone wings and the look-out over the main building gave
an appearance of taste to the mansion. The fine old
trees intercepted the view, though adding greatly to its
beauty. The porter's lodge, and the wide lawn entered by
its open gates, the gardens at either side of the building,
and the neatness and good condition of the out-houses,
all showed a prosperous state of aifairs with the owner.
Soon the large porch with its green blinds, and the sweet-
brier entwining them, came in view, and the family party
that occupied it were discernible. Before Mr. Barbour
had reached the point for alighting from his horse, a ser
vant stood in readiness to take charge of him, and Alice
Weston emerged from her hiding-place among the roses,
with her usual sweet words of welcome. Mr. Weston, the
owner of the mansion and its adjoining plantation, arose
with a dignified but cordial greeting ; and Mrs. Weston, his
sister-in-law, and Miss Janet, united with him in his kind
reception of a valued guest and friend.

Mr. Weston was a widower, with an only son ; the young
gentleman was at this time at Yale College. He had
been absent for three years; and so anxious was he to
graduate with honor, that he had chosen not to return to
Virginia until his course of study should be completed.
The family had visited him during the first year of his
exile, as he called it, but it had now been two years since
he had seen any member of it. There was an engagement
between him and his cousin, though Alice was but fifteen
when it was formed. They had been associated from the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 27

earliest period of their lives, and Arthur declared that
should he return home on a visit, he would not be able to
break away from its happiness to the routine of a college
life : he yielded therefore to the earnest entreaties of his
father, to remain at New Haven until he graduated.

Mr. Weston will stand for a specimen of the southern
gentleman of the old school. The bland and cheerful ex
pression of his countenance, the arrangement of his soft
fine hair, the fineness of the texture and the perfect clean
liness of every part of his dress, the plaiting of his old-
fashioned shirt ruffles, the whiteness of his hand, and the
sound of his clear, well-modulated voice — in fact, every item
of his appearance — won the good opinion of a stranger ;
while the feelings of his heart and his steady course of
Christian life, made him honored and reverenced as he
deserved. He possessed that requisite to the character
of a true gentleman, a kind and charitable heart.

None of the present members of his family had any
lawful claim upon him, yet he cherished them with the
utmost affection. He requested his brother's widow, on
the death of his own wife, to assume the charge of his
house ; and she was in every respect its mistress. Alice
was necessary to his happiness, almost to his existence ;
she was the very rose in his garden of life. He had never
had a sister, and he regarded Alice as a legacy from his
only brother, to whom he had been most tenderly attached :
had she been uninteresting, she would still have been very
dear to him ; but her beauty and her many graces of ap
pearance and character drew closely together the bonds
of love between them ; Alice returning, with the utmost
warmth, her uncle's affection.

Mrs. Weston was unlike her daughter in appearance,
Alice resembling her father's family. Her dark, fine eyes
were still full of the fire that had beamed from them in
youth ; there were strongly-marked lines about her mouth,
and her face when in repose bore traces of the warfare of

28 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

past years. The heart has a writing of its own, and we
can see it on the countenance; time has no power to
obliterate it, but generally deepens the expression. There
was at times too a sternness in her voice and manner, yet
it left no unpleasant impression ; her general refinement,
and her fine sense and education made her society always
desirable.

Cousin Janet, as she was called by them all, was a de
pendant and distant relation ; a friend faithful and unfail
ing ; a. bright example of all that is holy and good in the
Christian character. She assisted Mrs. Weston greatly in
the many cares that devolved on the mistress of a planta
tion, especially in instructing the young female servants in
knitting and sewing, and in such household duties as would
make them useful in that state of life in which it had
pleased God to place them. Her heart was full of love to
all God's creatures ; the servants came to her with their
little ailings and grievances, and she had always a soothing
remedy — some little specific for a bodily sickness, with a
word of advice and kindness, and, if the case required it,
of gentle reproof for complaints of another nature. Cousin
Janet was an old maid, yet many an orphan and friendless
child had shed tears upon her bosom ; some, whose hands
she had folded together in prayer as they knelt beside her,
learning from her lips a child's simple petition, had long
ago laid down to sleep for ever ; some are living still, sur
rounded by the halo of their good influence. There was
one, of whom we shall speak by-and-by, who was to her a
source of great anxiety, and the constant subject of her
thoughts and fervent prayers.

Many years had gone by since she had accepted Mr.
Weston's earnest entreaty to make Exeter her home ; and
although the bread she eat was that of charity, yet she
brought a blessing upon the house that sheltered her, by
her presence : she was one of the chosen ones of the Lord.
Even in this day, it is possible to entertain an angel un-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 29

a wares. She is before you, reader, in all the dignity of old
age, of a long life drawing to a close ; still to the last, she
works while it is yet day !

With her dove-colored dress, and her muslin three-cor
nered handkerchief, pinned precisely at the waist and over
her bosom, with her eyes sunken and dim, but expressive,
with the wrinkles so many and so deep, and the thin, white
folds of her satin-looking hair parted under her cap ; with
her silver knitting-sheath attached to her side, and her
needles in ever busy hands, Cousin Janet would perhaps
first arrest the attention of a stranger, in spite of the
glowing cheek and golden curls that were contrasting with
her. It was the beauty of old age and youth, side by side.
Alice's face in its full perfection did not mar the loveliness
of hers ; the violet eyes of the one, with their long sweep
of eyelash, could not eclipse the mild but deep expression
of the other. The rich burden of glossy hair was lovely,
but so were the white locks ; and the slight but rounded
form was only compared in its youthful grace to the almost
shadowy dignity of old age.

It was just sundown, but the servants were all at home
after their day's work, and they too were enjoying the
pleasant evening time. Some were seated at the door of
their cabins, others lounging on the grass, all at ease, and
without care. Many of their comfortable cabins had been
recently whitewashed, and were adorned with little gar
dens in front ; over the one nearest the house a multiflora
rose was creeping in full bloom. Singularly musical voices
were heard at intervals, singing snatches of songs, of a
style in which the servants of the South especially delight ;
and not unfrequently, as the full chorus was shouted by a
number, their still more peculiar laugh was heard above it
all, Mr. Barbour had recently returned from a pleasure
tour in our Northern States, had been absent for two
months, and felt that he had not in as long a time wit
nessed such a scene of real enjoyment. He thought it

30 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR.

would have softened the heart of the sternest hater of
Southern institutions to have been a spectator here; it
might possibly have inclined him to think the sun of his
Creator's beneficence shines over every part of our favored
land.

"Take a seat, my dear sir," Mr. Weston said, "in our
sweetbrier house, as Alice calls it ; the evening would lose
half its beauty to us, if we were within."

"Alice is always right," said Mr. Barbour, "in every
thing she says and does, and so I will occupy this arm
chair that I know she placed here for me. Dear me ! what a
glorious evening ! Those distant peaks of the Blue Ridge
look bluer than I ever saw them before."

"Ah! you are glad to tread Virginia soil once more,
that is evident enough," said Mr. Weston. "There is
no danger of your getting tired of your native state
again."

" Who says I was ever tired of her ? I challenge you
to prove your insinuation. I wanted to see this great
New England, the < great Norrurd,' as Bacchus calls it,
and I have seen it ; I have enjoyed seeing it, too ; and now
I am glad to be at home again."

"Here comes Uncle Bacchus now, Mr. Barbour," said
Alice ; " do look at him walk. Is he not a curiosity ?
He has as much pretension in his manner as if he were
really doing us a favor in paying us a visit."

"The old scamp," said Mr. Barbour, "he has a frolic
in view ; he wants to go off to-morrow either to a camp-
meeting, or a barbecue. He looks as if he were hooked
together, and could be taken apart limb by limb."

Bacchus had commenced bowing some time before he
reached the piazza, but on ascending the steps he made
a particularly low bow to his master, and then in the same
manner, though with much less reverence, paid his respects
to the others.

"Well, Bacchus?" said Mr. Weston.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 31

" How is yer health dis evenin, master ? You aint been
so well latterly. We'll soon have green corn though,
and that helps dispepsy wonderful."

"It may be good for dyspepsia, Bacchus," said Mr.
Weston, "but it sometimes gives old people cholera morbus,
when they eat it raw ; so I advise you to remember last
year's experience, and roast it before you eat it."

" I shall, indeed," replied Bacchus ; " 'twas an awful time
I had last summer. My blessed grief! but I thought my
time was done come. But de Lord was mighty good to me, he
brought me up again — Miss Janet's physic done me more
good though than any thing, only it put me to sleep, and
I never slept so much in my born days."

"You were always something of a sleeper, I am
told, Bacchus," said Cousin Janet; "though I have no
doubt the laudanum had that effect ; you must be more
prudent; old people cannot take such liberties with them
selves."

" Lor, Miss Janet, I aint so mighty ole now ; besure I
aint no chicken nother ; but thar's Aunt Peggy ; she's
what I call a raal ole nigger ; she's an African. Miss
Alice, aint she never told you bout de time she seed an
elerphant drink a river dry?"

"Yes," said Alice, "but she dreamed that."

" No, Miss, she actually seed it wid her own eyes.
They's mighty weak and dim now, but she could see out
of 'em once, I tell ye. It's hot nuff here sometimes, but
Aunt Peggy says it's winter to what 'tis in Guinea, whar
she was raised till she was a big gall. One day when de
sun was mighty strong, she seed an elerphant a comin
along. She runned fast enough, she had no 'casion to
grease her heels wid quicksilver; she went mighty fast, no
doubt ; she didn't want dat great beast's hoof in her wool.
Yrou and me seed an elerphant de time we was in Wash
ington, long wid master, Miss Alice, and I thought 'bout
Aunt Peggy that time. 'Twas a 'nageree we went to. You

32 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

know I held you in my arms over de people's heads to see
de monkeys ride.

" Well, Aunt Peggy say she runned till she couldn't run
no longer, so she dumb a great tree, and sat in de
branches and watched him. He made straight for de
river, and he kicked up de sand wid his hoofs, as he went
along, till he come to de bank ; den he begins to drink,
and he drinks, I tell you. Aunt Peggy say every swaller
he took was least a gallon, and he drunk all dat blessed
mornin. After a while she seed de water gitting very
low, and last he gits enuff. He must a got his thirst
squinched by dat time. So Aunt Peggy, she waded cross
de river, when de elephant had went, and two days arter
dat, de river was clean gone, bare as my hand. Master,"
continued Bacchus, "I has a great favor to ax of you."

"Barbecue or campmeeting, Bacchus?" said Mr. Bar-
bour.

"If you please, master," said he, addressing Mr. Wes-
ton, but at the same time giving an imploring look to Mr.
Barbour, "to 'low me to go way to-morrow and wait at de
barbecue. Mr. Semmes, he wants me mightily ; he says
he'll give me a dollar a day if I goes. I'll sure and be
home agin in the evenin."

"lam afraid to give you permission," said Mr. Wes-
ton ; " this habit of drinking, that is growing upon you, is
a disgrace to your old age. You remember you were
picked up and brought home in a cart from campmeeting
this summer, and I am surprised that you should so soon
ask a favor of me."

"I feels mighty shamed o' that, sir," said Bacchus,
" but I hope you will 'scuse it. Niggers aint like white
people, no how ; they can't 'sist temptation. I've repented
wid tears for dat business, and 'twont happen agin, if it
please the Lord not to lead me into temptation."

"You led yourself into temptation," said Mr. Weston;
" you took pains to cross two or three fences, and to go

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 33

round by Norris's tavern, when, if you had chosen, you
could have come home by the other road."

« True as gospel, ma'am," said Bacchus, " I don't deny
de furst word of it ; the Lord forgive me for backsliding ;
but master's mighty good to us, and if he'll overlook that
little misfortune of mine, it shan't happen agin."

" You call it a misfortune, do you, Bacchus ?" said Mr.
Barbour ; " why, it seems to me such a great Christian as
you are, would have given the right name to it, and called
it a sin. I am told you are turned preacher ?"

" No, sir," said Bacchus, « I aint no preacher, I warn't
called to be ; I leads in prayer sometimes, and in general
I rises de tunes."

" Well, I suppose I can't refuse you," said Mr. Weston ;
" but come home sober, or ask no more permissions."

" God bless you, master ; don't be afeard : you'll see
you can trust me. I aint gwine to disgrace our family no
more. I has to have a little change sometimes, for Miss
Janet knows my wife keeps me mighty straight at home.
She 'lows me no privileges, and if I didn't go off some
times for a little fun, I shouldn't have no health, nor sper-
rets nother."

" You wouldn't have any sperrits, that's certain," said
Alice, laughing ; « I should like to see a bottle of whisky
in Aunt Phillis's cabin."

Bacchus laughed outright, infinitely overcome at the
suggestion. "My blessed grief! Miss Alice," said he,
" she'd make me eat de bottle, chaw up all de glass,
swaller it arter dat. I aint ever tried dat yet — best not
to, I reckon. No, master, I intends to keep sober from
this time forrurd, till young master comes back ; den I
shall git high, spite of Phillis, and 'scuse me, sir, spite of
de devil hisself. When is he comin, any how, sir?"

"Next year, I hope, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston.

"Long time, sir," said Bacchus; "like as not he'll
never see old Aunt Peggy agin. She's failin, sir, you

34 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

can see by de way she sets in de sun all day, wid a long
switch in her hand, trying to hit de little niggers as dey
go by. Sure sign she's gwine home. If she wasn't alto
gether wore out, she'd be at somefin better. She's sarved
her time cookin and bakin, and she's gwine to a country
whar there's no 'casion to cook any more. She's a good
old soul, but wonderful cross sometimes."

" She has been an honest, hard-working, and faithful
servant, and a sober one too," said Mr. Weston.

"I understand, sir," said Bacchus, humbly; "but don't
give yourself no oneasiness about me ! I shall be home to
morrow night, ready to jine in at prayers."

"Very well — that will do, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston,
who felt anxious to enjoy the society of his friend.

" Good evenin to you all," said Bacchus, retreating
with many bows.

We will see how Bacchus kept his word, and for the
present leave Mr. Weston to discuss the subjects of the
day with his guest ; while the ladies paid a visit to Aunt
Peggy, and listened to her complaints of " the flies and the
little niggers," and the thousand and one ailings that be
long to the age of ninety years.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 35

CHAPTER II.

" You rode too far this afternoon, Alice, you seem to
be very tired," said Mr. Weston.

" No, dear uncle, I am not fatigued ; the wind was cold,
and it makes me feel stupid."

"Why did not Walter come in?" asked Mr. Weston.
"I saw him returning with you by the old road."

"He said he had an engagement this evening," replied
Alice, as she raised her head from her uncle's shoulder.

"Poor Walter !" said Cousin Janet ; "with the education
and habits of a gentleman, he is to be pitied that it is only
as a favor he is received, among those with whom he may
justly consider himself on an equality."

"But is not Walter our equal?" asked Alice. Cousin
Janet held her knitting close to her eyes to look for a
dropped stitch, while Mr. Weston replied for her :

"My love, you know, probably, that Walter is not an
equal by right of birth to those whose parents held a fair
and honorable position in society. His father, a man of rare
talents, of fascinating appearance, and winning address,
was the ruin of all connected with him. (Even his mother,
broken-hearted by his career of extravagance and dissipa
tion, found rest in the termination of a life that had known
no rest.) His first wife, (not Walter's mother,) a most
interesting woman, was divorced from him by an unjust
decision of the law, for after her death circumstances
transpired that clearly proved her innocence. Walter's
mother was not married, as far as is known ; though some
believe she was, and that she concealed it in consequence
of the wishes and threats of Mr. Lee, who was ashamed
to own the daughter of a tradesman for his wife."

36 > AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"But all this is not Walter's fault, uncle," said Alice.

"Assuredly not ; but there is something due to our long
established opinions. Walter should go to a new country,
where these things are not known, and wrhere his education
and talents would advance him. Here they are too fresh
in the memory of many. Yet do I feel most kindly to
wards him, though he rather repels the interest we take in
him by his haughty coldness of manner. The attachment
between him and my son from their infancy draws me
towards him. Arthur writes, though, that his letters are
very reserved and not frequent. What can be the meaning
of it?"

" There was always a want of candor and generosity in
Walter's disposition," remarked Alice's mother.

"You never liked him, Anna," said Mr. Weston; "why
was it?"

"Arthur and Walter contrast so strongly," answered
Mrs. Weston. "Arthur was always perfectly honest and
straight-forward, even as a little child; though quiet in
his way of showing it, he is so affectionate in his disposi
tion. Walter is passionate and fickle, condescending to
those he loves, but treating with a proud indifference every
one else. I wonder he does not go abroad, he has the
command of his fortune now, and here he can never be
happily situated ; no woman of delicacy would ever think
of marrying him with\that stain on his birth."

"How beautiful his mother was, Cousin Janet!" said
Mr. Weston. " I have never seen more grace and refine
ment. I often look at Walter, and recall her, with her
beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. How short her course
was, too ! I think she died at eighteen."

" Do tell me about her, uncle," said Alice.

" Cousin Janet can, better than I, my darling. Have
you never told Alice her history, cousin ?"

"No, it is almost too sad a tale for Alice's ear, and
there is something holy, in my mind, in the recollection of

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 37

the sorrows of that young person. I believe she was a
wife, though an unacknowledged one. If the grave would
give up its secrets — but it will, it will — the time will come
for justice to all, even to poor Ellen Haywood.

" That young creature was worse than an orphan, for her
father, thriving in business at one time, became dissipated
and reckless. Ellen's time was her own ; and after her
mother's death her will was uncontrolled. Her education
was not good enough to give her a taste for self-improve
ment. She had a fine mind, though, and the strictest
sense of propriety and dignity. Her remarkable beauty
drew towards her the attention of the young men of her
own class, as well as those of good family; but she was
always prudent. Poor girl ! knowing she was motherless
and friendless, I tried to win her regard ; I asked her to
come to the house, with some other young girls of the
neighborhood, to study the Bible under my poor teachings ;
but she declined, and I afterwards went to see her, hoping
to persuade her to come. I found her pale and delicate,
and much dispirited. Thanking me most earnestly, she
begged me to excuse her, saying she rarely went out, on
account of her father's habits, fearing something might
occur during her absence from home. I was surprised to
find her so depressed, yet I do not remember ever to have
seen any thing like guilt, in all the interviews with her,
from that hour until her death.

"Ellen's father died; but not before many had spoken
lightly of his daughter. Mr. Lee was constantly at the
house ; and what but Ellen's beauty could take him there !
No one was without a prejudice against Mr. Lee, and I
have often wondered that Ellen could have overlooked
what every one knew, the treatment his wife had received.
You will think," continued Cousin Janet, "that it is be
cause I am an old maid, and am full of notions, that 1
cannot imagine how a woman can love a man who has been
divorced from his wife. I, who have never loved as tho

38 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR.

novelists say, have the most exalted ideas of marriage.
It is in Scripture, the type of Christ's love to the church.
Life is so full of cares ; there is something holy in the
thought of one heart being privileged to rest its burden
on another. But how can that man be loved who has put
away his wife from him, because he is tired of her? for
this is the meaning of the usual excuses — incompatibility
of temper, and the like. Yet Ellen did love him, with a
love passing description ; she forgot his faults and her
own position ; she loved as I would never again wish to see
a friend of mine love any creature of the earth.

" Time passed, and Ellen was despised. Mr. Lee left ab
ruptly for Europe, and I heard that this poor young wo
man was about to become a mother. I knew she was alone
in the world, and I knew my duty too. I went to her,
and I thank Him who inclined me to seek this wandering
lamb of his fold, and to be (it may be) the means of lead
ing her back to His loving care and protection. I often
saw her during the last few weeks of her life, and she was
usually alone ; Aunt Lucy, her mother's servant, and her
own nurse when an infant, being the only other occupant
of her small cottage.

« Speaking of her, brings back, vividly as if it happened
yesterday, the scene with which her young life closed.
Lucy sent for me, as I had charged her, but the messen
ger delayed, and in consequence, Ellen had been some
hours sick when I arrived. Oh ! how lovely her face ap
pears to my memory, as I recall her. She was in no pain
at the moment I entered ; her head was supported by pil
lows, and her brown hair fell over them and over her neck.
Her eyes were bright as an angel's, her cheeks flushed
to a crimson color, and her wrhite, beautiful hand grasped
a cane which Dr. Lawton had just placed there, hoping
to relieve some of her symptoms by bleeding. Lucy stood
by, full of anxiety and affection, for this faithful servant
loved her as she loved her own life. My heart reproached

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 39

me for my unintentional neglect, but I was in a moment
by her side, supporting her head upon my breast.

"It is like a dream, that long night of agony. The pa
tience of Ellen, the kindness of her physician, and the
devotion of her old nurse — I thought that only a wife could
have endured as she did.

" Before this, Ellen had told me her wishes as regards her
child, persuaded that, if it should live, she should not sur
vive its birth to take care of it. She entreated me to be
friend it in the helpless time of infancy, and then to appeal
to its father in its behalf. I promised her to do so, al
ways chiding her for not hoping and trusting. < Ellen,'
I would say, « life is a blessing as long as God gives it, and
it is our duty to consider it so.'

" 'Yes, Miss Janet, but if God give me a better life, shall
I not esteem it a greater blessing ? I have not deserved
shame and reproach, and I cannot live under it. Right
glad and happy am I, that a few sods of earth will soon
cover all.'

" Such remarks as these," continued Cousin Janet, " con
vinced me that there was grief, but not guilt, on Ellen's
breast, and for her own sake, I hoped that she would so
explain to me her past history, that I should have it in my
power to clear her reputation. But she never did. Truly,
'she died and made no sign,' and it is reserved to a future
day to do her justice.

"I said she died. That last night wore on, and no word
of impatience or complaint escaped her lips. The agony
of death found her quiet and composed. Night advanced,
and the gray morning twilight fell on those features, no
longer flushed and excited. Severe faintings had come on,
and the purple line under the blue eyes heralded the ap
proach of death. Her luxuriant hair lay in damp masses
about her ; her white arms were cold, and the moisture of
death was gathering there too. 'Oh ! Miss Ellen,' cried
old Lucy, 'you will be better soon — bear up a little longer.'

40 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

" 'Ellen dear,' I said, 'try and keep up.' But who can
give life and strength save One? — and He was calling
to her everlasting rest the poor young sufferer.

" 'Miss Ellen,' again cried Lucy, 'you have a son ; speak
to me, my darling ;' but, like Rachel of old, she could not
be thus revived, 'her soul was in departing.'

"Lucy bore away the child from the chamber of death,
and I closed her white eyelids, and laid her hands upon
her breast. Beautiful was she in death : she had done with
pain and tears forever.

"I never can forget," continued Cousin Janet, after a
pause of a few moments, "Lucy's grief. She wept un
ceasingly by Ellen's side, and it was impossible to arouse
her to a care for her own health, or to an interest in what
was passing around. On the day that Ellen was to be
buried, I went to the room where she lay prepared for her
last long sleep. Death had laid a light touch on her fair
face. The sweet white brow round which her hair waved
as it had in life — the slightly parted lips — the expression
of repose, not only in the countenance, but in the attitude
in which her old nurse had laid her, seemed to indicate
an awakening to the duties of life. But there was the
coffin and the shroud, and there sat Lucy, her eyes heavy
with weeping, and her frame feeble from long fasting, and
indulgence of bitter, hopeless grief.

" It was in the winter, and a severe snow-storm, an un
usual occurrence with us, had swept the country for several
clays ; but on this morning the wind and clouds had gone
together, and the sun was lighting up the hills and river,
and the crystals of snow were glistening on the evergreens
that stood in front of the cottage door. One ray intruded
through the shutter into the darkened room, and rested on
a ring, which I had never observed before, on Ellen's left
hand. It was on the third finger, and its appearance there
was so unexpected to me, that for a moment my strength

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 41

forsook me, and I leaned against the table on which the
coffin rested, for support.

« 'Lucy,' I said, 'when was that placed there?'

" <I put it there, ma'am.'

« ' But what induced you ?'

" ' She told me to do so, ma'am. A few days before she
was taken sick, she called me and took from her bureau-
drawer, that ring. The ring was in a small box. She was
very pale when she spoke — she looked more like death than
she does now, ma'am. I know'd she wasn't able to stand,
and I said, ' Sit down, honey, and then tell me what you
want me to do.'

"'Mammy,' said she, 'you've had a world of trouble
with me, and you've had trouble of your own all your life ;

but I am not going to give you much more I shall

soon be where trouble cannot come.'

'"Don't talk that way, child,' said I, 'you will get
through with this, and then you will have something to
love and to care for, that will make you happy again.'

" 'Never in this world,' said she ; 'but mammy, I have
one favor more to ask of you — and you must promise me
to do it.'

" 'What is it, Miss Ellen?' said I; 'you know I would
die for you if 'twould do you any good.'

" 'It is this,' she said, speaking very slowly, and in a
low tone, ' when I am dead, mammy, when you are all by
yourself, for I am sure you will stay by me to the last, I
wTant you to put this ring on the third finger of my left
hand — will you remember ? — on the third finger of my left
hand.' She said it over twice, ma'am, and she was whiter
than that rose that lays on her poor breast.'

" ' Miss Ellen,' says I, ' as sure as there's a God in
heaven you are Mr. Lee's wife, and why don't you say so,
and stand up for yourself? Don't you see how people
sneer at you when they see you?'

" 'Yes, but don't say any more. It will soon be over.

4*

42 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

I made a promise, and I will keep it ; God will do me jus
tice when he sees fit.'

" 'But, Miss Ellen,' says I, 'for the sake of the child' —
" ' Hush ! mammy, that is the worst of all ; but I will
trust in Him. It's a dreadful sin to love as I have, but
God has punished me. Do you remember, dear mammy,
when I was a child, how tired I would get, chasing butter
flies while the day lasted, and when night came, how I
used to spring, and try to catch the lightning-bugs that
were flying around me — and you used to beg me to come
in and rest or go to bed, but I would not until I could no
longer stand ; then I laid myself on your breast and forgot
all my weariness ? So it is with me now ; I have had my
own way, and I have suffered, and have no more strength
to spend ; I will lie down in the grave, and sleep where no
one will reproach me. Promise me you will do what I ask
you, and I will die contented.'

" 'I promised her, ma'am, and I have done it.'
" 'It is very strange, Lucy,' said I, 'there seems to have
been a mysterious reason why she would not clear herself;
but it is of no use to try and unravel the mystery. She has
no friends left to care about it ; we can only do as she
said, leave all to God.'

" 'Ah ma'am,' said Lucy, 'what shall I do now she is
gone? I have got no friend left ; if I could only die too —
Lord have mercy upon me.'

" ' You have still a friend, Lucy,' I said. ' One that well
deserves the name of friend. You must seek Him out,
and make a friend of Him. Jesus Christ is the friend of
the poor and desolate. Have you no children, Lucy ?'
" ' God only knows, ma'am.'

" ' What do you mean ?' I said. ' Are they all dead ?'

" ' They are gone, ma'am — all sold. I ain't seen one of

them for twenty years. Days have come and gone, and

nights have come and gone, but day and night is all the

same to me. You did not hear, may be, for grand folkg

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 43

don't often hear of the troubles of the poor slave — that
one day I had seven children with me, and the next they
were all sold ; taken off, and I did not even see them, to
bid them good-by. My master sent me, with my mistress
to the country, where her father lived, (for she wras sickly,
and he said it would do her good,) and when we came back
there was no child to meet me. I have cried, ma'am,
enough for Miss Ellen, but I never shed a tear for my
own.'

" < But what induced him, Lucy, to do such a wicked
thing ?'

" < Money, ma'am, and drinking, and the devil. He did
not leave me one. My five boys, and my two girls, all
went at once. My oldest daughter, ma'am, I was proud
of her, for she was a handsome girl, and light-colored
too — she went, and the little one, ma'am. My heart died
in me. I hated him. I used to dream I had killed him, and
I would laugh out in my sleep, but I couldn't murder him
on her account. My mistress, she cried day and night,
and called him cruel, and she would say, < Lucy, I'd have
died before I would have done it.' I couldn't murder him,
ma'am, 'twas my mistress held me back.'

" ' No, Lucy,' said I, « 'twas not your mistress, it was the
Lord ; and thank Him that you are not a murderer. Did
you ever think of the consequences of such an act?'

" < Lor, ma'am, do you think I cared for that ? I wasn't
afraid of hanging.'

" ' I did not mean that, Lucy. I meant, did you not
fear His power, who could not only kill your body, but
destroy your soul in hell ?'

"<I didn't think of any thing, for a long time. My
mistress got worse after that, and I nursed her until she
died ; poor Miss Ellen was a baby, and I had her too.
When master died I thought it was no use for me to wish
him ill, for the hand of the Lord was heavy on him, for
true. < Lucy,' he said, < you are a kind nurse to me, though

44 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

I sold your children, but I've had no rest since.' I couldn't
make him feel worse, ma'am, for he was going to his ac
count with all his sins upon him.'

"< This is the first time Lucy,' I said, 'that I have ever
known children to be sold away from their mother, and I
look upon the crime with as great a horror as you do.'

« < Its the only time I ever knowed it, ma'am, and every
body pitied me, and many a kind thing was said to me,
and many a hard word was said of him ; true enough, but
better be forgotten, as he is in his grave.'

" Some persons now entered, and Lucy became absorbed
in her present grief; her old frame shook as with a tem
pest, when the fair face was hid from her sight. There
were few mourners ; Cousin Weston and I followed her to
the grave. I believe Ellen was as pure as the white lilies
Lucy planted at her head."

"Did Lucy ever hear of her children?" asked Alice.

" No, my darling, she died soon after Ellen. She was
quite an old woman, and had never been strong."

" Uncle," said Alice, "I did not think any one could
be so inhuman as to separate mother and children."

"It is the worst feature in slavery," replied Mr. Wes
ton, "and the State should provide laws to prevent it;
but such a circumstance is very uncommon. Haywood,
Ellen's father, was a notoriously bad man, and after this
wicked act was held in utter abhorrence in the neighbor
hood. It is the interest of a master to make his slaves
happy, even were he not actuated by better motives.
Slavery is an institution of our country; and while we
are privileged to maintain our rights, we should make
them comfortable here, and fit them for happiness here
after."

" Did you bring Lucy home with you, Cousin Janet ?"
asked Alice.

" Yes, my love, and little Walter too. He was a dear
baby — now he is a man of fortune, (for Mr. Lee left him

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 45

his entire property,) and is under no one's control. He
will always be very dear to me. But here comes Mark
with the Prayer Book."

" Lay it here, Mark," said Mr. Weston, " and ring the
bell for the servants. I like all who can to come and
unite with me in thanking God for His many mercies.
Strange, I have opened the Holy Book where David says,
(and we will join with him,) < Praise the Lord, oh ! my
soul, and all that is within me, praise his holy name.' '

CHAPTER III.

AFTER the other members of the family had retired,
Mr. "VYeston, as was usual with him, sat for a while in the
parlor to read. The closing hour of the day is, of all,
the time that we love to dwell on the subject nearest our
heart. As, at the approach of death, the powers of the
mind rally, and the mortal, faint and feeble, with but a
few sparks of decaying life within him, arouses to a sense
of his condition, and puts forth all his energies, to meet
the hour of parting with earth and turning his face to
heaven ; so, at the close of the evening, the mind, wearied
with its day's travelling, is about to sink into that repose
as necessary for it as for the body — that repose so often
compared to the one in which the tired struggler with life,
has " forever wrapped the drapery of his couch about
him, and laid down to pleasant dreams." Ere yielding, it
turns with energy to the calls of memory, though it is so
soon to forget all for a while. It hears voices long since
hushed, and eyes gaze into it that have looked their last
upon earthly visions. Time is forgotten, Affection for a
while holds her reign, Sorrow appears with her train of

46 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

reproachings and remorse, until exhaustion comes to its
aid, and it obtains the relief so bountifully provided by
Him who knoweth well our frames. With Mr. Weston
this last hour was well employed, for he not only read, but
studied the Holy Scriptures. Possessed of an unusually
placid temperament, there had occurred in his life but few
events calculated to change the natural bent of his dispo
sition. The death of his wife was indeed a bitter grief;
but he had not married young, and she had lived so short
a time, that after a while he returned to his usual train of
reflection. But for the constant presence of his son,
whose early education he superintended, he would have
doubted if there ever had been a reality to the remem
brance of the happy year he had passed in her society.

With his hand resting on the sacred page, and his heart
engrossed with the lessons it taught, he was aroused from
his occupation by a loud noise proceeding from the kitchen.
This was a most unusual circumstance, for besides that the
kitchen was at some distance from the house, the servants
were generally quiet and orderly. It was far from being
the case at present. Mr. Weston waited a short time
to give affairs time to right themselves, but at length de
termined to inquire into the cause of the confusion.

As he passed through the long hall, the faces of his an
cestors looked down upon him by the dim light. There
was a fair young lady, with an arm white as snow, uncon
cealed by a sleeve, unless the fall of a rich border of lace
from her shoulder could be called by that name. Her
golden hair was brushed back from her forehead, and fell
in masses over her shoulders. Her face was slightly turned,
and there was a smile playing about her mouth.

Next her was a grave-looking cavalier, her husband.
There were old men, with powdered hair and the rich dress
of bygone times.

There were the hoop and the brocades, and the sto
macher, and the fair bosom, against which a rose leaned,

it

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 47

well satisfied with its lounging place. Over the hall doors,
the antlers of the stag protruded, reminding one that the
chase had been a favorite pastime with the self-exiled sons
of Merry England.

Such things have passed away from thee, my native
State ! Forever have they gone, and the times when over
waxed floors thy sons and daughters gracefully performed
the minuet. The stately bow, the graceful curtsey are
seen no more ; there is hospitality yet lingering in thy
halls, but fashion is making its way there too. The day
when there was a tie between master and slave, — is that
departing, and why ?

Mr. Weston passed from the house under a covered way
to the kitchen, and with a firm but slow step, entered. And
here, if you be an Old or a New Englander, let me intro
duce you — as little at home would be Queen Victoria hold
ing court in the Sandwich Islands, as you here. You may
look in vain for that bane of good dinners, a cooking stove ;
search forever for a grain of saleratus or soda, and it will
be in vain. That large, round block, with the wooden
hammer, is the biscuit-beater ; and the cork that is lift
ing itself from the jug standing on it, belongs to the yeast
department.

Mr. Weston did not, nor will we, delay to glance at the
well-swept earthen floor, and the bright tins in rows on the
dresser, but immediately addressed himself to Aunt Peggy,
who, seated in a rush-bottomed chair in the corner, and rock
ing herself backwards and forwards, was talking rapidly.

And oh ! what a figure had Aunt Peggy ; or rather, what
a face. Which was the blacker, her eyes or her visage ;
or whiter, her eyeballs or her hair ? The latter, uncon-
fined by her bandanna handkerchief as she generally wore
it, standing off from her head in masses, like snow. And
who that had seen her, could forget that one tooth pro
jecting over her thick underlip, and in constant motion as
she talked.

48 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

"It's no use, Mister Bacchus," said she, addressing the
old man, who looked rather the worse for wear, "it's no
use to be flinging yer imperence in my face. I'se worked
my time ; I'se cooked many a grand dinner, and eat 'em
too. You'se a lazy wagabond yerself."

"Peggy," interposed Mr. Weston.

"A good-for-nothing, lazy wagabond, yerself," conti
nued Peggy, not noticing Mr. Weston, "you'se not worth
de hommony you eats."

" Does you hear that, master?" said Bacchus, appealing
to Mr. Weston; "she's such an old fool."

"Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Weston; while
Mark, ready to strangle his fellow-servant for his imperti
nence, was endeavoring to drag him out of the room.

" Ha, ha," said Peggy, " so much for Mr. Bacchus going
to barbecues. A nice waiter he makes."

" Do you not see me before you, Peggy ?" said Mr.
Weston, " and do you continue this disputing in my pre
sence ? If you were not so, old, and had not been so
faithful for many years, I would not excuse such conduct.
You are very ungrateful, when you are so well cared for ;
and from this time forward, if you cannot be quiet and
set a good example in the kitchen, do not come into it."

" Don't be afeard, master, I can stay in my own cabin.
If I has been well treated, it's no more den I desarves.
I'se done nuff for you and yours, in my day; slaved my
self for you and your father before you. De Lord above
knows I dont want ter stay whar dat ole drunken nigger
is, no how. Hand me my cane, dar, Nancy, I ain't gwine
to 'trude my 'siety on nobody." And Peggy hobbled off, not
without a most contemptuous look at Bacchus, who was
making unsuccessful efforts to rise in compliment to his
master.

"As for you, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "never let
this happen again. I will not allow you to wait at barbe
cues, in future."

:#"

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 49

" Don't say so, master, if you please ; dat ox, if you
could a smelled him roastin, and de whiskey-punch," and
Bacchus snapped his finger, as the only way of concluding
the sentence to his own satisfaction.

" Take him off, Mark," said Mr. "Weston, " the drunken
old rascal."

" Master," said Bacchus, pushing Mark off, " I don't
like de way you speak to me ; faint 'spectful."

" Carry him off," said Mr. Weston, again. " John, help
Mark." "

"Be off wid yourselves, both of ye," said Bacchus;
"if ye don't, I'll give you de devil, afore I quits."

" I'll shut your mouth for you," said Mark, "talking
so before master ; knock him over, John, and push him
out."

Bacchus was not so easily overcome. The god whose
namesake he was, stood by him for a time. Suddenly the
old fellow's mood changed ; with a patronizing smile he
turned to Mr. Weston, and said, " Master, you must 'scuse
me : I aint well dis evening. I has the dyspepsy ; my
suggestion aint as good as common. I think dat ox was
done too much."

Mr. Weston could not restrain a smile at his grotesque
appearance, and ridiculous language. Mark and John
took advantage of the melting mood which had come over
him, and led him off without difficulty. On leaving the
kitchen, he went into a pious fit, and sung out

" When I can read my title clar."

Mr. Weston heard him say, "Don't, Mark; don't squeeze
an ole nigger so ; do you 'spose you'll ever get to Heaven,
if you got no more feelins than that?"

" I hope," said Mr. Weston, addressing the other ser
vants, "that you will all take warning by this scene. An
honest and respectable servant like Bacchus, to degrade
himself in this way — it gives me great pain to see it.

5

50 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OK,

William," said he, addressing a son of Bacchus, who
stood by the window, "did you deliver my note to Mr,
Walter?"

« Yes, sir ; he says he'll come to dinner ; I was on my
way in to tell you, but they was making such a fuss here."

"Very well," said Mr. Weston. "The rest of you go
to bed, quietly ; I am sure there will be no more disturb
ance to-night."

But, what will the Abolitionist say to this scene ? Where
were the whip and the cord, and other instruments of tor
ture ? Such consideration, he contends, was never shown
in the southern country. With Martin Tupper, I say,

" Hear reason, oh ! brother ;
Hear reason and right."

It has been, that master and slave were friends ; and if
this cannot continue, at whose door will the sin lie?

The Abolitionist says to the slave, Go ! but what does
he do that really advances his interest ? He says to the
master, Give up thine own ! but does he offer to share in
the loss ? No ; he would give to the Lord of that which
costs him nothing.

Should the southern country become free, should the
eyes of the world see no stain upon her escutcheon, it
will not be through the efforts of these fanatics. If white
labor could be substituted for black, better were it that
she should not have this weight upon her. The emanci
pation of her slaves will never be accomplished by inter
ference or force. Good men assist in colonizing them,
and the Creator may thus intend to christianize benighted
Africa. Should this be the Divine will, oh ! that from
every port, steamers were going forth, bearing our colored
people to their natural home !

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 51

CHAPTER IV.

MY readers must go with me to a military station at the
North, and date back two years from the time of my story.
The season must change, and instead of summer sunsets
and roses, we will bring before them three feet of snow,
and winter's bleakest winds.

Neither of these inconvenienced the company assembled
in the comfortable little parlor of Captain Moore's quar
ters, with a coal-grate almost as large as the room, and
curtains closely drawn over the old style windows: Mrs.
Moore was reduced to the utmost extremity of her wits to
make the room look modern ; but it is astonishing, the
genius of army ladies for putting the best foot foremost.
This room was neither square nor oblong ; and though a
mere box in size, it had no less than four doors (two be
longed to the closets) and three windows. The closets
were utterly useless, being occupied by an indomitable
race of rats and mice ; they had an impregnable fortress
somewhere in the old walls, and kept possession, in spite
of the house-keeping artillery Mrs. Moore levelled
against them. The poor woman gave up in despair ; she
locked the doors, and determined to starve the garrison
into submission.

She was far more successful in • other respects, having
completely banished the spirits of formality and inhospi-
tality that presided in these domains. The house was out
side the fort, and had been purchased from a citizen who
lived there, totally apart from his race ; Mrs. Moore had
the comfort of hearing, on taking possession, that all sorts
of ghosts were at home there ; but she was a cheerful kind
of woman, and did not believe in them any more than sho

52 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR

did in clairvoyance, so she set to work with a brave heart,
and every thing yielded to her sway, excepting the afore
said rats and mice.

Her parlor was the very realization of home comfort.
The lounge by the three windows was covered with small
figured French chintz, and it was a delightful seat, or bed,
as the occasion required. She had the legs of several of
the chairs sawed off, and made cushions for them, covered
with pieces of the chintz left from the lounge. The arm
chairs that looked at each other from either side of the fire
place, not being of velvet, were made to sit in.

In one corner of the room, (there were five,) a fine-toned
guitar rested against the wall; in another, was a large
fly-brush of peacock's feathers, with a most unconscionable
number of eyes. In the third, was Captain Moore's sword
and sash. In the fourth, was Mrs. Moore's work-basket,
where any amount of thimbles, needles, and all sorts of
sewing implements could be found. And in the fifth cor
ner was the baby-jumper, its fat and habitual occupant
being at this time oblivious to the day's exertions ; in point
of fact, he was up stairs in a red pine crib, sound asleep
with his thumb in his mouth.

One of Chickering's best pianos stood open in this won
derful little parlor, and Mrs. Moore rung out sweet sounds
from it evening after evening. Mrs. M. was an industrious,
intelligent Southern woman ; before she met Captain
Moore, she had a sort of antipathy to dogs and Yankees ;
both, however, suddenly disappeared, for after a short ac
quaintance, she fell desperately in love with the captain, and
allowed his great Newfoundland dog, (who had saved the
captain, and a great number of boys from drowning,) to lick
her hand, and rest his cold, black nose on her lap ; on this
evening Neptune lay at her feetj and was another ornament
of the parlor. Indeed, he should have been mentioned
in connection with the baby-jumper, for wherever the baby
was in the day time, there was Neptune , but he seemed to

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 53

think that a Newfoundland dog had other duties incumbent
upon him in the evening than watching babies, so he lis
tened attentively to the music, dozing now and then.
Sometimes, during a very loud strain, he would suddenly
rouse and look intently at the coal-fire ; but finding himself
mistaken, that he had only dreamed it was a river, and
that a boy who was fishing on its banks had tumbled in,
and required his services to pull him out, would fall down
on the rug again and take another nap.

I have said nothing of this rug, which Neptune thought
was purchased for him, nor of the bright red carpet, nor
of the nice china candlesticks on the mantel-piece, (which
could not be reached without a step-ladder,) nor of the
silver urn, which was Mrs. Moore's great-grandmother's,
nor of the lard-lamp which lit up every thing astonish
ingly, because I am anxious to come to the point of this
chapter, and cannot do justice to all these things. But it
would be the height of injustice, in me, to pass by Lieu
tenant Jones's moustaches, for the simple reason, that
since the close of the Mexican war, he had done little else
but cultivate them. They were very brown, glossy, and
luxuriant, entirely covering his upper lip, so that it was
only in a hearty laugh that one would have any reason to
suppose he had cut his front teeth; but he had, and they
were worth cutting, too, which is not always the case with
teeth. The object of wearing these moustaches was, evi
dently, to give himself a warlike and ferocious appearance ;
in this, he was partially successful, having the drawbacks
of a remarkably gentle and humane countenance, and a
pair of mild blue eyes. He was a very good-natured young
man, and had shot a wrild turkey in Mexico, the tail of
which he had brought home to Mrs. Moore, to be made
into a fan. (This fan, too, was in the parlor, of which
may be said what was once thought of the schoolmaster's
head, that the only wonder was, it could contain so much.)

Next to Mr. Jones we will notice a brevet-second lieu-

6*

54 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR.

tenant, just attached to the regiment, and then introduce
a handsome bachelor captain. (These are scarce in the
army, and should be valued accordingly.) This gentle
man was a fine musician, and the brevet played delight
fully on the flute ; in fact, they had had quite a concert
this evening. Then there was Colonel Watson, the com
manding officer, who had happened in, Mrs. Moore being
an especial favorite of his ; and there was a long, lean,
gaunt-looking gentleman, by the name of Kent. He was
from Vermont, and was an ultra Abolitionist. They had
all just returned from the dining-room, where they had
been eating cold turkey and mince pies ; and though
there was a fair chance of the nightmare some hours
hence, yet for the present they were in an exceedingly
high state of health and spirits.

Now, Mrs. Moore had brought from Carolina a woman
quite advanced in life. She had been a very faithful ser
vant, and Mrs. Moore's mother, wishing her daughter to
have the benefit of her services, and feeling perfect confi
dence in Polly's promise that under no circumstances
would she leave her daughter without just cause, had con
cluded that the best way of managing affairs would be to
set her free at once. She did so ; but Polly being one of
those persons who take the world quietly, was not the
least elated at being her own mistress ; she rather felt it
to be a kind of experiment to which there was some risk
attached. Mrs. Moore paid her six dollars a month for
her services, and from the time they had left home toge
ther until the present moment, Polly had been a most
efficient servant, and a sort of friend whose opinions were
valuable in a case of emergency.

For instance, Captain Moore was a temperance man,
and in consequence, opposed to brandy, wine, and the like
being kept in his house. This was quite a trouble to his
wife, for she knew that good mince pies and pudding
sauces could not be made without a little of the where-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 55

withal ; so she laid her difficulties before Aunt Polly, and
begged her to advise what was best to do.

" You see, Aunt Polly, Captain Moore says that a good
example ought to be set to the soldiers ; and that since
the Mexican war the young officers are more inclined to
indulge than they used to be ; that he feels such a re
sponsibility in the case that he can't bear the sight of a
bottle in the house."

"Well, honey," said Aunt Polly, "he says he likes my
mince pies, and my puddins, mightily ; and does he 'spect
me to make 'em good, and make 'em out of nothin, too ?"

" That's what I say, Aunt Polly, " for you know none
of us like to drink. The captain belongs to the Tempe
rance Society ; and I don't like it, because it gets into my
head, and makes me stupid; and you never drink any
thing, so if we could only manage to get him to let us
keep it to cook with."

"As to that, child," said Aunt Polly, "I mus have it
to cook with, that's a pint settled ; there aint no use 'spu-
tin about it. If he thinks I'm gwine to change my way
of cookin in my old age, he's mightily mistaken. He
need'nt think I'm gwine to make puddins out o' one egg,
and lighten my muffins with snow, like these ere Yankees,
'kase I aint gwine to do it for nobody. I sot out to do
my duty by you, and I'll do it ; but for all that, I aint
bound to set to larnin new things this time o' day. I'll
cook Carolina fashion, or I wont cook at all."

"Well, but what shall I do?" said Mrs. Moore; "you
wouldn't have me do a thing my husband disapproves of,
would you?"

« No, that I wouldn't, Miss Emmy," said Aunt Polly.
My old man's dust and ashes long ago, but I always done
what I could to please him. Men's mighty onreasonable,
the best of 'em, but when a woman is married she ought
to do all she can for the sake of peace. I dont see what
a man has got to do interferin with the cookin, no how ;

56 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

a woman oughter 'tend to these matters. 'Pears to me,
Mr. Moore, (captain, as you calls him,) is mighty fidjetty
about bottles, all at once. But if he cant bear the sight
of a brandy bottle in the house, bring 'em down here to
me; I'll keep 'em out of his sight, I'll be bound. I'll
put 'em in the corner of my old chist yonder, and I'd
like to see him thar, rummagin arter brandy bottles or
any thing else."

Mrs. Moore was very much relieved by this suggestion,
and when her husband came in, she enlarged on the ne
cessity of Polly's having her own way about the cooking,
and wound up by saying that Polly must take charge of all
the bottles, and by this arrangement he would not be an
noyed by the sight of them.

" But, my dear," said he, " do you think it right to give
such things in charge of a servant?"

"Why, Aunt Polly never drinks."

"Yes, but Emmy, you don't consider the temptation."

"La, William, do hush; why if you talk about tempta
tion, she's had that all her life, and she could have drank
herself to death long ago. Just say yes, and be done
with it, for it* has worried me to death all day, and I want
it settled, and off my mind."

"Well, do as you like," said Captain Moore, "but re
member, it will be your fault if any thing happens."

" Nothing is going to happen," said Mrs. Moore,
jumping up, and seizing the wine and brandy bottles by
the necks, and descending to the lower regions with them.

" Here they are, Aunt Polly. William consents to your
having them; and mind you keep them out of sight."

" Set 'em down in the cheer thar, I'll take care of 'em,
I jist wanted son\e brandy to put in these potato puddins.
I wonder what they'd taste like without it."

But Mrs. Moore could not wait to talk about it, she was
up stairs in another moment, holding her baby on Nep
tune's back, and more at ease in her mind than she had

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 57

been since the subject was started, twenty-four hours
before.

There was but one other servant in the house, a middle-
aged woman, who had run away from her mistress in
Boston ; or rather, she had been seduced off by the Aboli
tionists. While many would have done well under the
circumstances, Susan had never been happy, or comfort
able, since this occurred. Besides the self-reproach that
annoyed her, (for she had been brought on from Georgia
to nurse a sick child, and its mother, a very feeble person,
had placed her dependence upon her,) Susan was illy cal
culated to shift for herself. She was a timid, delicate
woman, with rather a romantic cast of mind ; her mistress
had always been an invalid, and was fond of hearing her
favorite books read aloud. For the style of books that
Susan had been accustomed to listen to, as she sat at her
sewing, Lalla Rookh would be a good specimen ; and, as
she had never been put to hard work, but had merely been
an attendant about her mistress' room, most of her time
was occupied in a literary way. Thus, having an excel
lent memory, her head was a sort of store-room for love
sick snatches of song. The Museum men would represent
her as having snatched a feather of the bird of song ; but
as this is a matter-of-fact kind of story, we will observe,
that Susan not being naturally very strong-minded, and
her education not more advanced than to enable her to
spell out an antiquated valentine, or to write a letter with
a great many small i's in it, she is rather to be considered
the victim of circumstances and a soft heart. She was,
nevertheless, a conscientious woman ; and when she left
Georgia, to come North, had any one told her that she
would run away,' she wrould have answered in the spirit,
if not the expression, of the oft quoted, "Is thy servant
a dog?"

She enjoyed the journey to the North, the more that the
little baby improved very much in strength ; she had had,

58 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

at her own wish, the entire charge of him from his
birth.

The family had not been two days at the Revere House
before Susan found herself an object of interest to men
who were gentlemen, if broadcloth and patent-leather
boots could constitute that valuable article. These indi
viduals seemed to know as much of her as she did of her
self, though they plied her with questions to a degree that
quite disarranged her usual calm and poetic flow of ideas.
As to "Whether she had been born a slave, or had been
kidnapped ? Whether she had ever been sold ? How
many times a week she had been whipped, and what with?
Had she ever been shut up in a dark cellar and nearly
starved? Was she allowed more than one meal a day?
Did she ever have any thing but sweet potato peelings ?
Had she ever been ducked ? And, finally, she was desired
to open her mouth, that they might see whether her teeth
had been extracted to sell to the dentist ?"

Poor Susan! after one or two interviews her feelings
were terribly agitated ; all these horrible suggestions might
become realities, and though she loved her home, her mis
tress, and the baby too, yet she was finally convinced that
though born a slave, it was not the intention of Providence,
but a mistake, and that she had been miraculously led to
this Western Holy Land, of which Boston is the Jerusalem,
as the means by which things could be set to rights again.

One beautiful, bright evening, when her mistress had
rode out to see the State House by moonlight, Susan kissed
the baby, not without many tears, and then threw herself,
trembling and dismayed, into the arms and tender mercies
of the Abolitionists. They led her into a distant part of
the city, and placed her for the night under the charge of
some people wrho made their living by receiving the newly
ransomed. The next morning she was to go off, but she
found she had reckoned without her host, for when she
thanked the good people for her night's lodging and the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 59

hashed cod-fish on which she had tried to breakfast, she
had a bill to pay, and where was the money? Poor Susan !
she had only a quarter of a dollar, and that she had asked
her mistress for a week before, to buy a pair of side-combs.

"Why, what a fool you be," said one of the men; "Didn't
I tell you to bring your mistress' purse along?"

"And did you think I was going to steal besides run
ning off from her and the poor baby?" answered Susan.

" It's not stealing," said the Abolitionist. « Haven't you
been a slaving of yourself all your life for her, and I guess
you've a right to be paid for it. I guess you think the
rags on your back good wages enough?"

Susan looked at her neat dress, and thought they were
very nice rags, compared to the clothes her landlady had
on ; but the Abolitionist was in a hurry.

« Come," said he, "I'm not going to spend all my time
on you ; if you want to be free, come along ; pay what
you owe and start."

« But I have only this quarter," said Susan, despairingly.

" I don't calculate to give runaway niggers their supper,
and night's lodging and breakfast for twenty-five cents,"
said the woman. "I aint so green as that, I can tell you.
If you've got no money, open your bundle, and we can
make a trade, like as not."

Susan opened her bundle, (which was a good strong carpet
bag her mistress had given her,) and after some hesitation,
the woman selected as her due a nice imitation of Cashmere
shawl, the last present her mistress had given her. It had
cost four dollars. Susan could hardly give it up; she
wanted to keep it as a remembrance, but she already felt
herself in the hands of the Philistines, and she fastened up
her carpet-bag and set forward. She was carried off in
the cars to an interior town, and directed to the house of
an Abolitionist, to whom she was to hire herself.

Her fare was paid by this person, and then deducted
from her wages — her wages were four dollars a month.

60 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

She cooked and washed for ten in family; cleaned the
whole house, and did all the chores, except sawing the wood,
which the gentleman of the house did himself. She was
only required to split the hard, large knots — the oldest
son splitting the easy sticks for her. On Saturday, the
only extra duty required of her was to mend every item
of clothing worn in the family ; the lady of the house mak
ing them herself. Susan felt very much as if it was out
of the frying pan into the fire ; or rather, as if she had
been transferred from one master to another. She found it
took all her wages to buy her shoes and stockings and flan
nel, for her health suffered very much from the harsh climate
and her new mode of life, so she ventured to ask for an
increase of a dollar a month.

"Is that your gratitude," was the indignant reply, "for
all that we've done for you ? The idea of a nigger want
ing over four dollars a month, when you've been working
all your life, too, for nothing at all. Why everybody in
town is wondering that I keep you, when white help is so
much better."

"But, ma'am," replied Susan, "they tell me here that a
woman gets six dollars a month, when she does the whole
work of a family."

"A white woman does," said this Abolitionist lady,
"but not a nigger, I guess. Besides, if they do, you
ought to be willing to work cheaper for Abolitionists, for
they are your friends."

If "save me from my friends," had been in Lalla
Rookh, Susan would certainly have applied it, but as the
quotation belonged to the heroic rather than the senti
mental department, she could not avail herself of it, and
therefore went on chopping her codfish and onions together,
at the rate of four dollars a month, and very weak eyes, till
some good wind blew Captain Moore to the command of
his company, in the Fort near the town.

After Mrs. Moore's housekeeping operations had fairly

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 61

commenced, she found it would be necessary to have a
person to clean the house of four rooms, and to help
Neptune mind the baby. Aunt Polly accordingly set
forward on an exploration. She presented quite an
unusual appearance as regards her style of dress. She
wore a plaid domestic gingham gown ; she had several
stuff ones, but she declared she never put one of them on
for any thing less than « meetin." She had a black satin
Methodist bonnet, very much the shape of a coal hod,
and the color of her own complexion, only there was a
slight shade of blue in it. Thick gloves, and shoes, and
stockings ; a white cotton apron, and a tremendous blanket
shawl completed her costume. She had a most determined
expression of countenance ; the fact is, she had gone out to
get a house-servant, and she didn't intend to return without
one.

I forgot to mention that she walked with a cane, having
had a severe attack of rheumatics since her arrival in "the
great Norrurd," and at every step she hit the pavements
in such a manner as to startle the rising generation of
Abolitionists, and it had the good effect of preventing any
of them from calling out to her, "Where did you get
your face painted, you black nigger, you?" which would
otherwise have occurred.

Susan was just returning from a grocery store with
three codfish in one hand, and a piece of salt pork and a
jug of molasses in the other, when she was startled by
Aunt Polly's unexpected appearance, bearing down upon
her like a man of war.

Aunt Polly stopped for a moment and looked at her
intensely, while Susan's feelings, which, like her poetry,
had for some time been quite subdued by constant collision
with a cooking stove, got the better of her, and she burst
into tears. Aunt Polly made up her mind on the spot ; it
was, as she afterwards expressed it, « <Ameracle,' meeting

62 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

that poor girl, with all that codfish and other stuff in her
hand."

Susan did not require too much encouragement to tell
her lamentable tale, and Aunt Polly in return advised her
to leave her place when her month was up, informing the
family of her intention, that they might supply themselves.
This Susan promised to do, with a full heart, and Aunt
Polly having accomplished her mission, set out on her
return, first saying to Susan, however, "We'll wait for
you, you needn't be afeard, and I'll do your work 'till you
come, .'taint much, for we puts out our washin. And you
need'nt be sceard when you see the sogers, they aint gwine
to hurt you, though they do look so savage."

Susan gave notice of her intention, and after a season
of martyrdom set forward to find Captain Moore's quarters.
She had no difficulty, for Polly was looking out for her,
with her pipe in her mouth. " Come in, child," said she,
" and warm yourself; how is your cough ? I stewed some
molasses for you, 'gin you come. We'll go up and see
Miss Emmy, presently; she 'spects you."

Susan was duly introduced to Mrs. Moore who was at
the time sitting in the captain's lap with the baby in hers,
and Neptune's forepaws in the baby's. The captain's tem
perance principles did not forbid him smoking a good cigar,
and at the moment of Susan's entrance, he was in the act
of emitting stealthily a cloud of smoke into his wife's face.
After letting the baby fall out of her lap, and taking two
or three short breaths with strong symptoms of choking,
Mrs. Moore with a husky voice and very red eyes, welcomed
Susan, and introduced her to the baby and Neptune, then
told Aunt Polly to show her where to put her clothes, and
to make her comfortable in every respect.

Aunt Polly did so by baking her a hoe-cake, and broil
ing a herring, and drawing a cup of strong tea. Su
san went to bed scared with her new happiness, and

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 63

dreamed she was in Georgia, in her old room, with the
sick baby in her arras.

Susan's friends, the Abolitionists, were highly indignant
at the turn affairs had taken. They had accordingly a
new and fruitful subject of discussion at the sewing socie
ties and quilting bees of the town. In solemn conclave it
was decided to vote army people down as utterly disagree
able. One old maid suggested the propriety of their im
mediately getting up a petition for disbanding the army ;
but the motion was laid on the table in consideration of
John Quincy Adams being dead and buried, and therefore
not in a condition to present the petition. Susan became
quite cheerful, and gained twenty pounds in an incredibly
short space of time, though strange rumors continued to
float about the army. It was stated at a meeting of the
F. S. F. S. T. W. T. R. (Female Society for Setting the
World to Hights) that « army folks were a low, dissipated
set, for they put wine in their puddin sauce."

I do not mean to say liberty is not, next to life, the
greatest of God's earthly gifts, and that men and women
ought not to be happier free than slaves. God forbid that
I should so have read my Bible. But such cases as Susan's
do occur, and far oftener than the raw-head and bloody-
bones' stories with which Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe has
seeen fit to embellish that interesting romance, Uncle
Tom's Cabin.

U4 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

CHAPTER V.

CAPT. MOORE suddenly seized the poker, and commenced
stirring the fire vigorously. Neptune rushed to his covert
under the piano, and Mrs. Moore called out, " Dont, dear,
for heaven's sake."

"Why, it's getting cold," said Captain Moore, apologeti
cally. " Don't you hear the wind ?"

"Yes, but I don't feel it, neither do you. The fire can
not be improved. See how you have made the dust fly !
You never can let well alone."

" That is the trouble with the Abolitionists," said Colonel
"Watson. "They can't let well alone, and so Mr. Kent
and his party want to reorganize the Southern country."

"There is no well there to let alone," said Mr. Kent,
with the air of a Solomon.

"Don't talk so, Mr. Kent," said Mrs. Moore, entreat-
ingly, "for I can't quarrel with you in my own house, and
I feel very much inclined to do so for that one sentence."

"Now," said the bachelor captain, "I do long to hear
you and Mr. Kent discuss Abolition. The colonel and I
may be considered disinterested listeners, as we hail from
the Middle States, and are not politicians. Captain Moore
cannot interfere, as he is host as well as husband ; and
Mr. Jones and Scott have eaten too much to feel much in
terest in any thing just now. Pray, tell Mr. Kent, my dear
madam, of Susan's getting you to intercede with her mis
tress to take her back, and see what he says."

"I know it already," said Mr. Kent, "and I must say
that I am surprised to find Mrs. Moore inducing a fellow-
creature to return to a condition so dreadful as that of a

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 65

Southern slave. After having been plucked from the fire,
it should be painful to the human mind to see her thrown in
again."

"Your simile is not a good one, Mr. Kent," said Mrs.
Moore, with a heightened color. "I can make a better.
Susan, in a moment of delirium, jumped into the fire,
and she called on me to pull her out. Unfortunately, I
cannot heal all the burns, for I yesterday received an an
swer to my letter to her mistress, who positively refuses to
take her back. She is willing, but Mr. Casey will not
consent to it. He says that his wife was made very sick
by the shock of losing Susan, and the over-exertion neces
sary in the care of her child. The baby died in Boston ;
and they cannot overlook Susan's deserting it at a hotel,
without any one to take charge of it ; they placing such
perfect confidence in Susan, too. He thinks her presence
would constantly recall to Mrs. Casey her child's death ;
besides, after having lived among Abolitionists, he fancies
it would not be prudent to bring her on the plantation.
Having attained her freedom, he says she must make the
best of it. Mrs. Casey enclosed me ten dollars to give to
Susan, for I wrote her she was in bad health, and had very
little clothing when she came to me. Poor girl! I could
hardly persuade her to take the money, and soon after, she
brought it to me and asked me to keep it for her, and not
to change the note that came from home. I felt very sorry
for her."

"She deserves it," said Mr. Kent.

"I think she does," said Mrs. Moore, smiling, "though
for another reason."

Mr. Kent blushed as only men with light hair, and light
skin, and light eyes, can blush.

"I mean," said Mr. Kent, furiously, "she deserves her
refusal for her ingratitude. After God provided her
friends who made her a free woman, she is so senseless as
to want to go back to be lashed and trodden under foot

G6 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

again, as the slaves of the South are. I say, she deserves
it for being such a fool."

"And I say," said Mrs. Moore, "she deserves it for
deserting her kind mistress at a time when she most needed
her services. God did not raise her up friends because
she had done wrong."

" You are right, Emmy, in your views of Susan's con
duct ; but you should be careful how you trace motives to
such a source. She certainly did wrong, and she has suf
fered ; that is all we can say. We must do the best we
can to restore her to health. She is very happy with us
now, and will, no doubt, after a while, enjoy her liberty :
it would be a most unnatural thing if she did not."

" But how is it, Mr. Kent," said the colonel, "that after
you induce these poor devils to give up their homes, that
you do not start them in life ; set them going in some way
in the new world to which you transfer them. You do
not give them a copper, I am. told."

"We don't calculate to do that," said Mr. Kent.

"I believe you," said Mrs. Moore, maliciously.

Mr. Kent looked indignant at the interruption, while
his discomfiture was very amusing to the young officers,
they being devoted admirers of Mrs. Moore's talents and
mince pies. They laughed heartily ; and Mr. Kent looked
at them as if nothing would have induced him to overlook
their impertinence but the fact, that they were very low
on the list of lieutenants, and he was an abolition agent.
"We calculate, sir, to give them their freedom, and then
let them look Out for themselves."

" That is, you have no objection to their living in the
same world with yourself, provided it costs you nothing,"
said the colonel.

"We make them free," said Mr. Kent. "They have
their right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
They are no longer enslaved, body and soul. If I see a
man with his hands and feet chained, and I break those

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 67

chains, it is all that God expects me to do; let him earn
his own living."

" But suppose he does not know how to do so," said Mrs.
Moore, "what then? The occupations of a negro at the
South are so different from those of the people at the
North."

" Thank God they are, ma'am," said Mr. Kent, grandly.
" We have no overseers to draw the blood of their fellow
creatures, and masters to look on and laugh. We do not
snatch infants from their mothers' breasts, and sell them
for w'hisky/'

" Neither do we," said Mrs. Moore, her bosom heaving
with emotion ; « no one but an Abolitionist could have had
such a wicked thought. No wonder that men who glory
in breaking the laws of their country should make such
misstatements."

"Madam," said Mr. Kent, "they are facts; we can
prove them ; and we say that the slaves of the South shall
be free, cost what it will. The men of the North have
set out to emancipate them, and they will do it if they
have to wade through fire, water, and blood."

« You had better not talk in that style when you go
South," said Captain Moore, "unless you have an uncon
querable prejudice in favor of tar and feathers."

"Who cares for tar and feathers?" said Mr. Kent;
" there has been already a martyr in the ranks of Abolition,
and there may be more. Lovejoy died a glorious martyr's
death, and there are others ready to do the same."

" Give me my cane, there, captain, if you please," said
Colonel Watson, who had been looking at Mr. Kent's
blazing countenance and projecting eyes, in utter amaze
ment. " Why, Buena Yista was nothing to this. Good
night, madam, and do tell Susan not to jump into the fire
again ; I wonder she was not burned up while she was
there. Come, captain, let us make our escape while we
can."

68 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

The captain followed, bidding the whole party good night,
with a smile. He had been perfectly charmed with the
Abolition discussion. Mr. Jones had got very sleepy, and
lie and Mr. Scott made their adieu. Mr. Kent, with some
embarrassment, bade Mrs. Moore good night. Mrs. Moore
begged him to go South and be converted, for she believed
his whole heart required changing. Captain Moore fol
lowed them to the door, and shivered as he inhaled the
north-easter. « Come, Emmy," said he, as he entered,
rubbing his hands, "you've fought for your country this
night; let's go to bed."

Mrs. Moore lit a candle, and put out the lard-lamp, won
dering if she had been impolite to Mr. Kent. She led the
way to the staircase, in a reflective state of mind ; Nep
tune followed, and stood at the foot of the steps for some
moments, in deep thought ; concluding that if there should
be danger of any one's falling into a river up there, they
would call him and let him know, he went back, laid down
on the soft rug, and fell asleep for the night.

*******

It does not take long to state a fact. Mr. Kent went
to Washington on Abolition business, — through the intro
duction of a senator from his own State he obtained access
to good society. He boarded in the same house with a
Virginian who had a pretty face, very little sense, but a
large fortune. Mr. Kent, with very little difficulty, per
suaded her he was a saint, ready to be translated at the
shortest notice. He dropped his Abolition notions, and
they were married. At the time that my story opens, he
is a planter, living near Mr. "VVeston, and we will hear of
him again.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT JS. 60

CHAPTER VI.

ARTHUR WESTON is in his college-room in that far-famed
city, New Haven. He is in the act of replacing his cigar
in his mouth, after having knocked the ashe.s off it, when
we introduce to him the reader. Though not well em
ployed, his first appearance must be prepossessing ; he
inherited his mother's clear brunette complexion, and her
fine expressive eyes. His very black hair he had thrown
entirely off his forehead, and he is now reading an Aboli
tion paper which had fallen into his hands. There are
two other young men in the room, one of them Arthur's
friend, Abel Johnson ; and the other, a young man by the
name of Hubbard.

"Who brought this paper into my room ?" said Arthur,
after laying it down on the table beside him.

"I was reading it,'' said Mr. Hubbard, "and threw it
aside."

""Well, if it makes no difference to you, Mr. Hubbard,
I'd prefer not seeing any more of these publications about
me. This number is a literary curiosity, and deserves to
be preserved ; but as I do not file papers at present, I will
just return it, after expressing my thanks to you for afford
ing me the means of obtaining valuable information about
the Southern country."

"What is it about, Arthur," said Abel Johnson, "it is
too hot to read this morning, so pray enlighten me ?"

"Why, here," said Arthur, opening the paper again,
"here is an advertisement, said to be copied from a South
ern paper, in which, after describing a runaway slave, it
says : « I will give four hundred dollars for him alive, and
the same sum for satisfactory proof that he has been

70 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

killed.' Then the editor goes on to say, 'that when a
planter loses a slave, he becomes so impatient at not cap
turing him, and is so angry at the loss, that he then does
what is equivalent to inducing some person to murder him
by way of revenge.' Now, is not this infamous ?"

"But it is true, I believe," said Mr. Hubbard.

"It is not true, sir," said Arthur, "it is false, totally
and entirely false. Why, sir, do you mean to say, that
the life of a slave is in the power of a master, and that he
is not under the protection of our laws?"

"I am told that is the case," said Mr. Hubbard.

" Then you are told what is not true ; and it seems to
me, you are remarkably ignorant of the laws of your
country."

"It is not my country," said Mr. Hubbard, "I assure
you. I lay no claims to that part of the United States
where slavery is allowed."

" Then if it is not your country, for what reason do
you concern yourself so much about its affairs?"

"Because," replied Mr. Hubbard, "every individual
has the right to judge for himself, of his own, and of
other countries."

"No, not without proper information," said Arthur.
"And as you have now graduated and intend to be a lawyer,
I trust you will have consideration enough for the profes
sion, not to advance opinions until you are sufficiently in
formed to enable you to do so justly. Every country
must have its poor people ; you have yours at the North,
for I see them — we have ours ; yours are white, ours are
black. I say yours are white ; I should except your free
blacks, who are the most miserable class of human beings
I ever saw. They are indolent, reckless, and impertinent.
The poorer classes of society, are proverbially improvi
dent — and yours, in sickness, and in old age, are often
victims of want and suffering. Ours in such circumstances,
are kindly cared for, and are never considered a burden ;

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 71

our laws are, generally speaking, humane and faithfully
administered. We have enactments which not only pro
tect their lives, but which compel their owners to be
moderate in working them, and to ensure them proper
care as regards their food."

" But," said Mr. Hubbard, "you have other laws, police-
laws, which deprive them of the most innocent recrea
tions, such as are not only necessary for their happiness,
but also for their health."

"And if such laws do exist," said Arthur, "where is
the cause? You may trace it to the interference of med
dling, .and unprincipled men. They excite the minds of
the slaves, and render these laws necessary for the very
protection of our lives. But without this interference,
there would be no such necessity. In this Walsh's Ap
peal, which is now open before me, you will find, where
Abel left off reading, these remarks, wilich show that not
only the health and comfort of the slaves, but also their
feelings, are greatly considered. « The master who would
deprive his negro of his property — the product ~»f his
poultry-house or his little garden ; who would force him
to work on holidays, or at night ; who would deny him
common recreations, or leave him without shelter and
provision, in his old age, would incur the aversion of the
community, and raise obstacles to the advancement of his
own interest and external aims.' '

"Then," said Mr. Hubbard, "you mean to say, he is
kind from self-interest alone."

"No, I do not," replied Arthur; "that undoubtedly,
actuates men at the South, as it does men at the North ;
but I mean, to say, so universal is it with us to see our
slaves well treated, that when an instance of the contrary
nature occurs, the author of it is subject to the dislike
and odium of his acquaintances."

"But," said Mr. Hubbard, "that does not always pro
tect the slaves — which shows that your laws are sometimes

72 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

ineffectual. They are not always secure from ill-treat
ment."

"But, do your laws always secure you from ill-treat
ment?" said Arthur.

" Of course," said Mr. Hubbard, " the poorest person in
New England is as safe from injustice and oppression, as
the highest in the land."

"Nonsense," said Arthur, " don't you think I can judge
for myself, as regards that ? Abel, do tell Mr. Hubbard
of our little adventure in the bakehouse."

"With pleasure," said Abel, "especially as you two
have not let me say a word yet. Well, Mr. Hubbard,
Arthur and I having nothing else to do, got hungry, and
as it was a fine evening, thought we would walk out in
search of something to satisfy our appetites, and there
being a pretty girl in Brown's bakehouse, who waits on
customers, we took that direction. Arthur, you know, is
engaged to be married, and has no excuse for such things,
but I having no such ties, am free to search for pretty
faces, and to make the most of it when I find them. We
walked on, arm-in-arm, and when we got to the shop,
there stood Mrs. Brown behind the counter, big as all out
doors, with a very red face, and in a violent perspiration ;
there was some thing wrong with the old lady 'twas easy
to see."

" ' Well, Mrs. Brown,' said Arthur, for I was looking
in the glass cases and under the counter for the pretty
face, ' have you any rusk ?'

"'Yes, sir, we always have rusk,' said Mr. Brown,
tartly.

"'Will you give us some, and some cakes, or whatever
you have? and then we will go and get some soda water,
Abel.'

" Mrs. Brown fussed about like a < bear with a sore head,'
and at last she broke out against that gal.

" 'Where on earth has she put that cake ?' said she. 'I

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 73

sent her in here with it an hour ago ; just like her, lazy,
good-for-nothing Irish thing. They're nothing but white
niggers, after all, these Irish. Here, Ann,' she bawled
out, 'come here !'

" ' Coming,' said Ann, from within the glass door.

" ' Come this minute,' said the old woman, and Ann's
pretty Irish face showed itself immediately.

" 'Where's that 'lection cake I told you to bring here?'

" ' You didn't tell me to bring no cake here, Mrs. Brown,'
said Ann.

" ' I did, you little liar, you,' said Mrs. Brown. ' You
Irish are born liars. Go, bring it here.'

" Ann disappeared, and soon returned, looking triumph
ant. ' Mr. Brown says he brought it in when you told him,
and covered it in that box — so I aint such a liar, after all.'

" ' You are,' said Mrs. Brown, i and a thief too.'

"Ann's Irish blood was up.

" ' I'm neither,' said she; 'but I'm an orphan, and poor;
that's why I'm scolded and cuffed about.'

" Mrs. Brown's blood was up too, and she struck the poor
girl in the face, and her big, hard hand was in an instant
covered with blood, which spouted out from Ann's nose.

"'Now take that for your impudence, and you'll get
worse next time you go disputing with me.'

" ' I declare, Mrs. Brown,' said Arthur, ' this is, I
thought, a free country. I did not know you could take
the law into your own hands in that style.'

" 'That gal's the bother of my life,' said Mrs. Brown.
'Mr. Brown, he was in New York when a ship come, and
that gal's father and mother must die of the ship-fever,
and the gal was left, and Mr. Brown calculated she could
be made to save us hiring, by teaching her a little. She's
smart enough, but she's the hard-headedest, obstinatest
thing I ever see. I can't make nothin' of her. You might
as well try to draw blood out of a turnip as to get any
good out of her.'

7

74 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"< You got some good blood out of her,' said I, < at any
rate,' for Mrs. Brown was wiping her hands, and the blood
looked red and healthy enough ; « but she is not a turnip,
that's one thing to be considered.'

"'Well, Mrs. Brown, good evening,' said Arthur. 'I
shall tell them at the South how you Northern people
treat your white niggers.'

"'I wish to the Lord,' said Mrs. Brown, <we had some
real niggers. Here I am sweatin, and workin, and bakin,
all these hot days, and Brown he's doin nothin from morn
ing 'till night but reading Abolition papers, and tendin
Abolition meetings. I'm not much better than a nigger
myself, half the time.'

"Now,'* said Arthur, "Mr. Hubbard, I have been for
tunate in my experience. I have never seen a slave woman
struck in my life, though I've no doubt such things are
done ; and I assure you when I saw Mrs. Brown run the
risk of spoiling that pretty face for life, I wondered your
laws did not protect < these bound gals,' or < white niggers,'
as she calls them."

"You see, Hubbard," said Abel, "your philanthropy
and Arthur's is very contracted. He only feels sympathy
for a pretty white face, you for a black one, while my en
larged benevolence induces me to stand up for all female
<phizmahoganies,' especially for the Hottentot and the Ma
dagascar ones, and the fair sex of all the undiscovered
islands on the globe in general."

"You don't think, then," said Mr. Hubbard, argumenta-
tively, "that God's curse is on slavery, do you?"

" In what sense ?" asked Arthur. "I think that slavery
is, and always was a curse, and that the Creator intended
what he said, when he first spoke of it, through Noah."

" But, I mean," said Mr. Hubbard, " that it will bring a
curse on those who own slaves."

"No, sir," said Arthur, " God's blessing is, and always
has been on my father, who is a slaveholder; on his

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 75

father, who was one ; and on a good many more I could
mention. In fact, I could bring forward quite a respecta
ble list who have died in their beds, in spite of their egre
gious sin in this respect. There are Washington, Jeffer
son, Madison, Marshall, Calhoun, Henry Clay, and not a
few others. In this case, the North, as has been said,
says to her sister South, < Stand aside, for I am holier than
thou !' that is, you didn't need them, and got rid of them."

" We were all born free and equal," said Mr. Hubbard,
impressively.

"Equal!" said Abel, "there is that idiot, with his
tongue hanging out of his mouth, across the street : was
he born equal with you?"

"It strikes me," said Arthur, "that our slaves are not
born free."

"They ought to be so, then," said Mr. Hubbard.

"Ah! there you arraign the Creator," said Arthur ;
"I must stop now."

" What do you think is the meaning of the text < Cursed
be Canaan, a servant of servants shall he be unto his
brethren,' Hubbard?" said Abel.

"I don't think* it justifies slavery," said Hubbard.

" Well, what does it mean ?" said Abel. " It must mean
something. Now I am at present between two doctrines ;
so I am neither on your nor on Arthur's side. If I can't
live one way I must another ; and these are hard times.
If I can't distinguish myself in law, divinity, or physic,
or as an artist, which I would prefer, I may turn planter,
or may turn Abolition agent. I must do something for
my living. Having no slaves I can't turn planter ; there
fore there is more probability of my talents finding their
way to the Abolition ranks ; so give me all the information
you can on the subject."

" Go to the Bible," said Mr. Hubbard, " and learn your
duty to your fellow-creatures."

" Well, here is a Bible my mother sent here for Arthur

76 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

and myself, with the commentaries. This is Scott's Com
mentary. Where is Canaan?" said he, turning over the
leaves ; " he is very hard to be got at."

"You are too far over," said Arthur, laughing, "you
are not in the habit of referring to Scott."

"Here it is," said Abel, < Cursed be Canaan, a servant
of servants shall he be unto his brethren.' And in another
verse we see < God shall enlarge Japheth, and he shall
dwell in the tents of Shem, and Canaan shall be his ser
vant.' So we are Japheth and Shem, and the colored
population are Canaan. Is that it, Arthur?" said Abel.

" See what Scott says, Abel," said Arthur ; " I'm not a
commentator."

"Well, here it is, — 'There is no authority for altering
the text, and reading, as some do, Cursed be Ham, the*
father of Canaan, yet the frequent mention of Ham, as the
father of Canaan, suggests the thought that the latter was
also criminal. Ham is thought to be second, and not the
youngest son of Noah ; and if so, the words, < Knew what
his younger son had done,' refers to Canaan, his grandson.
Ham must have felt it a very mortifying rebuke, when his
own father was inspired on this occasion to predict the
durable oppression and slavery of his posterity. Canaan
was also rebuked, by learning that the curse would espe
cially rest on that branch of the family which should
descend from him ; for his posterity were no doubt princi
pally, though not exclusively, intended."'

" Now," continued Abel, " I shall have to turn planter,
and get my niggers as I can ; for I'll be hanged if it
wasn't a curse, and a predicted one, too."

" That does not make it right," said Mr. Hubbard.

"Don't it," said Abel; "well, if it should be fated for
me to turn parson, I shan't study divinity with you, for
my mother has told me often, that God's prophecies were
right, and were fulfilled, too ; as I think this one has
been."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 77

" I suppose, then, you think slavery will always conti
nue, Mr. Weston?" said Hubbard.

" Well, I am only a man, and cannot prophesy, but I
think, probably not. Slavery is decreasing throughout
the world. The slave trade is about being abolished on
the coast of Africa. You Abolitionists are getting a good
many off from our southern country, and our planters are
setting a number of theirs free, and sending them to
Africa. I know a gentleman in Georgia who liberated a
number, and gave them the means to start in Liberia as
free agents and men. He told me he saw them on board,
and watched the ship as she disappeared from his sight.
At last he could not detect the smallest trace of her, and
then such a feeling of intense satisfaction occupied his
breast as had been a stranger there until that time. < Is
it possible that they are gone, and I am no longer to be
plagued with them ? They are free, and I am free, too.'
He could hardly give vent to his feelings of relief on the
occasion."

"And are they such trouble to you, Arthur?" asked
Abel.

« No, indeed," said Arthur, « not the. least. My father
treats them well, and they appear to be as well off as the
working classes generally are. I see rules to regulate the
conduct of the master and slave in Scripture, but I see
no where the injunction to release them ; nor do I find
laid down the sin of holding them. The fact is, you
northern people are full of your isms ; you must start a
new one every year. I hope they will not travel south,
for I am tired of them. I should like to take Deacon and
Mrs. White back home with me. Our servants would be
afraid of a man who has worked sixteen hours a day half
his lifetime."

"Deacon White is worth twenty thousand dollars," said
Abel, " every cent of which he made mending and making
common shoes."

7*

78 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

"What does he do with it ?" said Arthur.

" Hoards it up," said Abel, "and yet an honester man
never lived. Did I not tell you of the time I hired his
horse and chaise ? I believe not ; well, it is worth waiting
for. The deacon's old white horse is as gray and as docile
as himself; the fact is, the stable is so near the house,
that the horse is constantly under the influence of < Old
Hundred;" he has heard the good old tune so often, that
he has a solemn way of viewing things. Two or three
weeks ago I wanted to take my sister to see a relative of
ours, who lives seven or eight miles from here, and my
mother would not consent to my driving her, unless I hired
the deacon's horse and chaise — the horse, she said, could
not run if he wanted to. So I got him, and Harriet asked
Kate Laune to go too, as the chaise was large enough for
all three ; and we had a good time. We were gone all day,
and after I took the girls home, I drove round to the dea
con's house and jumped out of the chaise to pay what I
owed.

« You know what a little fellow the deacon is, and he
looked particularly small that evening, for he was seated
in his arm-chair reading a large newspaper which hid him
all but his legs. These are so shrunken that I wonder
how his wife gets his stockings small enough for him.

" < Good evening, Mrs. White,' said I, for the old lady
was sitting on the steps knitting.

"« Mercy's sake, deacon,' said she, <put down your
newspaper; don't you see Mr. Johnson?'

" < The deacon did not even give me a nod until he had
scrutinized the condition of the horse and chaise, and
then he said, <How are you?'

"<Not a screw loose in me, or the horse and chaise
either, for I had two girls with me, and I'm courting one
of them for a quarter, so I drove very carefully. I am in
a hurry now, tell me what I am to pay you ?'

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 79

^'Twelve and a half cents,' said the deacon, slowly
raising his spectacles from his nose.

" 'No !' said I. < Twelve and a half cents ! « Why, I
have had the horse all day.'

" ' That is my price,' said the deacon.

" 'For a horse and chaise, all day?' said I. Why, dea
con, do charge me something that I aint ashamed to pay
you.'

'"That is iny regular price, and I can't charge you any
more.'

" I remonstrated with him, and tried to persuade him to
take twenty-five cents — but, no. I appealed to Mrs. White ;
she said the ' deacon hadn't ought to take more than the
horse and chaise was worth.' However, I induced him to
take eighteen and three-quarter cents, but he was uneasy
about it, and said he was afraid he was imposing on me.

" The next morning I was awakened at day-dawn — there
was a man, they said, who wanted to see me on pressing
business, and could not wait. I dressed in a hurry, won
dering what was the cause of the demand for college-
students. I went down, and there stood the deacon, look
ing as if his last hour were come. ' Mr. Abel,' he said, 'I
have passed a dreadful restless night, and I couldn't stand
it after the day broke — here's your six and a quarter cents
— I hadn't ought have charged you more than my usual
price.' I was angry at the old fellow for waking me up,
but I could not help laughing, too."

" ''Twas very ugly of you, Mr. Abel, to persuade me to
take so much,' said he ; ' you're Avelcome to the horse and
chaise whenever you want it, but twelve and a half cents
is my usual price.' '

"Now," said Mr. Hubbard, "he is like the Portuguese
devils ; when they are good, they are too good — I should
distrust that man."

"He is close to a farthing," said Abel, "but he is as
honest as the day. Why he has the reputation of a saint.

80 AUNT

Harriet says she wishes he wore a long-tailed coat instead
of a short jacket, so that she could hang on and get to
heaven that way."

« My sister saw Mrs. White not long ago, and compli
mented her on her new bonnet being so very becoming
to her. < Now I want to know !' said Mrs. White; 'why I
thought it made me look like a fright.'

« 'But what made you get a black one,' said Harriet,
« why did you not get a dark green or a brown one ?'

" 'Why, you see,' said Mrs. White, < the deacon's health
is a failin' ; he's dreadful low in the top knots lately, and I
thought as his time might come very soon, I might as well
get a black one while I was a getting. We're all born to
die, Mise Harriet; and the deacon is dwindlin' away.'"

The young men laughed, and Arthur said " What will he
do with his money? Mrs. White will not wear the black
bonnet long if she have twenty thousand dollars ; she can
buy a new bonnet and a new husband with that."

" No danger," said Abel, "Deacon White has made his
will, and has left his wife the interest of five thousand
dollars ; at her death the principal goes, as all the rest, to
aid some benevolent purpose.

" But there are the letters ; what a bundle for you,
Arthur ! That is the penalty of being engaged. Well I
must wait for the widow White, I guess she'll let me have
the use of the horse and chaise, at any rate."

Mr. Hubbard arose to go, and Arthur handed him his
newspaper. « That is a valuable document, sir, but there is
one still more so in your library here ; it is a paper pub
lished the same month and year of the Declaration of
Independence, in which are advertised in the New England
States negroes for sale ! Your fathers did not think we
were all born free and equal it appears."

"We have better views now-a-days, said Mr. Hubbard;
the Rev. Mr. H. has just returned from a tour in the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 81

Southern States, and he is to lecture to-night, won't you
go and hear him?"

« Thank you, no," said Arthur. "I have seen some of
this reverend gentleman's statements, and his friends
ought to advise him to drop the reverend for life. He
is a fit subject for an asylum, for I can't think a man in
his senses would lie so."

" He is considered a man of veracity," said Mr. Hub-
bard, " by those who have an opportunity of knowing his
character."

"Well, I differ from them," said Arthur, "and shall
deprive myself of the pleasure of hearing him. Good
evening, sir."

« Wouldn't he be a good subject for tar and feathers,
Arthur ? They'd stick, like grim death to a dead nigger,"
said Abel.

"He is really such a fool," said Arthur, "that I have
no patience with him ; but you take your usual nap, and I
will read my letters."

CHAPTER VII.

WE will go back to the last evening at Exeter, when we
left Mr. Weston to witness the result of Bacchus's attend
ance at the barbecue. There were other hearts busy in
the quiet night time. Alice, resisting the offers of her
maid to assist her in undressing, threw herself on a lounge
by the open window. The night air played with the cur
tains, and lifted the curls from her brow. Her bloom,
which of late had been changeful and delicate, had now
left her cheek, and languid and depressed she abandoned
herself to thought. So absorbed was she, that she was not
aware any one had entered the room, until her mother

82 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIX; OR,

stood near, gently reproving her for thus exposing her
self to the night air. « Do get up and go to bed," she
said. " Where is Martha ?"

"I did not want her," said Alice ; "and am now going
to bed myself. What has brought you here?"

" Because I felt anxious about you," said Mrs. Weston,
"and came, as I have often before, to be assured that you
were well and enjoying repose. I find you still up ; and
now, my daughter, there is a question I have feared to ask
you, but can no longer delay it. By all the love that is
between us, by the tie that should bind an only child to a
widowed mother, will you tell me what are the thoughts that
are oppressing you ? I have been anxious for your health,
but is there not more cause to fear for your happiness ?"

"I am well enough, dear mother," said Alice, with
some irritation of manner, "Do not concern yourself
about me. If you will go to bed, I will too."

"You cannot thus put me off," said Mrs. Weston.
" Alice, I charge you, as in the presence of God, to tell me
truly: do you love Walter Lee?"

" It would be strange if I did not," said Alice, in
a low voice. " Have we not always been as brother and
sister?"

" Not in that sense, Alice ; do not thus evade me. Do
you love him with an affection which should belong to your
cousin, to whom you are solemnly engaged, who has been
the companion of your childhood, and who is the son of
the best friend that God ever raised up to a widow and a
fatherless child?"

Alice turned her head away, and after a moment answer
ed, "Yes, I do, mother, and I 'cannot help it." But on
turning to look at her mother, she was shocked at the ex
pression of agony displayed on her countenance. Her
hand was pressed tightly over her heart, her lips quivered,
and her whole person trembled. It was dreadful to see her
thus agitated ; and Alice, throwing her arms around her

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 83

mother exclaimed, "What is it, dearest mother? Do not
look so deathlike. I cannot bear to see you so."

Oh! they speak falsely who say the certainty of evil
can be better borne than suspense. Watcher by the couch
of suffering, sayest thou so ? Now thou knowest there is
no hope, thy darling must be given up. There is no mis
taking that failing pulse, and that up-turned eye. A few
hours ago, there was suspense, but there was hope ; death
was feared, but not expected ; his arm was outstretched,
but the blow was not descending; now, there is no hope.

Mrs. Weston had long feared that all was not well with
Alice — that while her promise was given to one, her heart
had wandered to another ; yet she dreaded to meet the
appalling certainty ; now with her there is no hope. The
keen anguish with which she contended was evident to her
daughter, who was affrighted at her mother's appearance.
So much so, that for the first time for months she entirely
forgot the secret she had been hiding in her heart. The
young in their first sorrow dream there are none like their
own. It is not until time and many cares have bowed us
to the earth, that we look around, beholding those who
have suffered more deeply than ourselves.

Accustomed to self-control, Mrs. Weston was not long
in recovering herself; taking her daughter's hand within
her own, and looking up in her fair face, "Alice," she
said, " you listened with an unusual interest to the details
of suffering of one whom you never saw. I mean Walter
Lee's mother; she died. I can tell you of one who has
suffered, and lived.

"It is late, and I fear to detain you from your rest, but
something impels me that I cannot resist. Listen, then,
while I talk to you of myself. You are as yet almost un
acquainted with your mother's history."

"Another time, mother; you are not well now," said
Alice.

" Yes, my love, now. You were born in the same house

84 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

that I was ; yet your infancy only was passed where I lived
until my marriage. I was motherless at an early age ; in
deed, one of the first remembrances that I recall is the bright
and glowing summer evening when my mother was carried
from our plantation on James River to the opposite shore,
where was our family burial-ground. Can I ever forget
my father's uncontrolled grief, and the sorrow of the ser
vants, as they followed, dressed in the deepest mourning.
I was terrified at the solemn and dark-looking bier, the
black plumes that waved over it, and all the dread accom
paniments of death. I remember but little for years after
this, save the continued gloom of my father, and his con
stant affection and indulgence toward me, and occasionally
varying our quiet life by a visit to Richmond or Washing
ton.

« My father was a sincere and practical Christian. He
was averse to parting with me ; declaring, the only solace
he had was in directing my education, and being assured
of my happiness.

"My governess was an accomplished and amiable lady,
but she was too kind and yielding. I have always retained
the most grateful remembrance of her care. Thus, though
surrounded by good influences, I needed restraint, where
there was so much indulgence. I have sometimes ventured
to excuse myself on the ground that I was not taught that
most necessary of all lessons : the power of governing my
self. The giving up of my own will to the matured judg
ment of others.

« The part of my life that I wish to bring before you
now, is the year previous to my marriage. Never had I
received an ungentle word from my father ; never in all
my waywardness and selfwill did he harshly reprove me.
He steadily endeavored to impress on my mind a sense
of the constant presence of God. He would often say,
< Every moment, every hour of our lives, places its impress
on our condition in eternity. Live, then, as did your

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 85

mother, in a state of waiting and preparation for that ac
count which we must all surely give for the talents entrusted
to our care.' Did I heed his advice ? You will hardly
believe me, Alice, when I tell you how I repaid his tender
ness. I was the cause of his death."

« It could never be, mother," said Alice, weeping, when
she saw the tears forcing their way down her mother's
cheek. "You are excited and distressed now. Do not
tell me any more to-night, and forget what I told you."

Mrs. Weston hardly seemed to hear her. After a pause
of a few moments, she proceeded :

" It was so, indeed. I, his only child, was the cause of
his death ; I, his cherished and beloved daughter, committed
an act that broke his he^art, and laid the foundation of
sorrows for me, that I fear will only end with my life.

"Alice, I read not long since of a son, the veriest wretch
on earth ; he was unwilling to grant his poor aged father
a subsistence from his abundance ; he embittered the fail
ing years of his life by unkindness and reproaches. One
day, after an altercation between them, the son seized his
father by his thin, white hair, and dragged him to the
corner of the street. Here, the father in trembling tones
implored his pity. < Stop, oh ! stop, my son,' he said, 'for I
dragged my father here. God has punished me in your sin.'

"Alice, can you not see the hand of a just God in this
retribution, and do you wonder, when you made this ac
knowledgment to me to-night, the agony of death over
came me ? I thought, as I felt His hand laid heavily upon
me, my punishment was greater than I could beaf ; my
sin would be punished in your sorrow ; and naught but
sorrow would be your portion as the wife of Walter Lee.

" Do not interrupt me, it is time we were asleep, but I
shall soon have finished what I have to say. My father
and Mr. Weston were friends in early life, and I was thrown
into frequent companionship with my husband, from the
time when we were very young. His appearance, his

86 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR.

talents, his unvaried gayety of disposition won my regard.
For a time, the excess of dissipation in which he indulged
was unknown to us, but on our return to Virginia after an
absence of some months in England, it could no longer be
concealed. His own father joined with mine in prohibit
ing all intercourse between us. For a time his family con
sidered him as lost to them and to himself; he was utterly
regardless of aught save what contributed to his own plea
sures. I only mention this to excuse my father in your
eyes, should you conclude he was too harsh in the course
he insisted I should pursue. He forbade him the house,
and refused to allow any correspondence between us ; at
the same time he promised that if he would perfectly re
form from the life he was leading, at the end of two years
he would permit the marriage. I promised in return to
bind myself to these conditions. Will you believe it, that
seated on my mother's grave, with my head upon my kind
father's breast, I vowed, that as I hoped for Heaven I would
never break my promise, never see him again, without
my father's permission, until the expiration of this period ;
and yet I did break it. I have nearly done. I left home
secretly. I was married ; and I never saw my father's
face again. The shock of my disobedience was too hard
for him to bear. He died, and in vain have I sought a
place of repentance, though I sought it with tears.

" I have suffered much ; but though I cannot conceal from
you that your father threw away the best portion of his life,
his death was not without hope. I cling to the trust that
his sins were washed away, and his soul made clean in the
blood of the Saviour. Then, by the memory of all that I
suffered, and of that father whose features you bear, whose
dying words gave testimony to my faithfulness and affec
tion to him, I conjure you to conquer this unfortunate
passion, which, if yielded to, will end in your unceasing
misery.

« There was little of my large fortune left at your father's

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 87

death; we have been almost dependant on your uncle.
Yet it has not been dependance ; he is too generous to let
us feel that. On your father's death-bed, he was all in
all to him — never leaving him ; inducing him to turn his
thoughts to the future opening before him. He taught me
where to look for comfort, and bore with me when in my
impatient grief I refused to seek it. He took you, then
almost an infant, to his heart, has cherished you as his
own, and now looks forward to the happiness of seeing you
his son's wife; will you so cruelly disappoint him?"

" I will do whatever you ask me, dear mother," said
Alice. " I will never see Walter again, if that will con
tent you. I have already told him that I can never be to
him more than I have always been — a sister. Yet I can
not help loving him."

" Cannot help loving a man whose very birth is attended
with shame," said Mrs. Weston; "whose passions are un
governable, who has already treated with the basest ingra
titude his kindest friends ? Have you so little pride ? I
will not reproach you, my darling ; promise me you will
never see Walter again, after to-morrow, without my know
ledge. I can trust you. Oh ! give up forever the thought
of being his wife, if ever you have entertained it. Time will
show you the justice of my fears, and time will bring back
your old feelings for Arthur, and we shall be happy again."

"I will make you the promise," said Alice, "and I will
keep it ; but I will not deceive Arthur. Ungrateful as I
may appear, he shall know all. He will then love some
one more worthy of him than I am."

"Let us leave the future in the hands of an unerring

Q

God, my Alice. Each one must bear her burden, I would
gladly bear yours ; but it may not be. Forget all this for
a while; let me sleep by you to-night."

Alice could not but be soothed by the gentle tone, and
dear caress. Oh, blessed tie ! uniting mother and child.
Earth cannot, and Heaven will not break it.

88 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER VIII. .

As absurd would it be for one of the small unsettled
stars, for whose pla'ce and wanderings we care not, to usurp
the track of the Queen of night or of the God of day, as
for an unpretending writer to go over ground that has
been trodden by the master minds of the age. It was in
the olden time that Cooper described a dinner party in all
its formal, but hospitable perfection. Washington was a
guest there, too, though an unacknowledged one ; we can
not introduce him at Exeter, yet I could bring forward
there, more than one who knew him well, valuing him
not only as a member of society and a hero, but as the
man chosen by God for a great purpose. Besides, I would

introduce to my readers, some of the residents of L .

I would let them into the very heart of Virginia life ; and,
although I cannot arrogate to it any claims for superiority
over other conditions of society, among people of the
same class in life, yet, at least, I will not allow an infe
riority. As variety is the spice of society, I will show
them, that here are many men of many minds.

Mark, was a famous waiter, almost equal to Bacchus,
who was head man, on such occasions. They were in
their elements at a dinner party, and the sideboard, and
tables, on such an occasion, were in their holiday attire.
A strong arm, a hard brush, and plenty of beeswax,
banished all appearance of use, and the old servants
thought that every article in the room looked as bright
and handsome as on the occasion of their young mistress'
first presiding at her table. The blinds of the windows
looking south, were partly open; the branches of the
Temon-tree, and the tendrils of the white-jessamine, as-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 89

sisted in shading the apartment, making it fragrant too.
The bird-cages were hung among the branches of the
flowers, and the little prisoners sang as if they had, at last,
found a way of escape to -their native woods ; old-fash
ioned silver glittered on the sideboard, the large china
punch-bowl maintaining its position in the centre.

William had gone to the drawing-room to announce the
important intelligence, "Dinner is ready!" and Bacchus
looked around the room for the last time, to see that
every thing was, as it should be, snuffing up the rich
fumes of the soup as it escaped from the sides of the silver-
covered tureen. He- perceived that one of the salt-cellars
was rather near the corner of the table, and had only
time to rearrange it, when William threw open the doors.
The company entered, and with some delay and formality
took their places. We need not wait until the Rev. Mr.
Aldie says grace, though that would not detain us long ; for
the Rev. Mr. Aldie, besides being very hungry, has a great
deal of tact, and believes in short prayers ; nor will we
delay to witness the breaking down of the strongholds of
precision and ultra propriety, that almost always solemn
izes the commencement of an entertainment; but the old
Madeira having been passed around, we will listen to the
conversation that is going on from different parts of the
table.

"We have outlived, sir," said Mr. Chapman, addressing
a northern gentleman present, "we have outlived the first
and greatest era of our country. Its infancy was its
greatest era. The* spirit of Washington still breathes
among us. One or two of us here have conversed with
him, sat at his table, taken him by the hand. It is too
soon for the great principles that animated his whole career
to have passed from our memory. I am not a very old
man, gentlemen and ladies, yet it seems to me a great
while since the day of Washington's funeral. My father
called me and my brothers to him, and while our mother

8*

90 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

was fastening a band of black crape around our hats, « My
boys,' said he, <you have seen the best days of this re
public.' It is so, for as much as the United States has
increased in size, and power, and wealth, since then, dif
ferent interests are dividing her."

" Was Washington a cheerful man ?" asked an English
gentleman who was present, " I have heard that he never
laughed. Is it so ?"

Miss Janet, who was considered a kind of oracle when
personal memories of Washington were concerned, an
swered after a moment's pause, " I have seen him smile
often, I never saw him laugh but once. He rode over,
one afternoon, to see a relative with whom I was staying ;
it was a dark, cloudy day, in November ; a brisk wood
fire was very agreeable. After some little conversation
on ordinary topics, the gentlemen discussed the politics
of the times, Washington saying little, but listening
attentively to others.

" The door opened suddenly, and a son of my relative
entered, in a noisy bustling manner. Passing the gentle
men with a nod, he turned his back to the fire, putting
his hands behind him. « Father,' said he, scarcely wait
ing until the sentence that General Washington was utter
ing, was finished, « what do you think ? Uncle Jack and
I shot a duck in the head !' He deserved a reproof for
his forwardness ; but Washington joined the rest in a
laugh, no doubt amused at the estimation in which the
youth held himself and Uncle Jack. The two together,
killed a duck, and the boy was boasting of it in the pre
sence of the greatest man the world ever produced. The
poor fellow left the room, and for a time his sporting
talents were joked about more than he liked."

After the ladies retired, Mr. Selden proposed the health
of the amiable George Washington.

" Good heavens ! sir," said Mr. Chapman, the veins in
his temples swelling, and his whole frame glowing with

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 91

vexation, « what is that you say ? Did ever any one hear
of a soldier being amiable ? No, sir, I will give you a
toast that was drank just before the death of the greatest
and best of men. I picked up an old newspaper, and laid
it aside in my secretary. In it I read a toast worth
giving. Fill high, gentlemen — ' The man who forgets
the services of George Washington, may he be forgotten
by his country and his God.' '

Mr. Selden, who possessed in a remarkable degree the
amiableness that he had ascribed to another, swallowed
the wine and approved the toast. Mr. Chapman was some
time recovering his composure.

"You intend to leave Virginia very soon, Mr. Lee,"
said Mr. Kent, addressing Walter.

"Very soon, sir," Walter replied.

"Where shall you go first ?" asked Mr. Kent.

"I have not decided on any course of travel," said
Walter. "I shall, perhaps, wander toward Germany."

"We will drink your health, then," said Mr. Westori.

" A pleasant tour, Walter, and a safe return."

# * # * # *

"You are from Connecticut, I believe, Mr. Perkins?"
said Mr. Barbour, " but as you are not an Abolitionist, I
suppose it will not be uncourteous to discuss the subject
before you. I have in my memorandum book a copy of a
law of your State, which was in existence at one time,
and which refers to what we have been conversing about.
It supports the Fugitive Slave Law, in prospect. At that
time you New Englanders held not only negro, but Indian
slaves. Let me read this, gentleman. « Be it enacted by
the Governor, Council, and Representatives, in General
Court assembled, and by the authority of the same, that
whatsoever negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or servants,
shall be wandering out of the bounds of the town or place
to which they belong, without a ticket or pass, in writing,
under the hand of some Assistant or Justice of the Peace,

92 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

or under the hand of the master or owner of such negro,
mulatto, or Indian servant or servants, shall be deemed
and accounted as runaways, and may be treated as such.
And every person inhabiting in this colony, finding or
meeting with any such negro, mulatto, or Indian servant
or servants not having a ticket as aforesaid, is hereby em
powered to seize and secure him or them, and bring him
or them before the next authority, to be examined and re
turned to his or their master or owner, who shall satisfy
the charge accruing thereby.

" < And all ferrymen within the colony are hereby re
quested not to suffer any Indian, mulatto, or negro ser
vant without certificate as aforesaid, to pass over their
respective ferries by assisting them, directly or indirectly,
on the penalty of paying a fine of twenty shillings for
every such offence, to the owner of such servants.' In
the same act," continued Mr. Barbour, "a free person
who receives any property, large or small, from a slave,
without an order from his master, must either make full
restitution or be openly whipped with so many stripes, (not
exceeding twenty.)"

"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, who was an im
petuous old gentleman, " don't you see those Yankees
were close enough in taking care of their own slaves, and
if they could have raised sugar and cotton, or had deemed
it to their advantage to be slaveholders to this day, they'd
have had a Fugitive Slave Law long before this. A
Daniel would have come to judgment sooner even than
the immortal Daniel "Webster."

"Wait a moment, my dear sir," said Mr. Barbour.
" Another paragraph of the same act provides, ' that if
any negro, mulatto, or Indian servant or slave, shall be
found abroad from home, in the night season, after nine
o'clock, without a special order from his or their master or
mistress, it shall be lawful for any person or persons to
apprehend and secure such negro, mulatto, or Indian ser-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 93

vant or slave, so offending, and him, her, or them, bring
before the next assistant or justice of the peace, which au
thority shall have full power to pass sentence upon such
servant or slave, and order him, her, or them, to be
publicly whipped on the naked body, not exceeding ten
stripes, &c.' '

"Pretty tight laws you had, sir," said Mr. Chapman,
addressing Mr. Perkins. " A woman could be picked up
and whipped, at the report of any body, o-n the naked
body. Why, sir, if we had such laws here, it would be
whipping all the time, (provided so infamous a law could
be carried into execution.) There is one thing certain,
you made the most of slavery while you had it."

"But we have repented of all our misdeeds," said Mr.
Perkins, good-humouredly.

"Yes," said Mr. Chapman, "like the boy that stole a
penny, and when he found it wouldn't buy the jack-knife
he wanted, he repented, and carried it to the owner."

" But you must remember the times, my dear sir," said
Mr. Perkins.

"I do, I do, sir," said Mr. Chapman. "The very time
that you had come for freedom yourself, you kidnapped
the noble sons of the soil, and made menials of them. I
wonder the ground did not cry out against you. Now we
have been left with the curse of slavery upon us, (for it is
in some respects a curse on the negro and the white man,)
and God may see fit to remove it from us. But why don't the
Abolitionists buy our slaves, and send them to Liberia?"

"That would be against their principles," said Mr.
Perkins.

"Excuse me, sir," said Mr. Chapman, "but d — n their
principles ; it is against their pockets. Why don't those
who write Abolition books, give the profits to purchase
some of these poor wretches who are whipped to death,
and starved to death, and given to the flies to eat up, and
burned alive; then I would believe in their principles, or

94 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

at least in their sincerity. But now the- fear is for their
pockets. I am a poor man. I own a few slaves, and I
will sell them to any Northern man or woman at half-price
for what I could get from a trader, and they may send
them to Liberia. Lord ! sir, they'd as soon think of buy
ing the d — 1 himself. You must excuse my strong lan
guage, but this subject irritates me. Not long ago, I was
in the upper part of the State of New York, looking about
me, for I do look about me wherever I am. One morning
I got up early, and walked toward the new railroad that
they were constructing in the neighborhood. I chanced to
get to the spot just in time to see a little fracas between a
stout, burly Irishman, and the superintendent of the party.

" <I thought, be Jasus,' said the Irishman, just as I ap
proached near enough to hear what was going on, « that a
man could see himself righted in a free country.'

"'Go to your work,' said the superintendent, < and if
you say another word about it, I'll knock you over.'

" < Is it you'll knock me over, you will,' began the Irish
man.

« He was over in a moment. The superintendent, sir,
gave him a blow between the eyes, with a fist that was hard
as iron. The man staggered, and fell. I helped him up, sir ;
and I reckon he thought matters might be worse still, for
he slowly walked off.

« <D d free country,' he muttered to me, in a kind

of confidential tone. « I thought they only knocked nig
gers over in Ameriky. Be me soul, but I'll go back to
Ireland.'

"I could not help expressing my astonishment to the
superintendent, repeating the Irishman's words, < I thought
only niggers could be knocked over in this country.'

"'Niggers!' said the superintendent, 'I guess if you
had to deal with Irishmen, you'd find yourself obliged to
knock 'em down.'

« 'But don't the laws protect them?' I asked.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 95

! why railroads have to be made, and have to be
made the right way. I aint afraid of the laws. I think
no more of knocking an Irishman over, sir, than I do of
eating my dinner. One is as necessary as the other.'

"Now," continued Mr. Chapman, "if an Abolitionist
sees a slave knocked over, he runs home to tell his mammy;
it's enough to bring fire and brimstone, and hail, and earth
quakes on the whole country. A man must have a black
skin or his sorrows can never reach the hearts of these
gentlemen. They had better look about at home. There is
wrong enough there to make a fuss about."

"Well," said the Englishman, "you had both better
come back to the mother country. The beautiful words,
so often quoted, of Curran, may invite you : < No matter
with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the
altar of slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of
Britain, the altar and the God sink together in the dust,
and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled,
by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation.' '

" Thank you, sir, for your invitation," said Mr. Chap
man, "but I'll stay in Virginia. The old State is good
enough for me. I have been to England, and I saw some
of your redeemed, regenerated, disenthralled people — I
saw features on women's faces that haunted me afterward
in my dreams. I saw children with shrivelled, attenuated
limbs, and countenances that were old in misery and vice
— such men, women, and children* as Dickens and Char
lotte Elizabeth tell about. My little grand-daughter was
recovering from a severe illness, not long ago, and I found
her weeping in her old nurse's arms. < 0 ! grandpa,
said she, as I inquired the cause of her distress, < I have
been reading « The Little Pin-headers." ' I wept over it
too, for it was true. No, sir ; if I must see slavery, let me
see it in its best form, as it exists in our Southern
country."

"You are right, sir, I fear," said the Englishman.

96 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

" Well," said Mr. Perkins, " I am glad I am not a slave
holder, for one reason ; I am sure I should never get to
heaven. I should be knocking brains out from morning
till night, that is if there are brains under all that mass
of wool. Why, they are so slow, and inactive — I should
be stumbling over them all the time ; though from the speci
mens I have seen in your house, sir, I should say they
made most agreeable servants."

"My servants are very faithful," said Mr. Weston,
" they have had great pains taken with them. I rarely
have any complaints from the overseer."

"Your overseers, — that is the worst feature in slavery,"
said Mr. Perkins.

" Why, sir," said Mr. Chapman, ready for another argu
ment, "you have your superintendents at the North — and
they can knock their people down whenever the^ see fit."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Perkins. "I had
forgotten that."

« Stay a little while with us," said Mr. Chapman, as
Mr. Weston rose to lead the way to the drawing-room.
« You will not find us so bad as you think. We may roast
a negro now and then, when we have a barbecue, but that
will be our way of showing you hospitality. You must re
member we are only 'poor heathenish Southerners,' ac
cording to the best received opinions of some who live with

you in New England."

* ******

"Alice," said Mrs. Weston, at a late hour in the even
ing, when the last of the guests were taking their de
parture, "Walter would like to see you in the library; but,
my love, I wish you would spare yourself and him the
useless pain of parting."

"I must see him, dear mother, do not refuse me; it is
for the last time — pray, let me go."

"If you choose," and Alice glided away as her mother
was interrupted by the leave-taking of some of their visi-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 97

tors. The forms, the courtesies of life had no claims upon
her now — she was enduring her first sorrow ; the foundation
of youth's slight fabric of happiness was yielding beneath
her touch. The dread "nevermore," that Edgar Poe could
not drive from his heart and sight, was oppressing her.
She sought him before whom her young heart had bowed,
not the less devotedly and humbly that it was silently and
secretly. It was to be a bitter parting, not as when she
watched to the last Arthur Weston, who was dear to her as
ever was brother to a sister, for they had the promise and
hope of meeting again ; but now there was no tear in her
eye, no trembling in her frame, and no hope in her heart.
From the utmost depth of her soul arose the prophetic
voice, "Thou shalt see him no more."

"Alice," said Walter, taking her hand between both of
his, and gazing at her face, as pale and sad as his own,
"it is your mother's wish that from this time we should
be strangers to each other, even loving as we do ; that our
paths on earth should separate, never to meet again. Is
it your wish too?"

"We must part; you know it, Walter," said Alice, mus
ingly, looking out upon, but not seeing the calm river, and
the stars that gazed upon its waves, and all the solemn
beauty with which night had invested herself.

" But you love me, Alice; and will you see me go from
you forever, without hope ? Will you yourself speak the
word that sends me forth a wanderer upon the earth ?"
said Walter.

"What can I do ?" said Alice.

" Choose, Alice, your own destiny, and fix mine."

" Walter, I cannot leave my mother ; I would die a^thou-
sand times rather than bring such sorrow upon her who
has known so much. My uncle, too — my more than fa
ther — oh ! Walter, I have sinned, and I suffer."

"You are wise, Alice ; you have chosen well; you cling
to mother, and home, and friends ; I have none of these

9

98 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

ties ; there is not upon earth a being so utterly friendless
as I am."

"Dear Walter, you have friends, and you can make
them ; you have wealth, talent, and many gifts from God.
Go forth into the "world and use them. Let your noble
heart take courage; and in assisting others and making
them happy, you will soon be happy yourself."

Walter looked at her with surprise : such words were
unlike her, whom he had been accustomed to consider a
loving and lovely child. But a bitter smile passed over
his countenance, and in a stern voice he said, "And .you,
Alice, what are you to do?"

" God alone knows," said Alice, forced into a considera
tion of her own sorrow, and resting against a lounge near
which she had been standing. She wept bitterly. Waiter
did not attempt to restrain her, but stood as if contem
plating a grief that he could not wish to control. Alice
again spoke, " It must come, dear Walter, first or last,
and we may as well speak the farewell which must be
spoken — but I could endure my part, if I had the hope
that you will be happy. Will you promise me you will try
to be?"

"No, Alice, I cannot promise you that; if happiness
were in our own power, I would not be looking on you,
whom I have loved all my life, for the last time.

"But I will hope," he continued, "you may be fortunate
enough to forget and be happy."

"Children," said Miss Janet — for she had gently ap
proached them — " do you know when and where happiness
is to be found? When we have done all that God has
given us to do here ; and in the heaven, above those stars
that are now looking down upon you. Look upon Alice,
Walter, with the hope of meeting again ; and until then,
let the remembrance of her beauty and her love be ever
about you. Let her hear of you as one who deserves tho
pure affection of her young and trusting heart. You have

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS.

lived as brother and sister ; part as suck, and may the
blessing of God be upon both of you forever."

Walter took Alice in his arms, and kissed her cheek;
all sternness and pride had gone from his handsome face,
but there was such a look of hopeless sorrow there, as we
would not willingly behold on the countenance of one so
young.

Cousin Janet led him away, and with words of solemn,
deep affection, bade him farewell — words that came again,
for a time, unheeded and unwelcomed — words that at the
last brought hope and peace to a fainting heart.

Cousin Janet returned to Alice, whose face lay hidden
within her hands: "Alice, darling," she said, "look up —
God is here ; forget your own grief, and think of one who
suffered, and who feels for all who, like Him, must bear the
burden of mortality. Think of your many blessings, and
how grateful you should feel for them; think of your
mother, who for years wept as~ you, I trust, may never
weep ; think of your kind uncle, who would die to save you
an hour's pain. Trust the future, with all its fears, to
God, and peace will come with the very effort to attain it."

" Oh, Cousin Janet," said Alice, « if Walter were not
so lonely ; he knows not where he is going, nor what he
is going to do."

"It is true," said Cousin Janet, weeping too; "but we
can hope, and trust, and pray. And now, my love, let us
join your mother in her room ; it is a sad parting for her,
too, for Walter is dear to us all."

Reader ! have so many years passed away, that thou
hast forgotten the bitterness of thy first sorrow, or is it
yet to come ? Thinkest thou there is a way of escape —
none, unless thou art young, and Death interpose,- saving
thee from all sadness, and writing on thy grave, " Do not
weep for me, thou knowest not how much of sorrow this
early tomb has saved me."

100 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OB,

When were thy first thoughts of death ? I do not mean
the sight of the coffin, the pall, or any of its sad accom
paniments, but the time when the mind first arrested it
self with the melancholy convictions of mortality. There
was a holiday for me in my young days, to which I looked
forward as the Mohammedan to his Paradise ; this was a
visit to a country-place, where I revelled in the breath of
the woodbines and sweetbriers, and where I sat under tall
and spreading trees, and wondered why towns and cities
were ever built. The great willows swept the windows of
the chamber where I slept, and faces with faded eyes
looked upon me from their old frames, by the moonlight,
as I fell asleep, after the day's enjoyment. I never tired
of wandering through the gardens, where were -roses and
sweet-williams, hyacinths and honeysuckles, and flowers
of every shape and hue. This was the fairy spot of my
recollection, for even childhood has its cares, and there
were memories of little griefs, which time has never chased
away. There I used to meet two children, who often
roamed through the near woods with me. I do not re
member their ages nor their names ; they were younger
though than I. They might not have been beautiful, but
I recollect the bright eyes, and that downy velvet hue that
is only found on the soft cheek of infancy.

Summer came; and when I went again, I found the
clematis sweeping the garden walks, and the lilies-of-the-
valley bending under the weight of their own beauty. So
we walked along, I and an old servant, stopping to enter
an arbor, or to raise the head of a drooping plant, or to
pluck a sweet-scented shrub, and place it in my bosom.
" Where are the little girls ?" I asked. " Have they come
again, too?"

" Yes, they are here," she said, as we approached two
little mounds, covered over with the dark-green myrtle
and its purple flowers.

« What is here?"

SOUTHERN LI^E AS IT IS. 101

« Child, here are the little ones you asked for."

Oh ! those little myrtle-covered graves, how wonder-
ingly I gazed upon them. There was no thought of death
mingled with my meditation ; there was, of quiet and re
pose, but not of death. I had seen no sickness, no suffer
ing, and I only wondered why those fair children had laid
down under the myrtle. I fancied them with the fringed
eyelids drooping over the cheeks, and the velvet hue still
there. How much did I know of death ? As little as of life !

Time passed with me, and I saw the sorrows of others.
Sometimes I thought of the myrtle-covered graves, and the
children that slept beneath. Oh ! how quiet they must be,
they utter no cry, they shed no tears.

Time passed, and an angel slept in my bosom, close to
my heart. Need I say that I was happy when she nestled
there? that her voice was music to my soul, and her smile
the very presence of beauty ? Need I say it wras joy when
she called me, Mother ? Then I lived for the present ; all
the sorrow that I had seen around me, was forgotten.

God called that angel to her native heaven, and I wept.
Now was the mystery of the myrtle-covered graves open
before my sight. I had seen the going forth of a little
life that was part of. my own, I remembered the hard sighs
that convulsed that infant breast. I knew that the grave
was meant to hide from us, silence and pallor, desolation
and decay. I was in the world, no longer a garden of
flowers, where I sought from under the myrtle for the
bright eyes and the velvet cheeks. I was in the world,
and death was there too ; it was by my side. I gave my
darling to the earth, and felt for myself the bitterness of
tears.

Thus must it ever be — by actual suffering must the
young be persuaded of the struggle that is before them —
well is it when there is one to say, « God is here."

9*

102 AUKT F.HILL7S'S CABIN; OK,

CHAPTER IX.

WE must bring Uncle Bacchus's wife before our read
ers. She is a tall, dignified, bright mulatto woman, named
Phillis ; it is with the qualities of her heart and mind,
rather than her appearance, that we have to do. Bayard
Taylor, writing from Nubia, in Upper Egypt, says: —
" Those friends of the African race, who point to Egypt
as a proof of what that race has done, are wholly mistaken.
The only negro features represented in Egyptian sculpture
are those of the slaves and captives taken in the Ethiopian
wars of the Pharaohs. The temples and pyramids through
out Nubia, as far as Abyssinia, all bear the hieroglyphics
of these monarchs. There is no evidence in all the valley
of the Nile that the negro race ever attained a higher de
gree of civilization than is at present exhibited in Congo
and Ashantee. I mention this, not from any feeling hos
tile to that race, but simply to controvert an opinion very
prevalent in some parts of the United States."

It seemed impossible to know Phillis without feeling for
her sentiments of the highest respect. The blood of the
freeman and the slave mingled in her veins ; her well-
regulated mind slowly advanced to a conclusion ; but once
made, she rarely changed it.

Phillis would have been truly happy to have obtained
her own freedom, and that of her husband and children :
she scorned the idea of running away, or of obtaining it
otherwise than as a gift from her owner. She was a firm
believer in the Bible, and of^n pondered on the words of
the angel, "Return and submit thyself to thy mistress."
She had on one occasion accompanied her master and Mrs.
Weston to the North, where she was soon found out by
some of that disinterested class of individuals called Abo-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 103

litionists. In reply to the question, "Are you free?"
there was but a moment's hesitation ; her pride of heart
gave way to her inherent love of truth, "I'll tell no lie,"
she answered; "I am a slave!"

"Why do you not take your freedom?" was the rejoin
der. " You are in a free state ; they cannot force you to the
South, if you will take the offers we make you, and leave
your master."

"You are Abolitionists, I 'spose?" asked Phillis.

"We are," they said, "and we will help you off."

"I want none of your help," said Phillis. "My husband
and children are at home ; but if they wasn't, I am an
honest woman, and am not in the habit of taking any thing.
I'll never take my freedom. If my master would give it
to me, and the rest of us, I should be thankful. I am not
going to begin stealing, and I fifty years of age."

An eye-witness described the straightening of her tall
figure, and the indignant flashing of her eye, also the dis
comfited looks of her northern friends.

I have somewhere read of a fable of Iceland. According
to it, lost souls are to be parched in the burning heat of
Hecla, and then cast for ever to cool in its never-thawing
snows. Although Phillis could not have quoted this, her
opinions would have applied it. For some reason, it was
evident to her mind (for she had been well instructed in
the Bible) that slavery was from the first ordained as a
curse. It might, to her high spirit, have been like burning
in the bosom of Hecla ; but taking refuge among Abolition
ists was, from the many instances that had come to her
knowledge, like cooling in its never-thawing snows.

At the time that we introduced her to the reader, she
was the mother of twelve, children. Some were quite
young, but a number of them were grown, and all of them,
with the exception of one, (the namesake of his father,)
inherited their mother's energy of character. She had
accustomed them to constant industry, and unqualified

104 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

obedience to her directions ; and for this reason, no one
had found it necessary to interfere in their management.

Pride was a large ingredient in Phillis's composition.
Although her husband presented one of the blackest visages
the sun ever shone upon, Phillis appeared to hold in small
esteem the ordinary servants on the plantation. She was
constantly chiding her children for using their expressions,
and tried to keep them in the house with white people as
much as possible, that they might acquire good manners.
It was quite a grief to her that Bacchus had not a more gen
teel dialect than the one he used. She had a great deal
of family pride; there was a difference in her mind be
tween family servants and those employed in field labor.
For "the quality" she had the highest respect; for "poor
wrhite people" only a feeling of pity. She had some
noble qualities, and some great weaknesses; but as a
slave ! we present her to the reader, and she must be viewed
as such.

Miss Janet was, in her eyes, perfection. Her children
were all the better for her kind instructions. Her youngest
child, Lydia, a girl of six or seven years old, followed the
old lady everywhere, carrying her key and knitting-bas
ket, looking for her spectacles, and maintaining short con
versations in a confidential tone.

/ One of Phillis's chiefest virtues was, that she had been
able to bring Bacchus into subjection, with the exception
of his love for an occasional spree, f Spoiled by an indul
gent master, his conceit and.wilfulness had made him un
popular with the servants, though his high tone of speak
ing, and a certain pretension in his manner and dress, was
not without its effect. He was a sort of paj/rjarch among
waiters and carriage-drivers ; could tell anecdotes of din
ners where Washington was a guest ; and had been, fami
liar with certain titled people from abroad, whose shoes he
had had the honor of polishing. The only person in whose
presence he restrained his braggadocio style was Phillis.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 105

Her utter contempt for nonsense was too evident. Bac
chus was the same size as his master, and often fell heir
to his cast-off clothes. A blue dress-coat and buff vest
that he thus inherited, had a great effect upon him, bodily
and spiritually. Not only did he swagger more when
arrayed in them, but his prayers and singing were doubly
effective. He secretly prided himself on a likeness to Mr.
Weston, but this must have been from a confusion of mind
into which he was thrown, by constantly associating him
self with Mr. Weston's coats and pantaloons.

He once said to Phillis, " You might know master was
a born gentleman by de way his clothes fits. Dey don't
hang about him, but dey 'pears as if dey had grow'd about
Trim by degrees ; and if you notice, dey fits me in de same
way. Pity I can't wear his shoes, dey's so soft, and dey
don't creak. I hates boots and shoes all time creakin, its
so like poor white folks when they get dressed up on Sun
day. I wonders often Miss Anna don't send me none of
master's old ruffled shirts. 'Spose she thinks a servant
oughtn't to wear 'em. I was a wishin last Sunday, when I
gin in my 'sperience in meetin, that I had one of master's
old ruffled shirts on. I know I could a 'scoursed them nig
gers powerful. Its a hard thing to wear a ruffled shirt.
Dey sticks out and pushes up to people's chins — I mean
people dat aint born to wear 'em. Master wears 'em as if
he was born in 'em, and I could too. I wish you'd put
Miss Janet up to gittin one or two for me. Miss Janet's
mighty 'bliging for an ole maid ; 'pears as if she liked to
see even cats happy. When an ole maid don't hate cats,
there aint nothin to be feared from 5em."

Phillis ruled her husband in most things, but she in
dulged him in all his whims that were innocent. She de
termined he should have, not an old ruffled shirt, but a new
one. She reported the case to Miss Janet, who set two of
her girls to work, and by Saturday night the shirt was
made and done up, and plaited. Bacchus was to be plea-

106 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

santly surprised by it next morning appearing on the top
of his chest.

It happened that on this identical Sunday, Bacchus had
(as the best of men will sometimes) got up wrong foot fore
most, and not having taken the trouble to go back to bed,
and get up again, putting the right foot out first, he con
tinued in the same unhappy state of mind. He made, as
was his wont, a hasty toilet before breakfast. He wore an
old shirt, and a pair of pantaloons that did not reach much
above his hips. One of his slippers had no instep ; the
other was without a heel. His grizzly beard made him
look like a wild man of the woods ; a certain sardonic ex
pression of countenance* contributed to this effect. He
planted his chair on its remaining hind leg at the cabin
door, and commenced a systematic strain of grumbling be
fore he was fairly seated in it.

"I believe in my soul," Phillis heard him say, "dat ole
Aunt Peggy al'ars gits up WTong on a Sabbath mornin.
Will any one hear her coughin ? My narves is racked a
listenin to her. I don't see what she wants to live for,
and she most a hundred. I believe its purpose to bother
me, Sabbath mornins. Here, Phillis, who's this bin here,
diggin up my sweet-williams I planted? — cuss dese chil
dren — ' '

" The children had nothing to do with it," said Phillis.
" Master wanted some roots to give to Mr. Kent and he
asked me for 'em. I dug 'em up and they're all the bet
ter for being thinned out."

" I wish master 'd mind his own business, and not be
pryin and pilferin 'bout other people's gardens; givin my
flowers to that yallow-headed Abolitioner. I'll speak my
mind to him about it, any how."

"You'd better," said Phillis, drily.

"I will so," said Bacchus; "I'd rather he'd a burned
*em up. Kent's so cussed mean, I don't b'lieve he'd 'low
his flowers ground to grow in if he could help hisself. If

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 107

Miss Nannie 'd let him, he'd string them niggers of hers
up, and wallop their gizzards out of 'em. I hate these
Abolitioners. I knows 'em, — I knows their pedigree."

"Much you know about 'em," said Phillis, who was
shaking the dew drops off her « morning glory."

" I knows enuff of 'em — I reckon Miss Nannie do, about
dis time. De ole gentleman did right, any how, when he
lef 'em all to her — if he hadn't, dat feller would a sold
'em all off to Georgia 'fore this, and a runn'd off wid de
money."

"Well," said Phillis, "you'd better mind your own
affairs ; come in and eat your breakfast, if you want any,
for I aint going to keep it standin there all day, drawing
the flies."

Bacchus kicked his slippers off and stumbled into a
chair beside the table. " I'll swar," said he, after a glance
at the fried ham and eggs, "if ever a man had to eat sich
cookin as dis. Why didn't you fry 'em a little more?"
Phillis not minding him, he condescended to eat them all,
and to do justice to the meal in general.

"The old fool," thought Phillis, amused and provoked;
"talkin of master's pilferin — never mind, I've put his
ruffled shirt out, and he'll get in a good humor when he
sees it, I reckon."

Having finished his breakfast, Bacchus put an enormous
piece of tobacco in his mouth, and commenced sharpening
a small-sized scythe, that he called a razor. In doing so,
he made a noise like a high-pressure steamboat, now and
then breathing on it, and going in a severe fit of coughing
with every extra exertion. On his table was a broken
piece of looking-glass, on the quicksilver side of which,
Arthur had, when a child, drawn a horse. Into this Bac
chus gave a look, preparatory to commencing operations.
Then, after due time spent in lathering, he hewed down
at each shave, an amount of black tow that was incon-

108 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

ceivable. After he had done, he gathered up his traps,
and stowed them away in the corner of his chest.

Phillis sat outside the door, smoking ; looking in at the
window, occasionally, to observe the effect of the first sight
of the new shirt. She saw him turn toward the little red
painted bureau, on which she had laid out his clean clothes,
starting with surprise and pleasure, when his eye first took
in the delightful vision. Cortez, when he stood conqueror
of Mexico, did not feel the glow of satisfaction that thrilled
through Bacchus's heart as he gently patted the plaited
ruffles and examined the wristbands, which were stitched
with the utmost neatness. He got weak in the knees with
pleasure, and sat down on the chest in the corner, to sup
port with more ease this sudden accession of happiness,
while his wife was reaping a harvest of gratification at the
success of her efforts toward his peace of mind. All at
once she saw a change pass over his visage. Bacchus re
collected that it would not do for him so suddenly to get
into a good humor ; besides, he reflected it was no more
than Phillis' s duty to make him ruffled shirts, and she
ought to have been so doing for the last twenty years.
These considerations induced him not to show much plea
sure on the occasion, but to pretend he was not at all satis
fied with the style and workmanship of the article in ques
tion.

"Why, lord a massy," said he, "Phillis, what do you
call dis here? faint a shirt? at fust I thought 'twas one
of Miss Janet's short night gowns you'd been a doing up
for her."

Phillis smoked on, looking inquiringly into the distant

hills.

« Phillis, you don't mean me to wear dis here to meetin ?
T'aint fit. Dese wristbands is made out o' cotton, and I
b'lieves in my soul Aunt Peggy done dis stitchin widout
any spectacles."

Phillis knocked the ashes out of her pipe, and puffed on.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 109

"Look here, Phillis," said Bacchus, going to the door
as fast as the uncertain condition of his pantaloons would
allow him, " did you 'spose I was sich a fool as to wear
dis to meetin to-day?"

"Yes, I did," said Phillis.

" Why, t'aint fit for a nigger to hoe corn in, its as big
as a hay-stack."

" Have you tried it on ?" asked Phillis.

" T'aint no use," said Bacchus, " I can tell by de looks."

"I'm sorry you don't like it," said Phillis.

"Like it," said Bacchus, contemptuously, "why, if it
twasn't for the trouble of going to my chist, I'd wear one
of my old ones. Cuss de ruffles, I wish you'd cut 'em off."

Bacchus went in, and in due time made his appearance
in full dress. He wore the blue coat and buff vest, and a
pair of white pantaloons, made after the old style. His
shoes were as bright as his eyes, and his hat dusted until
it only wanted an entire new nap to make it as good as
new. His hair was combed in a sort of mound in front,
and the tout ensemble was astounding. He passed Phillis
in a dignified way, as if she were a valuable cat that he
would not like to tread upon.

Phillis looked after him with a most determined expres
sion of face. If she had been made out of stone she could
not have seemed more resolved. She got up, however,
soon after, and went in to arrange matters after her lord
and master.

Bacchus purposely passed Aunt Peggy's cabin, making
her a stylish bow. Peggy had taken off her handker
chief, to air her head, her hair standing off every which
way, appearing determined to take her up somewhere,
the point of destination being a matter of no consequence.
She chuckled audibly as she saw Bacchus.

" Look at dat ole fool now, wid dat ruffled shirt on ;
he's gwine to bust dis blessed mornin. Look at de way
he's got his wool combed up. I b'lieves in my soul he's

10

110 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

got somebody buried up thar. He's a raal ole peacock.
Dat's de way ! 'Kase I'm ole and wuthless, no matter
'bout me; and dat ole nigger 'lowed to make a fool of his-
self, dressin up drunk in a ruffled shirt. No matter, I'll
be dead and out of der way, fore long."

Bacchus prayed with great effect this morning, calling
himself and the whole congregation the most dreadful
names, with the utmost satisfaction. He made a short
address too, warning the servants against sin in general,
and a love of finery in particular. On his return he
beamed forth upon Phillis like one of her own " morning
glories." The rest of the day he was brimful of jokes
and religion.

The next Sunday came around. Phillis smoked outside
while Bacchus made his toilet.

"Phillis," said the old fellow, blandly, coming to the
door, "I don't see my ruffled shirt out here."

" High !" said Phillis, " I laid your shirt with the rest ;
but I'll look. Here it is," said she, pleasantly, "jest
where I put it."

"Why, whar's the ruffles?"

"I cut 'em off," said Phillis ; "you asked me to."

Bacchus got weak in the knees again, and had to sit
down on the old chest. Not a word escaped his lips ; a
deep sigh burst from the pent-up boiler of his remorse.
With an agonized countenance he seized a piece of rag
which he had used as a shaving towel, and wiped away a
repentant tear. His soul was subdued within him. He
went to meeting, but declined officiating in any capacity,
pleading a pain in his stomach as an excuse. At dinner
he found it impossible to finish the remaining quarter of a
very tough old rooster Phillis had stuffed and roasted for
him. At sundown he ate a small-sized hoe-cake and a
tin pan of bonnyclabber ; then observing " That he be
lieved he was put into dis world for nothing but to have
trouble," he took to his bed.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. Ill

Phillis saw that he would be more docile for the rest
of his life ; for a moment, the thought of restoring the
shirt to its original splendor occurred to her, but she
chased it away as if it had been a fox, and took the great
est satisfaction in "having given the old fool a lesson that
would last him all the days of his life."

"To you, generous and noble-minded men and women
of the South, I appeal*, (I quote the words of a late
writer on Abolitionism, when I say,) Is man ever a crea
ture to be trusted with wholly irresponsible power ? Can
anybody fail to make the inference, what the practical
result will be ?"* Although she is here speaking of slavery
politically, can you not apply it to matrimony in this
miserable country of ours ? Can we not remodel our hus
bands, place them under our thumbs, and shut up the
escape valves of their grumbling forever? To be sure,
St. Paul exhorts " wives to be obedient to their own hus
bands," and "servants to be obedient to their own mas
ters," but St. Paul was not an Abolitionist. He did not
take into consideration the necessities of the free-soil
party, and woman's rights. This is the era of mental and
bodily emancipation. Take advantage of it, wives and
negroes ! But, alas for the former ! there is no society
formed for their benefit ; their day of deliverance has not
yet dawned, and until its first gleamings arise in the east,
they must wear their chains. Except when some strong-
minded female steps forth from the degraded ranks, and
asserts her position, whether by giving loose to that unruly
member the tongue, or by a piece of management which
will give "an old fool a lesson that will last him all the
days of his life."

* Uncle Tom's Cabin.

112 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER X.

PHILLIS was at her ironing early in the morning, for
she liked to hurry it over before the heat of the day.
Her cabin doors were open, and her flowers, which
had been watered by a slight rain that fell about day
break, looked fresh and beautiful. Her house could be
hardly called a cabin, for it was very much superior to the
others on the plantation, though they were all comfort
able. Phillis was regarded by the Weston family as the
most valuable servant they owned — and, apart from her
services, there were strong reasons why they were at
tached to her. She had nursed Mrs. Weston in her last
illness, and as her death occurred immediately after Ar
thur's birth, she nourished him as her own child, and loved
him quite as well. Her comfort and wishes were always
objects of the greatest consideration to the family, and
this was proved whenever occasion allowed. Her neatly
white-washed cottage was enclosed by a wooden fence in
good condition — her little garden laid out with great
taste, if we except the rows of stiffly-trimmed box which
Phillis took pride in. A large willow tree shaded one
side of it ; and on the other, gaudy sunflowers reared
their heads, and the white and Persian lilacs, contrasted
with them. All kinds of small flowers and roses adorned
the front of the house, and you might as well have sought
for a diamond over the whole place, as a weed. The back
of the lot was arranged for the accommodation of her
pigs and chickens ; and two enormous peacocks, that were
fond of sunning themselves by the front door, were the
handsomest ornaments about the place.

The room in which Phillis ironed, was not encumbered

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 113

with much furniture. Her ironing-table occupied a large
part of its centre, and in the ample fireplace was blazing
a fire great enough to cook a repast for a moderate num
ber of giants. Behind the back door stood a common
pine bedstead, with an enormous bed upon it. How any
bedstead held such a bed was remarkable ; for Phillis be
lieved there was a virtue in feathers even in the hottest
weather, and she would rather have gone to roost on the
nearest tree than to have slept on any thing else. The
quilt was of a domestic blue and white, her own manu
facture, and the cases to the pillows were very white and
smooth. A little, common trundle bedstead was under
neath, and on it was the bedding which was used for the
younger children at night. The older ones slept in the
servants' wing in the house, Phillis making use of two
enormous chests, which were Bacchus's, and her ward
robes, for sleeping purposes for a couple more. To the
right of the bed, was the small chest of drawers, over
which was suspended Bacchus's many-sided piece of shaving
glass, and underneath it a pine box containing his shaving
weapons. Several chairs, in a disabled state, found places
about the room, and Phillis's clothes-horse stood with open
arms, ready to receive the white and well-ironed linen that
was destined to hang upon it. On each side of the fireplace
was a small dresser, with plates and jars of all sizes and
varieties, and over each were suspended some branches of
trees, inviting the flies to rest upon them. There was no
cooking done in this room, there being a small shed for
that purpose, back of the house ; not a spot of grease
dimmed the whiteness of the floors, and order reigned su
preme, marvellous to relate ! where a descendant of Afiic's
daughters presided.

Lydia had gone as usual to Miss Janet, and several of
the other children were busy about the yard, feeding the
chickens, sweeping up, and employed in various ways ; the
only one who ever felt inclined to be lazy, and who was in

10*

114 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

body and mind the counterpart of his father, being seated
on the door step, declaring he had a pain in his foot.

The adjoining room was the place in which Phillis's soul
delighted, the door of it being at all times locked, and the
key lost in the depths of her capacious pocket. From
this place of retirement it emerged when any of the family
honored her with their company, especially when attended
by visitors ; and after their departure, traces of their feet
were carefully sought with keen and anxious eyes, and
quickly obliterated with broom and duster.

This, her sanctum sanctorum, was a roomy apartment
with three windows, each shaded by white cotton curtains.
On the floor was a home-made carpet ; no hand was em
ployed in its manufacture save its owner's, from the time
she commenced tearing the rags in strips, to the final blow
given to the last tack that confined it to the floor. A very
high post bedstead, over which were suspended white cotton
curtains, gave an air of grandeur to one side of the room.
No one had slept in it for ten years, though it was made
with faultless precision. The quilt over it contained pieces
of every calico and gingham dress that had been worn in
the Weston family since the Revolution, and in the centre
had been transferred from a remnant of curtain calico, an
eagle with outstretched wings. The pillow cases were
finished off with tape trimming, Alice's work, at Cousin
Janet's suggestion. Over an old fashioned-mahogany
bureau hung an oval looking glass, which was carefully
covered from the flies. An easy chair stood by the
window at the foot of the bed, which had, like most of the
other ancient looking pieces of furniture, occupied a con
spicuous place in Mr. Weston's house. Six chairs planted
with unyielding stiffness against the walls seemed to grow
out of the carpet ; and the very high fender enclosed a
pair of andirons that any body with tolerable eyesight
could have seen their faces in.

Over the mantel piece were suspended two pictures. One

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 115

was a likeness of Mr. Weston, cut in paper over a black
surface, with both hands behind him, and his right foot
foremost ; the other was a picture of the Shepherds in
Pilgrim's Progress, gazing through a spy-glass at the
Celestial city. Alice's first sampler, framed in a black
frame, hung on one side of the room, and over it was a
small sword which used to swing by Arthur's side, when
receiving lessons in military science from Bacchus, who, in
his own opinion, was another Bonaparte. Into this room
Phillis's children gazed with wondering eyes ; and those
among the plantation servants who had been honored with
a sight of it, declared it superior, in every respect, to their
master's drawing room ; holding in especial reverence a
small table, covered with white, which supported the
weight of Phillis's family Bible, where were registered in
Arthur's and Alice's handwriting, the births of all her
twelve descendants, as well as the ceremony which united
her to their illustrious father.

Phillis was ironing away with a good heart, when she
was interrupted by a summons to attend her master in the
library. She obeyed it with very little delay, and found
Mr. Weston seated in his arm-chair, looking over a note
which he held in his hand.

" Come in, Phillis," he said, in a kind but grave manner.
"I want to speak with you for a few moments; and as I
have always found you truthful, I have no doubt you will
be perfectly so on the present occasion."

"What is it, master?" Phillis said, respectfully.

"I received a note, yesterday, from Mr. Dawson, about
his servant Jim, who ran away three weeks ago. He
charges me with having permitted my servants to shel
ter him for the night, on my plantation ; having certain in
formation, that he was seen leaving it the morning after
the severe storm we had about that time. If you know
any thing of it, Phillis, I require you to tell it to me ; I
hardly think any of the other servants had opportunities

116

of doing so, and yet I cannot believe that you would so far
forget yourself as to do what is not only wrong, but calcu
lated to involve me in serious difficulties with my neigh
bors."

"I hope you will not be angry with me, master?" said
Phillis, "but I can't tell a lie; I let Jim stay in my room
that night, and I've been mightily troubled about it; I
was afeard you would be angry with me, if you heard of
it, and yet, master, I could not help it when it happened."

« Could not help it ! Phillis," said Mr. Weston. "What do
you mean by that? Why did you not inform me of it,
that I might have sent him off?"

"I couldn't find it in my heart, sir," said Phillis, the
tears coming in her fine eyes. « The poor creature come
in when the storm was at its worst. I had no candle lit,
for the lightning was so bright that I hadn't no call for
any other light. Bacchus was out in it all, and I was
thinking he would be brought in dead drunk, or dead in
earnest, when all at once Jim burst open the door, and
asked me to let him stay there. I know'd he had run
away, and at first I told him to go off, and not be gitting
me into trouble ; but, master, while I was sending him off
such a streak of lightning come in, and such a crash of
thunder, that I thought the Almighty had heard me turn
him out, and would call me to account for it, when Jim
and me should stand before him at the Judgment Day. I
told Jim he had better go back to his master, that he
wouldn't have any comfort, always hiding himself, and
afeard to show his face, but he declared he would die first ;
and so as I couldn't persuade him to go home agin, I
couldn't help myself, for I thought it would be a sin and
shame, to turn a beast out in such a storm as that. As
soon as the day began to break, and before, too, I woke
him up, and told him never to come to my cabin again, no
matter what happened. And so, master, I've told you the
whole truth, and I am sure you couldn't have turned the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 117

poor wretch out to perish in that storm, no matter what
would have come of it after."

Phillis had gained confidence as she proceeded, and Mr.
Weston heard her without interruption.

"I can hardly blame you," he then said, "for what you
have done ; but, Phillis, it must never be repeated. Jim is
a great rascal, and if I were his master I would be glad
to be rid of him, but my plantation must not shelter run
away slaves. I am responsible for what my servants do.
I should be inclined to hold other gentlemen responsible
for the conduct of theirs. The laws of Virginia require
the rights of the master to be respected, and though I
shan't make a constable of myself, still I will not allow
any such thing to be repeated. Did Bacchus know it ?"

" No, indeed, sir ; he hates Jim, and no good, may be,
would have come of his knowing it ; besides, he was asleep
long after Jim went off, and there was too much whiskey
in him to depend on what he'd have to say."

" That will do, Phillis ; and see that such a thing never
happens again," said Mr. Weston.

Phillis went back to her ironing, assured her master was
not angry with her. Yet she sighed as she thought of his
saying, « see that such a thing never happens again."
" If it had been a clear night," she thought within herself,
"he shouldn't have stayed there. But it was the Lord
himself that sent the storm, and I can't see that he never
sends another. Anyway its done, and can't be helped;"
and Phillis busied herself with her work and her children.

I have not given Phillis's cottage as a specimen of the
cabins of the negroes of the South. It is described from
the house of a favorite servant. Yet are their cabins
generally, healthy and airy. Interest, as well as a wish for
the comfort and happiness of the slave, dictates an atten
tion to his wants and feelings. " Slavery," says Voltaire,
"is as ancient as war; war as human nature." It is to be
wished that truth had some such intimate connection with

118 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

human nature. Who, for instance, could read without an
indignant thought, the following description from the pen
of Mrs. Stowe : " They (their cabins) were rude shells,
destitute of any pieces of furniture, except a heap of straw,
foul with dirt, spread confusedly over the floor." "The
small village was alive with no inviting sounds ; hoarse,
guttural voices, contending at the handmills, wrhere their
morsel of hard corn was yet to be ground into meal to fit
it for the cake that was to constitute their only supper."
But such statements need no denial; the very appearance
of the slaves themselves show their want of truth. Look
at their sound and healthy limbs, hear the odd, but sweet
and musical song that arrests the traveler as he goes on
his way ; listen to the ready jest which is ever on his lips,
and see if the slavery which God has permitted in all ages
to exist, is as is here described; and judge if our fair
Southern land is tenanted by such fiends as they are repre
sented to be, by those who are trying to make still worse
the condition of a mass of God's creatures, born to a life
of toil, but comparative freedom from care. If it be His
will that men should be born free and equal, that wTill is
not revealed in the Bible from the time of the patriarchs
to the present day. There are directions there for the
master and the slave. When the period of emancipation
advances, other signs of the times will herald it-, besides
the uncalled-for interference, and the gross misrepresenta
tions, of the men and women of the North.

Sidney Smith said of a man, who was a great talker,
that a few flashes of silence would make a great improve
ment in him. So of the Abolition cause, a few flashes of
truth would make it decidedly more respectable.

SOUTHERN LIFE AT IT IS. 119

CHAPTER XL

"COME, Alice," said Mr. Barbour, "I hear, not the
trump of war, but the soul-inspiring scrape of the banjo.
I notice the servants always choose the warmest nights to
dance in. Let us go out and see them."

"We'll go to the arbor," said Alice; "where we will
be near enough to see Uncle Bacchus's professional airs.
Ole Bull can't exceed him in that respect."

"Nor equal him," said Mr. Barbour. "Bacchus is a
musician by nature ; his time is perfect ; his soul is absorbed
in his twangs and flourishes."

" I must come, too," said Mr. Weston. "You are afraid
of the night air, Cousin Janet?"

"Never mind me," said Cousin Janet; "I'll sit here
and fan myself."

"And as I prefer music, especially the banjo, at a dis
tance, I will stay too," said Mrs. Weston.

Aunt Phillis was smoking outside her door, her mind
divided between speculations as to what had become of
Jim, and observations on the servants, as they were col
lecting from every direction, to join in the dancing or to find
a good seat to look on.

The first sound of the banjo aroused Bacchus the
younger from his dreams. He bounded from his bed on
the chest, regardless of the figure he cut in his very slight
dishabille, and proceeded to the front door, set, as his
mother would have said, on having his own way.

" Oh, mammy,' ' he said, " dare's de banjo."

" What you doin here ?" said Phillis. " Go long to bed
this minute, 'fore I take a switch to you."

120 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

" Oh, mammy," said the boy, regardless of the threat in
his enthusiastic state of mind, " jist listen, daddy's gwine
to play < Did you ever see the devil ?' '

" Will any body listen to the boy ? If you don't go to
bed"

" Oh, mammy, please lem me go. Dare's Jake, he's
gwine to dance. Massa said I'd beat Jake dancin one o'
dese days."

" High," said Phillis ; " where's the sore foot you had this
morning ?"

"Its done got well. It got well a little while ago,
while I was asleep."

"Bound for you; go long," said Phillis.

Bacchus was about to go, without the slightest addition
to his toilet.

"Come back here," said Phillis, "you real cornfield
nigger ; you goin there naked ?"

The boy turned back, and thrust his legs in a pair of
pants, with twine for suspenders. His motions were much
delayed, by his nervous state of agitation, the consequence
of the music which was now going on in earnest.

He got off finally, not without a parting admonition from
his mother.

"Look here," said she, "if you don't behave yourself,
I'll skin you."

Allusion to this mysterious mode of punishment had the
effect of sobering the boy's mind in a very slight degree.
No sooner was he out of his mother's sight than his former
vivacity returned.

His father, meanwhile, had turned down a barrel, and
was seated on it. Every attitude, every motion of his
body, told that his soul, forgetful of earth and earthly
things, had withdrawn to the regions of sound. He kicked
his slippers off keeping time, and his head dodged about
with every turn of the quick tune. A stranger, not un
derstanding the state of mind into which a negro gets after

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 121

playing " The devil among the tailors," would have supposed
he was afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. The mistake would
soon have been perceived, for two of the boys having tired
themselves out with manoeuvres of every kind, were obliged
to sit down to get some breath, and Bacchus fell into a
sentimental mood, after a little tuning up.

It was uncertain in what strain he would finally go off.
First came a bar that sounded like Auld Lang Syne, then
a note or two of Days of Absence, then a turn of a Me
thodist hymn, at last he went decidedly into " Nelly was
a lady." The tune of this William had learned from
Alice singing it to the piano. He begged her to teach him
the words. She did so, telling him of the chorus part, in
which many were to unite. Bacchus prepared an accom
paniment ; a number of them sang it together. "William
sang the solos. He had a remarkably good voice and fine
taste; he therefore did justice to the sweet song. When
the full but subdued chorus burst upon the ear, every heart
felt the power of the simple strain; the master with his
educated mind and cultivated taste, and the slave with the
complete power of enjoyment with which the Creator has
endowed him.

Hardly had the cadence of the last note died away,
when "Shout, shout, the devil's about," was heard from a
stentorian voice. Above the peals of laughter with wThich
the words were received, rose Jake's voice, " Come on, ole
fiddler, play somefin a nigger kin kick up his heels to ; what's
de use of singing after dat fashion ; dis aint no meetin."

" What'll you have, Jake ?" said Bacchus.

"What'll I have? Why, I never dances to but one
tune," and Jake started the first line of "Oh, plantation
gals, can't you look at a body," while Bacchus was giving
a prelude of scrapes and twangs. Jake made a circle of
somersets, and come down on his head, with his heels in
the air, going through flourishes that would have astonished
an uninitiated observer. As it was, Jake's audience were in

11

122 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

a high condition of enjoyment. They were in a constant
state of expectation as to where he would turn up, or what
would be the nature of the next caper. Now, he cut the
pigeon-wing for a length of time that made the spectators
hold their breath ; then he would, so to speak, stand on his
hands, and with his feet give a push to the barrel where
Uncle Bacchus was sitting, and nearly roll the old man un
derneath. One moment he is dancing with every limb,
making the most curious contortions of his face, rolling
out his tongue, turning his eyes wrong side out. Suddenly,
he stretches himself on the grass, snoring to a degree that
might be heard at almost any distance. Starting up, he
snaps his fingers, twirls round, first on one foot, and then
on the other, till feeling the time approaching when he
must give up, he strikes up again :

" Shout, shout, the devil's about ;
Shut the door and keep him out,"

leaps frog over two or three of the servants' shoulders,
disappearing from among them in an immoderate state of
conceit and perspiration.

Bacchus is forced at this crisis to put down the banjo
and wipe his face with his sleeve, breathing very hard.
He was thinking he wouldn't get near so tired if he had
a little of the " Oh, be joyful" to keep up his spirits, but
such aspirations were utterly hopeless at the present time :
getting tipsy while his master, and Mr. Barbour, and
Alice were looking at him, was quite out of the question.
He made a merit of keeping sober, too, on the ground of
setting a good example to the young servants. He con
soled himself with a double-sized piece of tobacco, and
rested after his efforts. His promising son danced Juba
at Mr. Weston's particular request, and was rewarded by
great applause.

A little courting scene was going on at this time, not
far distant. Esther, Phillis's third daughter, was a neat,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 128

genteel-looking servant, entirely above associating with
« common niggers," as she styled those who, being con
stantly employed about the field, had not the advantage
of being called upon in the house, and were thus very de
ficient in manners and appearance from those who were
so much under the eye of the family. Esther, like her
mother, was a great Methodist. Reading well, she was
familiar with the Bible, and had committed to memory a
vast number of hymns. These, she and her sister, with
William, often sung in the kitchen, or at her mother's
cabin. Miss Janet declared it reminded her of the em
ployment of the saints in heaven, more than any church
music she had ever heard ; especially when they sang,
" There is a land of pure delight."

That heart must be steeled against the sweet influences
of the Christian religion, which listens not with an earnest
pleasure to the voice of the slave, singing the songs of
Zion. No matter how kind his master, or how great and
varied his comforts, he is a slave ! His soul cannot, on
earth, be animated to attain aught save the enjoyment of
the passing hour. Why need he recall the past ? The
present does not differ from it — toil, toil, however miti
gated by the voice of kindness. Need he essay to pene
trate the future ? it is still toil, softened though it be by
the consideration which is universally shown to the feel
ings and weaknesses of old age. Yet has the Creator,
who placed him in this state, mercifully provided for it.
The slave has not the hopes of the master, but he is with
out many of his cares. He may not strive after wealth,
yet he is always provided with comfort, Ambition, with
its longings for fame, and riches, and power, never stimu
lates his breast ; that breast is safe from its disappoint
ments. His enjoyments, though few, equal his expecta
tions. His occupations, though servile, resemble the mass
of those around him. His eye can see the beauties of
nature ; his ear drinks in her harmonies ; his soul con-

124 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

tent itself with what is passing in the limited world
around him. Yet, he is a slave ! And if he is ever elevated
above his condition, it is when praising the God of the
white man and the black ; when, with uplifted voice, he
sings the songs of the redeemed ; when, looking forward
to the invitation which he hopes to receive, " Come in,
thou servant of the Lord."

Christian of the South, remember who it was that bore
thy Saviour's cross, when, toiling, and weary, and faint
ing beneath it, he trod the hill of Calvary. Not one of
the rich, learned, or great; not one of thine ancestors,
though thou mayest boast of their wealth, and learning,
and heroic acts — it was a black man who relieved him of
his heavy burden ; Simon of Cyrene was his name.

Christian of the North, canst thou emancipate the
Southern slave ? Canst thou change his employments, and
elevate his condition? Impossible. Beware then, lest
thou add to his burden, and tighten his bonds, and de
prive him of the simple enjoyments which are now allowed

him.

# * * * * *

Esther, seated on the steps of a small porch attached
to the side of the house, was mentally treating with great
contempt the amusements of the other servants. She had
her mother's disposition, and disliked any thing like noisy
mirth, having an idea it was not genteel; seeing so little
of it in her master's family. She was an active, cheerful
girl, but free from any thing like levity in her manner.

She had a most devoted admirer in the neighborhood ;
no less a personage than Mrs. Kent's coachman. His
name was Robert, after Mrs. Kent's father. Assuming
the family name, he was known as Robert Carter. . Phillis
called him a harmless goose of a fellow, and this gives the
best idea of his character. He understood all about
horses, and nothing else, if we except the passion of love,
which was the constant subject of his conversation. He

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 125

had made up his mind to court Esther, and with that in
view he dressed himself in full livery, as if he were going
to take his mistress an airing. He asks Mrs. Kent's per
mission to be married, though he had not the slightest
reason to suppose Esther would accept him, with a confi
dence and self-exultation that man in general is apt to feel
when he has determined to bestow himself upon some for
tunate fair one. He went his way, passing the dancers
without any notice, and going straight to that part of the
house where he supposed he should find Esther.

Esther received him with politeness, but with some re
serve ; not having a chair to offer him, and not intending
him to take a seat on the steps beside her, she stood up,
and leaned against the porch.

They talked a little of the weather, and the health of
the different members of their respective families, during
which, Robert took the opportunity to say, " His master,
(Mr. Kent) had a bilious attack, and he wished to the
Lord, he'd never get better of it." Finally, he undid
one of the buttons of his coat, which was getting too small
for him, and drawing a long breath, proceeded to lay him
self (figuratively) at Esther's feet.

He did not come to the point at once, but drove round
it, as if there might be some impediment in the way,
which, though it could not possibly upset the whole affair,
might make a little unnecessary delay. Esther thought
he was only talking nonsense, as usual, but when he waxed
warm, and energetic in his professions, she interrupted him
with, « Look here, Robert, you're out of your head, aint
you?"

"No deed, Miss Esther, but I'm dying in love with
you."

" The best thing you can do, is to take yourself home,"
said Esther. « I hope you're sober."

"I was never soberer in my life," said Robert, "but the
fact is, Miss Esther, I'm tired of a bachelor's life; 'pears

11*

126 AUNT PHILLIS'-S CABIN ; OR,

as if it wasn't respectable, and so I'm thinking of settling
down."

"You want settling down, for true," said Esther.

"I'm mighty happy to hear you say so," said Robert,
" and if you'll only mention what time it '11 be agreeable to
you to make me the happiest man in Virginny, Tie speak to
Uncle Watty Harkins about performing the ceremony,
without you prefer a white minister to tie the knot."

"Robert," said Esther, "you're a born fool; do you
mean to say you want me to marry you?"

" Certainly, Esther ; I shouldn't pay you no attentions,
if I didn't mean to act like a gentleman by you."

"Well, I can tell you," said Esther, "I wouldn't marry
you, to save your life."

"You ain't in earnest, Esther?"

"Indeedlam," saidEsther, "so you better not be coming
here on any such fool's errand again."

"Why, Esther," said Robert, reproachfully, "after my
walking home from meeting with you, and thinking and
dreaming about you, as I have for this long time, aint
you going to marry me ?"

"No, I aint," said Esther.

" Then I'll bid you good night; and look here, Esther,
to-morrow, mistress will lose one of her most valuable ser
vants, for I shall hang myself."

Esther went up the steps, and shut the door -on him, in
ternally marvelling at the impudence of men in general ;
Robert, with a strong inclination to shed tears, turned his
steps homeward. He told Mrs. Kent, the next morning,
that he had come to the conclusion not to be married for
some time yet, women were so troublesome, and there was
no knowing how things would turn out. Mrs. Kent saw
he was much dejected, and concluded there were sour
grapes in the question.

After due consideration, Robert determined not to com
mit suicide ; he did something equally desperate. He

SOUTHERN LITE AS IT IS. 127

married Mrs. Kent's maid, an ugly, thick-lipped girl, who
had hitherto been his especial aversion. He could not
though, entirely erase Esther's image from his heart — al
ways feeling a tendency to choke, when he heard her
voice in meeting.

Esther told her mother of the offer she had had, and
Phillis quite agreed with her, in thinking Robert was crazy.
She charged "Esther to know when she was well off, and
not to bring trouble upon herself by getting married, or
any such foolishness as that."

CHAPTER XII.

"I TELL .you what, Abel," said Arthur Weston, "the
more I think about you Northern people, the harder it is
for me to come to a conclusion as to what you are made
of."

" Can't you experiment upon us, Arthur ; test us chemi
cally ?"

"Don't believe you could be tested," said Arthur, "you
are such a slippery set. Now here is a book I have been
looking over, called Annals of Salem, by Joseph B. Felt,
published in 1827. On the 109th page it says : < Captain
Pierce, of the ship Desire, belonging to this port, was com
missioned to transport fifteen boys and one hundred women,
of the captive Pequods, to Bermuda, and sell them as slaves.
He was obliged, however, to make for Providence Island.
There he disposed of the Indians. He returned from Tor-
tugas the 26th of February following, with a cargo of cotton,
tobacco, salt, and negroes.' In the edition of 1849, this
interesting fact is omitted. Now, was not that trading in
human bodies and souls in earnest ? First they got all
they could for those poor captive Pequods, and they

128 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

traded the amount again for negroes, and some et ceteras.
You are the very people to make a fuss about your neigh
bours, having been so excessively righteous yourselves.
No wonder that the author left it out in a succeeding
edition. I am surprised he ever put it in at all."

" It seems more like peddling with the poor devils than
any thing else," said Abel. "But you must remember
the spirit of the age, Arthur, as Mr. Hubbard calls it ?"

"Yes," said Arthur, "I forgot that; but I wonder if
Mr. Hubbard excuses the conduct of England to her colo
nies in consideration of the spirit of the age — t hat allowed
taxation and all of her other forms of oppression, I suppose.
It is a kind of charity that covers a multitude of sins. But
I was saying," continued Arthur, "that I could not make
you out. While they were carrying on two kinds of slave
trade, they were discussing in Boston the propriety of
women's wearing veils, having lectures about it. Let me
read to you. <• Mr. Cotton, though while in England of an
opposite opinion on this subject, maintained that in countries
where veils were to be a sign of submission, they might be
properly disused. But Mr. Endicott took different ground,
and endeavored to retain it by general argument from St.
Paul. Mr. Williams sided with his parishioner. Through
his and others' influence, veils were worn abundantly.
At the time they were the most fashionable, Mr. Cotton
came to preach for Mr. Skelton. His subject was upon
wearing veils. He endeavored to prove that this was
a custom not to be tolerated. The consequence was,
that the ladies became converts to his faith in this par
ticular, and for a long time left off an article of dress,
which indicated too great a degree of submission to the
lords of creation.' Did you ever hear of such a set of
old meddlers, lecturing and preaching about women's
dressing. I suppose the men wore petticoats at that time
themselves."

"If they did," said Abel, "I am very glad they have

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 129

turned them over to the other sex since, as they are worn
in the number which the present fashion requires. I
should think they would be very uncomfortable. But,
Arthur, I heard such a good story the other day, about
Lawyer Page. He fights bravely with his tongue for
other people's rights, but he daren't say his soul's his own
before his wife. Well, when that affair came out about
Morton's whipping his wife, as he was going to the Court
house, Page said to old Captain Caldwell, 'Do you know,
captain, that before all the facts were out in this case
about Morton, they actually had it in every direction that
it was I who had whipped my wife.' ' Now Page,' said the
old captain, < you know that's no such thing ; for every body
in New Haven is well aware that when there was any
flogging going on in the matrimonial line, in your house,
it was you that came off the worst.' Page did not say a
word."

" I am glad I am not yoked with one of your New
Haven belles, if turning a Jerry Sneak is to be the con
sequence," said Arthur.

" This marrying is a terrible necessity, Arthur," said
Abel. "I don't know how I'll be supported under it when
my time comes; but after all, I think the women get the
worst of it. There were not two prettier girls in New
Haven than my sisters. Julia, who has been married
some eight or nine years, was really beautiful, and so ani
mated and cheerful ; now she has that wife-like look of
care, forever on her countenance. Her husband is always
reproaching her that that little dare devil of a son of
hers does not keep his clothes clean. The other evening
I was at their house, and they were having a little
matrimonial discussion about it. It seems little Charlie
had been picked up out of the mud in the afternoon, and
brought in in such a condition, that it was sometime before
he could be identified. After being immersed in a bathing
tub it was ascertained that he had not a clean suit of

130 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

clothes ; so the young gentleman was confined to his
chamber for the rest of the evening, in a night gown.
This my brother-in-law considered a great hardship, and
they were talking the matter over when I went in.

" ' Why don't you make the boy clothes enough, Julia?'
said he.

" < I am forever making and forever mending,' said Julia ;
<but it is impossible to keep that young one clean. He
had twelve pairs of pantaloons in the wash last week, and
the girl was sick, and I had to iron them myself. I guess
if you had all the trouble I have with him, you would put
him to bed and make him stay there a week.'

" 'I tell you what it is, good people,' said I, 'when I go
courting I intend to ask the lady in the first place if she
likes to make boys' clothes. If she says No, I shan't
have her, no matter what other recommendations she may

" ( She'll be sure to give you the mitten for your impu
dence^ said Julia. Then, there is my pretty sister Har
riet, quilting quilts, trimming nightcaps, and spoiling her
bright eyes making her wedding-clothes; after a while
she'll be undergoing some of the troubles of the married
state, which will lengthen her face. The men get the best
of it, decidedly ; for they have not all the petty annoyances
a woman must encounter. What do you think about it,
Arthur?"

"I hardly know," said Arthur. "I have been in love
ever since I could tell my right hand from my left. I have
hardly ever looked forward to marriage ; my time has been
so much occupied here, that when I get a few moments for
reflection, my thoughts go back to Alice, and the happy
years I have passed with her, rather than to anticipations of
any kind. I suppose I shall find out, though, and then
you may profit by my experience."

"You will have a sad experience with those niggers of
yours, I am afraid, Arthur," said Abel. "Our people are

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 131

determined never to let them alone. I wonder you do not
employ white hands upon the plantation, and have done
with any trouble about the matter."

" What would be done with the slaves in the mean time ?"
said Arthur.

"Set 'em free," said Abel; "colonize, or hang 'em all."

"The latter is the more practicable suggestion," said
Arthur. "As to setting them free, they could not remain
in Virginia afterward if I were willing to do so : there is
a law against it. Colonizing them would be equally diffi
cult, for the most of them would refuse to go to Africa;
and if I have not the right to hold them slaves, I certainly
have not a right to force them into another country. Some
of them would be willing and glad to come to the North,
but some would object. My father set a house-servant
free ; he was absent a year, and returned voluntarily to
his old condition. Mark had got some Abolition notions
in his head, and my father told him he might have his free
papers, and go : I have told you the result. The fact is,
Abel, you Yankees don't stand very well with our slaves.
They seem to consider you a race of pedlars, who come
down upon them in small bodies for their sins, to wheedle
away all their little hoardings. My father has several
times brought servants to New York, but they have never
run away from him. I think Virginia would do well with
out her colored people, because her climate is moderate,
and white labor could be substituted. But it is not so
with the more Southern States. I would like to see a
Louisiana sun shining upon your New England States for
a while — how quickly you would fit out an expedition for
Africa. It is the mere accident of climate that makes
your States free ones."

"I suppose so," said Abel. "A great many of your
slaves run away through the year, don't they?"

"No, indeed," said Arthur; " comparatively, very few.
Just before I came to New Haven, I went to pass a few

132 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

weeks at a plantation belonging to a family with whom we
were intimate. One of the sons and I went on the river,
two of the servants rowing us. 1 said to one of them, a
large fat negro, < What's your name, uncle?' <Meschach,
sir,' he said. 'Meschach,' said I; 'why, you ought to have
two brothers, one named Shadrach and the other Abed
nego.' « So I had, sir.' < Well, what has become of them ?'
said I. < Shadrach, he's dead,' he answered. l And where
is Abednego?' said I. 'He's gone, too,' he replied, in a
low voice. My friend gave me a look, and told me after
wards that Abednego had ran away, and that his family
considered it a disgrace, and never spoke of him. I heard
of a negro boy who absconded, and when he was found,
and being brought home, an old washerwoman watched
him as he went up the street. 'La,' said she, 'who'd a
thought he'd a beginned to act bad so young,' But let us
leave off Abolition and take a walk. Our cigars are out,
and we will resume the subject to-morrow afternoon, when

we light some more."

******

"Now," said Abel, "having a couple of particularly good
cigars, where did we leave off?"

"Its too warm for argument," said Arthur, watching
the curling of the gray smoke as it ascended.

"We need not argue," said Abel; "I want to catechize
you."

"Begin."

" Do you think that the African slave-trade can be de
fended?"

"No, assuredly not."

"Well," said Abel, "how can you defend your right to
hold slaves as property in the United States?"

"Abel," said Arthur, "when a Yankee begins to ques
tion there is no reason to suppose he ever intends to stop.
I shall answer your queries from the views of Governor
Hammond, of Carolina. They are at least worthy of con-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 133

sideration. What right have you New England people to
the farms you are now holding?"

" The right of owning them," said Abel.

" From whom did you get them ?" asked Arthur.

" Our fathers."

"And how did they get them?"

"From the Red men, their original owners."

"Well," said Arthur, "we all know how these transac
tions were conducted all over the country. We wanted
the lands of the Red men, and we took them. Sometimes
they were purchased, sometimes they were wrested ; always,
the Red men were treated with injustice. They were driven
off, slaughtered, and taken as slaves. Now, God as clearly
gave these lands to the Red men as he gave life and free
dom to the African. Both have been unjustly taken away. ' '

"But," said Abel, "we hold property in land, you in
the bodies and souls of men."

" Granted," said Arthur ; " but we have as good a right
to our property as you to yours — we each inherit it from our
fathers. You must know that slaves were recognized as
property under the constitution. John Q. Adams, speak
ing of the protection extended to the peculiar interests of
the South, makes these remarks : « Protected by the ad
vantage of representation on this floor, protected by the
stipulation in the constitution for the recovery of fugitive
slaves, protected by the guarantee in the constitution to
the owners of this species of property, against domestic
violence.' It was considered in England as any other kind
of commerce; so that you cannot deny our right to con
sider them as property now, as well as then."

"But can you advocate the enslaving of your fellow
man?" said Abel."

"No," said Arthur, "if you put the question in that
manner; but if you come to the point, and ask me if I can
conscientiously hold in bondage slaves in the South, I say
yes, without the slightest hesitation. I'll tell you why.

12

134 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

You must agree with me, if the Bible allow slavery there
is no sin it. Now, the Bible does allow it. You must
read those letters of Governor Hammond to Clarkson, the
English Abolitionist. The tenth commandment, your
mother taught you, no doubt : ' thou shalt not covet thy
neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife,
nor his man-servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor
his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor's.' These are the
words of God, and as such, should be obeyed strictly. In
the most solemn manner, the man-servant and the maid
servant are considered the property of thy neighbor.
Generally the word is rendered slave. This command in
cludes all classes of servants ; there is the Hebrew-brother,
who shall go out in the seventh year, and the hired-servant,
and those 'purchased from the heathen round about,' who
were to be bondmen forever. In Leviticus, speaking of
t&e 'bondmen of the heathen which shall be round about,'
God says, 'And ye shall take them for an inheritance, for
your children after you, to inherit them for a possession ;
they shall be your bondmen forever.' I consider that God
permitted slavery when he made laws for the master and
the slave, therefore I am justified in holding slaves. In the
times of our Saviour, when slavery existed in its worst
form, it was regarded as one of the conditions of human
society ; it is evident Abolition was not shadowed forth by
Christ or his apostles. 'Do unto all men as ye would
have them do unto you,' is a general command, inducing
charity and kindness among all classes of men; and does
not authorize interference with the established customs of
society. If, according to this precept of Christ, I am
obliged to manumit my slaves, you are equally forced to
purchase them. If I were a slave, I would have my master
free me ; if you were a slave, and your owner would not
give you freedom, you would have some rich man to buy
you. From the early ages of the world, there existed the
poor and the rich, the master and the slave.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 135

"It would be far better for the Southern slaves, if our
institution, as regards them, were left to 'gradual mitiga
tion and decay, which time may bring about. The course
of the Abolitionists, while it does nothing to destroy this
institution, greatly adds to its hardships.' Tell me that
< man-stealing' is a sin, and I will agree with you, and will
insist that the Abolitionists are guilty of it. In my opin
ion, those who consider slavery a sin, challenge the truth
of the Bible.

"Besides, Abel," continued Arthur, "what right have
you to interfere ? Your Northern States abolished slavery
when it was their interest to do so : let us do the same.
In the meantime, consider the condition of these dirty
vagabonds, these free blacks, who are begging from me
every time I go into the street. I met one the other day,
who had a most lamentable state of things to report. He
had rheumatism, and a cough, and he spit blood, and he had
no tobacco, and he was hungry, and he had the toothache.
I gave him twenty-five cents as a sort of panacea, and ad
vised him to travel South and get a good master. He
took the money, but not the advice."

"But, Arthur, the danger of insurrection; I should
think it would interfere greatly with your comfort."

"We do not fear it," said Arthur. "Mobs of any kind
are rare in the Southern country. We are not (in spite of
the bad qualities ascribed to us by the Abolitionists) a
fussy people. ^Sometimes, when an Abolitionist comes
along, we have a little fun with him, the negroes enjoying
it exceedingly. • Slaveholders, as a general thing, desire
to live a peaceful, quiet life ; yet they are not willing to
have their rights wrested from them."

"One great disadvantage in a slaveholding community
is, that you are apt to be surrrounded by uneducated peo
ple," said Abel.

" We do not educate our slaves," said Arthur ; " but you
do not presume to say that we do not cultivate our minds

136 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

as assiduously as you do yours. Our statesmen are not
inferior to yours in natural ability, nor in the improvement
of it. We have far more time to improve ourselves than
you, as a general thing- When you have an opportunity
of judging, you will not hesitate to say, that our women
can bear to be compared with yours in every respect, in
their intellect, and refinement of manners and conversation.
Our slaves are not left ignorant, like brutes, as has been
charged upon us. Where a master feels a religious responsi
bility, h^ must and does cause to be given, all necessary
knowledge to those who are dependent upon him. I must
say, that though we have fewer sects at the South, we have
more genuine religion. You will think I am prejudiced.
Joining the church here is, in a great measure, a form. I
have formed this opinion from my own observation. With
us there must be a proper disregard of the customs of the
world ; a profession of religion implying a good deal more
than a mere profession. Look at the thousand new and
absurd opinions that have agitated New England, while
they never have been advanced with us. There is Unita-
rianism, that faith that would undermine the perfect struc
ture of the Christian religion; that says Christ is a man,
when the Scriptures style him < Wonderful, Counsellor,
The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of
Peace.' Why, it is hardly tolerated at the South. Have
you any right to claim for yourself superior holiness?
None whatever. •

" There never was any thing so perfectly false (I cannot
help referring to it again,) as that religion is discouraged
among our slaves. It is precisely the contrary. Most of
them have the same opportunities of attending worship as
their owners. They generally prefer the Methodist and
Baptist denominations ; they worship with the whites, or
they have exclusive occasions for themselves, which they
prefer. They meet on the plantations for prayer, for
singing, or for any religious purpose, when they choose ; the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 137

ladies on the plantations instruct them in the Bible, and
how to read it. Many of them are taught to write.

Religion seems to be a necessary qualification of the fe
male mind — I think this, because I have been so fortunate
in those of our own family. My mother died soon after
my birth ; her friends often dwell on the early piety so
beautfully developed in her character. We have a rela
tive, an old maid, who lives with us ; she forgets her own
existence, laboring always for the good of others. My
aunt is a noble Christian woman, and Alice has not
breathed such an atmosphere in vain. We have a servant
woman named Phillis, her price is far above rubies. Her
industry, her honesty, her attachment to our family, ex
ceeds every thing. I wish Abolitionists would imitate one
of her virtues — humility. I know of no poetry more
beautiful than the hymns she sang to me in my infancy ;
her whole life has been a recommendation of the religion
of the Bible. I wish my chance of Heaven were half as
good as hers. She is a slave here, but she is destined to
be a saint hereafter."

138 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XIII.

THE evening is drawing on again at Exeter, and Alice
and her mother are in a little sitting room that opens on
the porch. Mrs. Weston is fanning her daughter, who has
been suffering during the day from headache. Miss Janet
is there, too, and for a rare occurrence, is idle ; looking
from the window at the tall peaks of the Blue Ridge upon
which she has gazed for many a year. Little Lydia stands
by her side, her round eyes peering into Miss Janet's face,
wrondering what would happen, that she should be unem
ployed. They are awaiting Mr. Weston's return from an
afternoon ride, to meet at the last and most sociable meal
of the day.

"Miss Janet," said Lydia, " aint Miss Alice white?"

"Very pale," said Miss Janet, looking at Alice; then,
with a sigh, turning to the mountains again.

"What makes her so white ?" asked Lydia, in an under
tone.

" She has had a headache all day. Be quiet, child,"
said Miss Janet.

After a moment, Lydia said, " I wish I could have de
headache all de time."

" What do you say such a foolish thing as that for,
Lydia?"

" 'Kase I'd like to be white, like Miss Alice." Miss
Janet did not reply. Again Lydia spoke, " If I was to
stay all time in de house, and never go in de sun, would I
git wrhite ?"

" No — no — foolish child ; what gives you such ideas ?"

There was another pause. Mrs. Weston fanned Alice,
who, with closed eyes, laid languidly on the lounge.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 139

"Miss Janet," said Lydia, speaking very softly, "who
made de lightning-bugs ?"

" God made them," said Miss Janet.

"Did God make de nanny-goats, too?"

"You know that God made every thing," said Miss
Janet. " I have often told you so."

"He didn't make mammy's house, ma'am; I seed de
men makin it."

" No ; man makes houses, but God made all the beauti
ful things in nature. He made man, and trees, and rivers,
and such things as man could not make."

Lydia looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and the
moon was coming forth, a few stars glistened there. Long,
fleecy clouds extended over the arch of heaven, and some
passing ones for a moment obscured the brightness that
gilded the beautiful scene.

"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "its mighty pretty there;
but 'spose it was to fall."

"What was to fall?"

" De sky, ma'am-."

" It cannot fall. God holds it in its place."

Another interval and Lydia said: "Miss Janet, 'spose
God was to die, den de sky would broke down."

"What put such a dreadful thought into your head,
child?" said Miss Janet. God cannot die."

"Yes, ma'am, he kin," said Lydia.

"No, he cannot. Have I not often told you that God
is a spirit ? He created all things, but he never was made ;
he cannot die."

Lydia said inquiringly, "Wasn't Jesus Christ God,
ma'am?"

"Yes, he was the Son of God, and he was God."

" Well, ma'am, he died onct, dat time de Jews crucified
him — dat time de ground shook, and de dead people got
up — dat time he was nailed to de cross. So, ma'am, if
God died onct, couldn't he die agin ?"

140 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

Miss Janet, arousing herself from her reverie, looked

at the child. There she stood, her eyes fixed upon the sky,

her soul engaged in solving this mysterious question. Her

^ little hands hung listlessly by her side; there was no

beauty in her face ; the black skin, the projecting lips, the

i heavy features, designated her as belonging to a degraded

^ race. Yet the soul was looking forth from its despised te-

( nement, and eagerly essaying to grasp things beyond its

reach.

"Could he die agin, Miss Janet?" asked Lydia.

Poor child ! thought Miss Janet, how the soul pinioned and
borne down, longs to burst its chains, and to soar through
the glorious realms of light and knowledge. I thought
but now that there was no more for me to do here ; that
tired of the rugged ascent, I stood as it were on the tops
of those mountains, gazing in spirit on the celestial city,
and still not called to enter in. Now, I see there is work
for me to do. Thou art a slave, Lydia ; yet God has
called t^ee to the freedom of the children that he loves ;
thou art black, yet will thy soul be washed white in the
blood of the Lamb ; thou art poor, yet shalt thou be made
rich through Him who, when on earth, was poor indeed.
Jesus, forgive me ! I murmured that I still was obliged to
linger. Oh ! make me the honored instrument of good to
this child, and when thou callest me hence, how gladly will
I obey the summons.

"Lydia," she said, "the Son of God died for us all, for
you and for me, but he was then in the form of man. He
died that we might live ; he never will die again. He rose
from the dead, and is in heaven, at the right hand of God.
He -loves you, because you think about him."

"He don't love me like he do Miss Alice, 'kase she's so
white," said Lydia.

" He loves all who love him," said Miss Janet, "whether
they are black or white. Be a good child, and he will
surely love you. Be kind and obliging to everybody; be

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 141

industrious and diligent in all you have to do ; obey your
mother and father, and your master. Be truthful and ho
nest. God hates a liar, and a deceitful person. He will
not take care of you and love you, unless you speak the
truth. Sometimes you try to deceive me. God will not
be ,your friend if you deceive any one. And now go to
your mother, she will put you to bed."

Lydia made a curtsey, and said, " Good-night, ma'am."
She went to Mrs. Weston, and bade her good-night too.
Then turning toward Alice, she gazed wonderingly at her
pale face.

"Is you got de headache now, Miss Alice?'

"Not much," said Alice, gently.

" Good night, miss," said Lydia, with another curtesy,
and she softly left the room. "Oh, mammy," she said,
as she entered her mother's cabin, " Miss Janet say, if I'm
a good child, God will love me much as he loves Miss
Alice, if I is black. Miss Alice is so white to-night ; you
never see'd her look as white as she do to-night."
* >K * ^ * *

Mr. Weston alighted from his horse, and hurried to the
sitting-room, "Have you waited tea for me?" he said.
"Why did you do so? Alice, darling, is your head
better?"

" A great deal, uncle," said Alice. " Have you had a
pleasant ride ?"

"Yes; but my child, you look very sick. What can be
the matter with you ? Anna, did you send for the doctor ?"

"No — Alice objected so."

"But you must send for him — I am sure she is seri
ously ill."

"There is nothing the matter with me, but a headache,"
said Alice. " After tea, I will go to bed, and will be well
in the morning."

" God grant you may, my sweet one. What has come
over you?"

142 AUXT PIIILLIS'S CABIX; OR,

" Tea is ready," said Cousin Janet. " Let us go in to it,
and then have prayers, and all go to bed early. ' Why
Cousin Weston, you are getting quite dissipated in your
old age ; coming home to tea at this hour ; I suppose I
shall begin such practices next."

Miss Janet's suggestion of retiring early, was followed.
Phillis came in to see how Alice's head was, and recom
mended brown paper and vinegar. She made no comment
on her appearance, but did not wonder that Lydia was
struck with the expression of her countenance. There
was an uneasiness that was foreign to it ; not merely had
the glow of health departed, there was something in its
place, strange there. It was like the storm passing over
the beautiful lake ; the outline of rock, and tree, and sur
face, is to be seen, but its tranquil beauty is gone ; and
darkness and gloom are resting where has been the home
of light, and love, and beauty.

Alice undressed and went to bed; her mother raised all
the windows, put out the candle, and laid down beside her.
Hoping that she would fall asleep, she did not converse,
but Alice after a few minutes, called her.

"What is it, Alice?"

"Did you hear what Cousin Janet said to Lydia, to
night, mother? God hates those who deceive."

" Why think of that now, my love ?"

" Because it refers to me. She did not mean it for me,
but it came home to my heart."

"To your heart? That has always been truth and
candor itself. Try and banish such thoughts. If you
were well, fancies like these would not affect you."

"They are not fancies, they are realities," said Alice.
She sighed and continued, " Am I not deceiving the kind
protector and friend of my childhood ? Oh, mother, if he
knew all, how little would he love me! And Arthur,
can it be right for me to be engaged to him, and to de
ceive him, too?"

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 143

" Dear Alice, how often have we talked about this, and
I hoped you were satisfied as to the propriety of being
silent on the subject at present. Your uncle's health is
very feeble ; he is subject to sudden and alarming attacks of
sickness, and easily thrown into a state of agitation that
endangers his life. Would you run such a risk ? What a
grief would it be to him to know that the hopes of years
were to be destroyed, and by one wham he had nursed in
his own bosom as a child. Poor Arthur, too ! away from
home so long — trusting you with such confidence, looking
forward with delight to the time of his return, could you
bear thus to dash his dearest prospects to the earth ?"

" But he must know it, mother. I could not marry him
with a lie in my right hand."

"It will not be so, Alice; you cannot help loving Ar-"
thiir, above all men, when you are with him ; so noble, so
generous, so gifted with all that is calculated to inspire
affection, you will wonder your heart has ever wavered."

"But it has," said Alice ; " and he must know all."

" Of course," said Mrs. Weston; " nothing would justify
your having any reserve with him, but this is not the
time for explanation. If I believed that you really and
truly loved Walter, so as to make it impossible for you to
forget him and return Arthur's affection ; if I thought you
would not one day regard Arthur as he deserves, I would
not wish you to remain silent for a day. It would be an
injustice, and a sin, to do so. Yet I feel assured that
there is no such danger.

"A woman, Alice, rarely marries her first love, and it
is well that it is so. Her feelings, rather than her judg
ment, are then enlisted, and both should be exercised
when so fearful a thing as marriage is concerned. You
have been a great deal with Walter, and have always re
garded him tenderly, more so of late, because the feelings
strengthen with time, and Walter's situation is such as to
enlist all your sympathies ; his fascinating appearance

144 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

and interesting qualities have charmed your affections.
You see him casting from him the best friends he has ever
had, because he feels condemned of ingratitude in their
society. He is going forth on the voyage of life, alone ;
you weep as any sister would, to see him thus. I do not
blame him for loving you ; but I do censure him in the
highest degree, for endeavoring to win more than a sis
ter's regard from you, in return ; it was selfish and dis
honorable. More than all, I blame myself for not fore
seeing this. You said yesterday, you could not bear the
thought of being separated from Arthur. You do not
know your own heart, many a woman does not, until time
has been her teacher; let it be yours. Cousin Janet has
thus advised you ; be guided by us, and leave this thing
to rest for a while ; you will have reason to rejoice at
having done so. Would you leave me for Walter, Alice?"

" No, mother. How could you ask me ?"

" Then trust me ; I would not answer for your uncle's
safety were we to speak to him on this subject. How
cruel to pain him, when a few months may restore us to
the hopes and happiness which have been ours ! Do what
is right, and leave the future to God."

" But how can I write to Arthur, when I know I am not
treating him as I would wish him to treat me?"

"Write as you always have; your letters have never
been very sentimental. Arthur says you write on all sub
jects but the one nearest his heart. If you had loved him
as I thought you did, you never would have allowed another
to usurp his place. But we cannot help the past. Now,
dear child, compose yourself; I am fatigued, but cannot
sleep until you do."

Alice, restless for a while, at last fell asleep, but it was
not the rest that brings refreshment and repose. Her
mother watched her, as with her hand now pressed on her
brow, now thrown on the pillow, she slept. Her mind,
overtaxed, tried even in sleep to release itself of its bur-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 145

den. The wish to please, and the effort to do right, was
too much for her sensitive frame. It was like the traveler
unaccustomed to fatigue and change, forced to commence
a journey, unassured of his way, and ignorant of his des
tination.

Her mother watched her — a deep hue was settled under
her eyelashes, the veins in her temple were fearfully dis
tinct, and a small crimson spot rested on her cheek. She
watched her, by the moonlight that glanced over every
part of the room. She listened to her heavy breathing,
and lightly touched her dry and crimson lips. She stroked
the long luxuriant curls, that appeared to her darker than
they ever had before. She closed the nearest window,
lest there should be something borne on the breath of
night, to disturb the rest of the beloved one. But, mo
ther ! it will not do ; the curse of God is still abroad in
the world, the curse on sin. It falls, like a blighting dew,
on the loveliest and dearest to our hearts. It is by our
side and in our path. It is among the gay, the rich, the
proud, and the gifted of the earth ; among the poor, the
despised, the desolate and forsaken. It darkens the way
of the monarch and the cottager, of the maiden and the
mother, of the master and the slave. Alas ! since it poi
soned the flowers in Eden, and turned the children of God
from its fair walks, it is abroad in the world — the curse
of God on sin.

There is a blessing, too, within the reach of all. He
who bore the curse, secured the blessing. Son of God!
teach us to be like thee ; give us of thy spirit, that we may
soften to each other the inevitable ills of life. Prepare us
for that condition to which we may aspire ; for that assem
bly wiiere will be united the redeemed of all the earth,
where will rejoice forever in thy presence those of all ages
and climes, who looked up from the shadow of the curse,
to the blessing which thou didst obtain, with thy latest
sigh, on Calvary!

13

146 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OB,

CHAPTER XIV.

AFTER Phillis left Mrs. Western's room, she was on her
way to her cabin, when she noticed Aunt Peggy sitting
alone at the door. She was rather a homebody ; yet she
reproached herself with having neglected poor old Peggy,
when she saw her looking so desolate and dejected. She
thought to pay her a visit, and bidding her good evening,
sat down on the door-step. ." Time old people were in bed,
Aunt Peggy," said she; "what are you settin up for, all
by yourself?"

"Who's I got to set up wid me?" said Aunt Peggy.

"Why don't you go to bed, then?" asked Phillis.

"Can't sleep^ can't sleep," said Aunt Peggy; "aint
slep none dese two, three nights ; lays awake lookin at de
moon ; sees people a lookin in de winder at me, people as
I aint seen since I come from Guinea ; hears strange noises
I aint never heard in dis country, aint never hearn sence
I come from Guinea."

"All notions," said Phillis. "If you go to sleep, you'll
forget them all."

" Can't go to sleep," said Aunt Peggy; "somefin in me
won't sleep ; somefin I never felt afore. It's in my bones ;
mebbe Death's somewhere in the neighborhood."

"I reckon you're sick, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis;
"why didn't you let me know you wasn't well?"

"Aint sick, I tell you," said Aunt Peggy, angrily;
"nothin the matter wid me. 'Spose you think there's
nothin bad about, 'cep what comes to me."

Phillis was astonished at her words and manner, and
looked at her intently. Most of the servants on the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 147

plantation stood in awe of Aunt Peggy. Her having been
brought from Africa, and the many wonders she had seen
there ; her gloomy, fitful temper ; her tall frame, and long,
skinny hands and arms ; her haughty countenance, and
mass of bushy, white hair. Phillis did not wonder most
people were afraid of her. Besides, Peggy was thought
to have the power of foresight in her old age. The serv
ants considered her a sort of witch, and deprecated her
displeasure. Phillis had too much sense for this; yet
there was one thing that she had often wondered at ; that
was, that Aunt Peggy cared nothing about religion. When
employed in the family, she had been obliged to go some
times to church : since she had been old, and left to follow
her own wishes, she had never gone. Miss Janet fre
quently read the Bible, and explained it to her. Alice,
seated on a low stool by the old woman's side, read to her
scenes in the life of Christ, upon which servants love to
dwell. But as far as they could judge, there were no good
impressions left on her mind. She never objected, but
she gave them no encouragement. This Phillis had often
thought of; and now as she sat with her, it occurred to
her with overwhelming force. "Death's about some
where," said Aunt Peggy. "I can't see him, but I feels
him. There's somefin here belongs to him ; he wants it,
and he's gwine to have it."

"'Pears to me," said Phillis, "Death's always about.
Its well to be ready for him when he 'comes ; 'specially we
old people."

"Always ole people," said Aunt Peggy, "you want to
make out that Death's always arter ole people. No such
thing. Look at the churchyard, yonder. See any little
graves thar ? Plenty. Death's always arter babies ; 'pears
like he loves 'em best of all."

"Yes," said Phillis, "young people die as well as old,
but 'taint no harm to be ready. You know, Aunt Peggy,
we aint never ready till our sins is repented of, and our

148 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

souls is washed in the blood of Jesus. People ought to
think of that, old and young, but they don't."

" Death loves young people," said Aunt Peggy ; " always
arter 'em. See how he took young Mr. William Jones,
thar, in town, and he healthy and strong, wid his young
bride ; and his father and mother old like me. See how
he took little George Mason, not long ago, that Uncle
Geoffrey used to bring home wid him from town, setting
on de horse, before him Didn't touch his ole grandmo
ther ; she's here yet. Tell you, Death loves 'em wid de
red cheeks and bright eyes."

Phillis did not reply, and the old woman talked on as
if to herself.

" Thinks thar's nothin bad but what comes to niggers ;
aint I had nuff trouble widout Death. I aint forgot de
time I was hauled away from home. Cuss him, 'twas a
black man done it; he told me he'd smash my brains out
if I made a sound. Dragged along till I come to de river ;
thar he sold me. I was pushed in long wid all de rest of
'em, crying and howlin — gwine away for good and all.
Thar we was, chained and squeezed together ; dead or live,
all one. Tied me to a woman, and den untied me to fling
her into de sea — dead all night, and I tied to her. Come
long, cross de great sea; more died, more flung to de
sharks. No wonder it thundered and lightened, and de
waves splashed in, and de captain prayed. Lord above !
de captain prayed, when he was stealin and murderin of
his fellow-creeturs. We didn't go down, we got safe
across. Some went here, some went thar, and I come
long wid de rest to Virginny. Ever sence, workin and
slavin ; ever sence, sweatin and drivin ; workin all day,
workin all night."

"You never worked a bit in the night time, Aunt
Peggy," said Phillis ; " and you know it."

"Worked all time," said Aunt Peggy, "niggers aint

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 149

made for nothin else. Now, kase Death's somewhar,
wantin somefin, thinks it must be me."

"I didn't say 'twas you,. Aunt Peggy," said Phillis.

" Wants somefin," said Aunt Peggy. « Tell you what,
Phillis," and she laughed, "wants Miss Alice."

" What's come over you?" said Phillis, looking at her,
terrified. " There's nothing the matter with Miss Alice
but a headache."

"Headache!" said Aunt Peggy, "that's all?" and she
laughed again. "Think I didn't see her yesterday?
Whars the red cheeks ? — white about her lips, black about
her eyes ; jist like Mistis when she was gwine fast, and de
young baby on her arm. Death wants Miss Alice — aint
arter me."

" Aint you ashamed to talk so about Miss Alice, when
she's always coming to you, bringing you something, and
trying to do something for you?" said Phillis. "You
might as well sit here and talk bad of one of the angels
above."

"Aint talking bad of her," said Aunt Peggy; "aint
wishin her no harm. If there is any angels she's as good
as any of 'em ; but it's her Death's arter, not me ; look
here at my arms — stronger than yourn — " and she held out
her sinewy, tough arm, grasping her cane, to go in the
house.

Phillis saw she was not wanted there, and looking in to
be assured that Nancy (Aunt Peggy's grand-daughter, who
lived with her to take care of her,) was there, went home
and thought to go to bed. But she found no disposition
to sleep within her. Accustomed, as she was, to Aunt
Peggy's fault finding, and her strange way of talking, she
was particularly impressed with it to-night. 'Twas so
strange, Phillis thought, that she should have talked
about being stolen away from Guinea, and things that hap
pened almost a hundred years ago. Then her saying, so
often that, "Death was about." Phillis was no more nerv-

13*

150 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

ous than her iron tea-kettle, but now she could not feel
right. She sat down by the door, and tried to compose
herself. Every one on the plantation was quiet ; it seemed
to her the night got brighter and brighter, and the heavens
more crowded with stars than she had ever seen them.
She looked at her children to see if they all were well,
and then gave a glance at old Bacchus, who was snoring
loud enough to wake the dead. She shook him heartily
and told him to hush his clatter, but she might as well
have told a twenty-four pounder to go off without making
a noise. Then she sat down again and looked at Alice's
window, and could not avoid seeing Aunt Peggy's house
when she turned in that direction ; thus she was reminded
of her saying, "Death was about and arter somefin."
Wondering what had come over her, she shut the door and
laid down without undressing herself.

She slept heavily for several hours, and waked with the
thought of Aunt Peggy's strange talk pressing upon her.
She determined not to go to bed again, but opened the
door and fixed the- old rush-bottomed chair within it. Bac
chus, always a very early riser, except on Sunday, was
still asleep ; having had some sharp twinges of the rheu
matism the day before, Phillis hoped he might sleep them
off; her own mind was still burdened wTith an unaccountable
weight. She was glad to see the dawning of " another
blue day."

Before her towered, in their majestic glory, Miss Janet's
favorite mountains, yet were the peaks alone distinctly
visible ; the twilight only strong enough to disclose the
mass of heavy fog that enveloped them. The stars had
nearly all disappeared, those that lingered were sadly
paling away. How solemn was the stillness ! She
thought of the words of Jacob, "Surely God is here !" —
the clouds were flying swiftly beneath the arch of Heaven,
as if from God's presence. Many thoughts were suggested
to her by the grandeur of the scene, for my reader must re-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 151

member, that an admiration of the glories of nature is
not unfrequently a characteristic of an uneducated mind.
Many verses of Scripture occurred to her, " From the
rising of the sunr unto the going down of the same, the
Lord's name be praised. The Lord is high above all na
tions, and his glory above the heavens. Who is like unto
the Lord our God, who dwelleth on high? Who humbleth
himself to behold the things that are in Heaven, and in
the earth." The soul of the slave-woman rejoiced in the
Lord, her Maker and her Redeemer.

Gradually a soft light arose above the mountains ; the
fog became transparent through its influence. A red hue
gilded the top of the mist, and slowly descended toward
it, as it sank away. All the shadows of the night were
disappearing, at the command once given, " Let there be
light," and re-obeyed at the birth of every day. Phillis's
heart warmed with gratitude to God who had given to her
a knowledge of himself. She thought of her many mer
cies, her health, her comforts, and the comparative happi
ness of each member of her family ; of the kindness of
her master and the ladies ; all these considerations affected
her as they never had before, for gratitude and love to God
ever inspires us with love and kindness to our fellow crea
tures.

Her thoughts returned to Alice, but all superstitious
dread was gone ; Aunt Peggy's strange wanderings no
longer oppressed her ; her mind was in its usual healthy
state. " The good Lord is above us all," she said, "and
Miss Alice is one of his children." She saw the house
door open, and William coming toward her on his way to
the stable. It was without any agitation that she asked
what was the matter? "Miss Alice is very sick," said
William, "and I am going for the doctor."

"I am glad I happened to be here," said Phillis, " may
be they want me."

"You better not go in now," said William, "for she's

152 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

asleep. Miss Anna told me to walk very easy, for she
would not have her waked for all the world."

So Phillis, seeing Aunt Peggy's door open, thought she
would step over and find out if the old lady had slept off
her notions.

Aunt Peggy's cabin had two rooms, in one of which,
she and her granddaughter slept, in the other Nancy
cooked and washed, and occupied herself with various
little matters. Nancy had been up a short time and was
mixing some Indian bread for their breakfast. She looked
surprised, at having so early a visitor.

" How is your grandmother, child ?" said Phillis ; "did
she sleep well?"

« Mighty well," said Nancy. " She aint coughed at all
as I heard, since she went to bed."

" Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Phillis, " for I thought
she was going to be sick, she was so curious last night."

" She didn't complain, any way," said Nancy, going on
with her breadmaking, so Phillis got up to go home. As
she passed the door of the other room, she could but stop
to look in at the hard, iron features of the old creature,
as she lay in slumber. Her long black face contrasted
most remarkably with the white pillow on which it was sup
ported, her hair making her head look double its actual size,
standing off from her ears and head. One long black arm
lay extended, the hand holding to the side of the bed.
Something impelled Phillis to approach. At first she
thought of her grumbling disposition, her bitter resent
ment for injuries, most of which were fanciful, her uncom
promising dislike to the servants on the plantation. She
almost got angry when she thought « the more you do for
her, the more she complains." Then she recalled her
talk the night before ; of her being torn away from her
mother, and sold off, tied to a dead woman, and the storm
and the sharks ; a feeling of the sincerest pity took the
place of her first reflections, and well they did — for the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 153

next idea — Phillis' knees knocked together, and her heart
beat audibly, for what was before her ?

What but death ! with all his grimness and despair,
looking forth from the white balls that were only partially
covered with the dark lids — showing his power in the cold
hands whose unyielding grasp had closed in the struggle
with him. Setting his seal on brow and lips, lengthening
the extended form, that never would rouse itself from the
position in which the mighty conqueror had left it, when
he knew his victory was accomplished. What but -death,
indeed ! For the heart and the pulse were still forever,
and the life that had once regulated their beatings, had
gone back to the Giver of life.

The two slave women were alone together. She who
had been, had gone with all her years, her wrongs, and
her sins, to answer at the bar of her Maker. The fierce
and bitter contest with life, the mysterious curse, the deal
ings of a God with the children of men. Think of it,
Oh ! Christian ! as you gaze upon her. The other slave
woman is with the dead. She is trembling, as in the pre
sence of God. She knows he is everywhere, even in the
room of death. She is redeemed from the slavery of sin,
and her regenerate soul looks forward to the rest that re-
maineth to the people of God. She " submits herself to
an earthly master," knowing that the dispensation of God
has placed her in a state of servitude. Yet she trusts in
a Heavenly Master with childlike faith, and says, " May
I be ready when he comes and calls for me."

Phillis was perfectly self-possessed when she went back
to the kitchen. "Nancy," she said, "didn't you think it
was strange your grandmother slept so quiet, and laid so
late this morning? She always gets up so early."'

"I didn't think nothin about it," said Nancy, "for I
was 'sleep myself."

"Well there's no use putting it off," said Phillis. "I
might as well tell you, first as last. She's dead."

154 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"Dead, what do you mean?" said Nancy.

"I mean she's dead," said Phillis, "and cold, and very
likely has been so, for most of the night. Don't be fright
ened and make a noise, for Miss Alice is very sick, and
you're so near the house."

Nancy went with her to the other room. A child would
have known there was no mistake about death's being
there, if the idea had been suggested to it. Nancy was
in a moment satisfied that such was the case, but she
shed very few tears. She was quite worn out taking care
of the old woman, and the other servants were not willing
to take their turns. They said they " couldn't abide the
cross, ill-natured old thing."

Phillis went home for a few moments, and returned to
perform the last offices. All was order and neatness under
her superintendence ; and they wrho avoided the sight of
Aunt Peggy when alive, stood with a solemn awe beside
her and gazed, now that she was dead.

All but the children. Aunt Peggy was dead ! She who
had been a kind of scarecrow in life, how terrible was the
thought of her now ! The severest threat to an unruly
child was, "I will give you to Aunt Peggy, and let her
keep you." But to think of Aunt Peggy in connection
with darkness, and silence, and the grave, was dreadful
indeed. All day the thought of her kept them awed and
quiet ; but as evening drew on, they crept close to their
mothers' side, turning from every shadow, lest she should
come forth from it. Little Lydia, deprived of Miss Janet's
company in consequence of Alice's sickness, listened to
the pervading subject of conversation all day, and at night
dreamed that the old woman had carried her off to the top
of the highest of the mountains that stood before them ;
and there she sat scowling upon her, and there, they were
to be forever.

When the next afternoon had come, and the body was
buried, and all had returned from the funeral, Phillis

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 155

locked up the vacant cabin. Nancy was to be employed
in the house, and sleep in the servants' wing. Then Phil-
lis realized that death had been there, and she remem
bered once more, Aunt Peggy's words, "He's arter somefin,
wants it, and he's gwine to have it; but it ain't me."

There is one thing concerning death in which we are
apt to be sceptical, and that is, "Does he want me?"

CHAPTER XV.

AUNT Peggy's funeral was conducted quietly, but with
that respect to the dead which is universal on Southern
plantations. There was no hurry, no confusion. Two
young women remained with the corpse during the night
preceding the burial; the servants throughout the planta
tion had holiday, that they might attend. At Mr. Wes-
ton's request, the clergyman of the Episcopal church in
L. read the service for the dead. He addressed the serv
ants in a solemn and appropriate manner. Mr. Weston
was one of the audience. Alice's sickness had become
serious ; Miss Janet and her mother were detained with
her. The negroes sung one of their favorite hymns,

" Life is the time to serve the Lord,"

their fine voices blending in perfect harmony. Mr. Cald-
well took for his text the 12th verse of the 2d chapter of
Thessalonians, "That ye would walk worthy of God, who
hath called you unto his kingdom and his glory."

He explained to them in the most affectionate and beau
tiful manner, that they were called unto the kingdom and
glory of Christ. He dwelt on the glories of that kingdom,
as existing in the heart of the believer, inciting him to a
faithful performance of the duties of life ; as in the world,

156 AUXT PIIILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

promoting the happiness and welfare of all mankind, and
completed in heaven, where will be the consummation of
all the glorious things that the humble believer in Jesus
has enjoyed by faith, while surrounded by the temptations,
and enduring the trials of the world. He told them they
were all called. Christ died for all; every human being
that had heard of Jesus and his atonement, was called unto
salvation. He dwelt on the efficacy of that atonement,
on the solemn occasion when it was made, on the perfect
peace and reconciliation of the believer. He spoke of the
will of God, which had placed them in a condition of bond
age to an earthly master ; who had given them equal hopes
of eternal redemption with that master. He reminded
them that Christ had chosen his lot among the poor of
this world; that he had refused all earthly honor and
advantage. He charged them to profit by the present
occasion, to bring home to their hearts the unwelcome
truth that death was inevitable. He pointed to the coffin
that contained the remains of one who had attained so
great an age, as to make her an object of wonder in the
neighborhood. Yet her time had come, like a thief in
the night. There was no sickness, no sudden failing,
nothing unusual in her appearance, to intimate the pre
sence of death. God had given her a long time of health
to prepare for the great change ; he had given her every
opportunity to repent, and he had called her to her ac
count. He charged them to make their preparation now;
closing, by bringing before their minds that great day
when the Judge of the earth would summon before him
every soul he had made. None could escape his all-pierc
ing eye ; the king and his subject, the rich and the poor,
the strong and the weak, the learned and the ignorant,
the Avhite and the colored, the master and his slave ! each
to render his or her account for the deeds done in the body.
The servants were extremely attentive, listening with
breathless interest as he enlarged upon the awful events

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 157

of the Judgment. Many a tear fell, many a heart
throbbed, many a soul stretched forth her wings toward
the kingdom and glory which had been the clergyman's
theme.

After he concluded, their attention was absorbed by the
preparation to remove the body to its final resting place.
The face was looked upon, then covered; the coffin lid
screwed down ; strong arms lifting and bearing it to the
bier. Nancy and Isaac, her only relatives, were near the
coffin, and Mr. Weston and the clergyman followed them.
The rest formed in long procession. With measured step
and appropriate thought they passed their cabins toward
the place used for the interment of the slaves on the
plantation.

They had gone a little way, when a full, rich female
voice gently broke in upon the stillness ; it was Phillis's.
Though the first line was sung in a low tone, every one
heard it.

"Alas ! and did my Saviour bleed !"

They joined in, following the remains of their fellow-
servant, and commemorating the sufferings of one who
became as a servant, that He might exalt all who trust in
Him.

It might be there was little hope for the dead, but not
less sufficient the Atonement on Calvary, not less true that
for each and all " did he devote that sacred head;" that
for pity which he felt for all,

" He hung upon the tree :
Amazing pity, grace unknown I
And love beyond degree!"

While the voices swept through the air, a tribute of lowly
hearts ascended to God.

They had now reached the burial ground ; all was in
readiness, and the men deposited their burden in the

14

158 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

earth. Deep and solemn thought was portrayed on
every face ; music had softened their feelings, and the re
flections suggested by the hymn prepared them for kind
sentiments toward the dead, though no one had loved her
in life. The first hard clod that rattled on the coffin,
opened the fountain of their tears ; she who had been the
object of their aversion was gone from them forever; they
could not now show her any kindness. How many a heart
reproached itself with a sneering word, hasty anger, and
disdainful laugh. But what was she now ? dust and ashes.
They wept as they saw her hidden from their eyes, turn
ing from the grave with a better sense of their duties.

Reader, it is well for the soul to ponder on the great
mystery, Death! Is there not a charm in it? The
mystery of so many opposite memories, the strange union
of adverse ideas. The young, the old, the gay,- the proud,
the beautiful, the poor, and the sorrowful. Silence, dark
ness, repose, happiness, woe, heaven and hell. Oh ! they
should come now with a startling solemnity upon us all,
for while I write, the solemn tolling of the bells warns me
of a nation's grief; it calls to millions — its sad reso
nance is echoed in every heart.

HENRY CLAY is DEAD ! Well may the words pass from
lip to lip in the thronged street. The child repeats it
with a dim consciousness of some great woe ; it knows not,
to its full extent, the burden of the words it utters. The
youth passes along the solemn sentence ; there is a throb
in his energetic heart, for he has seen the enfeebled form of
the statesman as it glided among the multitude, and has
heard his voice raised for his country's good; he is
assured that the heart that has ceased to beat glowed
with all that was great and noble.

The politician utters, too, the oft-repeated sound — Henry
Clay is dead ! Well may he bare his breast and say, for
what is my voice raised where his has been heard? Is it
for my country, or for my party and myself? Men of

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 159

business and mechanics in the land, they know that one
who ever defended their interests is gone, and who shall
take his place ? The mother — tears burst from her eyes,
when looking into her child's face, she says, Henry Clay
is dead ! for a nation's freedom is woman's incalculable
blessing. She thinks with grief and gratitude of him who
never ceased to contend for that which gives to her, social
and religious rights.

Henry Clay isd<3ad ! His body no longer animated with
life ; his spirit gone to God. How like a torrent thought
rushes on, in swift review, of his wonderful and glorious
career. His gifted youth, what if it were attended with
the errors that almost invariably accompany genius like his !
Has he in the wide world an enemy who can bring aught
against him ? Look at his patriotism, his benevolence, his
noble acts. Recall his energy, his calmness, his constant
devotion to the interests of his country. Look, above all,
at his patience, his humility, as the great scenes of life
were receding from his view, and futurity was opening be
fore him. Hear of the childlike submission with which he
bowed to the Will that ordained for him a death-bed, pro
tracted and painful. "Lead me," he said to a friend,
"where I want to go, to the feet of Jesus."

Listen to the simplicity with which he commended his
body to his friends, and his spirit, through faith in Jesus
Christ, to his God. Regard him in all his varied relations
of Christian, patriot, statesman, husband, father, master,
and friend, and answer if the sigh that is now rending the
heart of his country is not well merited.

Yes 1 reader, thoughts of death are useful to us all,
whether it be by the grave of the poor and humble, or
when listening to the tolling of the bell which announces
to all that one who was mighty in the land has been sum
moned to the judgment seat of God.

160 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OB,

CHAPTER XVI.

MR. WESTON and Phillis returned to the sick-room from
the funeral. Fever was doing its work with the fail-
being, the beloved of many hearts, who was unconscious of
aught that was passing around her. There was a startling
light from the depths of her blue eyes ; their natural soft
ness of expression gone. The crimson glow had flushed
into a hectic ; the hot breath from her parted lips was
drying away their moisture. The rich, mournful tones of
her voice echoed in sad wailing through the chambers ; it
constantly and plaintively said Mother ! though that mother
answered in vain to its appeal. The air circulated through
the room, bearing the odor of the woods, but for her it
had no reviving power ; it could not stay the beatings of
her pulse, nor relieve the oppression of her panting bosom.
Oh ! what beauty was about that bed of sickness. The
perfect shape of every feature, the graceful turn of the
head, the luxuriant auburn hair, the contour of her rounded
limbs. There was no vacancy in her face. Alas ! visions
of sorrow were passing in her mind. A sad intelligence
was expressed in every glance, but not to the objects about
her. The soul, subdued by the suffering of its tenement,
was wandering afar off, perchance endeavoring to dive
into the future, perchance essaying to forget the past.

What says that vision of languishing and loveliness to the
old man whose eyes are fixed in grief upon it? "Thou
seest, 0 Christian ! the uselessness of laying up thy trea
sures here. Where are now the hopes of half thy lifetime,
where the consummation of all thy anxious plans ? She who
has been like an angel by thy side, how wearily throbs her

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 161

young heart ! Will she perpetuate the name of thy race ?
Will she close thine eyes with her loving hand ? Will she
drop upon thy breast a daughter's tear?"

What does the vision say to thee, oh ! aged woman ?
"There is still more for thee to do, more for thee to suffer.
It is not yet enough of this mortal strife ! Thou mayest
again see a fair flower crushed by the rude wind of death ;
perchance she may precede thee, to open for thine en
trance the eternal gates !"

And what to thee, thou faithful servant ?

" There are tears in thine eye, and for me. For me !
Whom thou thoughtest above a touch of aught that could
bring sorrow or pain. Thou seest, not alone on thy doomed*
race rests a curse ; the fierce anger of God, denounced
against sin — the curse, falls upon his dearest children. I
must, like you, abide by God's dealing with the children
of men. But we shall be redeemed."

What to thee, oh, mother ? Thou canst not read the
interpretation — a cloud of darkness sweeps by thy soul's
vision. Will it pass, or will it rest upon thee forever ?

Yet the voice of God speaks to each one ; faintly it may
be to the mother, but even to her. There is a rainbow of
hope in the deluge of her sorrow ; she sees death in the multi
tude that passes her sight, but there is another there, one
whose form is like unto the Son of God. She remembers
how He wept over Lazarus, and raised him from the dead ;
oh ! what comfort to place her case in his pitying bosom !

Many were the friends who wept, and hoped, and prayed
with them. Full of grief were the affectionate servants,
but most of all, Phillis.

It was useless to try and persuade her to take her usual
rest, to remind her of her children, and her cares; to
offer her the choice morsel to tempt her appetite, the re
freshing drink she so much required. She wanted nothing
but to weep with those who wept — nor rest, nor food, nor
refreshing.

14*

162 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

( It is universal, the consideration that is shown to the
servants at the South, as regards their times of" eating and
of rest. Whatever may have occurred, whatever fatigue
the different members of the family may feel obliged to
undergo, a servant is rarely called upon for extra attend
ance. In the Northern country the whole labor of a family
is frequently performed by one female, while five or six
will do the same amount of work in the South. A servant
at the South is rarely called upon at night ; only in cases
of absolute necessity. Negroes are naturally sleepy-
headed — they like to sit up late at night, — in winter, over
a large fire, nodding and bumping their heads against each
other, or in summer, out of doors ; but they take many a
nap before they can get courage to undress and go regu
larly to bed. They may be much interested in a conver
sation going on, but it is no violation of their code of eti
quette to smoke themselves to sleep while listening. Few
of the most faithful servants can keep awake well enough
to be of real service in cases of sickness. There is a feel
ing among their owners, that they work hard during the
day and should be allowed more rest than those who are

" not obliged to labor. " Do not disturb servants when they
are eating," is the frequent charge of a Southern mother,
"they have not a great many pleasures within their reach ;
never do any thing that will lessen their comforts in the
slightest degree." Mrs. West on, even in her own deep
sorrow, was not unmindful of others ; she frequently tried
to induce Phillis to go home, knowing that she must be
much fatigued. " I cannot feel tired, Phillis ; a mother
could not sleep with her only child as Alice is ; I do not
require the rest that you do."

« You needs it more, Miss Anna, though you don't
think so now. I can take care of myself. Unless you
drive me away, I shan't go until God's will be done, for
life or death."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 163

Miss Janet often laid down and slept for an hour or
two, and returned refreshed to the sick chamber. Her
voice retained its cheerfulness and kept Mrs. Weston's
heart from failing. « Hope on, Anna," she would say,
" as long as she breathes we must not give her up ; how
many have been thought entirely gone, and then revived.
We must hope, and God will do the rest."

, This " hoping on" was one great cause of Cousin Janet's
usefulness during a long life ; religion and reason alike
demand it of us. Many grand and noble actions have
been done in the world, that never could have been ac
complished without hoping on. When we become discour
aged, how heavy the task before us ; it is like drooping the
eyes, and feebly putting forth the hands to find the way,
when all appears to us darkness ; but let the eye be lifted
and the heart hope on, and there is found a glimmering
of light which enables the trembling one to penetrate the
gloom. Alice's symptoms had been so violent from the
first, her disease had progressed so rapidly, that her con
dition was almost hopeless ; ere Mr. Weston thought of
the propriety of informing Arthur of her condition. The
first time it occurred to him, he felt convinced that he
ought not to delay. He knew that Arthur never could be
consoled, if Alice, his dearly loved, his affianced wife,
should die without his having the consolation of a parting
word or look. He asked Cousin Janet her opinion.

She recalled all that had passed previous to Alice's ill
ness. As she looked into Mr. Weston's grieved and honest
face, the question suggested itself, — Is it right thus, to
keep him in ignorance ? She only wavered a moment.
Already the traces of agitation caused by his niece's ill
ness, were visible in his flushed face and nervous frame ;
what then might be the result of laying before him a sub
ject in which his happiness was so nearly concerned?
Besides, she felt convinced that even should Alice im
prove, the suffering which had been one cause of her sick-

164 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

ness, might be renewed with double force if suggested by
Arthur's presence.

" I know, my dear cousin," she said, " it will be a terri
ble grief to Arthur, should Alice be taken from us, yet I
think you had better not write. Dr. Lawton says, that a
very short time must decide her case ; and were the worst
we fear to occur, Arthur could not reach here in time to
see her with any satisfaction. If he lose her, it will pro
bably be better for him to remember her in health and
beauty."

Mr. Weston trembled, and burst into tears. " Try and
not give way," said Miss Janet again; "we are doing all
we can. We must hope and pray. I feel a great deal of
hope. God is so merciful, he will not bring this stroke
upon you in your old age, unless it is necessary. Why do
you judge for him ? He is mighty to save. < The Lord
on high, is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea,
than the mighty waves of the sea.' Think of His mercy
and power to save, and trust in Him."

In these most trying scenes of life, how little do we
sympathize with the physician. How much oppressed he
must feel, with the charge upon him. He is the adviser
— to him is left the direction of the potions which may be
the healing medicine or the deadly poison. He may se
lect a remedy powerful to cure, he may prescribe one
fatal to the invalid. How is he to draw the nice line of
distinction ? he must consider the disease, the constitution,
the probable causes of the attack. His reputation is at
stake — his happiness — for many eyes are turned to him, to
read an opinion he may not choose to give in words.

If he would be like the great Healer, he thinks not only
of the bodily sufferings that he is anxious to assuage, but
of the immortal soul on the verge of the great Interview,
deciding its eternal destiny. He trembles to think, should
he fail, it may be hurried to its account. If he be a friend,
how do the ties of association add to his burden. Here is

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 165

one whom he has loved, whose voice he is accustomed to
hear; shall he, through neglect or mismanagement, make
a void in many hearts ? Shall he, from want of skill,
bring weeping and desolation to a house where health and
joy have been ? Alice was very dear to Dr. Lawton, she
was the companion of his daughters ; he had been accus
tomed to regard her as one of them; he was untiring in
his attendance, but from the first, had feared the result.
Mrs. Weston had concealed nothing from him, she knew
that he considered a physician bound in honour to know
the affairs of a family only among themselves — she had no
reserves, thus giving him every assistance in her power,
in conducting the case. She detailed to him, explicitly,
all that might have contributed to produce it.

"You know, my dear madam," the doctor said, "that
at this season we have, even in our healthy country, severe
fevers. Alice's is one of the usual nature ; it could have
been produced by natural causes. We cannot say, it may
be that the circumstances you have been kind enough to
confide to me, have had a bad effect upon her. The effort
to do right, and the fear lest she should err, may have
strained her sensitive mind. She must have felt much
distress in parting with Walter, whom she has always
loved as a brother. You have only done your duty. I
should not like to see a daughter of mine interested in
that young man. I fear he inherits his father's violent
passions, yet his early training may bring the promised
blessing. Alice has that sort of mind, that is always in
fluenced by what is passing at the time ; remember what a
child she was when Arthur left. There are no more
broken hearts now-a-days — sometimes they bend a little,
but they can be straightened again. If Alice gets well,
you need not fear the future ; though you know I disap
prove of cousins marrying."

"Doctor," said Mrs. Weston, "I know you have not
given her up !"

166 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"I never give anybody up," said the doctor. "Who
will say what God intends to do ? I trust she will strug
gle through. Many a storm assails the fair ship on her
first voyage over the seas> She may be sadly tossed
about with the wind and waves ; but may breast it gal
lantly, and come back safe, after all. We must do what
we can, and hope for the best." These words strength
ened the mother's heart to watch and hope.

The doctor laid down to sleep for an hour or two in
the afternoon. Cousin Janet, Mrs. Weston, and Phillis
kept their watch in silence. The latter gently fanned
AKce, who lay gazing, but unconscious; now looking in
quiringly into her mother's face, now closing her eyes to
every thing. There was no tossing or excitement about
her, that was over. Her cheek was pale, and her eyes
languid and faded. One would not have believed, to have
looked upon her, how high the fever still raged. Sud
denly she repeated the word that had often been on her
lips — "Mother." Then, with an eifort to raise herself,
she sank back upon her pillow, exhausted. A sorrowful
look, like death, suffused itself over her countenance.
Ah ! how throbbed those hearts ! Was the dreaded mes
senger here ?

"Miss Anna," whispered Phillis, " she is not gone, her
pulse is no lower; it is the same."

"Is it the same? are you sure?" said Mrs. Weston,
who, for a few moments, had been unable to speak, or
even to place her finger on the pulse.

« It is no worse, if you'll believe me," said Phillis ; "it
may be a little better, but it is no worse."

" Had I not better wake the doctor ?" said Mrs. Wes
ton, who hardly knew what to believe.

Miss Janet gently touched the wrist of the invalid.

" Do not wake him, my dear ; Phillis is right in saying
she is no worse ; it was a fainting, which is passing away.
See ! she looks as usual. Give her the medicine, it is

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 167

time ; and leave her quiet, the doctor may be disturbed
to-night."

The night had passed, and the morning was just visible,
as symptoms of the same nature affected the patient. Dr.
Lawton had seen her very late at night, and had re
quested them to awaken him should there be any change
in her appearance or condition. Oh, how these anxious
hearts feared and hoped through this night. What might
it bring forth; joy or endless weeping?

This dread crisis past, and what would be the result ?

" Doctor," said Phillis, gently awaking him, " I'm sorry
to disturb you. Miss Alice has had another little turn,
and you'd better see her."

"How is her pulse?" said the doctor, quickly. "Is it
failing ?"

" 'Pears to me not, sir ; but you can see."

They went to the room, and the doctor took Alice's
small wrist, and lightly felt her pulse. Then did the mo
ther watch his face, to see its writing. What was there ?

Nothing but deep attention. The wrist was gently laid
down, and the doctor's hand passed lightly over the white
arm. Softly it touched the forehead, and lay beneath the
straying curl. There is no expression yet ; but he takes
the wrist again, and, laying one hand beneath it, he
touches the pulse. Softly, like the first glance of moon
light on the dark waters, a smile is seen on that kind face.
There is something else besides the smile. Large tears
dropped from the physician's eyes ; tears that he did not
think to wipe away. He stooped towards the fragile suf
ferer, and gently as the morning air breathes upon the
drooping violet, he kissed her brow. "Alice, sweet one,"
he said, " God has given you to us again."

Where is that mother ? Has she heard those cheering
words ? She hears them, and is gone ; gone even from
the side of her only one. The soul, when there is too
much joy, longs for God. She must lay her rich burden

168 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

at the mercy-seat. Now, that mother kneels, but utters
no word. The incense of her heart knows no language,
and needs none ; for God requires it not. The sacrifice
of praise from a rejoicing heart, is a grateful offering that
he accepts.

"Miss Anna," said Phillis, with trembling voice, but
beaming eye, "go to bed now; days and nights you
have been up. How can you stand it ? The doctor says
she is a great deal better, but she may be ill for a good
while yet, and you will give out. I will stay with her if
you will take a sleep."

" Sleep ;" said Mrs. Weston. « No, no, faithful Phillis,
not yet ; joy is too new to me. God for ever bless you
for your kindness to me and my child. You shall go
home and sleep, and to-night, if she continue to do well, I
will trust her with you, and take some rest myself."

Mr. Weston awoke to hear glad tidings. Again and
again, through the long day, he repeated to himself his
favorite Psalm, "Praise the Lord, oh my soul."

Miss Janet's joy, deep but silent, was visible in her
happy countenance. Nor were these feelings confined to
the family ; every servant on the estate made his mas
ter's joy his own. They sorrowed with him when he
sorrowed, but now that his drooping head was lifted up,
many an honest face regarded him with humble congratu
lation, as kindly received as if it had come from the
highest in the land.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 169

CHAPTER XVII.

ALICE steadily, though slowly, improved; and Phillis
again employed herself with her children and her work.
Things had gone on very well, with one of her daughter's
constant superintendence; but Bacchus had taken advan
tage of being less watched than usual, and had indulged a
good deal, declaring to himself that without something to
keep up his spirits he should die, thinking about Miss Alice.
Phillis, lynx-eyed as she always was, saw that such had
been the case.

It was about a week after Alice commenced to improve,
that Phillis went to her house in the evening, after having
taken charge of her for several hours, while Mrs. Weston
slept. Alice was very restless at night, and Mrs. Weston
generally prepared herself for it, by taking some repose
previously; this prevented the necessity of any one else
losing rest, which, now that Alice was entirely out of
danger, she positively refused to permit. As Phillis
went in the door, Lydia was on her knees, just finishing
the little nightly prayer that Miss Janet had taught her.
She got up, and as she was about to go to bed, saw her
mother, and bade her good night.

"Good night, and go to bed like a good child. Miss
Alice says you may come to see her again to-morrow,"
Phillis replied.

Lydia was happy as a queen with this promise. Aunt
Phillis took her pipe, and her old station outside the door,
to smoke. Bacchus had his old, crazy, broken-backed chair
out there already, and he was evidently resolving some
thing in his mind of great importance, for he propped the

15

170 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

chair far back on its one leg, and appeared to be taking
the altitude of the mountains in the moon, an unfailing
sign of a convulsion of some kind in the inner man.

"Phillis," said he, after a long silence, "do you know, it
is my opinion that that old creature," pointing with his
thumb to Aunt Peggy's house, "is so long used to grum-
blin' and fussin', that she can't, to save her life, lie still in
her grave."

"What makes you think so?" said Phillis.

"Bekase, I believes in my soul she's back thar this
minute."

"People that drink, Bacchus, can't expect nothin' else
than to be troubled with notions. I was in hopes Aunt
Peggy's death would have made you afeered to go on sin
ning. 'Stead of that, when we was all in such grief, and
didn't know what was comin' upon us, you must go drink
ing. You'd better a been praying, I tell you. But be
sure your < sin will find you out' some day or other. The
Lord above knows I pray for you many a time, when I'm
hard at work. My heart is nigh breaking when I think
where the drunkards will be, when the Lord makes up his
jewels. They can't enter the kingdom of Heaven; there
is no place for them there. Why can't you repent ? 'Spose
you die in a drunken fit, how will I have the heart to work
when I remember where you've got to; < where the worm
never dieth, and the fire is not quenched.' '

Bacchus was rather taken aback by this sudden appeal,
and he moved uneasily in his chair ; but after a little re
flection, and a good long look at the moon, he recovered
his confidence.

"Phillis," said he, "do you b'lieve in sperrits?"

"No, I don't," said Phillis, drily, "of no kind."

Bacchus was at a loss again ; but he pretended not to
understand her, and giving a hitch to his uncertain chair,
he got up some courage, and said, doggedly,

"Well, I do."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 171

"I don't," said Phillis, positively, "of no kind."

Bacchus was quite discomposed again, but he said in an
appealing voice to his wife, " Phillis, I couldn't stand it;
when Miss Alice was so low, you was busy, and could be
a doin somethin for her ; but what could I do ? Here I sot
all night a cryin, a thinkin about her and young master.
I 'spected for true she was gwine to die ; and my blessed
grief! what would have come of us all. Master Arthur,
he'd a come home, but what would be the use, and she dead
and gone. Every which way I looked, I think I see Miss
Alice going up to Heaven, a waving her hand good-by to us,
and we all by ourselves, weepin and wailin. 'Deed, Phillis,
I couldn't stand it; if I hadn't had a little whiskey I should
a been dead and cold afore now."

" You'll be dead and cold afore long with it," said Phillis.

"I couldn't do nothing but cry, Phillis," said Bacchus,
snuffing and blowing his nose ; " and I thought I might be
wanted for somethin, so I jest took a small drop to keep
up my strength.'1

Phillis said nothing. She was rather a hard-hearted
woman where whiskey was concerned ; so she gave Bacchus
no encouragement to go on excusing himself.

" I tell you why I believes in ghosts," said Bacchus, af
ter a pause. "I've see'd one."

"When?" said Phillis.

"I was telling you that while Miss Alice was so ill,"
said Bacchus, "I used to set up most of de night. I don't
know how I kep up, for you know niggers takes a sight of
sleep, 'specially when they aint very young, like me. Well,
I thought one time about Miss Alice, but more about old
Aunt Peggy. You know she used to set outside de door
thar, very late o' nights. It 'peared like 1 was 'spectin to
see her lean on her stick, and come out every minute. Well,
one night I was sure I hear somethin thar. I listened, and
then somethin gin a kind o' screech, sounded like de little
niggers when Aunt Peggy used to gin 'em a lick wid her

172 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

switch. Arter a while I see de curtain lifted up. I couldn't
see what it was, but it lifted it up. I hearn some more
noise, and I felt so strange like, that I shut de door to,
and went to bed. Well, I seed dat, and heard it for two
or three nights. I was gettin scared I tell you ; for, Phil-
lis, there's somethin awful in thinkin of people walking out
of their graves, and can't get rest even thar. I couldn't
help comin, every night, out here, 'bout twelve o'clock,
for that's time sperrits, I mean ghosts, is so uneasy. One
night, de very night Miss Alice got better, I hearn de
screech an de fuss, and I seed de curtain go up, and pretty
soon what do you think I saw. I'm tellin' you no lie, Phillis.
I seed two great, red eyes, a glarin out de winder ; a glarin
right at me. If you believe me, I fell down out of dis very
cheer, and when I got up, I gin one look at de winder,
and thar was de red eyes glarin agin, so I fell head-fore
most over de door step, tryin to get in quick, and then
when I did get in, I locked de door. My soul, wasn't I
skeered. I never looked no more. I seen nuff dat time."

" Your head was mighty foolish," said Phillis, "and you
just thought you saw it."

" No such thing. I saw de red eyes — Aunt Peggy's red
eyes."

"High!" said Phillis, "Aunt Peggy hadn't redeyes."

" Not when she was 'live ?" said Bacchus. " But thar's no
knowin what kind of eyes sperrits gets, 'specially when
they gets where it aint very comfortable."

"Well," said Phillis, "these things are above us. We've
got our work to do, and the Lord he does his. I don't
bother myself about ghosts. I'm trying to get to heaven,
and I know I'll never get there if I don't get ready while
I'm here. Aunt Peggy aint got no power to come back,
unless God sends her ; and if He sends her, its for some
good reason. You better come in now, and kneel down,
and ask God to give you strength to do what is right.
We've got no strength but what He gives us."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 173

" I wish you'd pray loud to-night," said Bacchus; "for
I aint felt easy of late, and somehow I can't pray."

" Well, I can't do much, but I can ask God to give us
grace to repent of our sins, and to serve him faithfully,"
said Phillis.

And they both kneeled down, and prayer went forth
from an earnest heart ; and who shall say that a more wel
come offering ascended to His ear in that time of prayer,
than the humble but believing petition of the slave !

Phillis was of a most matter-of-fact disposition, and pos
sessed, as an accompaniment, an investigating turn of mind;
so, before any one was stirring in her cottage, she dressed
herself, and took from a nail a large-sized key, that was
over the mantel-piece. She hung it to her little finger,
and made straight for Aunt Peggy's deserted cabin. She
granted herself a search-warrant, and determined to find
some clue to Bacchus's marvellous story. Her heart did
not fail her, even when she put the key in the lock, for
she was resolved as a grenadier, and she would not have
turned back if the veritable red ejes themselves had raised
the cotton curtain, and looked defiance. The lock was
somewhat out of repair, requiring a little coaxing be
fore she could get the key in, and then it was some time be
fore she succeeded in turning it; at last it yielded, and
with one push the door flew open.

Now Phillis, anxious as she was to have the matter
cleared up, did not care to have it done so instantaneously,
for hardly had she taken one step in the house before she,
in the most precipitous manner, backed two or three out
of it.

At first she thought Aunt Peggy herself had flown at
her, and she could hardly help calling for assistance, but
making a great effort to recover her composure, she saw
at a glance that it was Aunt Peggy's enormous black cat,
who not only resembled her in color, but disposition. Ju
piter, for that was the cat's name, did not make another

15*

174 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

grab, but stood \vith his back raised, glaring at her, while
Phillis, breathing very short, sunk into Aunt Peggy's chair
and wiped the cold perspiration from her face with her
apron.

"Why, Jupiter," said Phillis, "is this you? How on
earth did I happen to forget you. Your eyes is red, to be
sure, and no wonder, you poor, half-starved creature. I
must a locked you up here, the day after the funeral,
and I never would a forgot you, if it hadn't been my
mind was so taken up with Miss Alice. Why, you're thin
as a snake, — wait a minute and I'll bring you something
to eat."

Jupiter, who had lived exclusively on mice for a fort
night, was evidently subdued by the prospects of an early
breakfast. The apology Phillis had made him seemed not
to be without its effect, for when she came back, with
a small tin pan of bread and milk, and a piece of bacon
hanging to a fork, his back was not the least elevated, and
he proceeded immediately to the hearth where the proven
der was deposited, and to use an inelegant Westernism,
"walked into it;" Phillis meanwhile going home, perfectly
satisfied with the result of her exploration. Bacchus's
toilet was completed, he was just raising up from the exer
tion of putting on his slippers, when Phillis came in,
laughing.

This was an unusual phenomenon, so early in the morn
ing, and Bacchus was slightly uneasy at its portent, but
he ventured to ask her what was the matter.

" Nothing," said Phillis, " only I've seen the ghost."

"Lord! what?"

"The ghost!" said Phillis, "and its got red eyes, too,
sure enough."

"Phillis," said Bacchus, appealingly, "you aint much
used to jokin, and I know you wouldn't tell an ontruth ;
what do you mean ?"

"I mean," said Phillis, "that the very ghost you saw,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 175

and heard screeching, with the red eyes glarin at you
through the window, I've seen this morning."

"Phillis," said Bacchus, sinking back in his chair,
" 'taint possible ! What was it a doin ?"

" I can tell you what its doing now," said Phillis, "its
eating bread and milk and a piece of bacon, as hard as it
can. Its eyes is red, to be sure, but I reckon yours would
be red or shut, one, if you'd a been nigh a fortnight locked
up in an empty house, with now and then a mouse to eat.
Why, Bacchus, how come it, you forgot old Jupiter ? I
was too busy to think about cats, but I wonder nobody
else didn't think of the poor animal."

" Sure enough," said Bacchus, slowly recovering from
his astonishment, " its old Jupiter — why I'd a sworn on
the Bible 'twas Aunt Peggy's sperrit. Well, I do b'lieve !
that old cat's lived all this time ; well, he aint no cat any
how — I always said he was a witch, and now I knows it,
that same old Jupiter. But, Phillis, gal, I wouldn't say
nothin at all about it — we'll have all dese low niggers
laughin at us."

"What they going to laugh at me about?" said Phillis.
" I didn't see no ghost."

"Well, its all de same," said Bacchus, "they'll laugh
at me — and man and wife's one — 'taint worth while to say
nothin 'bout it, as I see."

" I shan't say nothing about it as long as you keep
sober ; but mind, you go pitching and tumbling about, and
I aint under no kind of promise to keep your secret. And
its the blessed truth, they'd laugh, sure enough, at you, if
they did know it."

And the hint had such a good effect, that after a while,
it was reported all over the plantation that Bacchus "had
give up drinkin, for good and all."

176 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XVIII.

IT was in answer to Arthur's letter, expressing great
anxiety to hear from home, in consequence of so long a
time having passed without his receiving his usual letters,
that Mr. Weston wrote him of Alice's illness. She was
then convalescing, but in so feeble and nervous a condition,
that Dr. Lawton advised Arthur's remaining where he
was — wishing his patient to be kept even from the excite
ment of seeing so dear a relative. Mr. Weston insisted
upon Arthur's being contented with hearing constantly of
her improvement, both from himself and Mrs. Weston.
This, Arthur consented to do ; but in truth he was not
aware of the extent of the danger which had threatened
Alice's life, and supposed it to have been an ordinary
fever. With what pleasure did he look forward, in his
leisure moments, to the time when it would be his privilege
always to be near her ; and to induce the tedious interval
to pass more rapidly, he employed himself with his studies,
as constantly as the season would allow. He had formed
a sincere attachment to Abel Johnson, whose fine talents
and many high qualities made him a delightful companion.
Mr. Hubbard was a connection of young Johnson's, and
felt privileged often to intrude himself upon them. It
really was an intrusion, for he had at present a severe
attack of the Abolition fever, and he could not talk upon
any other subject. This was often very disagreeable to
Arthur and his friend, but still it became a frequent sub
ject of their discussion, when Mr. Hubbard was present,
and when they were alone.

In the mean time, the warm season was passing away, and
Alice did not recover her strength as her friends wished.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 177

No place in the country could have been more delightful
than Exeter was at that season ; but still it seemed neces
sary to have a change of scene. September had come,
and it was too late to make their arrangements to go to
the North, and Alice added to this a great objection to so
doing. A distant relation of Mr. Weston, a very young
girl, named Ellen Graham, had been sent for, in hopes that
her lively society would have a good effect on Alice's un
equal spirits ; and after much deliberation it was determined
that the family, with the exception of Miss Janet, should
pass the winter in Washington. Miss Janet could not be
induced to go to that Vanity Fair, as she called it ; and if
proper arrangements for her comfort could not be made,
the project would have to be given up. After many pro
posals, each one having an unanswerable difficulty, the old
lady returned from town one day, with a very satisfied
countenance, having persuaded Mrs. Williams, a widow,
and her daughter, to pass the winter at Exeter with her.
Mrs. Williams was a much valued friend of the Weston
family, and as no objection could be found to this arrange
ment, the aifair was settled. Alice, although the cause of
the move, was the only person who was indifferent on the
subject. Ellen Graham, young and gay as she was, would
like to have entered into any excitement that would
make her forget the past. She fancied it would be for
her happiness, could the power of memory be destroyed.
She had not sufficient of the experience of life to appreciate
the old man's prayer, "Lord, keep my memory green."

Ellen at an early age, and an elder brother, were de
pendent, not for charity, but for kindness and love,
on relatives who for a long time felt their guardian
ship a task. They were orphans ; they bore each other
company in the many little cares of childhood ; and the
boy, as is not unusual in such a case, always looked to his
sister for counsel and protection, not from actual unkind-
ness, but from coldness and unmerited reproof. They

178 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

never forgot their parting with their mother — the agony
with which she held them to her bosom, bitterly reflecting
they would have no such resting-place in the cold world, in
which they were to struggle.

Yet they were not unkindly received at their future
home. Their uncle and aunt, standing on the piazza,
could not without tears see the delicate children in their
deep mourning, accompanied only by their aged and re
spectable colored nurse, raise their eyes timidly, appealing
to them for protection, as hand in hand they ascended the
steps. It was a large and dreary-looking mansion, and
many years had passed since the pictures of the stiff look
ing cavalier and his smiling lady, hanging in the hall, had
looked down upon children at home there. The echoes of
their own voices almost alarmed the children, when, after
resting from their journey, they explored the scenes of
their fature haunts. On the glass of the large window in
the hall, were the names of a maiden and her lover, de
scended from the cavaliers of Virginia. This writing was
cut with a diamond, and the children knew not that the
writing was their parents'. The little ones walked care
fully over the polished floors ; but there seemed nothing
in all they saw to tell them they were welcome. They
lifted the grand piano that maintained its station in one of
the unoccupied rooms of the house; but the keys were yel
low with age, and many of them soundless — when at last
one of them answered to the touch of Ellen's little hand,
it sent forth such a ghostly cry that the two children gazed
at each other, not knowing whether to cry or to laugh.

Children are like politicians, not easily discouraged ; and
Ellen's "Come on, Willy," showed that she, by no means,
despaired of finding something to amuse them. They
lingered up stairs in their own apartment, William point
ing to the moss-covered rock that lay at the foot of the
garden.

« Willy, Willy, come ! here is something," and Willy fol-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 179

lowed her through a long passage into a room, lighted only
by the rays that found entrance through a broken shutter.
" Only see this," she continued, laying her hand on a crib
burdened with a small mattress and pillow; "here too," and
she pointed to a little child's hat that hung over it, from
which drooped three small plumes. " Whose can they
be?"

" Come out o' here, children," said the nurse, who had
been seeking them. " Your aunt told me not to let you come
into this part of the house ; this was her nursery once, and
her only child died here."

The children followed their nurse, and ever afterward
the thought of death was connected with that part of the
house. Often as they looked in their aunt's face they
remembered the empty crib and the drooping plumes.

Time does not always fly with youth ; yet it passed
along until Ellen had attained her sixteenth year, and
William his eighteenth year. Ellen shared all her
brother's studies, and their excellent tutor stored their
minds with useful information. Their uncle superintended
their education, with the determination that it should be
a thorough one. William did not intend studying a pro
fession ; his father's will allowed him to decide between
this, or assuming, at an early age, the care of his large
estate, with suitable advisers.

Ellen made excellent progress in all her studies. Her
aunt was anxious she should learn music, and wished her
to go to Richmond or to Alexandria for that purpose, but
Ellen begged off; she thought of the old piano and its
cracked keys, and desired not to be separated from her
brother, professing her dislike to any music, but her old
nurse's Methodist hymns.

William was tall and athletic for his age, passionate
when roused by harshness or injustice, but otherwise affec
tionate in his disposition, idolizing his sister. His uncle
looked at him with surprise when he saw him assume the

180 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

independence of manner, which sat well upon him ; and
his aunt sometimes checked herself, when about to re
prove him for the omission of some unimportant form of
politeness, which in her days of youth was essential.
Ellen dwelt with delight upon the approaching time, when
she would be mistress of her brother's establishment, and
as important as she longed to be, on that account. Though
she looked upon her uncle's house as a large cage, in
which she had long fluttered a prisoner, she could not but
feel an affection for it ; her aunt and uncle often formal,
and uselessly particular, were always substantially kind.
It was a good, though not a cheerful home, and the young
look for joy and gaiety, as do the flowers for birds and
sunshine. Ellen was to be a ward of her uncle's until she
was of age, but was to be permitted to reside with her
brother, if she wished, from the time he assumed the
management of his estate.

The young people laid many plans for housekeeping.
William had not any love affair in progress, and as yet,
his sister's image was stamped on all his projects for the
future.

Two years before Ellen came to Exeter, William stood
under his sister's window, asking her what he should bring

her from C , the neighboring town. " Don't you want

some needles," he said, "or a waist ribbon, or some candy?
make haste, Ellen ; if I don't hurry, I can't come home
to-night."

"I don't want any thing, Willie; but will you be sure
to return to-night ? I never sleep well when you are

away. Aunt and I are going on Tuesday to C ; wait,

and we will stay all night then."

" Oh, no," said William, « I must go ; but you may de
pend upon my being back: I always keep my promises.
So good-by."

Ellen leaned from the window, watching her handsome
brother as he rode down the avenue leading into the road.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 181

He turned in his saddle, and bowed to her, just before he
passed from her sight.

" Oh, mammy," she said to her attendant, for she had
always thus affectionately addressed her; "did you ever
see any one as handsome as Willie ?"

"Yes, child," she replied, "his father was, before him.
You both look like your father ; but Master Willie favors
him more than you do. Shut down the window, Miss
Ellen, don't you feel the wind ? A strong March wind aint
good for nobody. Its bright enough overhead to-day, but
the ground is mighty damp and chilly. There, you're
sneezin ; didn't I tell you so?"

Late in the same day Ellen was seated at the window,
watching her brother's return ; gaily watching, until the
shadows of evening were resting on his favorite rocks.
Then she watched anxiously until the rocks could no longer
be seen ; but never did he come again, though hope and
expectation lingered about her heart until despair rested
there in their place.

William was starting on horseback, after an early din
ner at the tavern in C . As he put his foot in the

stirrups, an old farmer, who had just driven his large co
vered wagon to the door, called to him.

"You going home, Mr. William?" said he.

" Yes, I am ; but why do you ask me ?"

"Why, how are you going to cross Willow's Creek?"
asked the old man.

"On the bridge," said William, laughing; "did you
think I was going to jump my horse across ?"

"No, but you can't cross the bridge," said the farmer,
"for the bridge is broken down."

".Why, I crossed it early this morning," said William.

" So did I," said the farmer, "and, thank God, I and
my team did not go down with it. But there's been a
mighty freshet above, and Willow's Creek is something
like my wife — she's an angel when she aint disturbed, but

16

182 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

she's the devil himself when any thing puts her out. Now,
you take my advice, and stay here to-night, or at any rate
don't get yourself into danger."

"I must go home to-night," said William; "I have
promised my sister to do so. I can ford the creek;" and
he prepared again to start.

" Stop, young man," said the farmer, solemnly, "you
mind the old saying, < Young people think old people fools,
but old people know young people are fools.' I warn
you not to try and ford that creek to-night ; you might
as well put your head in a lion's mouth. Havn't I been
crossing it these fifty years? and aint I up to all its
freaks and ways ? Sometimes it is as quiet as a weaned
baby, but now it is foaming and lashing, as a tiger after
prey. You'd better disappoint Miss Ellen for one night,
than to bring a whole lifetime of trouble upon her. Don't
be foolhardy, now ; your horse can't carry you safely over
Willow's Creek this night."

"Never fear, farmer," said William. "I can take care
of myself."

"May the Lord take care of you," said the farmer, as
he followed the youth, dashing through the town on his
spirited horse. « If it were not for this wagon-load, and
there are so many to be clothed and fed at home, I would
follow you, but I can't do it."

William rode rapidly homeward. The noonday being
long passed, the skies were clouding over, and harsh
spring winds were playing through the woods.

William enjoyed such rides. Healthy, and fearing
nothing, he was a stranger to a feeling of loneliness.
Alternately singing an old air, and then whistling with
notes as clear and musical as a flute, he at last came in
sight of the creek which had been so- tranquil when he
crossed it in the morning. There was an old house near,
where lived the people who received the toll. A man and
his wife, with a large family of children, poor people's in-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 183

heritance, had long made this place their home, and they
were acquainted with all the persons who were in the
habit of traveling this way.

William, whom they saw almost daily, was a great favo
rite with the children. Not only did he pay his toll, but
many a penny and sixpence to the small folks besides, and
he was accustomed to receive a welcome.

Now the house was shut up. It had rained frequently
and heavily during the month, and the bright morning,
which had tempted the children out to play, was gone, and
they had gathered in the old house to amuse themselves
as they could.

The bridge had been partly carried away by the freshet.
Some of the beams were still swinging and swaying them
selves with restless motion. The creek was swollen to a
torrent. The waters dashed against its sides, in their
haste to go their way. The wind, too, howled mournfully,
and the old trees bent to and fro, nodding their stately
heads, and rustling their branches against each other.

"Oh, Mr. William, is it you?" said the woman, open
ing the door. " Get off your horse, and come in and rest;
you can't go home to-night."

"Yes, I can though," said William, «I have often
forded the creek, and though I never saw it as it is now,
yet I can get safely over it, I am sure."

"Don't talk of such things, for the Lord's sake,"
said Mrs. Jones. " Why, my husband could not ford the
creek now, and you're a mere boy."

"No matter for that," said William. "I promised my
sister to be at home to-night, and I must keep my word.
See how narrow the creek is here ! Good-by, I cannot
wait any longer, it is getting dark."

"Don't try it, please don't, Mr. William," again said
Mrs. Jones. All the children joined her, some entreating
William, others crying out at the danger into which their
favorite was rushing.

184 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"Why, you cowards," cried William, "you make more
noise than the creek itself. Here's something for ginger
bread." None of the children offered to pick up the
money which fell among them, but looked anxiously after
William, to see what he was going to do.

"Mr. William," said Mrs. Jones, "come back; look
at the water a roaring and tossing, and your horse is rest
less already writh the noise. Don't throw your life away ;
think of your sister."

" I'm thinking of her, good Mrs. Jones. Never fear for
me," said he, looking back at her with a smile, at the same
time urging his horse toward the edge of the creek, where
there was a gradual descent from the hill.

As Mrs. Jones had said, the horse had already become
restless, he was impatiently moving his head, prancing and
striking his hoofs against the hard ground. William re
strained him, as he too quickly descended the path, and it
may be the young man then hesitated, as he endeavored
to check him, but it was too late. The very check ren
dered him more impatient ; springing aside from the path
he dashed himself from rock to rock. William saw his
danger, and with a steady hand endeavored to control
the frightened animal. This unequal contest was soon de
cided. The nearer the horse came to the water the more
he was alarmed, — at last he sprang from the rock, and he
and his rider disappeared.

"Oh, my God!" said Mrs. Jones, "he is gone. The
poor boy ; and there is no one to help him." She at first
hid her eyes from the appalling scene, and then approached
the creek and screamed as she saw the horse struggling
and plunging, while William manfully tried to control him.
Oh ! how beat her heart, as with uplifted hands, and
stayed breath, she watched for the issue — it is over now.

" Hush ! hush ! children," said their mother, pale as
death, whose triumph she had just witnessed. "Oh! if
your father had been here to have saved him — but who

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 185

could have saved him? None but thou, Almighty God!"
and she kneeled to pray for, she knew not what.

"Too late, too late!" yet she knelt and alternately
prayed and wept.

Again she gazed into the noisy wraters — but there was
nothing there, and then calling her frightened and weep
ing children into the house, she determined to set forth
alone, for assistance — for what ?

*

Oh ! how long was that night to Ellen, though she be
lieved her brother remained at C - . She did not sleep
till late, and sad the awakening. Voices in anxious whis
pers fell upon her ear ; pale faces and weeping eyes, were
everywhere around her — within, confusion ; and useless
effort without. Her uncle wept as for an only son ; her
aunt then felt how tenderly she had loved him, who was
gone forever. The farmer, who had warned him at the
tavern-door, smote his breast when he heard his sad fore
bodings were realized. The young and the old, the rich
and the poor, assembled for days about the banks of the
creek, with the hopes of recovering the body, but the
young rider and his horse were never seen again. Ah !
Ellen was an orphan now — father, mother, and friend had
he been to her, the lost one. Often did she lay her head
on the kind breast of their old nurse, and pray for
death.

As far as was in their power, her uncle and aunt soothed
her in her grief. But the only real comfort at such a
time, is that from Heaven, and Ellen knew not that. How
could she have reposed had she felt the protection of the
Everlasting Arms !

But time, though it does not always heal, must assuage
the intensity of grief; the first year passed after William's
death, and Ellen felt a wish for other scenes than those
where she had been accustomed to see him. She had now
little to which she could look forward.

16*

186 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

Her chief amusement was in retiring to the library, and
reading old romances, with which its upper shelves were
filled ; this, under other circumstances, her aunt would have
forbidden, but it was a relief to see Ellen interested in
any thing, and she appeared not to observe her thus em
ploying herself.

So Ellen gradually returned to the old ways ; she stu
died a little, and assisted her industrious aunt in her nu
merous occupations. As of old, her aunt saw her restless
ness of disposition, and Ellen felt rebellious and irritable.
With what an unexpected delight, then, did she receive
from her aunt's hands, the letters from Mrs. Weston, in
viting her to come at once to Exeter, and then to accom
pany them to Washington. She, without any difficulty,
obtained the necessary permission, and joyfully wrote to
Mrs. Weston, how gladly she would accept the kind invi
tation.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 1ST

CHAPTER XIX.

THERE was an ancient enmity between Jupiter and
Bacchus. While the former was always quiet when Phillis
came to see his mistress during her life, Bacchus never
went near him without his displaying symptoms of the
greatest irritation ; his back was invariably raised, and
his claws spread out ready for an attack on the slightest
provocation. Phillis found it impossible to induce the cat
to remain away from Aunt Peggy's house ; he would
stand on the door-step, and make the most appalling noises,
fly into the windows, scratch against the panes, and if
any children approached him to try and coax him away,
he would fly at them, sending them off in a disabled con
dition. Phillis was obliged to go backward and forward
putting him into the house and letting him out again. This
was a good deal of trouble, and his savage mood continu
ing, the servants were unwilling to pass him, declaring
he was a good deal worse than Aunt Peggy had ever been.
Finally, a superstitious feeling got among them, that he
was connected in some way with his dead mistress, and a
thousand absurd stories were raised in consequence. Mr.
Weston told Bacchus that he was so fierce that he might
do some real mischief, so that he had better be caught and
drowned. The catching was a matter of some moment,
but Phillis seduced him into a bag by putting a piece of
meat inside and then dexterously catching up the bag and
drawing the string. It was impossible to hold him in,
so Bacchus fastened the bag to the wheelbarrow, and
after a good deal of difficulty, he got him down to the
river under the bridge, and threw him in. He told Phillis
when he got home, that he felt now for the first time as if

188 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR.

Aunt Peggy was really dead, and they all might hope for
a little comfort. Twenty-four hours after, however, just
as the moon was rising, Bacchus was taken completely
by surprise, for Jupiter passed him with his back raised,
and proceeded to the door of his old residence, com
mencing immediately a most vociferous demand to be ad
mitted.

Bacchus was speechless for some moments, but at last
made out to call Phillis, who came to the door to see
what was the trouble. "Look thar," said he, "you want
to make me b'lieve that aint ole Aunt Peggy's wraith —
ground can't hold her, water can't hold him — why I
drowned him deep — how you 'spose he got out of that
bag?"

Phillis could not help laughing. "Well, I never did
see the like — the cat has scratched through the bag and
swam ashore."

" I b'lieves you," said Bacchus, " and if you had throw'd
him into the fire, he wouldn't a got burned ; but I tell you,
no cat's a gwine to get the better of me — I'll kill Jupiter,
yet."

Phillis, not wanting the people aroused, got the key, and
unlocked the door, Jupiter sprang in, and took up his old
quarters on the hearth, where he was quiet for the night.
In the morning she carried some bread and milk to him,
and told Bacchus not to say any thing about his coming
back to any one, and that after she came home from town,
where she was going on business for Mrs. "VVeston, they
would determine what they would do. But Bacchus se
cretly resolved to have the affair settled before Phillis
should return, that the whole glory of having conquered
an enemy should belong to him.

Phillis was going on a number of errands to L ,

and she expected to be detained all day, for she understood
shopping to perfection, and she went charged with all sorts
of commissions ; besides, she had to stop to see one or two

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 189

sick old colored ladies of her acquaintance, and she told
Mrs. Weston she might as well make a day of it. Thus it
was quite evening when she got home — found every thing
had been well attended to, children in bed, but Bacchus
among the missing, though he had promised her he would
not leave the premises until her return.

Now, if there is a severe trial on this earth, it is for a
wife (of any color) who rarely leaves home, — to return after
a day of business and pleasure, having spent all the money
she could lay her hands on, having dined with one friend
and taken a dish of tea and gossiped with another —
to return, hoping to see every thing as she expected,
and to experience the bitter disappointment of finding her
husband gone out in spite of the most solemn asseverations
to the contrary. Who could expect a woman to preserve
her composure under such circumstances ?

Poor Phillis ! she was in such spirits as she came home.
How pretty the flowers look ! She thought, after all, if I
am a slave, the Lord is mighty good to me. I have a com
fortable home, and a good set of children, and my old man
has done so much better of late — Phillis felt really happy ;
and when she went in, and delivered all her parcels to the
ladies, and was congratulated on her success in getting
precisely the desired articles, her heart was as light as a
feather. She thought she would go and see how all went
on at home, and then come back to the kitchen and drink
a cup of good tea, for the family had just got through with
theirs.

What a disappointment, then, to find any thing going
wrong. It was not that Bacchus's society was so entirely
necessary to her, but the idea of his having started on
another spree. The fear of his being brought home some
time to her dead, came over her with unusual force, and
she actually burst into tears. She had been so very happy
a few minutes before, that she could not, with her usual
calmness, make the best of every thing. She forgot all

190 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

about the pleasant day she had passed; lost her wish
for a cup of tea ; and passing even her pipe by, with a
full heart she took her seat to rest at the door. For some
time every thing seemed to go wrong with her. All at
once she found out how tired she was. Her limbs ached,
and her arm hurt her, where she had carried the basket.
She had a great many troubles. She had to work hard.
She had more children than anybody else to bother her ;
and w^hen she thought of Bacchus she felt very angry.
He might as well kill himself drinking, at once, for he
was nothing but a care and disgrace to her — had always
been so, and most likely would be so until they were both
under the ground.

But this state of mind could not last long. A little
quiet, rest, and thought, had a good effect. She soon began
again to look at the bright side of things, and to be
ashamed of her murmuring spirit. « Sure enough he has
kept very sober of late, and I can't expect him to give it
up entirely, all of a sudden. I must be patient, and go
on praying for him." She thought with great pity of him,
and her heart being thus subdued, her mind gradually
turned to other things.

She looked at Aunt Peggy's house, and wondered if the
old woman was better off in another world than she was
in this ; but she checked the forbidden speculation. And
next she thought of Jupiter, and with this recollection
came another remembrance of Bacchus and his antipathy
both to the mistress and her cat. All at once she recalled
Bacchus 's determination to kill Jupiter, and the strange
ferocity the animal evinced whenever Bacchus went near
him ; and she got up to take the key and survey the state
of things at the deserted house. There was no key to be
found ; and concluding some one had been after Jupiter,
she no longer delayed her intention of finding out what
had occurred in that direction. She found the key in the
door, but every thing was silent. With some caution she

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 191

opened it, remembering Jupiter's last unexpected onset ;
when, looking round by the dim light, she perceived him
seated opposite Aunt Peggy's big chest, evidently watch
ing it. On hearing the door open, though, he got up and
raised his back, on the defensive.

Phillis, having an indefinable feeling that Bacchus was
somehow or other connected with the said elevation, looked
carefully round the room, but saw nothing. Gradually
the chest lid opened a little way, and a sepulchral voice,
issuing from it, uttered in a low tone these words :

"Phillis, gal, is that you?"

The cat looked ready to spring, and the chest lid sud
denly closed again. But while Phillis was recovering
herself the lid was cautiously opened, and Bacchus's eyes
glaring through the aperture. The words were repeated.

" Why, what on earth?" said the astonished woman :
« Surely, is that you, Bacchus?"

" It is, surely," said Bacchus; " but put that devil of a
tiger out of de room, if you don't want me to die dis
minute."

Phillis's presence always had an imposing effect upon
Jupiter ; and as she opened the door to the other room,
and called him in, he followed her without any hesitation.

She shut him in, and then hurried back to lift up the
chest lid, to release her better half.

"Why, how," said she, as Bacchus, in a most cramped
condition endeavored to raise himself, " did the lid fall
on you?"

"No," groaned Bacchus. "Are you sure de middle
door's shut. Let me git out o' dis place quick as possible,
for since ole Peggy left, de ole boy hisself has taken up his
'bode here. 'Pears as if I never should git straight agin."

" Why, look at your face, Bacchus," said his wife. "Did
Jupiter scratch you up that way."

" Didn't he though ? Wait till I gits out of reach of
his claws, and I'll tell you about it;" and they both went

192 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

out, Phillis locking the door to keep Jupiter quiet, that
night at least. After having washed the blood off his face
and hands, and surveyed himself with a dismal countenance
in the looking-glass, Bacchus proceeded to give an account
of his adventure.

After dinner he thought he would secure Jupiter, and
have him effectually done for before Phillis came back. He
mustered up all his courage, and unlocking the house, de
termined to catch and tie him, then decide on a mode of
death that would be effectual. He had heard some officers
from Mexico describe the use of the lasso, and it occurred
to him to entrap Jupiter in this scientific manner. But
Jupiter was an old bird ; he was not to be caught with
chaff. Bacchus' s lasso failed altogether, and very soon the
cat became so enraged that Bacchus was obliged to take a
three-legged stool, and act on the defensive. He held the
stool before his face, and when Jupiter made a spring at
him, he dodged against him with it. Two or three blows
excited Jupiter's anger to frenzy, and after several ef
forts he succeeded in clawing Bacchus's face in the most
dreadful manner, so that it was with the greatest difficulty
he could clear himself. Desperate with pain and fright,
he looked for some way of escape. The door was shut, and
Jupiter, who seemed to be preparing for another attack,
was between him and it. He had but one resource, and
that was to spring into Aunt Peggy's great chest, and close
the lid to protect himself from another assault.

Occasionally, when nearly suffocated, he would raise the
lid to breathe, but Jupiter immediately flew at him in such
a furious manner, that he saw it would be at the risk of
his life to attempt to escape, and he was obliged to bide
his time. What his meditations were upon while in the
chest, would be hard to decide ; but when once more pro
tected by the shadow of his own roof, he vowed Jupiter
should die, and be cut in pieces before he was done with
him.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 193

Phillis went to Miss Janet, and gave her an account of
the whole affair, with Bacchus's permission, and the kind
old lady came to him with some healing ointment of her
own manufacture, and anointed his wounds.

William was sent for ; and the result of the discussion
was, that he and his father should, early next morning,
shoot the much dreaded cat effectually.

This resolution was carried into effect in the following
manner. Phillis went a little in advance with a large
bowl of bread and milk, and enticed Jupiter to the hearth.
As he was very hungry, he did not perceive William en
tering with a very long gun in his hand, nor even Bacchus,
his ancient enemy, with a piece of sticking-plaster down
his nose and across his forehead.

William was quite a sportsman. He went through all
the necessary formalities. Bacchus gave the word of com
mand in a low voice : Make ready, take aim, fire — bang,
and William discharged a shower of shot into Jupiter's
back and sides. He gave one spring, and all was over,
Bacchus looking on with intense delight.

As in the case of Aunt Peggy, now that his enemy was
no more, Bacchus became very magnanimous. He said
Jupiter had been a faithful old animal, though mighty
queer sometimes, and he believed the death of Aunt Peggy
had set him crazy, therefore he forgave him for the con
dition in which he had put his face, and should lay him
by his mistress at the burial-ground. Lydia begged an old
candle-box of Miss Janet, for a coffin, and assisted her
father in the other funeral arrangements. With a secret
satisfaction and a solemn air, Bacchus carried off the box,
followed by a number of black children, that Lydia had
invited to the funeral. They watched Bacchus with great
attention while he completed his work, and the whole party
returned under the impression that Aunt Peggy and Jupi
ter were perfectly satisfied with the morning's transactions.

17

194 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OB,

CHAPTER XX.

THE time had come to leave home, and the "Westerns had
but one more evening. Neither Mr. Weston nor Alice
were well, and all hoped the change would benefit them.
They were to travel in their own carriage, and the pre
parations were completed. The three ladies' maids were
to go by the stage. Miss Janet had a number of things
stowed away in the carriage, which she thought might be
useful, not forgetting materials for a lunch, and a little of
her own home-made lavender, in case of a headache. The
pleasure of going was very much lessened by the necessity
of leaving the dear old lady, wTho wrould not listen to their
entreaties to accompany them. " You, with your smooth
cheeks and bright eyes, may well think of passing a winter
in Washington ; but what should I do there ? Why, the
people would say I had lost my senses. No, we three la
dies will have a nice quiet time at Exeter, and I can go on
with my quilting and patchwork. You see, Miss Alice,
that you come back with red cheeks. The birds and the
flowers will be glad to see you again when the spring
comes."

"Ring the bell, Alice," said Mr. Weston. "I must
know how Mr. Mason's little boy is. I sent Mark shortly
after dinner; but here he is. Well, Mark, I hope the
little fellow is getting well?"

"He is receased, sir," said Mark, solemnly.

"He is what?" said Mr. Weston. "Oh! ah! he is
dead — I understand you. Well, I am truly sorry for it.
When did he die?"

"Early this morning, sir," said Mark. " Have you any
more orders to give, sir ? for as I am to be up mighty early

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 195

in the morning, I was thinking of going to bed when you
are done with me."

"Nothing more," said Mr. Weston; and Mark retired.

"Mark," continued Mr. Weston, "has the greatest pro
pensity for using hard words. His receased means de
ceased. He was excessively angry with Bacchus the other
day for interfering with him about the horses. < Nobody,'
said he, < can stand that old fellow's airs. He's got so full
of tomposity, that he makes himself disagreeable to every
body.' By Pomposity, I suppose you all know he meant
pomposity. Bacchus is elated at the idea of going with
us. I hope I shall not have any trouble with him."

"Oh! no, uncle," said Alice; "he is a good old fellow,
and looks so aristocratic with his gray hair and elegant
bows. Ellen and I will have to take him as a beau when
you are out. Aunt Phillis says, that he has promised her
not to drink a drop of any thing but water, and she seems
to think that he has been so sober lately that he will keep
his word."

"It is very doubtful," said Mr. Weston; "but the fact
is he would be troublesome with his airs and his tomposity
were I to leave him; so I have no choice."

"Dear Alice," said Ellen, fixing her large dark eyes on
her; "how can I ever be grateful enough to you?"

"For what?" asked Alice.

« For getting sick, and requiring change of air, which is
the first cause of my being here on my way to the great
metropolis. Whoever likes a plantation life is welcome to
it ; but I am heartily sick of it. Indeed, Miss Janet, good
as you are, you could not stand it at uncle's. Ten miles
from a neighbor — -just consider it! Uncle disapproves
of campmeetings and barbecues; and aunt is sewing
from morning till night; while I am required to read
the Spectator aloud. I have a mortal grudge against
Addis on."

"But, my clear," said Miss Janet, " you must remember

196 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

you are to return to your uncle's, and you must not learn
to love the great world too much."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Barbour, who was much depressed
at the approaching parting, "Miss Ellen may not mean to
return to her uncle's. A young lady with good looks, and
a heavy purse, will be found out in Washington. She will
just suit a great many there — clerks with small salaries,
army and navy men with expensive habits ; and foreign
attache's, who, being nothing in their own country, turn
our young ladies' heads when they come here."

" So you think I am destined for no other fate than to
pay a fortune-hunter's debts. Thank you, Mr. Barbour !"

" The fact is, Mr. Barbour wants you himself, Ellen, and
he is afraid somebody will carry you off. He will pay us a
visit this winter, I expect," said Mrs. Weston.

"Well," said Ellen laughingly, "I'd rather take up
with him than to go back to my old life, now that I see
you are all so happy here."

"But your aunt and uncle," said Miss Janet, "you
must not feel unkindly toward them."

"No, indeed," said Ellen, "they are both good and kind
in their way, but uncle is reserved, and often low-spirited.
Aunt is always talking of the necessity of self-control, and
the discipline of life. She is an accomplished teaze.
Why, do you know," continued Ellen, laughingly, as she
removed Miss Janet's hand from her mouth, the old lady
thus playfully endeavoring to check her, "after I had
accepted Mrs. Weston's kind invitation, and mammy and I
were busy packing, aunt said I must not be too sanguine,
disappointments were good for young people, and that
something might occur which would prevent my going. I
believe I should have died outright, if it had turned out so."

"And so," said Mr. Barbour, "to get rid of a dull
home, you are determined to fly in the face of fate, and
are going to Washington after a husband. Ah ! Miss
Ellen, beware of these young men that have nothing but

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 197

their whiskers and their epaulettes. Let me tell you of a
young friend of mine, who would marry the man of her
choice, in spite of the interference of her friends, and one
April morning in the honey moon they were seen break
fasting under a persimmon tree. However, as you are a
young lady of fortune, you will always be sure of coffee
and hot rolls ; your good father has made such a sensi
ble will, that the principal never can be touched. How
many fine fortunes would have been saved, if Southerners
had taken such precautions long ago. You will have a
fine time young ladies, you must keep an account of your
conquests, and tell me of them when you come back."

" Its only Ellen who is going in search of love ad
ventures, Mr. Barbour," said Alice.

"Make yourself easy, Mr. Barbour," said Ellen. "I
mean to have a delightful time flirting, then come back to
marry you, and settle down. Mammy says I can't help
getting good, if I live near Miss Janet."

"Well, I will wait for you," said Mr. Barbour. "And now
Alice, sing me a sweet old Scotch song. Sing, < 'Twas within
half a mile of Edinburgh town."

"I can't come quite so near it as that," said Alice, "but
I will sing < ' Twas within a mile.' ' She sang that, and
then " Down the burn Davie." Then Miss Janet proposed
« Auld lang syne,' in which they all joined ; in singing the
chorus, Mr. Barbour, as usual, got very much excited, and
Alice a little tired, so that the music ceased and Alice
took her seat by her uncle on the sofa.

" Miss Janet," said Mr. Barbour, " you look better than
I have seen you for a long time."

« Thank you," said Miss Janet. " Mr. Washington asked
me the other day if I were ever going to die. I suppose,
like Charles II., I ought to apologize for being so long in
dying ; but I am so comfortable and happy with my friends,
that I do not think enough of the journey I soon must take
to another world. How many comforts I have, and how

198 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

many kind friends ! I feel now that we are about to be
separated, that I should thank you all for your goodness
to me, lest in the Providence of God we should not meet
again. Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have,
my poor thanks are most gratefully offered."

" Oh ! Cousin Janet," said Alice, with her eyes full of
tears, " why will you not go with us ; your talking so makes
me dread to part with you."

" My darling, we must all try to get to Heaven, where
there are no partings. I cannot be a great while with you ;
remember, I am eighty-five years old. But I will not grieve
you. We will, I trust, all meet here in the spring. God
is here, and He is in the great city; we are all safe beneath
His care. Next summer He will bring Arthur home again. ' '

"Partings should be as short as possible," said Mr.
Barbour. " So I mean to shake hands with everybody, and
be off. Young ladies, be generous ; do not carry havoc and
desolation in your train ; take care of your uncle, and come
back again as soon as possible."

He then took a friendly leave of Mr. and Mrs. Weston,
and mounted his horse to return home.

"What a nice old beau Mr. Barhour would make," said
Ellen, « with his fine teeth and clear complexion. I wonder
he never married."

"Upon my word !" said Miss Janet, "you will be won
dering next, why I never married. But know, Miss Ellen,
that Mr. Barbour once had a romantic love-affair — he was
to have been married to a lovely girl, but death envied him
his bride, and took her off — and he has remained true to
her memory. It was a long time before he recovered his
cheerfulness. For two years he was the inmate of an
asylum."

"Poor old gentleman," said Ellen. "I do believe other
people besides me have trouble^'

"Ah! when you look around you, even in the world,
which you anticipate with so much pleasure, you will see

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 199

many a smiling face that tries to hide a sad and aching
heart ; a heart that has ached more painfully than
yours."

"No," said Ellen, looking up from the ottoman at Miss
Janet's feet, where she was seated ; and then bursting into
tears. " Oh ! thoughtless and frivolous as I am, I shall
never forget Mm. If you knew how I have wept and suf
fered, you would not wonder I longed for any change that
would make me forget."

" Dear child," said Miss Janet, laying her hand on that
young head, " I did not mean to reprove you. When God
brings sorrow on the young, they must bear it with resigna
tion to his will. He delights in the happiness of his creatures,
and it is not against his will that the young should enjoy
the innocent pleasures of life. Then go you and Alice
into the world, but be not of the world, and come back to
your homes strengthened to love them more. Cousin Wes-

ton has the Bible opened, waiting for us."

* ***** *

In the mean time, Bacchus has received a good deal of
wholesome advice from Phillis, while she was packing his
trunk, and in return, he has made her many promises. He
expresses the greatest sorrow at leaving her, declaring that
nothing but. the necessity of looking after his master in
duces him to do so, but he is secretly anticipating a suc
cessful and eventful campaign in Washington. All the
servants are distressed at the prospect of the family being
away for so long a time ; even old Wolf, the house-dog,
has repeatedly rubbed his cold nose against Alice's hand,
and looked with the most doleful expression into her beau
tiful face; but dogs, like their masters, must submit to what
is decreed, and Wolf, after prayers, went off peaceably with
William to be tied up, lest he should attempt, as usual, to
follow the carriage in the^mormng.

200 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OK,

CHAPTER XXI.

You are very much mistaken in your estimate of the
character of a Virginian, if you suppose he allows himself,
or his horses, to be driven post-haste, when there is no
urgent necessity for it. It is altogether different with a
Yankee ; there is no enjoyment for him from the time he
starts on a journey until he reaches the end of it. He is
bound to be in a hurry, for how knows he but there may
be a bargain depending, and he may reach his destination
in time to whittle successfully for it.

The Westons actually lingered by the way. There were
last looks to be taken of home, and its neighborhood;
there were partings to be given to many objects in nature,
dear from association, as ancient friends. Now, the long
line of blue hills stands in bold relief against the hazy
sky — now, the hills fade away and are hid by thick masses
of oak and evergreen. Here, the Potomac spreads her
breast, a mirror to the heavens, toward its low banks, the
broken clouds bending tranquilly to its surface. There,
the river turns, and its high and broken shores are covered
with rich and twining shrubbery, its branches bending
from the high rocks into the water, while the misty hue of
Indian summer deepens every tint.

Fair Alice raises her languid head, already invigorated
by the delightful air and prospect. The slightest glow
perceptible is making its way to her pale cheek, while the
gay and talkative Ellen gazes awhile at the scenery around
her, then leans back in the carriage, closes her brilliant
eyes, and yields, oh ! rare occurrence, to meditation.

Two days are passed in the journey, and our party, ar
rived safely at Willard's, found their comfortable apart-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 201

ments prepared for them, and their servants as glad of
their arrival as if they had been separated a year, instead
of a day.

And now, dear reader, I do not intend discussing Wash
ington society. It must be a more skilful pen than mine
that can throw a sun of light upon this chaos of fashionable
life, and bring forth order and arrangement. We are only
here for relaxation and change of air, and when our in
valids feel their good effects, we must return with them to
their quiet, but not unuseful life.

There were many preparations to be made, for our young
ladies proposed to enter into the gayeties of the season.
Ellen was to throw off her mourning, and her old nurse
begged her and Alice "to buy a plenty of nice new clothes,
for they might as well be out of the world as out of the
fashion." They both agreed with her, for they were de
termined to be neither unnoticed nor unknown among the
fair ones of the Union who were congregated at the capital.

Do not be astonished; there is already a tinge of red
beneath the brown lashes on Alice's cheek. And as for her
heart, oh! that was a great deal better, too; for it has
been found by actual experiment, that diseases of the heart,
if treated with care, are not fatal any more than any other
complaints. Mrs. Weston grew happier every day ; and as to
Alice's uncle, he hardly ever took his eyes off her, declar
ing that there must be something marvellously strengthen
ing in the atmosphere of our much abused city ; while Alice,
hearing that Walter Lee was mixing in all the gayeties of
Richmond, already began to question her attachment to
him, and thinking of Arthur's long-continued and devoted
affection, trembled lest she should have cast away the love
of his generous heart.

Mr. Weston often felt the time hang heavily upon him,
though he saw many valued friends. He would not have
exchanged the life of a country gentleman for all the
honors that politics could offer to her favorite votary ; and

202 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

for the ordinary amusements which charmed Alice and
Ellen, even in advance, the time had come for him to say,
"I have no pleasure in them." But thinking of Alice's
health only, and, ahove all, anxious that her marriage with
his son should be consummated during his lifetime, no
sacrifice appeared to him too great to make.

The weather was still delightful, and as the soire'es, as
semblies, and matine'es had not yet commenced, a party
was formed to go to Mount Yernon. The day fixed upon
was a brilliant one, in the latter part of November. A
number of very agreeable persons boarding in the hotel
were to accompany them. Bacchus was exceedingly well
pleased at the prospect. "'Deed, Miss Alice," he said,
"I is anxious to see de old gentleman's grave; he was a
fine rider ; the only man as ever I seed could beat master
in de saddle." Mark objected to his carriage and horses
being used over such rough roads, so a large omnibus was
engaged to carry the whole party, Mark and Bacchus going
as outriders, and a man in a little sort of a carry-all having
charge of all the eatables, dishes, plates, &c., which would
be required. The company were in good spirits, but they
found traveling in the State of Virginia was not moving
over beds of roses. Where are such roads to be found ?
Except in crossing a corduroy road in the West, where can
one hope to be so thoroughly shaken up ? I answer, no
where ! And have I not a right to insist, for my native
State, upon all that truth will permit ? Am I not a daugh
ter of the Old Dominion, a member of one of the F. F. V's ?
Did not my grandfather ride races with General Washing
ton? Did not my father wear crape on his hat at his
funeral ? Let that man or woman inclined to deny me this
privilege, go, as I have, in a four-horse omnibus to Mount
Vernon. Let him rock and twist over gullies and mud-
holes ; let him be tumbled and jostled about as I was, and
I grant you he will give up the point.

Our party jogged along. At last the old gates were

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 203

in sight, and the ragged little negroes stood ready to
open them. Here we should begin to be patriotic, but do
not fear being troubled with a dissertation on this worn-out
subject. I will not even observe that by the very gate
that was opened for the Westons did the Father of his
country enter ; for it would be a reflection on the memory
of that great and good man to suppose that he would have
put his horse to the useless trouble of jumping the fence,
when there was such a natural and easy way of accomplish
ing his entrance. Ellen, however, declared "that she
firmly believed those remarkable-looking children that
opened the gates, were the same that opened them for
Washington ; at any rate, their clothes were cut after the
same pattern, if they were not the identical suits them
selves." .. % '.

There was a gentleman from the North on the premises
when they arrived. He joined the party, introduced him
self, and gave information that he was taking, in plaster,
the house, the tomb, and other objects of interest about the
place, for the purpose of exhibiting them. He made himself
both useful and agreeable, as he knew it was the best way
of getting along without trouble, and he was very talkative
and goodnatured. But some, as they approached the
grave, observed that Mr. Weston, and one or two others,
seemed to wish a certain quietness of deportment to evince
respect for the hallowed spot, and the jest and noisy
laugh were suddenly subdued. Had it been a magnificent
building, whose proportions they were to admire and dis
cuss ; had a gate of fair marble stood open to admit the
visitor ; had even the flag of his country waved where he
slept, they could not have felt so solemnized — but to stand
before this simple building, that shelters his sarcophagus
from the elements; to lean upon unadorned iron gates,
which guarded the sacred spot from intrusion ; to look up
and count the little birds' nests in the plastered roof, and
the numberless hornets that have made their homes there

204 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

too ; to pluck the tendrils of the wild grapes that cluster
here — this simple grandeur affected each one. He was
again in life before them, steadily pursuing the great work
for which he was sent, and now, reposing from his labor.

And then they passed on to the old, empty grave.
It was decaying away, yawning with its open mouth as if
asking for its honored tenement. Ellen gazed down,
and sprang in, and ere the others could recover from their
astonishment, or come forward to offer her assistance, she
looked up in her beauty from the dark spot where she was
standing.

" Let me get out alone," said she; "I have such a prize;"
and she held in her hand a bird's nest, with its three little
white eggs deposited therein.

" Oh ! Ellen," said Mrs. Weston, robbing a bird's nest.
Put it back, my dear."

"No, indeed, Mrs. "Weston, do not ask me. Think of
my finding it in Washington's grave. I mean to have it
put on an alabaster stand, and a glass case over it, and
consider it the most sacred gem I possess. There, Uncle
Bacchus, keep it for me, and don't crush the eggs."

"I won't break 'em, Miss Ellen," said Bacchus, whose
thoughts were apt to run on " sperrits." " I thought for cer
tain you had see'd de old gentleman's ghost, and he had
called you down in dat dark hole. But thar aint no dan
ger of his comin back agin, I reckon. 'Pears as if it hadn't
been long since I followed him to dis very grave."

"What !" said the Northern gentleman, "were niggers
allowed to attend Washington's funeral?"

" Colored people was, sir," said Bacchus, in a dignified
manner. "We aint much used to being called niggers,
sir. We calls ourselves so sometimes, but gentlemen and
ladies, sir, mostly calls us colored people, or servants.
General Washington hisself, sir, always treated his servants
with politeness. I was very well acquainted with them,
and know'd all about the general's ways from them."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 205

Mr. Weston could not but smile at the reproof Bac
chus had given. He turned and apologized to the gentle
man for his servant's talkativeness, saying he was an old
and much indulged servant.

They turned away from that empty grave. The young
girls round whom so many affections clustered ; the fond
and anxious mother ; the aged and affectionate relative ;
the faithful and valued servant — turned away from that
empty grave. When will stay the tumultuous beatings of
their hearts ? When will they sleep in the shadow of the
old church ? Each heart asked itself, When ?

Ere they left this hallowed spot, Mr. Weston addressed
a gentleman who lingered with him. This gentleman was
an Abolitionist, but he acknowledged to Mr. Weston that
he had found a different state of things at the South from
what he expected.

« Sir," said he to Mr. Weston, "there is a melancholy
fascination in this hollow, deserted grave. It seems to be
typical of the condition in which our country would be,
should the spirit that animated Washington no longer be
among us."

Mr. Weston smiled as he answered, " Perhaps it is good
for you to be here, to stand by the grave of a slaveholder,
and ask yourself « Would I dare here utter the calumnies
that are constantly repeated by the fanatics of my party ?'
On this spot, sir, the Abolitionist should commune with
his own heart, and be still. Well was it said by one of
your own statesmen, < My doctrines on the slavery ques
tion are those of my ancestors, modified by themselves,
as they were in an act of Confederation. In this one re
spect they left society in the political condition in which
they found it. A reform would have been fearful and
calamitous. A political revolution with one class was
morally impracticable. Consulting a wise humanity, they
submitted to a condition in which Providence had placed
them. They settled the question in the deep foundations

18

206 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

of the Constitution.' Would you then, sir, destroy the
fabric, by undermining the Constitution ? Alas ! this
would be the consequence, were it possible to carry out
the views of the Abolition party."

* * * # # *

The beautiful words of Harrison G. Otis, delivered in
Faneuil'Hall, Boston, Aug. 22d, 1835, would have been
appropriate here, too. Speaking of the formation of Anti-
slavery Societies, he said, " Suppose an article had been
proposed to the Congress that framed the instrument of
Confederation, proposing that the Northern States should
be at liberty to form Anti-slavery Associations, and deluge
the South with homilies upon slavery, how would it have
been received ? The gentleman before me apostrophized
the image of Washington. I will follow his example, and
point to the portrait of his associate, Hancock, which is
pendant by its side. Let us imagine an interview between
them, in the company of friends, just after one had signed
the commission for the other ; and in ruminating on the
lights and shadows of futurity, Hancock should have said,
< I congratulate my country upon the choice she has made,
and I foresee that the laurels you gained in the field of
Braddock's defeat, will be twined with those which shall
be earned by you in the war of Independence ; yet such
are the prejudices in my part of the Union against slavery,
that although your name and services may screen you
from opprobrium, during your life, your countrymen, when
millions weep over your tomb, will be branded by mine as
man-stealers and murderers ; and the stain of it conse
quently annexed to your memory.' '

But, alas ! the Abolitionist will not reflect. He lives
in a whirlpool, whither he has been drawn by his own
rashness. What to him is the love of country, or the
memory of Washington ? John Randolph said, " I should
have been a French Atheist had not my mother made me
kneel beside her as she folded my little hands, and taught

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 207

me to say, < Our Father.' ' Remember this, mothers in
America ; and imprint upon the fair tablet of your young
child's heart, a reverence for the early institutions of their
country, and for the patriots who moulded them, that
" God and my country" may be the motto of their lives.

CHAPTER XXII.

"ALICE," said Mrs. Weston, as they sat together one
morning, before it was time to dress for dinner, "if you
choose, I will read to you the last part of Cousin Janet's
letter. You know, my daughter, of Walter's gay course
in Richmond, and it is as I always feared. There is a
tendency to recklessness and dissipation in Walter's dis
position. With what a spirit of deep thankfulness you
should review the last few months of your life ! I have
sometimes feared I was unjust to Walter. My regret at
the attachment for him which you felt at one time, became
a personal dislike, which I acknowledge, I was wrong to
yield to ; but I think we both acted naturally, circum
stanced as we were. Dear as you are to me, I would
rather see you dead than the victim of an unhappy mar
riage. Love is not blind, as many say. I believe the
stronger one's love is, the more palpable the errors of its
object. It was so with me, and it would be so with you.
That you have conquered this attachment is the crowning
blessing of my life, even should you choose never to con
summate your engagement with Arthur. I will, at least,
thank God that you are not the wife of a man whose vio
lent passions, even as a child, could not be controlled,
and who is destitute of a spark of religious principle. I
will now read you what Cousin Janet says.

208 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

" 'I have received a long letter from Mr. C., the Episco
pal clergyman in Richmond, in answer to mine, inquiring
of Walter. All that I feared is true. Walter is not only
gay, but dissipated. Mr. C. says he has called to see him
repeatedly, and invited him to his house, and has done all
that he could to interest him in those pleasures that are in
nocent and ennobling ; but, alas ! it is difficult to lay aside
the wine cup, when its intoxicating touch is familiar to the
lips, and so of the other forbidden pleasures of life. To
one of Walter's temperament there is two-fold danger.
Walter is gambling, too, and bets high ; he will, of course,
be a prey to the more experienced ones, who will take ad
vantage of his youth and generosity to rob him. For, is a
professed gambler better than a common thief?

" 'It is needless for me to say, I have shed many tears
over this letter. Tears are for the living, and I expect to
shed them while I wear this garment of mortality. Can
it be that in this case the wise- Creator will visit the sins
of the father upon the child ? Are are all my tears and
prayers to fail ? I cannot think so, while He reigns in
heaven in the same body with which He suffered on earth.
In the very hand that holds the sceptre is the print of the
nails; under the royal crown that encircles His brow, can
still be traced the marks of the thorns. He is surely, then,
touched with a feeling of our infirmities, and He will in
the end, bring home this child of my love and my adoption.
I often say to myself, could I see Alice and Arthur and
Walter happy, how happy should I be ! I would be more
than willing to depart; but there would be still a care
for something in this worn-out and withered frame. It
will be far better to be with Jesus, but He will keep me
here as long as He has any thing for me to do. The dear
girls! I am glad they are enjoying themselves, but I long
to see them again. I hope they will not be carried away
by the gay life they are leading. I shall be glad when
they are at their home duties again.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 209

" 'It will be well with Arthur and Alice ; you know old
maids are always the best informed on other people's love
affairs. When Arthur left home Alice felt only a sisterly
affection for him ; when Walter went away it was really no
more for him either, but her kind heart grieved when she
saw him so situated : and sympathy, you know, is akin to
lave. She must remember now the importance that at
taches itself to an engagement of marriage, and not give
Arthur any more rivals. She was off her guard before, as
her feeling an affection for Arthur "was considered rather
too much a matter of course; but she cannot fail at some
future day to return his devoted affection. In the mean
time, the young people are both, I trust, doing well. Ar
thur, so long in another section of his own dear country,
will be less apt to be unduly prejudiced in favor of his
own; and Alice will only mingle in the gay world enough
to see the vanity of its enjoyments. She will thus be pre
pared to perform with fidelity the duties that belong to her
position as the wife of a country gentleman. No wonder
that my spectacles are dim and my old eyes aching after
this long letter. Love to dear Cousin Weston, to the girls,
to yourself, and all the servants.

"'From COUSIN JANET.'

"<Phillis says she has not enough to do to keep her
employed. She has not been well this winter ; her old cough
has returned, and she is thinner than I ever saw her. Dr.
L. has been to see her several times, and he is anxious for
her to take care of herself. She bids me say to Bacchus
that if he have broken his promise, she hopes he will be
endowed with strength from above to keep it better in
future. How much can we all learn from good Phillis ! ' '

Alice made no observation as her mother folded the let
ter and laid it on her dressing table ; but there lay not now
on the altar of her heart a spark of affection for one, who
for a time, she believed to be so passionately beloved. The

18*

210 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

fire of that love had indeed gone out, but there had lingered
among its embers the form and color of its coals — these
might have been rekindled, but that was past forever.
The rude but kind candor that conveyed to her the know
ledge of Walter's unworthiness had dissolved its very
shape ; the image was displaced from its shrine. Walter
was indeed still beloved, but it was the aifection of a pure
sister for an erring brother ; it was only to one to whom
her soul in its confiding trust and virtue could look up,
that she might accord that trusting devotion and reverence
a woman feels for the chosen companion of her life.

And this, I hear you say, my reader, is the awakening
of a love dream so powerful as to undermine the health of
the sleeper — so dark as to cast a terror and a gloom upon
many who loved her ; it is even so in life, and would you
have it otherwise? Do you commend that morbid affection
which clings to its object not only through sorrow, but sin?
through sorrow — but not in sin. Nor is it possible for a
pure-minded woman to love unworthily and continue pure.

This Alice felt, and she came forth from her struggle
stronger and more holy; prizing above all earthly things
the friends who had thus cleared for her her pathway, and
turning with a sister's love, which was all indeed she had
ever known, to that one who, far away, would yet win with
his unchanging affection her heart to his own.

Walter Lee's case was an illustration of the fact that
many young men are led into dissipation simply from the
want of proper occupation. There was in him no love of
vice for itself; but disappointed in securing Alice's consent
to his addresses, and feeling self-condemned in the effort
to win her affections from Arthur, he sought forgetfulness
in dissipation and excitement. He fancied he would find
happiness in the ball-room, the theatre, the midnight revel,
and at the gambling table. Have you not met in the
changing society of a large city, one whose refined and
gentle manners told of the society of a mother, a sister,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 211

or of some female friend whose memory, like an angel's
wing, was still hovering around him ? Have you not pitied
him when you reflected that he was alone, far away from
such good influences ? Have you not longed to say to him,
I wish I could be to you what she has been, and warn you
of the rocks and quicksands against which you may be
shipwrecked.

There were many who felt thus towards "Walter; his
strikingly handsome face and figure, his grace and intelli
gence, with a slight reserve that gave a charm to his man
ner. To few was his history familar ; the world knew of
his name, and to the world he was an object of importance,
for gold stamps its owner with a letter of credit through
life.

Walter launched into every extravagance that presented
itself. He was flattered, and invited to balls and parties ;
smiles met him at every step, and the allurements of the
world dazzled him, as they had many a previous victim.
Sometimes, the thought of Alice in .her purity and truth
passed like a sunbeam over his heart; but its light was
soon gone. She was not for him; and why should he not
seek, as others had done, to drown all care? Then the
thought of Cousin Janet, good and holy Cousin Janet, with
her Bible in her hand, and its sacred precepts on her lips,
would weigh like a mountain on his soul; but he had staked
all for pleasure, and he could riot lose the race.

It is not pleasant to go down, step after step, to the dark
dungeon of vice. We will not follow Walter to the revel,
nor the gaming-table. We will close our ears to the blas
phemous oaths of his companions, to the imprecations on
his own lips. The career of folly and of sin was destined
to be closed; and rather would we draw a veil over its
every scene. Step by step, he trod the path of sin, until
at last, urged by worldly and false friends to a quarrel,
commenced on the slightest grounds, .he challenged one
who had really never offended him; the challenge was

212 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OK,

accepted, and then Walter Lee was a murderer !

He gazed upon the youthful, noble countenance ; he felt
again and again the quiet pulse, weeping when he saw the
useless efforts to bring back life.

He was a murderer, in the sight of God and man ! for
he had been taught that He who gave life, alone had the
power to take it away. He knew that God would require
of him his brother's blood. He knew, too, that though
the false code of honor in society would acquit him, yet he
would be branded, even as Cain. He could see the finger
of scorn pointed towards him ; he could hear men, good men,
say, "There is Walter Lee, who killed a man in a duel!"

Ah! Cousin Janet, not in vain were your earnest teach
ings. Not in vain had you sung by his pillow, in boyhood,
of Jesus, who loved all, even his enemies. Not in vain
had you planted the good seed in the ground, and watered
it. Not in vain are you now kneeling by your bedside,
imploring God not to forsake forever the child of your
prayers. Go to your rest in peace, for God will yet bring
him home, after all his wanderings ; for Walter Lee, far
away, is waking and restless ; oppressed with horror at his
crime, flying from law and justice, flying from the terrors
of a burdened conscience — he is a murderer !

Like Cain, he is a wanderer. He gazes into the depths
of the dark sea he is crossing ; but there is no answering
abyss in his heart, where he can lose the memory of his
deed. He cannot count the wretched nights of watching,
and of thought. Time brings no relief, change no solace.
When the soul in its flight to eternity turns away from
God, how droop her wings ! She has no star to guide
her upward course ; but she wanders through a strange
land, where all is darkness and grief.

He traversed many a beautiful country ; he witnessed
scenes of grandeur ; he stood before the works of genius
and of art ; he listened to music, sweet like angels' songs ;
but has he peace ? Young reader, there is no peace with-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 213

out God. Now in this world, there is many a brow bend
ing beneath the weight of its flowers. Could we trace the
stories written on many hearts, how would they tell of
sorrow ! How many would say, in the crowded and noisy
revel, "I have come here to forget; but memory will never
die!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

ALICE and Ellen, accompanied by Mrs. Weston, and
some gentlemen from their section of the country, were to
attend a private ball, expected to be one of the most bril
liant of the season. Mr. Weston, not feeling well, retired
early, preferring to listen to the young ladies' account of
the evening, after his breakfast and newspaper the next
morning. When they were ready to go, they came into
Mr. Weston's par lor/ to obtain his commendation on their
taste. Mrs. Weston was there awaiting them; and her
own appearance was too striking to be passed .over without
notice. She was still really a handsome woman, and her
beauty was greatly enhanced by her excellent taste in
dress. Her arms, still round and white, were not unco
vered. The rich lace sleeves, and the scarf of the same
material that was thrown over her handsome neck and
shoulders, was far more becoming than if she had assumed
the bare arms and neck which was appropriate to her
daughter. Her thick dark hair was simply put back from
her temples, as she always wore it, contrasting beautifully
with the delicate white flowers there. Her brocade silk,
fitting closely to her still graceful figure, and the magnifi
cent diamond pin that she wore in her bosom ; the per
fect fitness of every part of her apparel gave a dignity arid
beauty to her appearance, that might have induced many
a gay lady who mixes, winter after winter, in the amuse-

214 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

ments of our city, to go and do likewise. When youth is
gone forever, it is better to glide gracefully into middle
age ; and if half the time and thought that is expended on the
choice of gay colors and costly material, were passed in
properly arranging what is suitable to age and appearance,
the fashionable assemblies of the present day would not
afford such spectacles, as cannot fail both to pain and
amuse.

Mr. Weston turned to the door as it opened, expecting
the girls to enter; and a little impatient, too, as it was
already half-past ten o'clock. The gentlemen had been
punctual to their appointed hour of ten, but declared that
three quarters of an hour was an unusually short time to
be kept waiting by ladies. Ellen came first, her tall but
well-proportioned figure arrayed in a rose-colored silk
of the most costly material. She wore a necklace and
bracelet of pearl, and a string of the same encircled her
beautifully-arranged hair. The rich color that mantled in
her cheeks deepened still more, as she acknowledged the
salutation of the gentlemen ; but Alice, who entered imme
diately after her, went at once to her uncle, and putting
her hand in his, looked the inquiry, "Are you pleased
with me?" No wonder the old man held her hand for a
moment, deprived of the power of answering her. She
stood before him glowing with health again, the coral lips
parted with a smile, awaiting some word of approval.
The deep-blue eyes, the ivory skin, the delicately-flushed
cheeks, the oval face, the auburn curls that fell over brow
and temple, and hung over the rounded and beautiful
shoulders ; the perfect arm, displayed in its full beauty by
the short plain sleeve ; the simple dress of white ; the whole
figure, so fair and interesting, with no ornaments to dim
its youthful charms ; but one flower, a lily, drooping over
her bosom. The tears gathered in his large eyes, and
drawing her gently towards him, he kissed her lips. " Alice,
my beloved," he said, "sweetest of God's earthly gifts,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 215

you cannot be always as fair and young as you are now;
but may God keep your heart as pure and childlike, until
he take you to the Heaven which is your destiny." Be
fore any one could reply, he had bowed to the rest of the
company and left the room ; and even Alice, accustomed
as she was to his partial affection, felt solemnized at the
unusual earnestness with which he had addressed her ; but
Mrs. Weston hurried them off to the scene of fashion and
splendor which they had been anticipating.

* * * *

Mr. Weston was about to retire, when Bacchus suddenly
entered the room, preceded by a slight knock. He was
very much excited, and evidently had information of great
importance to communicate.

"Master," said he, without waiting to get breath,
"they're all got took."

"What is the matter, Bacchus?"

"Nothing, sir, only they're all cotched, every mother's
son of 'em."

" Of whom are you speaking ?"

" Of them poor misguided niggers, sir, de Aboli-
tioners got away ; but they're all cotched now, and I'm
sorry 'nuff for 'em. Some's gwine to be sold, and some's
gwine to be put in jail ; and they're all in the worst kind
of trouble."

" Well, Bacchus, it serves them right ; they knew they
were not free, and that it was their duty to work in the
condition in which God had placed them. They have no
body to blame but themselves."

" 'Deed they is — 'scuse me for contradictin you — but
there's them as is to blame a heap. Them Abolitioners,
sir, is the cause of it. They wouldn't let the poor devils
rest until they 'duced them to go off. They 'lowed, they
would get 'em off, and no danger of their being took agin.
They had the imperance, sir, to 'suade those poor deluded
niggers that they were born free, when they knowed they

216 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

were born slaves. I hadn't no idea, sir, they was sich
liars ; but I've been up to de place whar the servants is,
and its heart-breaking to hear 'em talk. Thar's Simon,
that strapping big young man, as drives Mrs. Seymour's
carriage ; they got him off. He's a crying up thar, like
a baby a month old. He's been a hidin and a dodgin for
a week — he's nigh starved. And now he's cotched, and
gwine to be sold. He's a raal spilt nigger : his master
dressed him like a gentleman, and he had nothin to do all
day but to drive de carriage ; and he told me hisself,
when he was out late at night wid de young ladies, at par
ties, he never was woke in de mornin, but was 'lowed to
sleep it out, and had a good hot breakfast when he did
wake. Well, they got him off. They made out he'd go to
the great Norrurd, and set up a trade, or be a gentleman,
may be ; and like as not they told him he stood a good
chance of being President one of dese days. They got
him off from his good home, and now he's done for. He's
gwine to be sold South to-morrow. He's a beggin young
Mr. Seymour up thar not to sell him, and makin promises,
but its no use ; he's goin South. I bin hearin every word
he said to his young master. « Oh, Master George,' says
he, < let me off dis time. I didn't want to go till the Aboli-
tioners told me you had no right to me, kase God had
made me free ; and you, they said, was no better than a
thief, keepin me a slave agin natur and the Bible too.' '

" 'But, Simon,' said young Mr. Seymour, <you stole a
suit of my new clothes when you went off; and you got
money, too, from Mrs. Barrett, saying I had sent you for
it. How came you to do that?'

" ' I will 'fess it all, sir,' said Simon, « and God knows I'm
speakin truth. I took de suit of clothes. The Abolitioner,
he said I'd be a gentleman when I got North, and I must
have somethin ready to put on, to look like one. So he said
you'd always had the use of me, and twasn't no harm for me
to take de suit, for I was 'titled to it for my sarvices. He

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 217

axed me if any body owed my mistis money, as I know'd of.
I told him, yes, Mrs. Barrett did, and mistis often sent me
after it without any order, for she know'd I'd bring it
straight to her. Now, my boy, said the Abolitioner, dis
money is yourn — its your wages. You've got a better
right to it than ever your mistis had. You can't start on
a journey without money ; so you go to dis lady and tell
her you was sent for money by your mistis, and you keep
de money for your own use. Here's de money,' said he,
< Master George, take it to mistis, and tell her de truth.'

" < Damn the rascals,' says young Mr. Seymour, < they're
not content with man-stealing, but they're stealing money
and clothes, and every thing they can lay their hands upon.
So nmch for your Abolition friends, Simon,' says he. < I
wish you joy of them. They've brought you to a. pretty
pass, and lost you as good a home as ever a servant had.'

" < Oh, master,' said Simon, 'won't you take me back ?
Indeed I will be faithful.'

" i Can't trust you, Simon,' said Mr. Seymour ; < besides,
none of your fellow-servants want you back. You have
no relations. My mother bought you, when you was a
little boy, because she knew your mother ; and after she
died you were knocked about by the other servants. My
sister taught you how to read the Bible, and you have
been a member of the Methodist church. If you was a
poor ignorant fellow, that didn't know what was right, I
would take you back ; but you've done this wid your eyes
open. Our servants say they wants no runaways to live ^
'long o' them. Now, if you can get any of your Abolition
friends to buy you, and take you North, and make a gen
tleman of you, I'll sell you to them ; but they wouldn't
give a fip to keep you from starving. I am sorry its so,
but I can't take you back.' He said these very words,
sir. He felt mighty bad, sir ; he talked husky, but he
went out. Simon called after him, but he didn't even
look back; so I know Simon's goin for true."

19

218 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"I am really sorry for the servants, Bacchus," said Mr.
Weston, " but they won't take warning. I'm told that since
Abolitionists have come to live in .Washington, and have
been going among the colored people, that it is almost im
possible to employ an honest servant ; it is on this account
that the Irish are so much employed. Some years ago
the families had no trouble with their domestics, but Abo
lition has ruined them. What a wretched looking class
they are, too ! lazy and dirty ; these are the consequences
of taking bad advice."

"Well, master," said Bacchus, '"I wish to de Lord we
could take 'em all to Virginny, and give 'em a good coat
of tar and feathers ; thar's all them feathers poor Aunt
Peggy had in them barrels. We aint got no call for 'em
at home. I wish we could put 'em to some use. I wouldn't
like no better fun than to spread de tar on neat, and den
stick de feathers on close and thick."

"Well, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "its near bedtime,
and I am not well ; so I will retire."

" Certainly, master ; you must 'scuse me, I'm afeard
I've kep you up ; I felt mightily for them poor creaturs,
thar. Lor', master, I aint nigh so weakly as you, and
think I nussed you, and used to toat you on my back when
you was a little boy. You was mighty fat, I tell you — I
used to think my back would bust, sometimes, but I'm
pretty strong yet. Tears like I could toat you now, if I
was to try."

^ "Not to-night, thank you, Bacchus. Though if any
thing should occur to make it necessary, I will call you,"
said Mr. Weston.

Bacchus slept in a kind of closet bedroom off his mas
ter's, and he went in accordingly, but after a few moments
returned, finding Mr. Weston in bed.

"Will you have any thing, sir ?"

"Nothing, to-night."

"Well, master, I was thinkin to say one thing more,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 219

and 'tis, if dese Abolitioners, dat has so much larnin, if
they only had some of the Bible larnin my wife has, how /
much good 'twould do 'em. My wife says, < God put her 1
here a slave, and she's a gwine to wait for Him to set her
free ; if he aint ready to do so till he calls her to Heaven,
she's willin to wait.' Lord, sir, my wife, she sets at de
feet of Jesus, and larns her Bible. I reckon de Aboli
tioners aint willin to do that ; they don't want to get so
low down ; 'pears as if they aint willin to go about doin
good like Jesus did, but they must be puttin up poor slaves
to sin and. sorrow. Well, they've got to go to their ac
count, any how."

Bacchus finally retired, but it was with difficulty he
composed himself to sleep. He was still mentally dis
cussing that great subject, Abolition, which, like a mighty
tempest, was shaking the whole country. All at once it
occurred to him "that it wouldn't do no good to worry
about it," so he settled himself to sleep. A bright idea
crossed his mind as he closed his eyes upon the embers
that were fading on the hearth in his master's room ; in
another moment he was reposing, in utter oblivion of all
things, whether concerning his own affairs or those of the
world in general.

The next morning, just as Mr. Weston had finished his
paper, Bacchus came in with a pair of boots, shining as
tonishingly. " I believe," said Mr. Weston, " I won't put
them on yet, our ladies have not come down to breakfast, and
its hardly time, for it is but half-past nine o'clock ; I think
it must have been morning when they came home."

"Yes sir," said Bacchus ; " they aint awake yet, Aunt
Mar thy tells me."

" Well, let them sleep. I have breakfasted, and I will
sit here and enjoy this good fire, until they come."

Bacchus lingered, and looked as if he could not enjoy
any thing that morning.

"Any thing the matter, Bacchus?" said Mr. Weston.

220 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

"Well," said Bacchus, "nothin more I 'spose than what
I had a right to expect of 'em. Simon's got to go. I done
all I could for him, but it aint nothin, after all."

"What could you do?" said Mr. Weston.

"Well, master, I was nigh asleep last night, when all at
once I thought 'bout dis here Abolition gentleman, Mr.
Baker, that boards long wid us. Now, thinks I, he is a
mighty nice kind of man, talks a heap 'bout God and the
Gospel, and 'bout our duty to our fellow-creaturs. I
know'd he had a sight of money, for his white servant told
me he was a great man in Boston, had a grand house thar,
his wife rode in elegant carriages, and his children has the
best of every thing. So, I says to myself, he aint like
the rest of 'em, he don't approve of stealing, and lying,
and the like o' that ; if he thinks the Southern gentlemen
oughter set all their niggers free, why he oughter be willin
to lose just a little for one man ; so I went straight to his
room to ask him to buy Simon."

"That was very wrong, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston,
sternly. " Don't you know your duty better than to be in
terfering in the concerns of these people ? I am exces
sively mortified. What will this gentleman think of me ?"

" Nothin', master," said Bacchus. " Don't be oneasy. I
told him I come to ax him a favor on my own 'sponsibility,
and that you didn't know nothin' about it. Well, he axed
me if I wanted a chaw of tobacco. <No sir,' says I, 'but
I wants to ax a Iktle advice.' < I will give you that with
pleasure,' says he.

"'Mr. Baker,' says I, 'I understands you think God
made us all, white and colored, free and equal ; and I
knows you feels great pity for de poor slaves that toils and
frets in de sun, all their lives like beasts, and lays down and
dies like beasts, clean forgot like 'em too. I heard you say
so to a gentleman at de door ; I thought it was mighty kind
of you to consider so much 'bout them of a different color
from your own. I heard you say it was de duty of de

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 221

gentlemen of de South to set their slaves free, if it did make
'em poor, kase Jesus Christ, he made hisself poor to set us
all free. Warn't dat what you said, sir ?'

"'Exactly,' says he. <I didn't know you had such a
good memory.'

"<Now, Mr. Baker,' says I, < you're a Christian your
self, or you couldn't talk dat way. I know Christians
must like to make other people happy ; they're bound to,
for their Master, Christ, did. Well, sir, all de poor
creturs dat de Abolitionists got off is cotched- -they're
gwine to be sold, and thar's one young man thar, that had
a good home and a good mistis, and him they 'suaded off,
and now he's gwine to be sold South, whar he'll toil and
sweat in de hot sun. Now, Mr. Baker, if de Southern
gentlemen's duty's so plain to you, that they oughter make
themselves poor, to make their slaves free and happy,
surely you'll buy this one poor man who is frettin' hisself
to death* It won't make you poor to buy jist this one ;
his master says he'll sell him to any Abolitioner who'll
take him to the great Norrurd, and have him teached.
Buy him, sir, for de Lord's sake — de poor fellow will be
so happy; jist spend a little of your money to make dat
one poor cretur happy. God gave it all to you, sir, and
he aint gave none to de poor slaves, not even gave him his
freedom. You set dis one poor feller free, and when
you come to die, it will make you feel so good to think
about it ; when you come to judgment, maybe Christ may
say, " You made dis poor man free, and now you may come
into de kingdom and set down wid me forever.' Oh ! sir,
says I, buy him, de Lord will pay you back, you won't
lose a copper by him.' '

" Well," said Mr. Weston, " what did he say ?"

"Why, sir," said Bacchus, "he got up and stood by de
fire, and warmed hisself, and says he, < Ole felur, if I'd a
had de teaching of you, I'd a lamed you to mind your owi\
business. I'll let you know I didn't come to Washington

19*

222 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

to buy niggers.' <• Here,' says he, to dat white nigger that
waits on him, < Next time dis feller wants me, tell him to
go 'bout his business.'

" <Good mornin' sir,' says I, <I shan't trouble you agin.
May de Lord send better friends to de slaves than de like
of you.' '

"Well, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston, "you did very
wrong, and I hope you will not again take such a liberty
with any person. You see for yourself what an Aboli
tionist is. I wish those poor runaways had had some such
experience, it would have saved them from the trouble
they are now in."

"Yes, indeed, master. I've been down thar agin, to-day.
I went right early ; thar's an ole woman thar that tried to
run away. She's gwine too, and she leaves her husband
here. She aint a cryin, though, her heart's too full for
tears. Oh ! master," said Bacchus, sighing deeply, « I
think if you'd seed her, you'd do more than the Aboli-

tioners."

*******

In the afternoon Mr. Weston usually walked out. He did
not dine with the ladies at their late hour, as his com
plaint, dyspepsia, made it necessary for him to live lightly
and regularly. Bacchus attended him in his walks, and
many a person turned back to look upon the fine-looking
old gentleman with his gold-headed cane, and his servant,
whose appearance was as agreeable as his own. Bacchus
was constantly on the lookout for his master, but he
managed to see all that was going on too, and to make
many criticisms on the appearance and conduct of those
he met in his rambles.

Bacchus followed his master, and found that he was
wending his steps to the place where the arrested run
aways were confined. This was very agreeable to him,
for his heart was quite softened towards the poor prisoners,
and he had an idea that his master's very presence might

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 223

carry a blessing with it. "Bacchus," said Mr. Weston,
as they were going in, you need not point out the servants
to me. I will observe for myself, and I do not wish to be
conspicuous."

There were a great many lounging about, and looking
round there. Some were considering the scene as merely
curious; some were blaming the slaves; some their mas
ters, some the Abolitionists. There was confusion and
constant going in and out. But though the countenances
of the runaways expressed different emotions, it was evi
dent that one feeling had settled in each breast, and that
was, there was no hope that any thing would occur to re
lieve them from their undesirable position.

Mr. Weston easily recognized Simon, from Bacchus's
description. He had a boyish expression of disappoint
ment and irritation on his countenance, and had evi
dently been recently weeping. There were several men,
one or twro of them with bad faces, and one, a light mulatto,
had a fine open countenance, and appeared to be making
an effort not to show his excessive disappointment. In
the corner sat the woman, on a low bench — her head was
bent forward on her lap, and she was swaying her body
slightly, keeping motion with her foot.

"What is the woman's name, Bacchus?" asked Mr.
Weston in a low tone.

" I axed her dis mornin, sir. Its Sarah — Sarah Mills."

Mr. Weston walked up nearer to her, and was regarding
her, when she suddenly looked up into his face. Finding
herself observed, she made an effort to look unconcerned,
but it did not succeed, for she burst into tears.

"I'm sorry to see you here, Sarah," said Mr. Weston,
"you look too respectable to be in such a situation."
Sarah smoothed down her apron, but did not reply.
" What induced you to run away ? You need not be
afraid to answer me truthfully. I will not do you any
harm."

224 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OB,

" My blessed grief !" said Bacchus. " No, master couldn't
do no harm to a flea."

"Hash, Bacchus," said Mr. Weston.

There was something in Mr. Weston's appearance that
could not be mistaken. The woman gave him a look of
perfect confidence, and said —

" I thought I could better myself, sir."

" In what respect ? Had you an unkind master ?" said
Mr. Weston.

"No," said the woman, "but my husband I was afear'd
might be sold, and I thought I could make so much money
at the North, that I could soon help him to buy himself.
He's a barber, sir, lives on the Avenue, and his master,
when he was young, had him taught the barber's trade.
Well, his. master told him some time ago that he might
live to himself, and pay him so much a month out o' what
he made, but seemed as if he couldn't get along to do it.
My husband, sir, drinks a good deal, and he couldn't do it
on that account ; so, a year or two ago his master sent for
him, and told him that he was worthless, and unless he
could buy himself in three years he would sell him. He
said he might have himself for five hundred dollars, and
he could have earned it, if he hadn't loved whiskey so, but
'pears as if he can't do without that. We aint got no
children, thank God ! so when the Abolitionists advised
me to go off, and told me they would take care of me until
I got out of my master's reach, and I could soon make a
sight of money to buy my husband, I thought I would go ;
and you see, sir, what's come of it."

Sarah tried to assume the same look of unconcern, and
again she wept bitterly.

" I don't mean to reproach you, now that you are in
trouble," said Mr. Weston, « but you colored people in this
city have got into bad hands. God has made you slaves,
and you should be willing to abide by his will, especially
if he give you a good master."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 225

" Yes, sir, it was mighty hard though, to think of my
poor husband's being sold, — he and I don't belong to the
same person."

" So, I suppose," said Mr. Weston ; « but you have only
made your condition worse."

" Yes, sir ; but I didn't think things would turn out so.
The Abolitionists said they would see that I got off free."

" They ought to be cotched, and tied up, and have a
good whaling besides," said Bacchus, indignantly.

"'Taint no use wishin 'em harm," said Sarah; "the
Lord's will be done," at the same time her pale lips qui
vered with emotion.

Mr. Weston paused a few moments in deep thought, then
went into the other room. When he returned, she was
sitting as when he first entered, her face buried in her lap.

" Sarah," he said, and she looked up as before, without
any doubt, in his open countenance, "are you a good
worker ?"

" I am, at washin and ironin. I have been makin a good
deal for my master that way." .

"Well," said Mr. Weston, "if I were to purchase you,
so as you could be near your husband, would you conduct
yourself properly ; and if I wish it, endeavor to repay me
what I have given for you ?"

Such a thought had not entered the despairing woman's
mind. She was impressed with the idea that she should
never see her husband again ; other things did not effect
her. It was necessary, therefore, for Mr. Weston to re
peat what he had said before she comprehended his mean
ing. When she heard and understood, every energy of
her soul was aroused. Starting from her seat, she clasped
her hands convulsively together ; her face became death
like with agitation.

« Would I, sir ? Oh ! try me ! Work ! what is work if I
could be near my poor husband as long as I can. Buy me,
sir, only for Jesus' sake, buy me. I will work day and

226 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

night to pay you, and the blessing of God Almighty will
pay you too, better than any money I could earn."

Bacchus, the tears rolling down his cheeks, looked ear
nestly at his master's face.

"Buy her, master, buy her, for the love of God," he
said.

" Sarah," said Mr. Western, "I do. not like to be in a
public place ; do not, therefore, become excited, and say
any thing that will draw observation to me. I have bought
you, and I will not require you to repay me. Come to me
to-night, at Willard's, and I will give you your free pa
pers ; I will see also what I can do for your husband. In
the mean time, Bacchus will help you take your things
from this place. Stay here though a few moments, until
he gets me a carriage to go home in, and he will return to
you."

Sarah perfectly understood that Mr. Weston wanted no
thanks at that time. With streaming eyes, now raised to
heaven — now to her benefactor, she held her peace. Mr.
Weston gladly left the dreadful place. Bacchus assisted
him to a hack, and then came back to fulfil his directions
as regards the woman.

Oh ! noble heart, not here thy reward ! Thy weak arid
trembling frame attests too well that the scene is too try
ing to afford thee pleasure. The All-seeing Eye is bent
upon thee, and thine own ear will hear the commendation
from the lips of Christ : " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto
the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
Nor thou alone ! Many a generous act is done by the
slaveholder to the slave. God will remember them, though
here they be forgotten or unknown.

We need not dwell on the unhoped-for meeting between
Sarah and her husband, nor on Bacchus's description of it to
his master. It suffices to close the relation of this inci
dent by saying, that at night Sarah came to receive direc
tions from Mr. Weston ; but in their place he gave her the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 227

necessary free papers. "You are your own mistress, now,
Sarah," said he. "I hope you will prove yourself worthy
to be so. You can assist your husband to pay for him
self. If you are honest and industrious, you cannot fail
to do well."

Sarah's heart overflowed with unlooked-for happiness.
She thanked Mr. Weston over and over again, until, fear
ing to be troublesome, she withdrew. Bacchus went as far
as the corner, and promised to look in upon herself and
husband, repeatedly; which he did. He impressed his new
acquaintances with a proper sense of his own importance.
With the exception of one grand spree that he and Sarah's
husband had together, the three enjoyed a very pleasant
and harmonious intercourse during the remainder of the
Westons' stay at Washington.

******

The gay winter had passed, and spring had replaced it ;
but night after night saw the votaries of fashion assembled,
though many of them looked rather the worse for wear.
Ellen and Alice tired of scenes which varied so little, yet
having no regular employment, they hardly knew how to
cease the round of amusements that occupied them. Ellen
said, "Never mind, Alice, we will have plenty of time for
repentance, and we might as well quaff to the last drop the
cup of pleasure, which may never be offered to our lips
again." Very soon they were to return to Virginia, and
now they proposed visiting places of interest in the neigh
borhood of the city.

One morning, after a gay party, and at a later hour
than usual, the three ladies entered the breakfast-room.
Mr. Weston was waiting for them. "Well, young la
dies," he said, "I have read my paper, and now I am
ready to hear you give an account of your last evening's
triumphs. The winter's campaign is closing; every little
skirmish is then of the greatest importance. How do you
all feel?"

228 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

"I do not know how I feel, uncle," said Alice, languidly.

"Alice has expressed my feelings exactly, and Mrs.
Weston's too, I fancy," said Ellen.

Mr. Weston smiled, but said he should not excuse them
from their promise of giving him a faithful description of
the scene.

"Well, my dear sir," said Ellen, "I have a decided talent
for description ; but remember, Mrs. Weston, my genius must
not be cramped. Do not break the thread of my discourse
by < Ellen, do not talk so!' A Washington party is what
you have called it, Mr. Weston, a skirmish. You remem
ber how the wind blew last night. When we reached Mr.

's front door, the people had collected in such crowds

in the hall, to get a little air, that it was fully ten minutes
before we could get in. ' We had the benefit of a strong
harsh breeze playing about our undefended necks and
shoulders. As soon as we were fairly in, though, we were
recompensed for our sufferings in this respect. We went
from the arctic to the torrid zone ; it was like an August
day at two o'clock.

" We tried to make our way to the lady of the house, but
understood, after a long search, that she had been pushed
by the crowd to the third story ; and being a very fat per
son, was seen, at the last accounts, seated in a rocking-
chair, fanning herself violently, and calling in vain for ice
cream. After a while we reached the dancing-room,
where, in a very confined circle, a number were waltzing
and Polka-ing. As this is a forbidden dance to Alice and
me, we had a fine opportunity of taking notes. Mrs. S.
was making a great exhibition of herself; she puffed and
blew as if she had the asthma ; her ringlets streamed, and
her flounces flew. I was immensely anxious for the little
lieutenant her partner. He was invisible several times ; lost
in the ringlets and the flounces. There were people of all
sizes and ages dancing for a wager. I thought of what
our good bishop once said : < It was very pretty to see the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 229

young lambs gambolling about ; but when the old sheep
began to caper too, he'd rather not look on.' There was
poor old Mr. K., with his red face and his white hair, and
his heels flying in every direction. (I am ashamed of you
for laughing at Mr. K., Mrs. Weston, when I am trying
to impress upon Alice's mind the folly of such a scene.) I
dare say Mr. K.'s wife was at that very moment, five hun
dred miles off, darning her children's stockings.

"All the people did not dance the Polka," continued
Ellen; "and I was dazzled with the pretty faces, and the
wise-looking heads. Mr. Webster was there, with his deep
voice, and solemn brow, and cavernous eyes ; and close up
to him, where she could not move or breathe, there was a
young face, beautiful and innocent as a cherub's, looking
with unfeigned astonishment upon the scene. There was
Gen. Scott, towering above everybody ; and Mr. Douglass,
edging his way, looking kindly and pleasantly at every one.
There were artists and courtiers; soldiers and sailors;
foolish men, beautiful women, and sensible women ; though
I do not know what they wanted there. There were speci
mens of every kind in this menagerie of men and women.
Dear Mr. Weston, I have not quite done. There was a
lady writer, with a faded pink scarf, and some old artifi
cial flowers in her hair. There was a she Abolitionist too ;
yes, a genuine female Abolitionist. She writes for the
Abolition papers. She considers Southerners heathens;
looks pityingly at the waiters as they hand her ice cream.
She wants Frederick Douglass to be the next President,
and advocates amalgamation. I am quite out of breath;
but I must tell you that I looked at her and thought Uncle
Bacchus would just suit her, with his airs and graces ; but
I do not think she is stylish enough for him."

"But, my dear," said Mrs. Weston, "you forget Bac
chus has a wife and twelve children."

" That is not of the least consequence, my dear
madam," said Ellen; «I can imagine, when a woman ap-

20

230 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

proves of amalgamation, she is so lost to every sense of
propriety that it makes no difference to her whether a man
is married or not. Now, Alice, I resign my post ; and if
you have any thing to say I will give you the chair, while
I run up to my room and write aunt a good long letter."

CHAPTER XXIV.

afternoon is so delightful," said Mr. Weston,
" that we had better take our ride to the Congress burial
ground. Your time is short, young ladies; you cannot
afford to lose any of it, if all your plans are to be carried
out."

The ladies gladly agreed to go, and were not long in
their preparation. Mark was a perfect prince of a driver.
When the ladies had occasion to go into the country, he
entreated them to hire a carriage, but he was always ready
to display his handsome equipage and horses in the city,
especially on the Avenue.

He drove slowly this afternoon, and Mrs. Weston re
membered, as she approached Harper's, that she had one
or two purchases to make. Fearing it might be late on
their return, she proposed getting out for a few moments.

A stream of gayly-dressed people crowded the pave
ments. The exquisite weather had drawn them out.
Belles with their ringlets and sun-shades, and beaux with
canes and curled moustaches. Irish women in tawdry
finery, and ladies of color with every variety of ornament,
and ridiculous imitation of fashion. Now and then a re
spectable-looking negro would pass, turning out of the
way, instead of jostling along.

"Truly," said Mr. Weston, « Pennsylvania Avenue is

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 231

the great bazaar of America. Here are senators and
members — three and four walking arm in arm. Here are
gay young men, dressed in the latest style ; here is the
army and navy button ; old people and young children
with their nurses ; foreigners and natives ; people of every
shade and hue. There is our President, walking unat
tended, as a republican president should walk. And see !
there are a number of Indians, noble-looking men, and a
white boy throwing a stone at them. I wish I had the
young rascal. On our right, in their carriages, are the
wives and children of the rich; while, scattered about,
right and left, are the representatives of the poor. But
what is this, coming along the side-walk?"

The girls put their heads out of the window, and saw
a colored man, sauntering along in an impudent, dont-carish
manner. His dress — indeed his whole appearance — was
absurd. He wore a stylish, shiny black hat ; the rim
slightly turned up in front, following the direction of the
wearer's nose, which had « set its affections on things above."
His whiskers were immense ; so were his moustaches,
and that other hairy trimming which it is the* fashion to
wear about the jaws and chin; and for which I know no
better name than that which the children give — goatee ;
a tremendous shirt collar ; brass studs in his bosom ; a
neck handkerchief of many colors, the ends of which
stood out like the extended wings of a butterfly ; a gor
geous watch chain ; white kid gloves ; pantaloons of a
large-sized plaid, and fitting so very tightly that it was
with the greatest difficulty he could put out his feet ; pa
tent leather gaiter-boots, and a cane that he flourished
right and left with such determined strokes, that the
children kept carefully out of his way. Several persons
looked back to wonder and laugh at this strange figure,
the drollery of which was greatly enhanced by his limber
style of walking, and a certain expression of the whole
outer man, which said, "Who says I am not as good

232

AUXT PHILLIS'S CABIX; OR,

as anybody on this avenue; Mr. Fillmore, or any one
else?"

Now it happened, that walking from the other direction
toward this representative of the much-injured colored
race, was a stranger', who had come to Washington to look
about him. He was from Philadelphia, but not thinking a
great deal of what he saw in our capital on a former visit,
he had quite made up his mind that there was nothing to
make it worth his while to come again; but hearing
of the convalescing turn the city had taken since the im
mortal supporters of the Compromise and the Fugitive
Slave law had brought comparative harmony and peace,
where there had been nought but disorder and confusion,
he suddenly fancied to come and see for himself. He
was not an Abolitionist, nor a Secessionist, nor one of
those unfortunate, restless people, who are forever stirring
up old difficulties. He had an idea that the Union ought
to be preserved in the first place ; and then, whatever else
could be done to advance the interests of the human race
in general, without injury to our national interests, should
be attendee! to. He was always a good-tempered man,
and was particularly pleasant this afternoon, having on an
entire new suit of clothes, each article, even the shirt-
collar, fitting in the most faultless manner.

As he walked along, he noticed the colored man ad
vancing towards him, and observed, too, what I forgot to
mention, that he held a cigar, and every now and then
put it to his mouth, emitting afterwards a perfect cloud of
smoke.

The thought occurred to him that the man did not in
tend to turn out of the way for anybody, and as they
were in a line, he determined not to deviate one way or
the other, but just observe what this favorite of fashion
would do. They walked on, and in a minute came up to
each other, the colored man not giving way in the least,
but bumping, hat, goatee, cane, cigar, and all, against our

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 233

Philadelphia!!, who, with the greatest coolness and pre
sence of mind, doubled up his fist and giving the colored
Adonis two blows with it, (precisely on the middle brass
stud which confined his frilled shirt-bosom,) laid him full
length upon the pavement.

"Now," said the Philadelphian, "you've had a lesson;
the next time you see a gentleman coming along, turn out
of the way for him, and you'll save your new clothes."
Without another glance at the discomfited beau, who was
brushing his plaid pantaloons with his pocket-handker
chief, and muttering some equivocal language that would
not do here, he went on his way to see the improvements
about the City Hall.

Mark's low laugh was heard from the driver's seat, and
Bacchus, who was waiting to open the carriage door for
Mr. Weston, stood on the first step, and touching his hat,
said, with a broad grin, " Dat's de best thing we've seen
sence we come to Washington. Dat beats Ole Virginny."

Mrs. Weston came from the store at the same moment,
and Bacchus gallantly let down the steps, and, after se
curing the door, took his place beside Mark, with the
agility of a boy of sixteen.

Mr. Weston, much amused, described the scene. Mrs.
Weston declared "it served him right; for that the ne
groes were getting intolerable."

"I can hardly believe," she said, "the change that has
been made in their appearance and conduct. They think,
to obtain respect they must be impertinent. This is the
effect of Abolition.

"Yes," said Mr. Weston, "this is Abolition. I have
thought a great deal on the condition of the negroes in
our country, of late. I would like to see every man and
woman that God has made, free, could it be accomplished
to their advantage. I see the evils of slavery, it is some
times a curse on the master as well as the slave.

" When I purchased Sarah; when I saw those grieving,

20*

234 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

throbbing souls, my own was overwhelmed with sympathy
for them. This is slavery, I said to myself. Poor crea
tures, though you have done wrong, how severe your pu
nishment ; to be separated from all that your life has had to
make it pleasant, or even tolerable. This is slavery indeed,
and where is the man, come from God, who will show us a
remedy ? I look at the free blacks of the North and South.
I say again, this is Abolition ! How worthless, how de
graded they are, after they imbibe these ridiculous notions.
When I behold the Southern country, and am convinced
that it is impossible to manumit the slaves, I conclude that
here, at least, they are in their natural condition. Hereto
fore, I feel that I have only done my duty in retaining mine,
while I give them every means of comfort, and innocent
enjoyment, that is in my power. Now I have seen the re
sult of the Abolition efforts, I am more convinced that my
duty has been, and will be, as I have said. Could they be
colonized from Virginia, I would willingly consent to it, as
in our climate, white labor would answer ; but farther South,
only the negro can labor, and this is an unanswerable ob
jection to our Southern States becoming free. Those ser
vants that are free, the benevolent and generous Aboli
tionists ought to take North, build them colleges, and make
good to them all the promises they held out as baits to al
lure them from their owners and their duties."

Mr. Weston found he had not two very attentive lis
teners in the young ladies, for they were returning the
many salutations they received, and making remarks on
their numerous acquaintances. The carriage began slowly
to ascend Capitol Hill, and they all remarked the beauti
ful prospect, to which Washingtonians are so much accus
tomed that they are too apt not to notice it. Their ride
was delightful. It was one of those lovely spring days
when the air is still fresh and balmy, and the promise of a
summer's sun lights up nature so joyfully.

There were many visitors at the burial-ground, and there

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 235

had been several funerals that day. A woman stood at the
door of the house, at the entrance of the cemetery, with a
baby in her arms ; and another child of two years old was
playing around a large bier, that had been left there until
it should be wanted again.

Mrs. Yfeston met with an acquaintance, soon after they
entered the ground, and they stopped to converse, while
Mr. Weston and the younger ladies walked on. Near a
large vault they stopped-a moment, surprised to see two or
three little boys playing at marbles. They were ruddy,
healthy-looking boys, marking out places in the gravel
path for the game ; shooting, laughing, and winning, and so
much occupied that if death himself had come along on his
pale horse, they would have asked him to wait a while till
they could let him pass, if indeed they had seen him at all.
Mr. Weston tried to address them several times, but they
could not attend to him until the game was completed, when
one of them sprang upon the vault and began to count over
his marbles, and the others sat down on a low monument
to rest.

" Boys," said Mr. Weston, " I am very sorry to see you
playing marbles in a burial-ground. Don't you see all
these graves around you?"

" We don't go on the dead people," said an honest-faced
little fellow. " You see the grass is wet there ; we play
here in the walk, where its nice and dry."

"But you ought to play outside," said Mr. Weston.
"This is too sacred a place to be made the scene of your
amusements."

"We don't hurt any body," said the largest boy.
"When people are dead they don't hear nothin; where's
the harm?"

" Well," said Mr. Weston, "there's one thing certain,
none of you have any friends buried here. If you had, you
would not treat them so unkindly."

" My mother is buried over yonder," said the boy on the

236 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

vault ; " and if I thought there was any thing unkind in it,
I would never come here to play again."

"You are a good boy," said Mr. Weston. "I hope you
will keep your word. If you were buried there, I am sure
your mother would be very sad and quiet by your grave."

The boy drew the string to his bag, and walked off with
out looking back.

"I wish," said Mr. Weston, "you would all follow his
example. We should always be respectful in our con
duct, when we are in a burial-ground."

As soon as they were gone, the boys laughed and marked
out another game.

Mrs. Weston joined her party, and they went towards
the new portion of the cemetery that is so beautifully
situated, near the river.

"I think," said Mr. Weston, "this scene should remind
us of our conversation this morning. If Washington be
the meeting-place of all living, it is tjie grand cemetery of
the dead. Look around us here ! We see monuments to
Senators and Members ; graves of foreigners and stran
gers ; names of the great, the rich, the powerful, men of
genius and ambition. Strewed along are the poor, the
lowly, the unlearned, the infant, and the little child;

"Head the inscriptions — death has come at last, watched
and waited for ; or he has come suddenly, unexpected, and
undesired. There lies an author, a bride, a statesman,
side by side. A little farther off is that simple, but beau-
ful monument."

They approached, and Alice read the line that was in
scribed around a cross sculptured in it, "Other refuge
have I none!" Underneath was her name, "Angeline."

"How beautiful, how much more so in its simplicity
than if it had been ornamented, and a labored epitaph
written upon it," said Mr. Weston. "Here too are mem
bers of families, assembled in one great family. As we
walk along, we pass mothers, and husbands, and children ;

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 237

but in life, they who lie here together, were possibly all
strangers."

"What is that large vault open to-day for ?" said Ellen,
to a man who seemed to have some charge in the place.

"That is the public receptacle," said the man. "We
are obliged to air it very often, else we could never go in
and out with the coffins we put there. There's a good
many in there now."

"Who is there?" said Mr. Weston.

"Well," said the man, "Mrs. Madison is there, for one,
and there are some other people, who are going to be moved
soon. Mrs. Madison, she's going to be moved, too, some
time or another, but I don't know when."

Ellen stooped down and looked in, but arose quickly
and turned away. Two gentlemen were standing near
observing her, and one of them smiled as she stepped back
from the vault. Mr. Weston knew this person by sight ;
he was a clergyman of great talent, and almost equal eccen
tricity, and often gave offence by harshness of manner, when
he was only anxious to do good to the cause in which his
heart was absorbed.

"Ah! young ladies," he said, looking kindly at them
both, "this is a good place for you to come to. You are
both beautiful, and it may be wealthy ; and I doubt not, in
the enjoyments of the passing season, you have forgotten
all about death and the grave. But, look you ! in there,
lies the mortal remains of Mrs. Madison. What an influ
ence she had in this gay society, which you have doubtless
adorned. Her presence was the guarantee of propriety, as
well as of social and fashionable enjoyment ; the very con
trast that she presented to her husband made her more
charming. Always anxious to please, she was constantly
making others happy. She gave assistance and encourage
ment to all, when it was in her power. She had more
political influence than any woman in our country has had,
before or since. But think of her now ! You could not

238 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN ; OR.

bear to approach the coffin that contains her remains.
Where is her beauty — and her grace and talent ? Ah !
young ladies," he continued, " did she rightly use those
talents?"

1 i It is hardly a fair question to ask now," said Mr. Wes-
ton. "Let us tread lightly o'er the ashes of the dead."

"Let the living learn a lesson from the dead," said the
clergyman, sternly. "You are leading, it may be, a heart
less life of pleasure, but, young ladies, forget not this grave.
She could not escape it, nor will you. Pause from your
balls, and your theatres, and your gay doings, and ask,
what is the end of it all. Trifle not with the inestimable
gift of life. Be not dead while you live. Anticipate not
the great destroyer. Hear the appeal of one who was once
the idol of every heart ; she speaks to you from the grave,
<Even as I am, shalt thou be !' '

He turned from them, and wandered over the ground.
Mr. Weston led the way to the carriage, and Ellen and
Alice thought, that if a lesson of life was to be learned in
the gay ball of the night before, a still more necessary
one was found in the cemetery which they were now
leaving, as the shadows of the evening were on the simple
monument and the sculptured slab, and their silent te
nants slept on, undisturbed by the gambols of thoughtless
children, or the conversation of the many who came to

visit their abode.

*****

The next morning, Bacchus brought no letter for Mr.
Weston, but one for each lady ; for Ellen from her aunt,
for Alice from Arthur, and Cousin Janet's handwriting
was easily recognized on the outside of Mrs. Weston's.
Hardly had the girls arisen from the table to take theirs'
to their rooms for a quiet perusal, when an exclamation
from Mrs. Weston, detained them.

'•'Is anything the matter at home, Anna?" said Mr.
Weston, "Is Cousin Janet ?"

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 239

" Cousin Janet is well, my dear brother," said Mrs.
Weston. " I was very thoughtless, but our dear neighbor,
Mrs. Kent, is no more."

« Can it be possible ?" said Mr. Weston, much agitated.
"Read the letter aloud."

Mrs. Weston, turned to the beginning, and read aloud,

« MY DEAR ANNA :

" The time is near which will bring you all in health and
happiness, I trust, to your home ; and could you see how
lovely it looks, I think you would be tempted to fix upon
an earlier day. You see how selfish I am, but I confess
that I quite1 count the days, as a child does to Christmas,
and am ashamed of my impatience.

" Throughout the winter I had no care. My kind friends
did all the housekeeping, and the servants in the house,
and on the plantation, were so faithful, that I feel indebted
to all who have made my time so easy; and your absence
has not, I am sure, been attended wTith any ill effects, with
out you find me a little cross and complaining, and Mr.
Barbour out of his senses with joy, on your return. Good
Mr. Barbour ! he has superintended and encouraged the
servants, and visited us forlorn ladies frequently, so that
he must come in for a portion of our thanks too.

"You will perhaps think I ought only to write you cheer
ful news, but it is best to let you know as well as I can,
the condition that you will find us in, on your return.
Phillis is the only one of us, whose concerns are of any
immediate importance, but I am sorry to have to tell you
that she is now seriously indisposed. Her cough has never
really yielded — her other symptoms have varied; but for
the last few weeks, her disease has not only progressed,
but assumed a certain form. She is in consumption, and
has no doubt inherited the disease from her mother.

" I have, throughout the winter, felt great anxiety about
her, and have not permitted her to work, though some-

240 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

times I found it hard to prevent her. Her children have
been constantly with her ; indeed, I have passed a great
deal of my own time in her cabin, which, under Martha's
superintendence, is so neat and comfortable.

"You will all perhaps blame me that I have not been thus
plain with you before, but Dr. Lawton said it was not ne
cessary, as she has never been in any immediate danger,
and Phillis would not consent to my doing so. She wanted
you to enjoy yourselves, and Alice to have a good chance
to regain her health. <No doubt. Miss Janet/ she said,
<the Lord will spare me to see them yet, and I have eyery
thing I want now — they couldn't stop my pains any more
than you, and I feel that I am in the Lord's hands, and I
am content to be.' She has not been confined to her bed,
but is fast losing strength, though from my window now
I see her tying up her roses, that are beginning to bud.
Some other hand than hers will care for them when
another Spring shall come.

" Her nights are very restless, and she is much exhausted
from constant spitting of blood ; the last week of plea
sant weather has been of service to her, and the prospect
of seeing you all at home gives her the most unfeigned
pleasure.

" I have even more painful intelligence to give you. Our
young neighbor, Mrs. Kent, has done with all her trials,
and I trust they sanctified her, in preparation for the early
and unexpected death which has been her lot. You are
not yet aware of the extent of her trials. A fortnight
ago her little boy was attacked with scarlet fever, in its
most violent form. From the first moment of his illness
his case was hopeless, and he only suffered twenty-four
hours. I went over as soon as I heard of his death ; the
poor mother's condition was really pitiable. She was
helpless in her sorrow, which was so unexpected as to de
prive her at first of the power of reason. The Good
Shepherd though, had not forgotten her — he told her that

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 241

he had taken her little lamb, and had gently folded it in
his bosom, and that he would wander with it in the lovely
pastures of Paradise, She was soon perfectly reconciled
to the sad dispensation ; sad indeed, for the child was her
only earthly solace. Victim of an unhappy marriage, the
dear engaging little boy was a great consolation to her,
and his amusement and instruction occupied her mind,
and passed away happily many a weary hour.

" She insisted upon attending the funeral, and I ac
companied her. Mr. Kent was with her, too, much dis
tressed, for this hard man loved his child, and keenly felt
his loss.

" She got out of the carriage to hear the funeral service
read, and was calm until they took up the coffin to lower
it into the grave. Then it was impossible to control her.
Placing her arms upon it, she looked around appealingly
to the men ; and so affected were they, that they turned
from her to wipe away their own tears. Her strength
gave way under the excitement, and she was carried, in
sensible, to the carriage, and taken home,

« I found her very feverish, and did not like to leave her,
thinking it probable that she might also have the disease
which had carried off her child. Before night she became
really ill, and Dr. Lawton pronounced her complaint scar
let fever. The disease was fearfully rapid, and soon
ended her life. She was, I think, well prepared to go.
Her solemn and affectionate farewell to her husband can
not fail to make an impression upon him.

"I shall have a great deal to tell you of her when you
return. The past winter has been a sad one ; a constant
coolness existing between her and her husband. A short
time ago he was brutally striking that faithful old man of
her father's, Robert, and Mrs. Kent interfered, insisting
upon Robert's returning tfec his cabin, and in his presence
forbidding Mr. Kent again to raise his hand against one
servant on the plantation; Mr. Carter's will, allowing

21

242 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

Mr. Kent no authority over his servants, and commending
them to his daughter's kindness and care, showed great
discrimination of character. This, though, has been a
constant source of irritation to Mr. Kent, and he has
never been kind to the people. Mrs. Kent, usually so
timid, was roused into anger by his treatment of Robert,
and interfered, as I have related to you. She told me of
this, and said how unhappy it had made her, though she
could not blame herself. Since then there has only been
a formal politeness between them ; Mr. Kent not forgiving
his wife for the part she took against him. Poor little
woman ! Robert had been her father's faithful nurse in
his long illness, and I do not wonder at her feelings on
seeing him struck.

" Yesterday the will was read, arid Dn Lawton, who was
present, informed us of the result. Mrs. Kent has left
most of her property to her husband, but her servants
free ! The plantation is to be sold, and the proceeds ex
pended in preparing those who are willing to go to Liberia,
or where they choose; as they cannot, manumitted, re
main in Virginia. The older servants, who prefer stay
ing in Virginia as they are, she has left to you, with
an allowance for their support, considering you as a
kind of guardian ; for in no other way could she have
provided for their staying here, which they will like
better.

" Who would have thought she could have made so wise
a will?

" Dr. Lawton says that Mr. Kent showed extreme anger
on hearing it read. He intends returning to the North,
and his $30,000 will be a clear gain, for I am told he had
not a cent when he married her.

"Write me when you have fixed the time for your
return, and believe me, with love to all,

" Your affectionate relative,

JANET WILMER."

SOUTHEKN LIFE AS IT IS. 248

Bacchus entered in time to hear the latter part of this
letter. He had his master's boots in his hands. When
Mrs. Weston stopped reading, he said, " That's good ; bound
for Mister Kent. I'm glad he's gwine, like Judas, to his
own place."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE carriage was slowly ascending the road to the old
church, a familiar and dear object to each member of the
Weston family. A village churchyard fills up so gradu
ally, that one is not startled with a sudden change. Mr.
Weston looked from the window at the ivy, and the gothic
windows, and the family vault, where many of his name
reposed.

The inmates of the carriage had been conversing cheer
fully, but as they approached the point where they would
see home, each one was occupied with his or her musings.
Occasionally, a pleasant word was exchanged, on the ap
pearance of the well-known neighborhood, the balmy air,
and the many shades of green that the trees presented ;
some of them loaded with white and pink blossoms, pro
mising still better things when the season should ad
vance.

Alice leaned from the window, watching for the first
glimpse of the well-remembered house. She greeted every
tree -they passed with a lively look, and smiled gaily as
the porter's lodge presented itself. The gates of it flew
open as the carriage approached, and Exeter in its beauty
met their view. " Oh, uncle," she said, turning from the
window, « look ! look ! Is there any place in the world
like this?"

"No, indeed, Alice;" and he took a survey of the home

244 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

which had been so blessed to him. " How beautiful every
thing looks ! and how we will enjoy it, after a crowded, noisy
hotel. Anna, you are not sorry to see its familiar face
again. Ellen, my darling, we have not forgotten you —
Exeter is your home, too; you are as welcome as any of
us. Why, you look sober; not regretting Washington
already?"

"No sir," said Ellen, "I was thinking of other things."

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, "we must look very happy
this evening. I wonder, Ellen, Mr. Barbour has not
met us."

"I suppose," said Alice, laughing, "he is too much
agitated at the thought of meeting Ellen again — he will
be over this evening, I dare say."

"I am sorry I can't keep my word with Mr. Barbour,"
said Ellen, " but I have concluded to marry Abel Johnson,
on Arthur's recommendation, and I ought not to give good
Mr. Barbour any false expectations."

"You must know, dear uncle," said Alice, "that Ellen
and Arthur have been carrying on a postscript correspon
dence in my letters, and Arthur has turned matchmaker,
and has been recommending Abel Johnson to Ellen. They
have fallen in love with each other, without having met,
and that was the reason Ellen was so hard-hearted last
winter."

"Ah! that is the reason. But you must take care of
these Yankee husbands, Miss Ellen, if Mr. Kent be a spe
cimen," said Mrs. Weston.

"I am quite sure," said Alice, "Arthur would not have
such a friend."

Mr. Weston smiled, and looked out again at home.
They were rapidly approaching the gates, and a crowd
of little darkies were holding them open on each side.
"I wish Arthur were here," said he. "How long he
has been away ! I associate him with every object about
the place,"

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 245

Alice did not answer ; Arthur was in her thoughts. This
was his home, every object with which she was surrounded
breathed of him. She had thought of it as her home, but
she had no right here — she was really only a guest. The
thought was new and painful to her. Could the whole of
her past existence have been dreamed away ? — had she in
deed no claim to the place she loved best on earth — was she
dependant on the will of others for all the gay and joyous
emotions that a few moments before filled her breast ? She
thought again of Arthur, of his handsome appearance, his
good and generous heart, his talents, and his unchanging
love to her — of Walter, and of all with which he had had
to contend in the springtime of his life. Of his faults,
his sin, and his banishment ; of his love to her, too, and
the delusion under which she had labored, of her returning
it. Arthur would, ere long, know it all, and though he
might forgive, her proud spirit rebelled at the idea that he
would also blame.

She looked at her uncle, whose happy face was fixed on
the home of his youth and his old age — a sense of his pro
tecting care and affection came over her. What might the
short summer bring? His displeasure, too — then there
would be no more for her, but to leave Exeter with all its
happiness.

Poor child ! for, at nearly nineteen, Alice was only a
child. The possibility overpowered her, she leant against
her uncle's bosom, and wept suddenly and violently.

" Alice, what is the matter?" said her mother. "Are
you ill?"

"What is the matter?" said her uncle, putting his arm
around her, and looking alarmed.

"Nothing at all," said Alice, trying to control herself.
" I was only thinking of all your goodness to me, and how
I love you."

"Is that all," said Mr. Weston, pressing her more
closely to his bosom. "Why, the sight of home has turned

246 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OK,

your little head. Come, dry up your tears, for my old
eyes can distinguish the hall door, and the servants about
the house collecting to meet us."

" I can see dear Cousin Janet, standing within — how
happy she will be," said Mrs. Weston.

" Well," said Ellen, "I hope Abel will make a fuss over
me, for nobody else ever has."

"If you are to be married," said Alice, smiling through
her tears, "you must have his name changed, or always
call him Mr. Johnson."

"Never," said Ellen. " I have a perfect passion for the
name of Abel. There was a picture in my room of Abel
lying down, and Cain standing, holding the club over him.
Whenever I got into a passion when I was a child, mammy
used to take me to the picture and say, < Look there,
honey, if you don't learn how to get the better of your
temper, one of these days you will get in a passion like
Cain and kill somebody. Just look at him, how ugly he
is — because he's in such a rage. But I always looked at
Abel, who was so much prettier. I have no doubt Abel
Johnson looks just as he does in the picture."

They w^ere about to pass through the gates leading to
the grounds; some of the servants approached the car
riage, and respectfully bowing, said, < Welcome home, mas
ter," but passed on without waiting to have the salutation
returned. Mrs. Weston guessed the cause of there not
being a general outbreak on the occasion of their return.
Miss Janet had spoken to a number of the servants, telling
them how unable Mr. Weston was to bear any excitement,
and that he would take the earliest opportunity of seeing
them all at their cabins. As he was much attached to
them and might feel a good deal at the meeting after so
long a separation, it would be better not to give him a
noisy welcome.

She had, however, excepted the children in this prohibi
tion, for Miss Janet had one excellent principle in the

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 247

management of children, she never forbade them doing
what she knew they could not help doing. Thus, as the
carriage passed the lodge, a noisy group of small-sized
darkies were making a public demonstration. " Massa's
come home," says one. "I sees Miss Alice," says an
other. "I sees Miss Anna, too," said a third, though, as
yet, not a face was visible to one of them. They put
their heads out of the carriage, notwithstanding, to speak
to them, and Alice emptied a good-sized basket of sugar
plums, which she had bought for the purpose, over their
heads.

" Take care, Mark," said Mr. Weston, " don't cut about
with that whip, while all these children are so near."

"If I didn't, sir," said Mark, some of 'em would a been
scrunched under the carriage wheels 'fore now. These
little niggers," he muttered between his teeth, "they're
always in the way. I wish some of 'em would get run
over." Mark's w^ife was not a very amiable character, and
she had never had any children.

"Hurrah! daddy, is that you?" said an unmistakeable
voice proceeding from the lungs of Bacchus the younger.
" I been dansin juba dis hole blessed day — I so glad you
come. Ask mammy if I aint?"

"How is your mother, Bacchus?" said Mr. Weston,
looking out the window.

"Mammy, she's well," said the young gentleman;
"how's you, master ?"

"Very well, I thank you, sir," said Mr. Weston. <iGo
down there and help pick up the sugar-plums."

Bacchus the elder, now slid down from the seat by
Mark, and took a short cut over to his cabin.

"Poor Aunt Phillis !" said Mrs. Weston, looking after
him, "I hope she will get well."

"Ah!" said Mr. Weston, "I had forgotten Phillis on
this happy day. There is something, you see, Anna, to
make us sigh, even in our happiest moments.

248 AUNT THILLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

"But you shall not sigh, dearest uncle," said Alice,
kissing his hand, "for Aunt Phillis will get well now that
we are all back. Oh, there is Cousin Janet, and little
Lydia — I wish the carriage would stop."

"You are the most perfect child lever saw, Alice,"
said Mrs. Weston. " I think you are out of your senses
at the idea of getting home."

The carriage wheeled round, and William let down the
steps, with a face bright as a sunflower. Miss Janet
stood at the top of the portico steps, in her dove-colored
gown, and her three-cornered handkerchief, with open
arms. Alice bounded like a deer, and was clasped within
them. Then Mrs. Weston, then Ellen; and afterwards,
the aged relatives warmly embraced each other. Little
Lydia was not forgotten, they all shook hands with her,
but Alice, who stooped to kiss her smooth, black cheek.
William was then regularly shaken hands with, and the
family entered the large, airy hall, and were indeed at
home.

Here were collected all the servants employed about the
house, each in a Sunday dress, each greeted with a kind
word. Alice shook hands with them two or three times
over, then pointing to the family pictures, which were
arranged along the hall, "Look at them, uncle," said
she; "did you ever see them so smiling before?"

They went to the drawing-room, all but Alice, who flew
off in another direction.

" She is gone to see Phillis," said Mr. Weston, gazing after
her. "Well, I will rest a few moments, and then go too."

Never did mother hold to her heart a child dearer to her,
than Phillis, when she pressed Alice to her bosom. Alice
had almost lived with her, when she, and Walter, and Arthur
were children. Mrs. Weston knew that she could not be
in better hands than under the care of so faithful and
respectable a servant. Phillis had a large, old clothes'
basket, where she kept the toys, all the little plates and

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 249

cups with which they played dinner-party, the dolls with
out noses, and the trumpets that would not blow. Her
children were not allowed to touch them when the owners
were not there, but they took a conspicuous part in the play,
being the waiters and ladies' maids and coach-drivers of the
little gentlemen and Alice. After Walter and Arthur went

o

away, Alice was still a great deal with Phillis, and she,
regarding her as Arthur's future wife, loved her for him as
well as for herself. Alice loved Phillis, too, and all her
children, and thoy considered her as a little above mortality.
Bacchus used to insist, when she was a child, that she never
would live, she was too good. When, during her severe
illness, Phillis would go to her cabin to look around, Bac
chus would greet her with a very long face, and say, " I told
you so. I know'd Miss Alice would be took from us all."
Since her recovery, he had stopped prophesying about her.

"Aunt Phillis," said Alice, "you don't look very sick.
I reckon you will work when you ought not. Now I in
tend to watch you, and make you mind, so that you will
soon be well."

"I am a great deal better than I was, Miss Alice, but
there's no knowing; howsomever, I thank the Lord that
he has spared me to see you once more. I want to give
Master time to talk to Miss Janet a little while, then I am
going in to see him and Miss Anna."

" Oh ! come now," said Alice, " or he will be over here."

Phillis got up, and walked slowly to the house, Alice at
her side, and Bacchus stumping after her. As they went
in, Alice tripped on first, and opened the drawing-room
door, making way for Phillis, who looked with a happy
expression of face towards her master.

" Is this you, Phillis ?" said Mr. Weston, coming forward,
and taking her hand most kindly. Mrs. Weston and Ellen
got up to shake hands with her, too. " I am very glad to
find you so much better than I expected," continued Mr.
Weston; "you are thin, but your countenance is good.

250 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

I hope you will get perfectly well, now that we are going
to have summer weather."

"Thank you", sir," said Phillis. " I am a great deal
better. Thank God, you all look so well, Miss Anna and
all. Miss Janet began to be mighty lonesome. I've been
a great trouble to her."

"No, you have not," said Miss Janet; "you never were
a trouble to any one."

"Master," said Bacchus, "I think the old ooman looks
right well. She aint nigh so bad as we all thought. I
reckon she couldn't stand my bein away so long; she hadn't
nobody to trouble her."

"You will never give her any more trouble," said Alice.
"Aunt Phillis, you don't know how steady Uncle Bacchus
has been; he is getting quite a temperance man."

"Old Nick got the better of me twice, though," said
Bacchus. " I did think, master, of tryin to make Phillis
b'lieve I hadn't drank nothin dis winter; but she'd sure to
find me out. There's somefin in her goes agin a lie."

"But that was doing very well," said Alice; "don't
you think so, Aunt Phillis ? Only twice all through the
winter."

"Its an improvement, honey," said Phillis; "but what's
the use of getting drunk at all? When we are thirsty,
water is better than any thing else ; and when we aint
thirsty, what's the use of drinking?"

Phillis had been sitting in an arm-chair, that Mrs.
Weston had placed for her. When she first came in, her
face was a little flushed from pleasure, and the glow might
have been mistaken as an indication of health. The emo
tion passed, Mrs. Weston perceived there was a great
change in her. She was excessively emaciated; her
cheek-bones prominent, her eyes large and bright. The
whiteness of her teeth struck them all. These symp
toms, and the difficulty with which she breathed, were
tokens of her disease. She became much fatigued,

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 251

and Miss Janet advised her to go home and lie down.
« They shan't tell you of their grand doings to-night, Phil
lis," she said; "for you have been excited, and must keep
quiet. In the morning you will be able to listen to them.
Don't tell any long stories, Bacchus," she continued.
"Dr. Lawton wants her to keep from any excitement at
night, for fear she should not sleep well after it. All you
travelers had better go to bed early, and wake up bright
in the morning."

Alice went home with Phillis, and came back to welcome
Mr. Barbour, who had just arrived. The happy evening
glided away ; home was delightful to the returned family.

Bacchus gave glowing descriptions of scenes, in which
he figured largely, to the servants; and Bacchus the
younger devoutly believed there had not been so distin
guished a visitor to the metropolis that winter, as his
respected father.

Dr. Lawton came regularly to see Phillis, who frequent
ly rallied. Her cheerfulness made her appear stronger
than she was ; but when Alice would tell her how well she
looked, and that the sight of Arthur would complete her
recovery, she invariably answered, "I want to see him
mightily, child ; but about my gettin well, there's no tell
ing. God only knows."

252 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

CHAPTER XXVI.

"Do sit down, my dear cousin," said Miss Janet to Mr.
Weston, who was walking up and down the drawing-room.
" Here, in August, instead of being quiet and trying to
keep cool, you are fussing about, and heating yourself so
uselessly."

"I will try," said Mr. Weston, smiling, and seating
himself on the sofa ; but you must recollect that for three
years I have not seen my only son, and that now he is
coming home to stay. I cannot realize it ; it is too much
happiness. We are so blessed, Cousin Janet, we have so
much of this world's good, I sometimes tremble lest God
should intend me to have my portion here."

"It is very wrong to feel so," said Cousin Janet ; « even
in this world, He can give his beloved rest."

"But am I one of the beloved?" asked Mr. Weston,
thoughtfully.

"I trust so," said Cousin Janet. "I do not doubt it.
How lamentable would be your situation and mine, if,
while so near the grave, we were deprived of that hope,
which takes from it all its gloom."

"Are you talking of gloom?" said Mrs. Weston, "and
Arthur within a few miles of us ? It is a poor compliment
to him. I never saw so many happy faces. The servants
have all availed themselves of their afternoon's holiday to
dress ; they look so respectable. Esther says they have
gone to the outer gate to welcome Arthur first ; Bacchus
went an hour ago. Even poor Aunt Phillis has brightened
up. She has on a head-handkerchief and apron white as
snow, and looks quite comfortable, propped up by two or
three pillows.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 253

"Arthur will be sadly distressed to see Phillis, though
he will not realize her condition at first. The nearer her
disease approaches its consummation, the brighter she
looks."

"It seems but yesterday," said Mr. Weston, "that
Phillis sat at her cabin door, with Arthur (a baby) in her
arms, and her own child, almost the same age, in the cra
dle near them. She has been no eye-servant. Faithfully
has she done her duty, and now she is going to receive her
reward. I never can forget the look of sympathy which
was in her face, when I used to go to her cabin to see my
motherless child. She always gave Arthur the preference,
putting her own infant aside to attend to his wants.
Phillis is by nature a conscientious woman ; but nothing
but the grace of God could have given her the constant
and firm principle that has actuated her life. But this
example of Christian excellence will soon be taken from
us ; her days are numbered. Her days here are numbered ;
but how blessed the eternity! Sometimes, I have almost
reproached myself that I have retained a woman like
Phillis as a slave. She deserves every thing from me : I
have always felt under obligations to her."

" You have discharged them," said Mrs. Weston. " Phil
lis, though a slave, has had a very happy life ; she fre
quently says so. This is owing, in a great measure, to
her own disposition and rectitude of character. Yet she
has had every thing she needed, and a great deal more.
You have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

« I trust not," said Mr. Weston. « I have endeavored,
in my dealings with my servants, to remember the All-
seeing eye was upon me, and that to Him who placed
these human beings in a dependant position, would I have
to render my account. Ah ! here are the girls. Alice,
we had almost forgotten Arthur ; you and Ellen remind
us of him."

" Really," said Ellen, "I am very unhappy; I have no

22

254 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

lover to expect. You see that I am arrayed in a plain
black silk, to show my chagrin because JVlr. Johnson could
not come now. Alice has decked herself so that Arthur
can read her every thought at the first glance. She has
on her blue barege dress, which implies her unvarying

constancy. Then "

"I did not think of that," said Alice, blushing deeply,

and looking down at her dress ; " I only "

"Miss Alice," said Lydia, "I hears somethin."
"No, no," said Miss Janet, looking from the window,

"there is nothing "

" Deed the is," said Lydia. "Its Mas' Arthur's horse, I
know."

Mr. Weston went out on the porch, and the ladies stood
at the windows. The voices of the servants could be dis
tinctly heard. From the nature of the sound, there was
no doubt they were giving a noisy welcome to their young
master.

" He is coming," said Miss Janet, much agitated ; " the
servants would not make that noise were he not in sight."
"I hear the horses, too," said Ellen; "we will soon
see him where the road turns."

"There he comes," said Mrs. Weston. "It must be
Arthur. William is with him ; he took a horse for Arthur
to the stage house."

The father stood looking forward, the wind gently lift
ing the thin white hair from his temples ; his cheek flushed,
his clear blue eye beaming with delight. The horseman
approached. The old man could not distinguish his face,
yet there was no mistaking his gay and gallant bearing.
The spirited and handsome animal that bore him flew over
the gravelled avenue. Only a few minutes elapsed from
the time he was first seen to the moment when the father
laid his head upon his son's shoulder ; and while he was
clasped to that youthful and manly heart experienced sen
sations of joy such as are not often felt here.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 255

Alice had known, too, that it was he. But when we
long to be assured of happiness, we are often slow to be
lieve. It was not until her eyes could distinguish every
feature that her heart said, "It is Arthur." Then all
was forgotten — all timidity, all reserve — all, save that he
was the dearly loved brother of her childhood ; the being
with whom her destiny had long been associated. She
passed from the drawing-room to the porch as he alighted
from his horse, and when his father released him from a
long embrace, Arthur's eyes fell upon the dear and un
changed countenance, fixed upon him with a look of wel
come that said more than a thousand words.

******

" Aunt," said Arthur, a week after his return, as he sat
with Mrs. Weston and Alice in the arbor, " before you
came, Alice had been trying to persuade me that she had
been in love with Walter ; but I can't believe it."

" I never did believe it for a moment. She thought she
was, and she was seized with such a panic of truth and
honor that she made a great commotion; insisted on
writing to you, and making a full confession ; wanted to
tell her uncle, and worry him to death; doing all sorts of
desperate things. She actually worked herself into a
fever. It was all a fancy."

"I have too good an opinion of myself to believe it,"
said Arthur.

"I am sorry," said Alice, "for it is true. It is a pity
your vanity cannot be a little diminished."

" Why, the fact is Alice, I remember Uncle Bacchus's
story about General Washington and his servant, when the
general's horse fell dead, or rather the exclamation made
by the servant after relating the incident: 'Master, lie
thinks of everything.' I do too. When we were children,
no matter how bad Walter was, you took his part. I re
member once he gave William such a blow because he
stumbled over a wagon that he had been making, and

256 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OK,

broke it. I asked him if he were not ashamed to do so,
and you said, « Hush, Arthur, he feels bad ; if you felt as
sorry as he does, you would behave just in the same way.'
So, the fact is, last summer you saw lie felt bad, and your
tender heart inundated with sympathy."

" That was it," said Mrs. Weston ; « it was a complete
inundation."

"You are not in love with him now, are you, Alice?"
said Arthur, smiling.

" No, indeed," said Alice, " I am not in love with him,
or you either — if being in love is what it is described in
novels. I never have palpitation of the heart, never faint
away, and am not at all fond of poetry. I should make a
sad heroine, I am such a matter-of-fact person."

" So as you make a good wrife," said Arthur, " no mat
ter about being a heroine."

"A planter's wife has little occasion for romance,"
said Mrs. Weston ; "her duties are too many and too im
portant. She must care for the health and comfort of hei
family, and of her servants. After all, a hundred ser*
vants are like so many children to look after."

"Ellen would make an elegant heroine," said Alice.
" She was left an orphan when very young ; had an ex
acting uncle and aunt ; was the belle of the metropolis ;
had gay and gallant lovers ; is an heiress — and has fallen
, in love with a man she never saw. To crown all, he is
not rich, so Ellen can give him her large fortune to show
her devotion, and they can go all over the world together,
and revel in romance and novelty."

"Well," said Arthur, "I will take you all over the
world if you wish it. When will you set out, and how
will you travel ? If that is all you complain of in your
destiny, I can easily change it."

"I do not complain of my destiny," said Alice, gaily.
" I was only contrasting it with Ellen's. I shall be satis
fied never to leave Exeter, and my migrations need not be

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 257

more extended than were Mrs. Primroses's, < from the
green room to the brown.' Poor Walter ! I wish he
would fall in love with some beautiful Italian, and be as
happy as we are."

" Do not fear for Walter," said Mrs. Weston. " He will
take care of himself; his last letter to Cousin Janet was
very cheerful. I shall have to diminish your vanity,
Alice, by telling you Walter will never < die for love of
Alice Weston.' He will be captivated some day with a
more dashy lady, if not an Italian countess. I have no
doubt he will eventually become a resident of Europe. A
life of repentance will not be too much for a man whose
hands are stained with the blood of his fellowman. The
day is past in our country, and I rejoice to say it, when a
duellist can be tolerated. I always shudder when in the
presence of one, though I never saw but one."

Mr. Weston now entered, much depressed from a recent
interview with Phillis. This faithful and honored servant
was near her departure. Angels were waiting at the
throne of the Eternal, for his command to bear her purified

spirit home.

* * * *

The master and the slave were alone. No eye save
their Maker's looked upon them ; no ear save his, heard
what passed between them.

Mr. Weston was seated in the easy chair, which had
been removed from the other room, and in which his wife
had died.

Phillis was extended on a bed of death. Her thin
hands crossed on her bosom, her eyes fearfully bright, a
hectic glow upon her cheek.

"Master," she said, "you have no occasion to feel
uneasy about that. I have never had a want, I nor the
children. Tnere was a time, sir, when I was restless
about being a slave. When I went with you and Miss
Anna away from home, and heard the people saying

22*

258 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

colored people ought to be free, it made me feel bad. I
thought then that God did not mean one of his creatures
to be a slave ; when I came home and considered about it,
I would often be put out, and discontented. It was
wicked, I know, but I could not help it for a while.

"I saw my husband and children doing well and happy,
but I used to say to myself, they are slaves, and so am I.
So I went about my work with a heavy heart. When my
children was born, I would think ' what comfort is it to
give birth to a child when I know its a slave.' I struggled
hard though, with these feelings, sir, and God gave me
grace to get the better of them, for I could not read my
Bible without seeing there was nothing agin slavery there ;
and that God had told the master his duty, and the slave
his duty. You've done your duty by me and mine, sir ; and
I hope where I have come short you will forgive me, for I
couldn't die in peace, without I thought you and I was all
right together."

"Forgive you, Phillis," said Mr. Weston, much affected.
"What have I to forgive ? Rather do I thank you for all
you have done for me. You were a friend and nurse to
my wife, and a mother to my only child. Was ever
servant or friend so faithful as you have been !"

Phillis smiled and looked very happy. " Thank you,
master," she said, "from my heart. How good the
Lord is to me, to make my dying bed so easy. It puts me
in mind of the hymn Esther sings. She's got a pleasant
voice, hasn't she, sir ?

' And while I feel my heart-strings break,

How sweet the moments roll!
A mortal paleness on my cheek
And glory in my soul.'

"Oh! master,its sweet for me to die, for Jesus is my
friend ; he makes all about me friends too, for it seems to
me that you and Miss Janet, and all of you are my friends.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 259

Poor Bacchus ! he takes on sadly about me ; he always
was a tender-hearted soul. Master, when I am gone, I
know you will be good to him and comfort him, but, please
sir, do something else. Talk to him, and pray for him,
and read the blessed Book to him ! Oh ! if he would only
give up liquor ! I trust in the Lord he will live and die a
sober man, else I know we'll never meet again. We won't
be on the same side at the Judgment Seat. There's no
drunkards in that happy place where I am going fast. No
drunkards in the light of God's face — no drunkards at the
blessed feet of Jesus."

"I think Bacchus has perfectly reformed," said Mr.
Westori, « and you may feel assured that we will do every
thing for his soul as well as his body, that we can. But,
Phillis, have you no wishes to express, as regards your
children?"

Phillis hesitated — »My children are well off," she said;
" they have a good master ; if they serve him and God
faithfully they will be sure to do welL"

" If there is any thing on your mind," said Mr. Weston,
" speak it without fear. The distinction between you and
me as master and slave, I consider no longer existing.
You are near being redeemed from my power, and the
power of death alone divides you from your Saviour's pre
sence. That Saviour whose example you have tried to
follow, whose blood has washed your soul from all its sin.
I am much older than you, and I live in momentary expec
tation of my summons. We shall soon meet, I hope, in
that happy place, where the distinctions of this world will
be forgotten. I have thought of you a great deal, lately,
and have been anxious to relieve your mind of every care.
It is natural that a mother, about to leave such a family as
you have, should have some wishes regarding them.

"I have thought several times," continued Mr. Weston,
" of offering to set your children free at my death, and 1
will do so if you wish. You must be aware that they

260 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

could not remain in Virginia after they were manumitted.
In the Middle and Northern states free blacks are in a
degraded condition. There is no sympathy for or with
them. They have no more rights than they have as slaves
with us, and they have no one to care for them when they
are sick or in trouble. You have seen a good deal of this
in your occasional visits to the North. In Washington,
since the Abolitionists have intermeddled there, the free
blacks have become intolerable ; they live from day to day
in discomfort and idleness. I mean as a general thing ;
there are, of course, occasional exceptions. Bacchus is
too old to take care of himself; he would not be happy
away from Exeter. Consider what I say to you, and I will
be guided by your wishes as regards your children.

" They might go to Liberia ; some of them would be
willing, no doubt. I have talked to William, he says he
would not go. Under these circumstances they would be
separated, and it is doubtful whether I would be doing you
or them a favour by freeing them. Be perfectly candid,
and let me know your wishes."

"As long as you, or Master Arthur and Miss Alice live,
they would be better off as they are," said Phillis.

" I believe they would," said Mr. Weston, "but life and
death cannot be too much considered in connection with
each other. I must soon go. I am only lingering at the
close of a long journey. Arthur will then have control,
and will, I am certain, make his servants as happy as he
can. My family is very small ; you are aware I have no
near relations. I have made my will, and should Arthur
and Alice die without children, I have left all my servants
free. Your children I have thus provided for. At my death
they are free, but I would not feel justified in turning them
into the world without some provision. The older children
can take care of themselves ; they are useful and have
good principles. I have willed each one of them to be free
at the age of twenty years. Thus, you see, most of them

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 261

will soon 1 e free, while none will have to wait very long. In
the mean dme they will be well taught and cared for. My
will is made, and all the forms of law attended to. Arthur
and Alice are very much pleased with it. Your older
children know it ; they are very happy, but they declare
they will never leave Exeter as long as there is a Weston
upon it.* And now, Phillis, are you satisfied ? I shall
experience great pleasure in having been able to relieve you
of any anxiety while you have so much pain to bear."

"Oh! master," said Phillis, "what shall I say to you?
I haven't no learning. I am only a poor, ignorant woman.
I can't thank you, master, as I ought. My heart is nigh
to bursting. What have I done that the Lord is so good
to me. He has put it into your heart to make me so hap
py. Thank you, master, and God for ever bless you."

The tears streamed down her cheeks, as Mr. Weston
arose to go. Esther had come to see if her mother wanted
any thing.

"Master," said Phillis, "wait one moment — there's no
thing between me and Heaven now. Oh ! sir, I shall soon
be redeemed from all sin and sorrow. I think I see
the glory that shines about the heavenly gates. I have
never felt myself ready to go until now, but there is
nothing to keep me. The Lord make your dying bed as
easy as you have mine."

Mr. Weston endeavored to compose himself, but was
much agitated. "Phillis," he said, "you have deserved
more than I could ever do for you. If any thing should
occur to you that I have not thought of, let me know, it
shall, if possible, be done. Would you like again to see
Mr. Caldwell, and receive the communion?"

"No, master, I thank you. You and Miss Janet, and
Miss Anna, and poor Bacchus, took it with me last week,

* A number of slaves have been manumitted recently at the South —
in one instance more than half preferred to remain in slavery in New
Orleans, to going to the North.

262 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

and I shall soon be where there will be no more need to re
mind me of the Lamb that was slain ; for I shall be with
him ; I shall see him as he is. And, master, we will all
meet there. We will praise him together."

Esther was weeping ; and Mr. Weston, quite overcome,
left the room.

"Esther, child," said Phillis, "don't do so. There's
nothing but glory and peace. There's no occasion for
tears. God will take care of you all here, and will, I hope
and pray, bring you to heaven at last. Poor master ! To
think he is so distressed parting wTith me. I thought I
should have stood by his dying bed. The Lord knows
best."

"Mother," said Esther, "will you take this medicine —
it is time?"

" No, honey. No more medicine ; it won't do me no
good. I don't want medicine. Jesus is what I want. He

is all in all.

*****

Reader ! have you ever stood by the dying bed of a
slave ? It may be not. There are those who are often
there. The angels of God, and One who is above the an
gels. One wrho died for all. He is here now. Here,
where stand weeping friends — here, where all is silence.
You may almost hear the angel's wings as they wait to bear
the redeemed spirit to its heavenly abode. Here, where
the form is almost senseless, the soul fluttering between
earth and heaven. Here, where the Spirit of God is over
shadowing the scene.

"Master," said Phillis, "all is peace. Jesus is here. I
am going home. You will soon be there, and Miss Janet
can't be long. Miss Anna too. Bacchus, the good Lord
will bring you there. I trust in Him to save you. My
children, God bless them, little Lydia and all."

"Master Arthur," said she, " as Arthur bent over her,
" give my love to Master Walter. You and Miss Alice will

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 263

soon be married. The Lord make you happy. God bless
you, Miss Ellen, and make you his child. Keep close,
children to Jesus. Seems as if we wasn't safe when we
can't see him. I see him now; he is beckoning me to
come. Blessed Jesus! take me — take me home."

Kind master, weep not. She will bear, even at the throne
of God, witness to thy faithfulness. Through thee she
learned the way to heaven, and it may be soon she will
stand by thee again, though thou see her not. She may be
one of those who will guide thee to the Celestial City ; to
the company of the redeemed, where will be joy forever.
"Weep not, but see in what peace a Christian can die.
Watch the last gleams of thought which stream from her
dying eyes. Do you see any thing like apprehension ? The
world, it is true, begins to shut in. The shadows of evening
collect around her senses. A dark mist thickens, and rests
upon the objects which have hitherto engaged her observa
tion. The countenances of her friends become more and
more indistinct. The sweet expressions of love and friend
ship are no longer intelligible. Her ear wakes no more at
the well-known voice of her children, and the soothing ac
cents of tender affection die away unheard upon her de
caying senses. To her the spectacle of human life is
drawing to its close, and the curtain is descending which
shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. She is no
longer interested in all that is done under the sun. Oh !
that I could now open to you the recesses of her soul, that
I could reveal to you the light which darts into the cham
bers of her understanding. She approaches that world
which she has so long seen in faith. The imagination now
collects its diminished strength, and the eye of faith
opens wide.

"Friends! do not stand thus fixed in sorrow around this
bed of death. Why are you so still and silent ? Fear not
to move ; you cannot disturb the visions that enchant this
holy spirit. She heeds you not ; already she sees the

264 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

spirits of the just advancing together to receive a kindred
soul. She is going to add another to the myriads of the
just, that are every moment crowding into the portals of
heaven. She is entering on a noble life. Already she cries
to you from the regions of bliss. "Will you not join her
there ? Will you not taste the sublime joys of faith ? There
are seats for you in the assembly of the just made perfect,
in the innumerable company of angels, where is Jesus, the
— Mediator of the New Covenant, and God, the Judge of all."

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 265

CONCLUDING REMAKES.

I MUST be allowed to quote the words of Mrs. Harriet
B. Stowe :

"The writer has often been (or will be) inquired of
by correspondents from different parts of the country,
whether this narrative is a true one ; and to these inquiries
she will give one general answer. The separate incidents
that compose the narrative are to a very great extent au
thentic, occurring, many of them, either under her own
observation, or that of her personal friends. She or her
friends have observed characters the counterpart of almost
all that are here introduced ; and many of the sayings are
word for word as heard herself, or reported to her."

Of the planter Legree, (and, with the exception of Prof.
Webster, such a wretch never darkened humanity,) she
says:

" Of him her brother wrote, he actually made me feel of
his fist, which was like a blacksmith's hammer or a nodule
of iron, telling me that it was calloused with knocking
down niggers."

Now as a parallel to this, I will state a fact communi
cated to me by a clergyman, (a man of great talent, and
goodness of character, and undoubted veracity,) that a su
perintendent of Irishmen, who were engaged on a Northern
railroad, told him he did not hesitate to knock any man
down that gave him the least trouble ; and although the
clergyman did not « examine his fist and pronounce it like a
blacksmith's hammer, "yet, I have not the slightest doubt
it was « calloused with knocking down Irishmen." At any
rate, I take the license of the writers of the day, and say
it was.

23

266 AUNT PHTLLIS'S CABIN ; OR,

Mrs. Stowe goes on to say, " That the tragical fate of
Tom also has too many times had its parallel, there are
living witnesses all over our land to testify." Now it would
take the smallest portion of common sense to know that
that there is no witness, dead or living, who could testify
to such a fact, save & false witness. This whole history is
an absurdity. No master would be fool enough to sell the
best hand on his estate ; one who directed,, and saved, and
managed for him. No master would be brutish enough to
sell the man who had nursed him and his children, who
loved him like a son, even for urgent debt, had he another
article of property in the wide world. But Mr. Shelby
does so, according to Mrs. Stowe, though he has a great
many other servants, besides houses and lands, £c. Pre
posterous !

And such a saint as Uncle Tom was, too ! One would
have thought his master, with the opinion he had of his re
ligious qualifications, would have kept him until he died,
and then have sol,d him bone after bone to the Roman Ca
tholics. Why, every tooth in his head would have brought
its price. St. Paul was nothing but a common man com
pared with him, for St. Paul had been wicked once ; and
even after his miraculous conversion, he felt that sin was
fetill impelling him to do what he would not. But not so
with 'Uncle Tom ! He was the very perfection of a saint.
Well might St. Clare have proposed using him for a family
chaplain, or suggested to himself the idea of ascending to
heaven by Tom's skirts. Mrs. Stowe should have carried out
one of her id6as in his history, and have made him Bishop
of Carthage, j I have never heard or read of so perfect a
character. All the saints and martyrs that ever came to un
natural deaths, could not show such an amount of excellence.
I only wonder he managed to stay so long in this world of sin.

When, after fiery trials and persecutions, he is finally
purchased by a Mr. Legree, Mrs. Stowe speaks of the
horrors of the scene. She says though, "it can't be

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 267

helped." Did it ever occur to her, that Northerners might
go South, and buy a great many of these slaves, and manu
mit them ? They do go South and buy them, but they
keep them, and work them as slaves too. A great deal of
this misery might be helped.

Tom arrives at Legree's plantation. How does he fare ?
Sleeps on a little foul, dirty straw, jammed in with a lot
of others ; has every night toward midnight enough corn
to stay the stomach of one small chicken ; and is thrown
into a most dreadful state of society — men degraded, and
women degraded. We will pass over scenes that a woman's
pen should never describe, and observe the saint-like per
fection of Tom. He was, or considered himself, a mission- 1
ary to the negroes, evidently liked his sufferings, and died, \
by choice, a martyr's death. He made the most astonish- ,
ing number of conversions in a short time, and of charac
ters worse than history records. So low, so degraded, so
lost were the men and women whose wicked hearts he sub
dued, that their conversion amounted to nothing less than
miracles. No matter how low, how ignorant, how de
praved, the very sight of Tom turned them into advanced,
intelligent Christians.

Tom's lines were indeed cast in a sad place. I have
always believed that the Creator was everywhere.; but we
are told of Legree's plantation "The Lord never visits
these parts." This might account for the desperate
wickedness of most of the characters, but how Tom could
retain his holiness under the circumstances is a marvel to
me. His religion, then, depended on himself. Assuredly
he was more than a man ! J

Legree had several ways of keeping his servants in
order — "they were burned alive; scalded, cut into inch
pieces ; set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up and
whipped to death." Now I am convinced that Mrs.
Stowe must have a credulous mind; and was imposed
upon. She never could have conceived such things with

268 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

all her talent ; the very conception implies a refine
ment of cruelty. She gives, however, a mysterious de
scription of a certain " place way out down by the quarters,
where you can see a black blasted tree, and the ground all
covered with black ashes." It is afterward intimated that
this was the scene of a negro burned alive. Reader, you
may depend, it was a mistake ; that's just the way a tree
appears when it has been struck by lightning. Next time
you pass one, look at it. I have not the slightest doubt
that this was the way the mistake was made. We have
an occasional wag at the South, and some one has
practised upon' a soft-hearted New Englander in search of
horrors ; this is the result. She mentions that the ashes
were black. Do not infer from this that it must have been
a black man or negro. But I will no longer arraign your
good sense. It was not, take my word for it, as Mrs. Stowe
describes it, some poor negro « tied to a tree, with a slow
fire lit under him."

Tom tells Legree "he'd as soon die as not." Indeed, he
proposes whipping, starving, burning; saying, "it will only
send him sooner where he wants to go." Tom evidently
considers himself as too good for this world ; and after
making these proposals to his master, he is asked, " How
are you?" He answers: "The Lord God has sent his
angel, and shut the lion's mouth." Anybody can see
that he is laboring under a hallucination, and fancies him
self Daniel. Gassy, however, consoled him after the style
of Job's friends, by telling him that his master was going
"to hang like a dog at his throat, sucking his blood, bleed
ing away his life drop by drop."

In what an attitude, 0 Planters of the South, has
Mrs. Stowe taken your likenesses !

Tom dies at last. How could snich a man die ? Oh !
that he would live forever and convert all our Southern
slaves. He did not need any supporting grace on his

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 269

deathbed. Hear him — « The Lord may help me, or not
help, but I'll hold on to him."

I thought a Christian could not hold on to the Lord
without help. "Ye can of yourself do nothing." But
Tom is an exception — to the last he is perfect. All
Christians have been caught tripping sometimes, but Tom
never is. He is " bearing everybody's burdens." He
might run away, but he will not. He says, " The Lord
has given me a work. among these yer poor souls, and I'll
stay with 'em, and bear my cross with 'em to the end."
Christian reader, we must reflect. We know where to go
for one instance of human perfection, where the human and
the Divine were united, but we know not of another.

Tom converts Cassy, a most infamous creature from her
own accounts, and we are to sympathize with her vileness,
for she has no other traits of character described. Tom
converts her, but I am sorry to see she steals money and
goods, and fibs tremendously afterwards. We hope the
rest of his converts did him more credit.

The poor fellow dies at last — converting two awful
wretches with his expiring breath. The process of con
version was very short. " Oh ! Lord, give me these two
more souls, I pray." That prayer was answered.

The saddest part of this book would be, (if they were just,)
the inferences to be drawn from the history of this wretch,
Legree. Mrs. Stowe says, " He was rocked on the bosom
of a mother, cradled with prayer and pious hymns, his now
seared brow bedewed with the waters of baptism. In
early childhood, a fair-haired woman had led him, at the
sound of Sabbath bells, to worship and to pray. Far in
New England that mother had trained her only son with
long unwearied love and patient prayers." Believe it
not, Christian mother, North or South ! Thou hast the
promises of Scripture to the contrary. Rock thy babe
upon thy bosom — sing to him sweet hymns— carry him to
the baptismal font — be unwearied in love— -patient in

270 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

prayers ; he will never be such a one. He may wandei
but he will come back ; do thy duty by him, and God will
not forget his promises. « He is not man that he will lie ;
nor the son of man that he will repent."

Legree is a Northerner. Time would fail me to notice all
the crimes with which Southern men and women are charg
ed ; but their greatness and number precludes the possibility
of their being believed. According to Mrs. Stowe, mothers
do not love their beautiful children at the South. The hus
bands have to go to New England and bring back old maids
to take care of them, and to see to their houses, which are
going to rack and ruin under their wives' surveillance. Oh !
these Southern husbands, a heart of stone' must pity them.

Then again, Southern planters keep dogs and blood
hounds to hunt up negroes, tear women's faces, and com
mit all sorts of doggish atrocities. Now I have a charitable
way of accounting for this. I am convinced, too, this is a
misapprehension ; and I'll tell you why.

I have a mortal fear of dogs myself. I always had.
No reasoning, no scolding, ever had the slightest effect
upon me. I never passed one on my way to church with
my prayer-book in my hand, without quaking. If they
wag their tails, I look around for aid. If they bark, I im
mediately give myself up for lost, I have died a thousand
deaths from the mere accident of meeting dogs in the
street. I never did meet one without believing that it
was his destiny to give my children a step-mother. In
point of fact, I would like to live in a world without dogs ;
but as I cannot accomplish this, I console myself by living
in a house without one. I always expect my visitors to
leave their dogs at home ; they may bring their children,
but they must not bring their dogs. I wish dogs would
not even look in my basement windows as they pass.

I am convinced therefore, that some Northerner has
passed a plantation at the South, and seen dogs tied up.
Naturally having a horror of (loirs, he has let his imao-ina-

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 271

tion loose. After a great deal of mental exercise, the brain
jumps at a conclusion, " What are these dogs kept here
for?" The answer is palpable : " To hunt niggers when
they run away." Reader, imitate my charity; it is a rare
virtue where white faces are concerned.

All the rest of Mrs. Stowe's horrors can be accounted^
for satisfactorily. It is" much better to try and find an
excuse for one's fellow-creatures than to be always calling
them « story-tellers," and the like. I am determined to
be charitable.

But still it is misrepresentation ; for if they took proper
means, they would find out the delusions under which they
labor.

Abolitionists do not help their cause by misrepresenta
tion. It will 'do well enough, in a book of romance, to
describe infants torn from the arms of their shrieking

O

mothers, and sold for five and ten dollars. It tells well,
for the mass of readers are fond of horrors ; but it is not
true. It is on a par with the fact stated, that masters
advertise their slaves, and offer rewards for them, dead or
alive. How did the snows of New England ever give
birth to such brilliant imaginations !

Family relations are generally respected; and when ~~-
they are not, it is one of the evils attendant on an institu
tion which God has permitted in all ages, for his inscruta
ble purposes, and which he may in his good time do away
with.

The Jews ever turn their eyes and affections toward
Jerusalem, as their home ; so should the free colored peo
ple in America regard Liberia. Africa, once their mother
country, should, in its turn, be the country of their adop
tion.

As regards the standard of talent among negroes, I
fancy it has been exaggerated ;-* though no one can, at
present, form a just conclusion. Slavery has, for ages,
pressed like a band of iron round the intellect of the

272 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

colored man. Time must do its work to show what he is,
without a like hindrance.

The instance mentioned in « Uncle Tom's Cabin," of a
young mulatto, George Harris, inventing a machine, is
very solitary. The negroes, like a good many of their
owners, are opposed to innovations. They like the good
old way. The hot sun under which they were born, and
the hotter one that lighted the paths of their ancestors,
prejudices them against any new effort. I think, when
they do get in Congress, they will vote for agricultural
against manufacturing interests. I am sure they would
rather pick cotton than be confined to the din and dust of
a factory. An old negro prefers to put his meal bags in
a covered wagon, and drive them to market at his leisure,
with his pocket full of the tobacco he helped to raise, and
the whole country for a spit-box, to being whirled away
bodily in a railroad car, in terror of his life, deaf with the
whistling and the puffing of the engine. When Liberia
or Africa does become a great nation, (Heaven grant it
may soon,) they will require many other buildings there,
before a patent office is called for.

George Harris is a natural Abolitionist, with a dark
complexion. He is a remarkable youth in other respects,
though I should first consider the enormous fact of George's
master appropriating to himself the benefit of his servant's
cleverness. Even with a show of right this may be a mean
trick, but it is the way of the world. A large portion of
New England men are at this time claiming each other's
patents. I know of an instance down East, for South
erners can sometimes « tak notes, and prent 'em too." A
gentleman took a friend to his room, and showed him an
invention for which he was about to apply for a patent.
The friend walked off with his hands in his pocket ; his
principles had met, and passed an appropriation bill ; the
invention had become his own — in plain English, he stole
it. Washington is always full of people claiming each

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 273

other's brains. The lawyers at the Patent Office have
their hands full. They must keep wide awake, too. Each
inventor, when he relates his grievances, brings a witness
to maintain his claim. There is no doubt that, after a
while, there will be those who can testify to the fact of
having seen the idea as it passed through the inventor's
mind. The way it is settled at present is this — whoever
can pay the most for the best lawyer comes off triumphant
ly ! Poor George is not the only smart fellow in the
world outdone by somebody better off than himself.

George positively refuses to hear the Bible quoted. He
believes in a higher law, no doubt, Frederic Douglas being
editorial expounder; a sort of Moses of this century, a
little less meek, though, than the one who instructed the
Israelites. George won't hear the Bible ; he prefers, he
says, appealing to the Almighty himself. This makes me
fear his Abolitionist friends are not doing right by him ;
putting him up to shooting, and turning Spanish gentle
man, and all sorts of vagaries ; to say nothing of disobey
ing the laws of the country. No one blames him, though, =
for escaping from a hard master ; at least, I do not.

It would be a grand thing to stand on the shore of a
new country, and see before you, free, every slave and
prisoner on the soil of the earth ; to hear their Te Deum as
cend to the listening heavens. Methinks the sun would
stand still, as it did of old, and earth would lift up her
voice, and lead the song of her ransomed children ; but,
alas ! this cannot be yet — the time is not come. Oppres
sion wears her crown in every clime, though it is some
times hidden from the gaze of her subjects.

George declares he knows more than his master; "he
can read and write better;" but his logic is bad. He thus
discusses the indications of Providence. A friend reminds
him of what the apostle says, « Let every man abide in the
condition in which he is called," and he immediately uses
this simile : "I wonder, Mr. Wilson, if the Indians should

274 AUNT miLLis's CABIN; OR,

come, and take you a prisoner, away from your wife and
children, and want to keep you all your life hoeing corn
for them, if you'd think it your duty to abide in that con
dition in which you were called. I rather think, that
you'd think the first stray horse you could find an indica
tion of Providence — shouldn't you TT

This does not apply to slavery. A man born a slave,
in a country where slavery is allowed by law, should feel
the obligation of doing his duty while a slave ; but Mr.
Wilson, carried off by Indians, would feel as if he had
been called to a state of life previous to the one in which
he was so unfortunate to be doomed, while he was among
savages.

George goes on to say — « Let any man take care that
tries to stop me, for I am desperate, and I'll fight for my
liberty. You say your fathers did it : if it was right for
them, it is right for me."

Too fast, George ! You are out in your history, too.
Your master must be a remarkably ignorant man if you
know more than he. Our glorious ancestors were never
condemned to slavery, they nor their fathers, by God him
self. Neither have they ever been considered in the light of
runaways; they came off with full permission, and having
honestly and honorably attained their liberties, they fought
for them.

Besides being of a prettier complexion, and coming of
a better stock than you, they were prepared to be free.
There is a great deal in that.

Then, those very ancestors of ours — ah ! there's the rub
— (and the ancestors of the Abolitionists, too,) they got
us and you into this difficulty — think of it ! They had
your ancestors up there in New England, until they found
you were so lazy, ami died off so in their cold climate,
that it, did not pay to keep you. So I repeat to you the
stdvice of Mr. Wilson, "l>c careful, my boy ; don't shoot

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 275

anybody, George, unless — well — you'd better not shoot,
I reckon; at least, I wouldn't hit anybody, you know."

As regards the practice of marking negroes in the hand,
I look upon it as one of the imaginary horrors of the
times — a delusion like spiritual rappings, got up out of sheer
timidity of disposition, though I have heard of burning
old women for witches in New England, and placing a
scarlet letter on the bosom of some unhappy one, who had
already sorrow and sin enough to bear.

It won't do ; the subject has, without doubt, been duly
investigated already. I'd be willing (were I not opposed
to betting) to bet my best collar and neck ribbon, that a
committee of investigation has been appointed, consisting
of twelve of Boston's primmest old maids, and they have
been scouring the plantations of the South, bidding
the negroes hold out their hands, (not as the poor souls
will at first suppose, that they may be crossed with a piece
of silver,) and that they are now returning, crest-fallen, to
their native city, not having seen a branded hand in all
their journeying. Could aught escape their vigilance?
But they will say they saw a vast number, and that will
answer the purpose.

(Ah ! Washington Irving, well mayest thou sigh and
look back at the ladies of the Golden Age. " These were
the honest days, in which every woman stayed at home,
read the Bible, and wore pockets." These days arc for
ever gone. Prophetic was thy lament ! Now we may
wear pockets — but, alas ! we neither stay at home, nor
read our Bible. We form societies to reform the world,
and we write books on slavery !)

Talking of our ancestors, George, in the time of the
Revolution, (by-the-by, yours were a set of dear, honest
old creatures, for there were no Abolitionists then among
us,) reminds me of an anecdote about George Washington
and a favorite servant. Billy Lee was an honest, faithful

276 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIN; OR,

man, and a first-rate groom, and George Washington — you
need not blush to be a namesake of his, though he was a
slaveholder.

The two were in a battle, the battle of Monmouth, the
soldiers fighting like sixty, and Billy Lee looking on at a
convenient distance, taking charge of a led horse, in case
Washington's should be shot from under him.

0, but it was a hot day ! Washington used to recall the
thirst and the suffering attendant upon the heat, (thinking
of the soldiers' suffering, and not of his own.) As for Billy
Lee, if he did not breathe freely, he perspired enough so
to make up for it. I warrant you he was anxious for the
battle to be over, and the sun to go down. But there he
stood, true as steel — honest, old patriot as he was — quiet
ing the horse, and watching his noble master's form, as
proud and erect it was seen here and there, directing the
troops with that union of energy and calmness for which
he was distinguished. Washington's horse fell under him,
dying from excessive heat ; but hear Billy Lee describe it :

"Lord! sir, if you could a seen it; de heat, and dust,
and smoke. De cannons flyin, and de shot a whizzin, and
de dust a blowing, and de horses' heels a kickin up, when
all at onct master's horse fell under him. -It warn't shot —
bless your soul, no. It drapped right down dead wid de
heat. Master he got up. I was scared when I see him
and de horse go ; but master got up. He warn't hurt ;
couldn't hurt him.

" Master he got up, looked round at me. < Billy,' says
he, 'give me the other horse, and you take care of the
new saddle on this other poor fellow.'

"Did you ever hear de like?" added Billy Lee, "think
ing of de saddle when de balls was a flyin most in our eyes.
But it's always de same wid master. He thinks of every
thing."

I agree with the humane jurist quoted by Mrs. Harriet

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 277

Beecher Stowe : " The worst use you can put a man to is
to hang him." She thinks slavery is worse still; but
when "I think of every thing," I am forced to differ from
her.

The most of our Southern slaves are happy, and kindly
cared for ; and for those who are not, there is hope for the
better. But when a man is hung up by the neck until he
is dead, he is done for. As far as I can see, there is nothing
that can be suggested to better his condition.

I have no wish to uphold slavery. I would that every
human being that God has made were free, were it in ac
cordance with His will; — free bodily, free spiritually —
4 'free indeed !"

Neither do I desire to deny the evils of slavery, any
more than I would deny the evils of the factory system in
England, or the factory and apprenticeship system in our
own country. I only assert the necessity of the existence
of slavery at present in our Southern States, and that, as
a general thing, the slaves are comfortable and contented,
and their owners humane and kind.

I have lived & great deal at the North — long enough to
see acts of oppression and injustice there, which, were any
one so inclined, might be wrought into a " living dramatic
reality."

I knew a wealthy family. All the labor of the house
was performed by a "poor relation," a young and delicate
girl. I have known servants struck by their employers.
At the South I have never seen a servant struck, though I
know perfectly well such things are done here and every
where. Can we judge of society by a few isolated inci
dents? If so, the learned professors of New England
borrow money, and when they do not choose to pay, they
murder their creditors, and cut them in pieces ! or men
kill their sleeping wives and children !

Infidelity has been called a magnificent lie ! Mrs. Stowe's

24

278 AUNT PIIILLIS'S CABIX; OR,

"living dramatic reality" is notliing more than an inte
resting falsehood ; nor ought to be offered, as an equivalent
for truth, the genius that pervades her pages ; • rather it is
to be lamented that the rich gifts of God should be so
misapplied.

Were the exertions of the Abolitionis-ts successful, what
would be the result ? The soul sickens at the thought.
Scenes of blood and horror — the desolation of our fair
Southern States — the final destruction of the negroes in
them. This would be the result of immediate emancipa
tion here. What has- it been elsewhere ? Look at St.
Domingo. A recent visitor there says, " Though opposed
to slavery, I must acknowledge that in this instance the
experiment has failed." He compares the negroes to
"a wretched gibbering set, from their appearance and
condition more nearly allied to beasts than to men."
Look at the free colored people of the North and in
Canada.

I have lived among them at the North, and can judge
for myself. Their « friends" do not always obtain their af
fection or gratitude. A colored woman said J^o me, " I would
rather work for any people than the Abolitionists. They
expect us to do so much, and they say we ought to work
cheaper for them because they are < our friends.' ' -Look
at them in Canada. An English gentleman who has for
many years resided there, and who has recently visited
Washington, told me that they were the most miserable,
helpless human beings he had ever seen. In <fact he said,
" They were nuisances, and the people of Canada would
be truly thankful to see them out of their country." He had
never heard of "a good missionary" mentioned by Mrs.
Stowe, "whom Christian charity has placed, there as a
shepherd to the outcast and wandering." He had Been
no good results of emancipation. On one occasion he
hired a colored man to drive him across the country.

SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS. 279

did you get here?" he said to the man. "Are
you not a runaway?"

" Yes, sir," the man replied. « I came from Yirginny."

" Well, of course you are a great deal happier now than
when you were a slave ?"

"No, sir ; if I could get back to Virginny, I would be
glad to go." He looked, too, as if he had never been
worse off than at that time.

The fact is, liberty like money is a grand- thing ; but in
order to be happy, we must know how to use it.

It cannot always be said of the fugitive slave, —

11 The mortal puts on immortality,
When mercy's -hand has turned the golden key,
And mercy's voice hath said, Rejoice, thy soul is free."

The attentive reader will perceive that I am indebted to
Mrs. Stowe for the application of this and other quota
tions.

The author of Uncle Tom's Cabin speaks of good men
at the North, who " receive and educate the oppressed"
(negroes). I know '"lots" of good men there, but none
good enough to befriend colored people. They seem to
me to have an unconquerable antipathy to them. But
Mrs. Stowe says, she educates them in her own family with
her own children. I am glad to hear she feels and acts
kindly toward tfyem, and I wish others in her region of
country would imitate her in this respect ; but I would
rather my children and. negroes were educated at different
schools, being utterly opposed to amalgamation, root and
branch.

She asks the question, " What can any individual do ?"
Strange that any one should be at a loss in this working
world of ours.

Christian men and women should find enough to occupy

280 AUNT PHILLIS'S CABIN.

them in their families, and in an undoubted . sphere of
duty.

Let the people of the North take care of their own
poor.

Let the people of the South take care of theirs.

Let each remember the great and awful day when they
must render a final account to their Creator, their Re
deemer, and their Judge.

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IN ONE LARGE OCTAVO VOLUME.

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Price, 62 cents.

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WITH MODES OF MANAGEMENT IN ALL CASES, AND TREATMENT IN DISEASE.
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Containing Recipes for Diseases of Horses, Oxen, Cows, Calves, Sheep, Dogs, Swine, <tc. <kc.

BIT RICHARD MASON, JOL. D.,

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COMPRISING A GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF THE NOBLE AND DSEFDL ANIMAL,

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WITH MODES OF MANAGEMENT IN ALL CASES, AND TREATMENT IN DISEASE.

BY RICHARD MASON, M. D.,

Formerly of Surry County, Virginia.

Yo which is added, A PRIZE ESSAY ON MULES; and AN APPENDIX, containing Recipes tat

t Diseases of Horses, Oxen, Cows, Calves, Sheep, Dogs, Swine, <kc. <tc. ; with Annuls

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celebrated Stallions and Mares; with useful Calving and Lambing Tables By

J. S. SKINNER, Editor now of the Farmer's Library. New York. <kc. Ac.

io

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The publishers have received numerous flattering notices of the great practical value of these
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" There are receipts in those books that show how Founder may be cured, and the traveller pur
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"The constant demand for Mason's and Hinds's Fanner has induced the publishers, Messrs. Lip-
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Thh volume comprises a copious collection of legal and other terms which are in common use,
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THE YOUNG DOMINICAN;
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BIT JUAN BAPTISTS SAY.

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