Before Fuddle's court, then, Grabguy has succeeded in getting a hearing for his convicted property, still mentally obstinate. Not the least doubt has he of procuring a judgment tempered by mercy; for, having well drunk Fuddle on the previous night, and improved the opportunity for completely winning his distinguished consideration, he has not the slightest apprehension of being many months deprived of his property merely to satisfy injured justice. And, too, the evidence upon which Nicholas was convicted in Fetter's court, of an attempt to create an insurrection—the most fatal charge against him—was so imperfect that the means of overthrowing it can be purchased of any of the attendant constables for a mere trifle,—oaths with such fellows being worth about sixty-two and a half cents each.

If the reader will be pleased to fancy the trial before Fetter's tribunal—before described—with the knock-down arguments omitted, he will have a pretty clear idea of that now proceeding before Fuddle's; and having such will excuse our entering into details. Having heard the case with most, learned patience, the virtue of which has been well sustained by goodly potions of Paul and Brown's perfect "London Dock," Fuddle, with grave deportment, receives from the hands of the clerical-looking clerk-a broken-down gentleman of great legal ability-the charge he is about to make the jury. "Gentlemen," he says, "I might, without any detriment to perfect impunity, place the very highest encomiums on the capabilities displayed in the seriousness you have given to this all-important case, in which the state has such deep and constitutional interests; but that I need not do here. The state having placed in my possession such responsible functions, no one more than me can feel the importance of the position; and which position has always been made the judicial medium of equity and mercy. I hold moderation to be the essential part of the judiciary, gentlemen! And here I would say" (Fuddle directs himself to his gentlemanly five) "and your intelligence will bear me out in the statement, that the trial below seems to have been in error from beginning to end. I say this-understand, gentlemen!—with all deference to my learned brother, Fetter, whose judgments, in the exercise of the powers in me invested, and with that respect for legal equity by which this court is distinguished, it has become me so often to reverse. On the charge of creating an insurrection—rather an absurdity, by the way—you must discharge the prisoner, there being no valid proof; whereas the charge of maiming or raising his hand to a white man, though clearly proved, and according to the statutes a capital offence, could not in the spirit of mercy which now prevails in our judiciary—and, here, let me say, which is emulated by that high state of civilisation for which the people of this state are distinguished—be carried rigidly into effect. There is only this one point, then, of maiming a white gentleman, with intention—Ah! yes (a pause) the intention the court thinks it as well not to mind! open to you for a conviction. Upon this point you will render your verdict, guilty; only adding a recommendation to the mercy of the court." With this admonition, our august Mr. Fuddle, his face glowing in importance, sits down to his mixture of Paul and Brown's best. A few moments' pause—during which Fetter enters looking very anxious—and the jury have made up their verdict, which they submit on a slip of paper to the clerk, who in turn presents it to Fuddle. That functionary being busily engaged with his punch, is made conscious of the document waiting his pleasure by the audience bursting into a roar of laughter at the comical picture presented in the earnestness with which he regards his punch-some of which is streaming into his bosom-and disregards the paper held for some minutes in the clerk's hand, which is in close proximity with his nasal organ. Starting suddenly, he lets the goblet fall to the floor, his face flushing like a broad moon in harvest-time, takes the paper in his fingers with a bow, making three of the same nature to his audience, as Fetter looks over the circular railing in front of the dock, his face wearing a facetious smile. "Nigger boy will clear away the break,—prisoner at the bar will stand up for the sentence, and the attending constable will reduce order!" speaks Fuddle, relieving his pocket of a red kerchief with which he will wipe his capacious mouth. These requests being complied with, he continues-having adjusted his glasses most learnedly-making a gesture with his right hand—"I hold in my hand the solemn verdict of an intelligent jury, who, after worthy and most mature deliberation, find the prisoner at the bar, Nicholas Grabguy, guilty of the heinous offence of raising his hand to a white man, whom he severely maimed with a sharp-edged tool; and the jury in their wisdom, recognising the fact of their verdict involving capital punishment, have, in the exercise of that enlightened spirit which is inseparable from our age, recommended him to the mercy of this court, and, in the discretion of that power in me invested, I shall now pronounce sentence. Prepare, then, ye lovers of civilisation, ye friends of humanity, ye who would temper the laws of our land of freedom to the circumstance of offences—prepare, I say, to have your ears and hearts made glad over the swelling sound of this most enlightened sentence of a court, where judgments are tempered with mercy." Our hero, a chain hanging loosely from his left arm, stands forward in the dock, his manly deportment evincing a stern resolution to meet his fate unsubdued. Fuddle continues:—"There is no appeal from this court!" (he forgot the court of a brighter world) "and a reversing the decision of the court below, I sentence the prisoner to four years' imprisonment with hard labour, two months' solitary confinement in each year, and thirty blows with the paddle, on the first day of each month until the expiration of the sentence." Such, reader, was Fuddle's merciful sentence upon one whose only crime was a love of freedom and justice. Nicholas bowed to the sentence; Mr. Grabguy expressed surprise, but no further appeal on earth was open to him; Squire Fetter laughed immeasurably; and the officer led his victim away to the place of durance vile.

To this prison, then, must we go with our hero. In this magnificent establishment, its princely exterior seeming like a modern fort with frowning bastions, are some four hundred souls for sale and punishment. Among them Nicholas is initiated, having, for the time being, received his first installment of blows, and takes his first lesson in the act of breaking stone, which profession is exclusively reserved for criminals of his class. Among the notable characters connected with this establishment is Philip Fladge, the wily superintendent, whose power over the criminals is next to absolute. Nicholas has been under Philip's guardianship but a few months, when it is found that he may be turned into an investment which will require only the outlay of kindness and amelioration on his part to become extremely profitable. Forthwith a convention is entered into, the high contracting parties being Nicholas and himself. Mr. Fladge stipulates on his part that the said Nicholas, condemned by Fairweather Fuddle's court to such punishments as are set forth in the calendar, shall be exempt from all such punishments, have the free use of the yard, comfortable apartments to live in, and be invested with a sort of foremanship over his fellow criminals; in consideration of which it is stipulated on the part of Nicholas that he do work at the more desirable profession of stucco-making, together with the execution of orders for sculpture, the proceeds of which were to be considered the property of Fladge, he allowing the generous stipend of one shilling a week to the artist. Here, then, Mr. Fladge becomes sensible of the fact that some good always come of great evils, for indeed his criminal was so far roving a mine of wealth that he only hoped it might be his fortune to receive many more such enemies of the state: he cared not whether they came from Fetter or Fuddle's court. With sense enough to keep his heart-burnings well stored away in his own bosom, Nicholas soon became a sort of privileged character. But if he said little, he felt much; nor did he fail to occupy every leisure moment in inciting his brother bondmen to a love of freedom. So far had he gained complete control over their feelings, that scarce two months of his sentence had expired ere they would have followed his lead to death or freedom.

Among those human souls stored for sale was one Sal Stiles, an olive wench of great beauty, and daughter of one of the very first families. This Sal Stiles, who was indeed one of the most charming creatures to look upon, had cousins whom the little world of Charleston viewed as great belles; but these said belles were never known to ring out a word in favour of poor Sal, who was, forsooth, only what-in our vulgar parlance-is called a well-conditioned and very marketable woman. Considering, then, that Nicholas had been separated by Grabguy from his wife and children, the indulgent reader, we feel assured, will excuse our hero for falling passionately in love with this woman. That it was stipulated in the convention between himself and Fladge, he should take her unto himself, we are not justified in asserting; nevertheless, that that functionary encouraged the passion rather than prevented their meetings is a fact our little world will not pretend to deny.



CHAPTER LI.

A CONTINUATION OF THE LAST CHAPTER.



A YEAR and two months have rolled by, since Nicholas, a convict, took up his abode within the frowning walls of a prison: thus much of Fuddle's merciful sentence has he served out. In the dreary hours of night, fast secured in his granite cell, has he cherished, and even in his dreams contemplated, the means of escaping into that freedom for which his soul yearns. But, dearly does he love Sal Stiles, to whose keeping he confides the secret of his ambition; several times might he, having secured the confidence of Fladge, have effected his own escape; but the admonitions of a faithful heart bid him not leave her behind in slavery. To that admonition of his bosom did he yield, and resolve never to leave her until he secured her freedom. A few days after he had disclosed to her his resolution, the tall figure of Guy Grantham, a broker of slaves by profession, appeared in the prison yard, for the purpose of carrying away the woman, whom he had sold for the Washington market, where her charms would indeed be of much value during the session, when congress-men most do riot. Already were the inseparable chains about her hands, and the miserable woman, about to be led away, bathed in grief. Nicholas, in his studies, had just finished a piece of scroll-work for Mrs. Fladge, as a companion approached him in great haste, and whispered the word of trouble-"they're taking her away"-in his ear. Quick as lightning did the anger of his very soul break forth like a tempest: he rushed from his place of labour, vaulted as it were to the guard gate, seized the woman as she stepped on the threshold in her exit, drew her back with great force, and in a defiant attitude, drawing a long stiletto from his belt, placed himself between her and her destroyer. "Foes of the innocent, your chains were not made for this woman; never shall you bear her from this; not, at least, while I have arm to defend her, and a soul that cares not for your vengeance!" spake he, with curling contempt on his lip, as his adversaries stood aghast with fear and trembling. "Nay!-do not advance one step, or by the God of justice I make ye feel the length of this steel!" he continued, as Grantham nervously motioned an attempt to advance. Holding the woman with his left hand pressed backward, he brandished his stiletto in the faces of his opponents with his right. This was rebellion in its most legal acceptation, and would have justified the summary process Grantham was about adopting for the disposal of the instigator, at whose head he levelled his revolver, and, without effect, snapped two caps, as Nicholas bared his bosom with the taunt—"Coward, shoot!" Mr. Fladge, who was now made sensible of the error his indulgence had committed, could not permit Grantham the happy display of his bravery; no, he has called to his aid some ten subguardsmen, and addressing the resolute Grantham, bids him lay aside his weapon. Albeit he confesses his surprise at such strange insolence and interference; but, being responsible for the life, thinks it well to hold a parley before taking it. Forsooth his words fall useless on the ears of Nicholas, as defiantly he encircles the woman's waist with his left arm, bears her away to the block, dashes the chains from her hands, and, spurning the honied words of Fladge, hurls them in the air, crying: "You have murdered the flesh;—would you chain the soul?" As he spoke, the guard, having ascended the watch tower, rings out the first alarm peal. "Dogs of savage might! ring your alarms; I care not," he continued, casting a sardonic glance at the tower as the sound died away on his ear. His pursuers now made a rush upon him, but ere they had secured him he seized a heavy bludgeon, and repelling their attack, found some hundred of his companions, armed with stone hammers, rallying in his defence. Seeing this formidable force thus suddenly come to his rescue, Mr. Fladge and his force were compelled to fall back before the advance. Gallantly did Nicholas lead on his sable band, as the woman sought refuge in one of the cells, Mr. Fladge and his posse retreating into the guard-house. Nicholas, now in full possession of the citadel, and with consternation and confusion triumphant within the walls, found it somewhat difficult to restrain his forces from taking possession of the guardhouse, and putting to death those who had sought shelter therein. Calmly but firmly did he appeal to them, and beseech them not to commit an outrage against life. As he had placed himself between the woman and her pursuers, so did he place himself before a file of his sable companions, who, with battle hammers extended, rushed for the great gates, as the second alarm rung out its solemn peal. Counselling his compatriots to stand firm, he gathered them together in the centre of the square, and addressed them in a fervent tone, the purport of which was, that having thus suddenly and unexpectedly become plunged into what would be viewed by the laws of the land as insurrection, they must stand on the defensive, and remember it were better to die in defence of right than live under the ignorance and sorrow of slavery.

While our hero-whose singular exploit we have divested of that dramatic effect presented in the original-addressed his forlorn band in the area of the prison, strange indeed was the scene of confusion presenting along the streets of the city. The alarm peals had not died ineffectual on the air, for as a messenger was despatched to warn the civil authorities of the sad dilemma at the prison, the great bell of St. Michael's church answered the warning peal with two loud rings; and simultaneously the city re-echoed the report of a bloody insurrection. On the long line of wharfs half circling the city, stood men aghast with fright; to the west all was quiet about the battery; to the south, the long rampart of dark moving pines that bordered on that side the calm surface of a harbour of unsurpassed beauty, seemed sleeping in its wonted peacefulness; to the east, as if rising from the sea to mar the beauty of the scene, stood fort Sumpter's sombre bastions, still and quiet like a monster reposing; while retracing along the north side of the harbour, no sign of trouble flutters from Fort Moultrie or Castle Pinkney-no, their savage embrasures are closed, and peace hangs in mists over their dark walls. The feud is in the city of democrats, wherein there are few who know not the nature of the warning peal; nor, indeed, act on such occasions like a world in fear, waiting but the tap of the watchman's baton ere it rushes to bloodshed.

In the busy portion of the city have men gathered at the corners of the street to hold confused controversy; with anxious countenances and most earnest gesticulations do they discuss the most certain means of safety. Ladies, in fright, speedily seek their homes, now asking questions of a passerby, whose intense excitement has carried off his power of speech, then shunning every luckless negro who chances in their way. The rumour of an insurrection, however falsely founded, turns every negro (of skin there is no distinction) into an enemy; whilst the second sound of the alarm peal makes him a bloody votary, who it needs but the booming of the cannon ere he be put to the sword. Guardsmen, with side-arms and cross-belts, are eager and confused, moving to and fro with heavy tread; merchants and men of more easy professions hasten from their labours, seek their homes, prepare weapons for the conflict, and endeavour to soothe the fears of their excited families, beseeching protection. That a deadly struggle is near at hand no one doubts, for men have gathered on the house-tops to watch the moving mass, bearing on its face the unmistakeable evidence of fear and anxiety, as it sweeps along the streets. Now the grotesque group is bespotted with forms half dressed in military garb; then a dark platoon of savage faces and ragged figures brings up the rear; and quickly catching the sound "To the Workhouse!" onward it presses to the scene of tumult. Firemen in curious habiliment, and half-accoutred artillerymen, at the alarm peal's call are rallying to their stations, as if some devouring element, about to break over the city, demanded their strongest arm; while eager and confused heads, protruded from green, masking shutters, and in terror, would know whither lies the scene of the outbreak. Alarm has beset the little world, which now moves a medley of fear and trembling.

The clock in St. Michael's tall spire has just struck two, as, in the arena of the prison, Nicholas is seen, halted in front of his little band, calmly awaiting the advance of his adversaries, who, fearing to open the great gates, have scaled the long line of wall on the north side. Suddenly the sound of an imploring voice breaks upon his ear, and his left hand is firmly grasped, as starting with surprise he turns and beholds the slave woman, her hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, and her face bathed in tears. With simple but earnest words does she admonish him against his fatal resolution. Fast, and in the bitter anguish of her soul, fall her implorings; she would have him yield and save his life, that she may love him still. Her words would melt his resolution, had he not taken the rash step. "In my soul do I love thee, woman!" he says, raising her gently to her feet, and imprinting a kiss upon her olive brow; "but rather would I die a hero than live a crawling slave: nay, I will love thee in heaven!" The woman has drawn his attention from his adversaries, when, in that which seems a propitious moment, they rush down from the walls, and ere a cry from his band warn him of the danger, have well nigh surprised and secured him. With two shots of a revolver pierced through the fleshy part of his left arm, does he bound from the grasp of his pursuers, rally his men, and charge upon the miscreants with undaunted courage. Short but deadly is the struggle that here ensues; far, indeed, shrieks and horrid groans rend the very air; but the miscreants are driven back from whence they came, leaving on the ground five dead bodies to atone for treble the number dead of our hero's band. In the savage conflict did the woman receive a fatal bullet, and now lies writhing in the agonies of death (a victim of oppression in a land of liberty) at our hero's feet. Not a moment is there to spare, that he may soothe her dying agonies, for a thundering at the great gates is heard, the bristling of fire-arms falls upon his ear, and the drums of the military without beat to the charge. Simultaneously the great gates swing back, a solid body of citizen soldiery, ready to rush in, is disclosed, and our hero, as if by instinct moved to rashness, cries aloud to his forces, who, following his lead, dash recklessly into the soldiery, scatter it in amazement, and sweep triumphantly into the street. The first line of soldiery did not yield to the impetuous charge without effect, for seven dead bodies, strewn between the portals of the gate, account for the sharp report of their rifles. Wild with rage, and not knowing whither to go, or for what object they have rushed from the bounds of their prison house, our forlorn band, still flourishing their battle hammers, have scarcely reached the second line of military, stationed, in war order, a few squares from the prison, when our hero and nine of his forlorn band fall pierced through the hearts with rifle bullets. Our Nicholas has a sudden end; he dies, muttering, "My cause was only justice!" as twenty democratic bayonets cut into shreds his quivering body. Oh, Grabguy! thou wilt one day be made to atone for this thy guilt. Justice to thy slave had saved the city its foreboding of horror, and us the recital of a bloody tragedy we would spare the feelings of our readers by ending here.

Having informed the reader that Ellen Juvarna was mother of Nicholas, whom she bore unto Marston, we will now draw aside the veil, that he may know her real origin and be the better prepared to appreciate the fate of her child. This name, then, was a fictitious one, which she had been compelled to take by Romescos, who stole her from her father, Neamathla, a Creek Indian. In 1820, this brave warrior ruled chief of the Mickasookees, a tribe of brave Indians settled on the borders of the lake of that name, in Florida. Old in deeds of valour, Neamathla sank into the grave in the happy belief that his daughter, the long-lost Nasarge, had been carried into captivity by chiefs of a hostile tribe, in whose chivalrous spirit she would find protection, and religious respect for her caste. Could that proud spirit have condescended to suppose her languishing in the hands of mercenary slave-dealers, his tomahawk had been first dipped in the blood of the miscreant, to avenge the foul deed. From Romescos, Nasarge, who had scarce seen her twelve summers, passed into the hands of one Silenus, who sold her to Marston, for that purpose a fair slave seems born to in our democratic world.

And now again must we beg the indulgence of the reader, while we turn to the counter-scene of this chapter. The influence of that consternation which had spread throughout the city, was not long in finding its way to the citadel, a massive fort commanding the city from the east. On the plat in front are three brass field-pieces, which a few artillery-men have wheeled out, loaded, and made ready to belch forth that awful signal, which the initiated translate thus:—"Proceed to the massacre! Dip deep your knives in the heart of every negro!"

Certain alarm bells are rung in case of an insurrection of the negroes, which, if accompanied by the firing of three guns at the citadel, is the signal for an onslaught of the whites. The author, on asking a gentleman why he exhibited so much fear, or why he deemed it necessary to put to the sword his faithful servants, answered,—"Slaves, no matter of what colour, sympathise with each other in their general condition of slavery. I could not, then, leave my family to the caprice of their feelings, while I sought the scene of action to aid in suppressing the outbreak." At the alarm-bell's first tap were the guns made ready-at the second peal were matchlocks lighted-and nervous men waited in breathless suspense the third and last signal peal from the Guard Tower. But, in a moment that had nearly proved fatal to thousands, and as the crash of musketry echoed in the air, a confused gunner applied the match: two vivid flashes issued from the cannon, their peals booming successively over the city. It was at that moment, citizens who had sought in their domiciles the better protection of their families might be seen in the tragic attitude of holding savage pistols and glistening daggers at the breasts of their terrified but faithful servants,—those, perhaps, whose only crime was sincerity, and an earnest attachment to master's interests. The booming of a third cannon, and they had fallen, victims of fear, at the feet of their deluded victors. Happily, an act of heroism (which we would record to the fame of the hero) saved the city that bloody climax we sicken while contemplating. Ere the third gun belched its order of death, a mounted officer, sensible of the result that gun would produce, dashed before its angry mouth, and at the top of his voice cried out-"In Heaven's name, lay your matchlock down: save the city!" Then galloping to the trail, the gunner standing motionless at the intrepid sight, he snatched the fiery torch from his hand, and dismounting, quenched it on the ground. Thus did he save the city that awful massacre the misdirected laws of a democratic state would have been accountable for to civilisation and the world.



CHAPTER LII.

IN WHICH ARE PLEASURES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS.



IN a former chapter of this narrative, have we described our fair fugitive, Annette, as possessing charms of no ordinary kind; indeed, she was fair and beautiful, and even in the slave world was by many called the lovely blonde. In a word, to have been deeply enamoured of her would have reflected the highest credit on the taste and sentiment of any gallant gentleman. Seeming strange would it be, then, if the stranger to whose care we confided her (and hereafter to be called Montague, that being his Christian name) should render himself liable to the charge of stupidity did these attractions not make a deep impression on his heart. And here we would not have the reader lay so grave a charge at his door; for, be it known, ye who are not insensible to love's electric force, that scarce had they reached New York, ere Montague began to look upon Annette with that species of compassion which so often, in the workings of nature's mystery, turns the sympathies of the heart into purest love. The misery or happiness of this poor girl he viewed as dependent on himself: this, forsooth, was strengthened by the sad recital of her struggles, which caused his sympathies to flow in mutual fellowship with her sorrows. As he esteemed her gentleness, so was he enamoured of her charms; but her sorrows carried the captive arrow into his bosom, where she fastened it with holding forth that wrist broken in defence of her virtue: nay, more, he could not refrain a caress, as in the simplicity of her heart she looked in his face smilingly, and said she would he were the father of her future in this life. But, when did not slavery interpose its barbarous obstacles?-when did it not claim for itself the interests of federal power, and the nation's indulgence?-when did it not regard with coldest indifference the good or ill of all beyond its own limits? The slave world loves itself; but, though self-love may now and then give out a degree of virtue, slavery has none to lead those beyond its own atmosphere. To avoid, then, the terrors to which, even on the free soil of the north, a fugitive slave is constantly liable, as also that serpent-like prejudice—for into the puritanic regions of New England, forsooth, does slavery spread its more refined objections to colour—which makes the manners of one class cold and icy, while acting like a dagger in the hearts of the other, was it necessary to change her name. How many of my fair readers, then, will recur to and recognise in the lovely Sylvia De Lacy—whose vivacity made them joyous in their school days, and whose charms all envied-the person of Annette Mazatlin. Nothing could be more true than that the pretty blonde, Sylvia De Lacy, who passed at school as the daughter of a rich Bahamian, was but the humble slave of our worthy wag, Mr. Pringle Blowers. But we beg the reader to remember that, as Sylvia De Lacy, with her many gallant admirers, she is a far different person from Annette the slave.

Clotilda is made acquainted with the steps Montague has taken in behalf of his charge, as also of a further intention he will carry out at the expiration of two years; which said intention is neither more nor less than the making Sylvia De Lacy his bride ere her school days have ended. In the earnestness of a heart teeming of joy, does Clotilda respond to the disclosures she is pleased to term glad tidings. Oft and fervently has she invoked the All-protecting hand to save her child from the licentious snares of slavery; and now that she is rescued, her soul can rest satisfied. How her heart rejoices to learn that her slave child will hereafter be happy in this life! ever will she pray that peace and prosperity reward their virtues. Her own prospects brighten with the thought that she may, ere long, see them under her own comfortable roof, and bestow a mother's love on the head of her long-lost child.

And now my reader will please to suppose these two years of school-days passed-that nuptial ceremony in which so many mingled their congratulations, and showered blandest smiles upon the fair bride, celebrated in a princely mansion not far from the aristocratic Union Square of New York-and our happy couple launched upon that path of matrimony some facetious old gentlemen have been pleased to describe as so crooked that others fear to journey upon it. They were indeed a happy couple, with each future prospect golden of fortune's sunshine. Did we describe in detail the reign of happiness portended on the bright day of that nuptial ceremony, how many would recognise the gay figures of those who enlivened the scene-how deceptive would seem the fair face of events-how obscured would be presented the life of a slave in this our world of freedom-how false that democracy so boastful of its even-handed rule!

Two years have rolled into the past, since Montague led the fair Sylvia to the altar. Pringle Blowers has pocketed the loss of his beauty, the happy couple have lost all thought of slavery, and a little responsibility coming in due time adds to make their happiness complete. Now the house to which Montague was connected in New York had an agent in New Orleans; which agent was his brother. In the course of time, then, and as the avenues of business expanded, was it deemed necessary to establish a branch house at Memphis, the affairs of which it was agreed should be conducted by Montague. To this new scene of life my reader will please suppose our happy couple, having journeyed by railroad to Cincinnatti, and with hearts gladdened of hope for the future, now gliding down that river of gorgeous banks, on board the good steamer bearing its name. As our young mother again enters the atmosphere of slavery, misgivings force themselves irresistibly upon her feelings. The very face of nature wears a sluggish air; the fresh, bright offspring of northern energy, so forcibly illustrated in the many cheerful looking villages here and there dotting its free soil, is nowhere to be seen,—society again puts forth its blighting distinctions: there is the man-owner's iron deportment contrasting with the abjectness of his slave: forcibly does the change recall scenes of the past. But, with the certain satisfaction that no one will recognize the slave in her, do those misgivings give way to the happier contemplation of her new home affording the means of extending a succouring hand to some poor mortal, suffering in that condition of life through which she herself has passed.

After a pleasant passage, then, do we find them comfortably settled in Memphis, that city of notorious character, where the venerable Lynch presides judge over all state cases, and administers summary justice according to the most independent of bar rules. Montague pursues the ordinary routine of a flourishing business, and moves among the very best society of the little fashionable world; with which his Sylvia, being the fair belle of the place, is not only a great favourite, but much sought after and caressed. Gentle as a slave, so was she an affectionate mother and dutiful wife. Some twelve months passed pleasantly at their new home, when there came to the city a Jew of the name of Salamons Finch. This Finch, who was "runner" to a commercial firm in the city of Charleston (he was lank of person, with sallow, craven features), knew Annette when but a child. Indeed, he was a clerk of Graspum when that gentleman sold the fair slave to Gurdoin Choicewest; in addition to which he had apartments at Lady Tuttlewell's most fashionable house, where the little doll-like thing used to be so sprightly in waiting at table. The quick eye of this harpy, as may readily be supposed, was not long in detecting the person of Annette the slave in our fair mother; which grand discovery he as soon communicated to Montague, pluming himself a generous fellow for being first to disclose what he supposed a valuable secret. Indeed, such was the force of association on this fellow, that he could not bring his mind to believe such a match possible, unless the fair fugitive (of the circumstances of whose escape he was well posted) had, by the exercise of strategy, imposed herself on the gentleman. The reader may easily picture to himself the contempt in which Montague held the fellow's generous expos; but he as readily became sensible of the nature of the recognition, and of its placing him in a dangerous position. At first he thought of sending his wife and child immediately to her mother, in Nassau; but having intimations from the fellow that the matter might be reconciled with golden eagles, he chose rather to adopt that plan of procuring peace and quietness. With a goodly number of these gold eagles, then, did he from time to time purchase the knave's secrecy; but, with that singular propensity so characteristic of the race, was he soon found making improper advances to the wife of the man whose money he received for keeping secret her early history. This so exasperated Montague, that in addition to sealing the fellow's lips with the gold coin, he threatened his back with stripes of the raw hide, in payment of his insolence. Albeit, nothing but the fear of exposure, the consequences of which must prove fatal, caused him to bear with pain the insult while withholding payment of this well-merited debt. With keen instincts, and a somewhat cultivated taste for the beautiful, Finch might with becoming modesty have pleaded them in extenuation of his conduct; but the truth was, he almost unconsciously found himself deeply enamoured of the fair woman, without being able to look upon her as a being elevated above that menial sphere his vulgar mind conditioned for her when in slavery. Here, then, the reader will more readily conceive than we can describe the grievous annoyances our otherwise happy couple were subjected to; nor, if a freeman's blood course in his veins, can he fail to picture the punishment it so dearly merited. However, it came to pass that in the course of a few months this fellow disappeared suddenly, and nearly at the same time was Montague summoned to New Orleans to direct some complicated affairs of his brother, who lay a victim to that fearful scourge which so often devastates that city of balmy breezes. After due preparations for an absence of some two months, Montague set out on his journey; but had not been forty-eight hours gone, when Finch again made his appearance, and taking advantage of a husband's absence, pressed his advances with grossest insult, threatening at the same time to convey information of the discovery to Pringle Blowers. Successively did these importunities fail to effect Mr. Finch's purpose; but he was of an indomitable temper, and had strong faith in that maxim of his race, which may be transcribed thus:—"If one effort fail you, try another." To carry out this principle, then, did Finch draw from the cunning inventive of his brain a plan which he could not doubt for a moment would be successful. The reader may blush while we record the fact, of Finch, deeming a partner necessary to the gaining his purpose, finding a willing accomplice in one of Montague's clerks, to whom he disclosed the secret of the fair woman being nothing more than a fugitive slave, whose shame they would share if the plan proved successful. This ingenious plan, so old that none but a fellow of this stamp would have adopted it, was nothing more than the intercepting by the aid of the clerk all Montague's letters to his wife. By this they came in possession of the nature of his family affairs; and after permitting the receipt of two letters by Sylvia, possessed themselves of her answers that they might be the better able to carry out the evil of their scheme. After sufficient time had passed, did Sylvia receive a letter, duly posted at New Orleans, purporting to have been written by a clerk in the employ of the firm, and informing her, having acknowledged becomingly the receipt of her letter, that Montague had been seized with the epidemic, and now lay in a precarious state. Much concerned was she at the painful intelligence; but she almost as soon found consolation in the assurances of the clerk who brought her the letter, and, to strengthen his own cause, told her he had seen a captain just arrived up, who had met her husband a day after the date of the letter, quite well. Indeed, this was necessary to that functionary's next move, for he was the conspirator of Finch, and the author of the letter which had caused so much sadness to the woman who now sought his advice. In suspense did the anxious woman wait the coming tidings of her affectionate husband: alas! in a few days was the sad news of his death by the fatal scourge brought to her in an envelope with broad black border and appropriate seal. Overwhelmed with grief, the good woman read the letter, describing her Montague to have died happy, as the conspirator looked on with indifference. The confidential clerk of the firm had again performed a painful and unexpected duty. The good man died, said he, invoking a blessing on the head of his child, and asking heaven to protect his wife; to which he would add, that the affairs of the house were in the worst possible condition, there not being assets to pay a fraction of the debts. And here we would beg the reader to use his imagination, and save us the description of much that followed. Not all their threats nor persuasions, however, could induce her to yield to their designs; defiantly did she repulse the advances of the crawling Finch; nobly did she spurn his persuasions; firmly did she, heedless of his threat to acquaint Pringle Blowers of her whereabouts, bid him be gone from her door. The fellow did go, grievously disappointed; and, whether from malice or mercenary motives we will not charge, sought and obtained from Pringle Blowers, in exchange for his valuable discovery, a promise of the original reward. Shudder not, reader, while we tell it! It was not many days ere the notorious Blowers set out for Memphis, recovered his lost property, who, like a lamb panting in the grasp of a pursuing wolf, was, with her young child, dragged back, a wretch, into the melancholy waste of slavery. Long and loudly was the grand discovery resounded through the little world of Memphis; not in sympathy for the slave, for many hearts were made glad with joy over what the fashionable were pleased to term a fortunate disclosure and a happy removal. Many very grave gentlemen said the miscreant who dared impose a slave on society, well merited punishment at the hands of the venerable Lynch,—a judge of that city whose celebrity is almost world wide.



CHAPTER LIII.

A FAMILIAR SCENE, IN WHICH PRINGLE BLOWERS HAS BUSINESS.



OF a bright morning, not many days after Pringle Blowers returned with his fair slave to Charleston (which said slave he would not sell for gold), there sat on a little bench at the entrance gate of the "upper workhouse," the brusque figure of a man, whose coarse and firmly knit frame, to which were added hard and weather-stained features, indicated his having seen some fifty summers. But, if he was brusque of figure and coarse of deportment, he had a good soft heart in the right place; nor did he fail to exercise its virtues while pursuing the duties of a repulsive profession; albeit, he was keeper of the establishment, and superintended all punishments. Leisurely he smoked of a black pipe; and with shirt sleeves rolled up, a grey felt hat almost covering his dark, flashing eyes, and his arms easily folded, did he seem contemplating the calm loveliness of morning. Now he exhaled the curling fume, then scanned away over the bright landscape to the east, and again cast curious glances up and down the broad road stretching in front of his prison to the north and south. It was not long before a carriage and pair appeared on the hill to the south, advancing at a slow pace towards the city. The keeper's keen eye rested upon it intently, as it neared, bearing in a back seat what seemed to be a lady fine of figure and deportment; while on the front drove a figure of great rotundity, the broad, full face shining out like a ripe pumpkin in a sun shower. "It's Pringle Blowers, I do believe in my soul! but it's seeming strange how he's got a lady to ride with him," mused the man, who, still watching the approach, had quite forgotten the escape of the fair slave. The man was not mistaken, for as he touched his hat, on the carriage arriving opposite the gate, it halted, and there, sure enough, was our valiant democrat, who, placing his whip in the socket, crooked his finger and beckoned the keeper. "Broadman!" said he, (for that was the man's name) "I'ze a bit of something in your way of business this morning." The honest functionary, with seeming surprise, again touching his hat as he approached the vehicle, replied: "Your servant, sir!" Blowers motioned his hand to the woman, whose tears were now, to Broadman's surprise, seen coursing down her pale cheeks. To use a vulgar phrase, Broadman was entirely "taken aback" by the singularity of Blowers' manner; for the woman, whose dress and deportment the honest man conceived to be nothing less than that of a lady of one of the "first families," obeying the motion, began to descend from the carriage. "Now, Broadman," continued Blowers, arranging his reins, and with clumsy air making his descent over the fore wheels, "take that 'ar wench o' mine, and, by the State's custom, give her the extent of the law, well laid on."

The author here writes the incident as given by the prison-keeper. The man hesitated, as if doubting his senses; rather would he have been courteous to what he still viewed as a lady, than extend his rude hand to lead her away.

"Pardon me, Sir! but you cannot mean what you say," nervously spoke the man, as in doubt he exchanged glances first with the fair woman and then with Blowers. "I means just what I says," returned that gentleman, peremptorily; "you'ze hearn o' that 'un afore. She's a nigger o' mine, what runned away more nor six years ago; come, do the job for her, and no fussing over't." "Nigger!" interrupted the man, in surprise. "Yes!" rejoined Blowers, emphasising his assurance with oaths, of which he had a never-failing supply, "that's the cussed white nigger what's gin me all the bother. The whiter niggers is, the more devil's in em; and that ar' one's got devil enough for a whole plantation; 'tisn't the licks I cares about, but it's the humblin' on her feelings by being punished in the workhouse!" The man of duty was now brought to his senses, when, seeing Blowers was inclined to relieve his anger on what he was pleased to consider the stupidity of a keeper, he took the weeping but resolute woman by the arm, and called a negro attendant, into whose charge he handed her, with an order to "put her in the slings." Soon she disappeared within the gate, following the mulatto man. And here we will again spare the reader's feelings, by omitting much that followed. Blowers and Broadman follow the hapless woman, as she proceeds through a narrow passage leading to the punishment room, and when about half way to that place of torture, a small, square door opens on the right, into a dingy office, the keeper says is where he keeps his accounts with the State, which derives a large revenue from the punishments. Into this does the worthy man invite his patron, whom he would have be seated while the criminal is got "all right" in the slings. Fain would Blowers go and attend the business himself; but Broadman saying "that cannot be," he draws from his pocket a small flask, and, seemingly contented, invites him to join in "somethin" he says is the very choicest. Broadman has no objection to encouraging this evidence of good feeling, which he will take advantage of to introduce the dialogue that follows. "Good sir," says he, "you will pardon what I am about to say, for indeed I feel the weakness of my position when addressing you, fortune having made a wide distinction between us; but judge me not because I am coarse of flesh, nor have polished manners, for I have a heart that feels for the unfortunate." Here Blowers interrupted the keeper by saying he would hear no chicken-hearted interpositions. "Remember, keeper," he added, "you must not presume on the small familiarity I have condescended to admit in drinking with you. I hold no controversies with prison-keepers (again he gulps his brandy) or their subs; being a servant of the state, I order you to give that wench the extent of the law. She shall disclose the secret of her escape, or I'll have her life; I'm a man what won't stand no nonsense, I am!" The keeper, rejoining, hopes he will pardon the seeming presumption; but, forsooth, notwithstanding necessity has driven him to seek a livelihood in his repulsive occupation, there is a duty of the heart he cannot betray, though the bread of his maintenance be taken from him. Blowers again assumes his dignity, rises from his seat, scowls significantly at the keeper, and says he will go put through the business with his own hands. "Good friend," says Broadman, arresting Blowers' progress, "by the state's ruling you are my patron; nevertheless, within these walls I am master, and whatever you may bring here for punishment shall have the benefit of my discretion. I loathe the law that forces me to, in such cases, overrule the admo- nitions of my heart. I, sir, am low of this world,—good! but, in regret do I say it, I have by a slave mother two fair daughters, who in the very core of my heart I love; nor would I, imitating the baser examples of our aristocracy, sell them hapless outcasts for life." Here Blowers again interrupted by allowing his passion to manifest itself in a few very fashionable oaths; to which he added, that he (pacing the room several times) would no longer give ear to such nonsense from a man of Broadman's position,—which was neither socially nor politically grand. "No doubt, good sir, my humble and somewhat repulsive calling does not meet your distinguished consideration; but I am, nevertheless, a man. And what I was about to say-I hope you will grant me a hearing-was, that having these two daughters-poverty only prevents my purchasing them-has made me sensible of these slaves having delicate textures. The unhappy possession of these daughters has caused me to reflect-to study constitutions, and their capacity to endure punishments. The woman it has pleased you to bring here for chastisement, I take it, is not coarse of flesh; but is one of those unfortunates whom kindness might reform, while the lash never fails to destroy. Why, then, not consider her in the light of a friendless wretch, whom it were better to save, than sink in shame? One word more and I am done" (Blowers was about to cut short the conversation); "the extent of the law being nothing less than twenty blows of the paddle, is most severe punishment for a woman of fine flesh to withstand on her naked loins. Nor, let me say-and here I speak from twelve years' experience-can the lady-I beg pardon, the slave you bring me!-bear these blows: no, my lips never spoke truer when I say she'll quiver and sink in spasms ere the second blow is laid on." Here-some twenty minutes having passed since the fair slave was led into the punishment room-Blowers cut short the conversation which had failed to thaw his resolution, by saying Broadman had bored his ears in spinning out his long song, and if he were unwilling to fulfil the duties of his office, such should be reported to the authorities, who would not permit workhouse-keepers so to modify their ordnances that black and white niggers have different punishments. "Nay, sir!" says the honest man, with an air of earnestness, as he rises from his seat; "follow me, and with the reality will I prove the truth of my words." Here he proceeds to that place of torments, the punishment-room, followed by Blowers; who says, with singular indifference-"Can do the job in five minutes; then I'll leave her with you for two, three, or four days or so. Then if she's civilly humbled down, I'll send my nigger fellow, Joe, with an order for her. Joe'll be the fellow's name; now, mind that: but you know my Joe, I reckon?" The keeper led the way, but made no reply; for indeed he knew nothing of his Joe, there being innumerable niggers of that name. As the men left the little office, and were sauntering up the passage, our worthy friend Rosebrook might be seen entering in search of Broadman; when, discovering Blowers in his company, and hearing the significant words, he shot into a niche, unobserved by them, and calling a negro attendant, learned the nature of his visit. And here it becomes necessary that we discover to the reader the fact of Rosebrook having been apprised of the forlorn woman's return, and her perilous position in the hands of Pringle Blowers; and, further, that the communication was effected by the negro man Pompe, who we have before described in connection with Montague at the time of his landing from the witch-like schooner. This Pompe was sold to Blowers but a few months before Annette's recovery, and acting upon the force of that sympathy which exists among fellow slaves of a plantation, soon renewed old acquaintance, gained her confidence, and, cunningly eluding the owner's watchfulness, conveyed for her a letter to the Rosebrooks. In truth, Pompe had an inveterate hatred of Blowers, and under the incitement would not have hesitated to stake his life in defence of the fair woman. Now, the exacting reader may question Rosebrook's intrepidity in not proceeding at once to the rescue of the victim; but when we say that he was ignorant of the positive order given the keeper, and only caught distinctly the words-"I'll send my nigger fellow, Joe, with an order for her!" they may discover an excuse for his hastily withdrawing from the establishment. Indeed, that my reader may withhold his censure, it may be well to add that he did this in order to devise more strategical means of effecting her escape.

And now, ye who have nerves-let them not be shaken; let not your emotions rise, ye who have souls, and love the blessings of liberty; let not mothers nor fathers weep over democracy's wrongs; nor let man charge us with picturing the horrors of a black romance when we introduce the spectacle in the room of punishments: such, be it known, is not our business, nor would we trifle unjustly with the errors of society; but, if chivalry have blushes, we do not object to their being used here. The keeper, followed by Blowers, enters a small room at the further end of the passage. It is some sixteen feet long by twelve wide, and proportionately high of ceiling. The pale light of a tallow candle, suspended from the ceiling by a wire, and from which large flakes of the melted grease lay cone-like on the pine floor, discloses the gloom, and discovers hanging from the walls, grim with smoke, sundry curious caps, cords, leathern cats, and the more improved paddles of wood, with flat blades. The very gloom of the place might excite the timid; but the reflection of how many tortures it has been the scene, and the mysterious stillness pervading its singularly decorated walls, add still more to increase apprehension. A plank, some two feet wide, and raised a few inches, stretches across the floor, and is secured at each end with cleets. About midway of this are ropes securing the victim's feet; and through the dim light is disclosed the half nude body of our fair girl, suspended by the wrists, which are clasped in bands of cord, that, being further secured to a pulley block, is hauled taut by a tackle. Suddenly the wretched woman gives vent to her feelings, and in paroxysms of grief sways her poor body to and fro, imploring mercy! "Nay, master! think that I am a woman-that I have a heart to feel and bleed; that I am a mother and a wife, though a slave. Let your deeds be done quickly, or end me and save me this shame!" she supplicates, as the bitter, burning anguish of her goaded soul gives out its flood of sorrow. Chivalry, forsooth, lies cold and unmoved-Blowers has no relish for such inconsistency;—such whinings, he says, will not serve southern principles. The mulatto attendant has secured the fall, and stands a few feet behind Blowers and the keeper, as that functionary says, laying his coarse hands on the woman's loins, "How silky!" The mulatto man shakes his head, revengefully, making a grimace, as Broadman, having selected the smallest paddle (reminding us of the curious sympathy now budding between the autocratic knout and democratic lash) again addresses Blowers. "I doubt, sir," he says, "if the woman stand a blow. Necessity 's a hard master, sir; and in this very act is the test more trying than I have ever known it. I dissemble myself when I see a wretch of fine flesh-a woman with tender senses, in distress, and I am made the instrument of adding to her suffering. Indeed, sir, when I contemplate the cause of such wretchedness, and the poverty forcing me to remain in this situation, no imagination can represent the horror of my feelings."

"We have no demand on your feelings, my man! we want your duty-what the state put you here to perform," interrupted Blowers, placing his thumbs in his vest, and making a step backward. Another second, and the attendant lighted a hand-lamp,—a sharp, slapping blow was heard, a death-like shriek followed; the flesh quivered and contracted into a discoloured and inflamed pustule; the body writhed a few seconds in convulsive spasms; a low moaning followed, and that fair form hung swooning in the slings, as the keeper, in fright, cried out, at the top of his voice, to the attendant—"Lower away the fall!" As if the fiend had not yet gratified his passion, no sooner was the seemingly lifeless body lowered clumsily to the floor, than he grasped the weapon from Broadman's hand, and like a tiger seeking its banquet of flesh, was about to administer a second blow. But Broadman had a good heart, the admonitions of which soared high above the state's mandate: seizing Blowers in his arms, he ejected him from the door, ran back to the prostrate woman, released her bruised limbs from the fastenings, gathered her to his arms; and with nervous hands and anxious face did he draw from his pocket the well-timed hartshorn, by the application of which he sought to restore her, as the mulatto man stood by, bathing her temples with cold water. "Ah! shame on the thing called a man who could abuse a sweet creature of fine flesh, like thee! it's not many has such a pretty sweet face," says Broadman, with an air of compassion, resting her shoulder against his bended knee as he encircles it with his left arm, and looks upon the pale features, tears glistening in his honest eyes. We might say with Broadman—"It's not the finest, nor the polished of flesh, that hath the softest hearts." But, reader, having performed our duty, let us drop the curtain over this sad but true scene; and when you have conjectured the third and fourth acts of the drama, join with us in hoping the chivalry of our State may yet awake to a sense of its position, that, when we again raise it, a pleasanter prospect may be presented.



CHAPTER LIV.

IN WHICH ARE DISCOVERIES AND PLEASANT SCENES.



ST. PATRICK'S night closed the day on which the scenes of the foregoing chapter were enacted; and that patron saint being of aristocratic descent, which caused him to be held in high esteem by our "very first families," than among whom better admirers could nowhere be found, his anniversary was sure to be celebrated with much feasting and drinking. But while this homage to the good saint made glad the hearts of thousands-while the city seemed radiant of joy, and reeling men from Hibernia's gorgeous hall found in him an excuse for their revelries—there sat in the box of a caf, situated on the west side of Meeting Street, two men who seemed to have a deeper interest at heart than that of the Saint's joy on his road to paradise. The one was a shortish man, coarse of figure, and whose browned features and figured hands bespoke him a sailor; the other was delicate of figure, with pale, careworn countenance and nervous demeanour. Upon the marble slab, on which they rested their elbows, sat a bottle of old Madeira, from which they sipped leisurely, now and then modulating their conversation into whispers. Then the man of brown features spoke out more at ease, as if they had concluded the preliminaries of some important business.

"Well, well,—now isn't that strange?" said he, sighing as he spread his brawny hands upon the white marble. "Natur's a curious mystery, though" (he looked intently at the other): "why, more nor twenty years have rolled over since I did that bit of a good turn, and here I is the very same old Jack Hardweather, skipper of the Maggy Bell. But for all that—and I'd have folks know it!—the Maggy's as trim a little craft as ever lay to on a sou'-easter; and she can show as clean a pair of heels as any other—barring her old top timbers complain now and then—to the best cutter as ever shook Uncle Sam's rags." His hard features softened, as in the earnest of his heart he spoke. He extended his hand across the table, grasping firmly that of his nervous friend, and continued—"And it was no other witch than the taunt Maggy Bell that landed that good woman safe on the free sands of old Bahama!" The Maggy, he tells the other, is now at the wharf, where the good wife, Molly Hardweather, keeps ship while the boys take a turn ashore.

"There's always a wise provision to relieve one's feelings when sorrow comes unexpectedly," returns the nervous man, his hand trembling as he draws forth the money to pay the waiter who answered his call.

"Yes!" quickly rejoined the other, "but keep up a good heart, like a sailor hard upon a lee shore, and all 'll be bright and sunny in a day or two. And now we'll just make a tack down the bay-street-and sight the Maggy. There's a small drop of somethin' in the locker, that'll help to keep up yer spirits, I reckon—a body's spirits has to be tautened now and then, as ye do a bobstay,—and the wife (she's a good sort of a body, though I say it) will do the best she can in her hard way to make ye less troubled at heart. Molly Hardweather has had some hard ups and downs in life, knows well the cares of a mother, and has had twins twice; yes"-adds the hardy seafarer-"we arn't polished folks, nor high of blood, but we've got hearts, and as every true heart hates slavery, so do we, though we are forced to dissemble our real feelings for the sake of peace in the trade." Here the delicate man took the sailor's arm, and sallied out to seek the little Maggy Bell, the former saying the meeting was as strange as grateful to his very soul. Down Market Street, shaded in darkness, they wended their way, and after reaching the wharf, passed along between long lines of cotton bales, piled eight and ten feet high, to the end, where lay motionless the pretty Maggy Bell, as clipper-like a craft as ever spread canvas. The light from the cabin shed its faint gleams over the quarter-deck, as Hardweather halted on the capsill, and with a sailor's pride run his quick black eye along her pirate-like hull, then aloft along the rigging. Exultingly, he says, "She is the sauciest witch that ever faced sea or showed a clean pair of heels. The Maggy Bell!"-he pats his friend on the shoulder-"why, sir, she has-just between ourselves now-slided many a poor slave off into freedom; but folks here don't think it of me. Now, if I reckon right"-he bites his tobacco, and extends it to the stranger-"and I believe I do, it's twenty years since the Maggy, of one dark night, skimmed it by that point, with Fort Pinkney on it, yonder, that good creature on board." He points to the murky mass, scarce visible in the distance, to the east. "And now she's one of the noblest women that ever broke bread to the poor; and she's right comfortable off, now,—alwa's has a smile, and a kind word, and something good for old Jack Hardweather whenever she sees him. Lord bless yer soul!"-here he shakes his head earnestly, and says he never was a lubber-"Jack Hardweather didn't care about the soft shot for his locker; it was my heart that felt the kindness. Indeed, it always jumps and jerks like a bobstay in a head sea, when I meets her. And then, when I thinks how 'twas me done the good turn, and no thanks to nobody! You hearn of me 'afore, eh" (he turns to his companion, who measuredly answers in the affirmative). "Well, then, my name's Skipper Jack Hardweather, known all along the coast; but, seeing how the world and navigation's got shortened down, they call me old Jack Splitwater. I suppose it's by the way of convenience, and so neither wife nor me have a bit of objection." Here the conversation was interrupted by the good wife's round, cheery face shooting suddenly from out the companion-way, and enjoining our friend Jack to come away aboard, her high peaked cap shining like snow on a dark surface. The truth was, that Splitwater, as he was styled, had become so much absorbed in excitement as to forget the length of his yarn. "Come away, now!" says the good wife, "everybody's left the Maggy to-night; and ther's na knowin' what 'd a' become 'un her if a'h hadn't looked right sharp, for ther' wer' a muckle ship a'mast run her dune; an' if she just had, the Maggy wad na mar bene seen!" The good wife shakes her head; her rich Scotch tongue sounding on the still air, as with apprehension her chubby face shines in the light of the candle she holds before it with her right hand. Skipper Splitwater will see his friend on board, he says, as they follow her down the companion-ladder. "Wife thinks as much of the Maggy-and would, I believe in my soul, cry her life out if anything happened till her: wife's a good body aboard a ship, and can take a trick at the wheel just as well as Harry Span the mate." Skipper Splitwater leads the way into a little dingy cabin, a partition running athwart ships dividing it into two apartments; the former being where Skipper Hardweather "sleeps his crew" and cooks his mess, the sternmost where he receives his friends. This latter place, into which he conducts the nervous man, is lumbered with boxes, chests, charts, camp-seats, log lines, and rusty quadrants, and sundry marine relics which only the inveterate coaster could conceive a use for. But the good wife Molly, whose canny face bears the wrinkles of some forty summers, and whose round, short figure is so simply set off with bright plaid frock and apron of gingham check, in taste well adapted to her humble position, is as clean and tidy as ever was picture of mine Vrow Vardenstein. Nevertheless,—we know the reader will join us in the sentiment-that which gave the air of domestic happiness a completeness hitherto unnoticed, was a wee responsibility, as seen sprawling and kicking goodnaturedly on the white pillow of the starboard berth, where its two peering eyes shone forth as bright as new-polished pearls. The little darling is just a year old, Dame Hardweather tells us; it's a twin,—the other died, and, she knows full well, has gone to heaven. Here she takes the little cherub in her lap, and having made her best courtesy as Hardweather introduces her to his nervous friend, seats herself on the locker, and commences suckling it, while he points to the very place on the larboard side where Clotilda-"Ah! I just caught the name," he says,—used to sit and sorrow for her child. "And then," he continues, "on the quarter-deck she'd go and give such longing looks back, like as if she wanted to see it; and when she couldn't, she'd turn away and sigh so. And this, Molly," he continues, "is the self-same child my friend here, who I am as happy to meet as a body can be, wants me to carry off from these wolves of slavery; and if I don't, then my name's not Jack Splitwater!" So saying, he bustles about, tells the nervous man he must excuse the want of finery, that he has been a hard coaster for God knows how many years, and the little place is all he can afford; for indeed he is poor, but expects a better place one of these days. Then he draws forth from a little nook in the stern locker a bottle, which he says contains pure stuff, and of which he invites his visitor to partake, that he may keep up a good heart, still hoping for the best. The nervous man declines his kind invitation,—he has too much at heart, and the sight of the child so reminds him of his own now blighted in slavery. The good woman now becoming deeply concerned, Hardweather must needs recount the story, and explain the strange man's troubles, which he does in simple language; but, as the yarn is somewhat long, the reader must excuse our not transcribing it here. With anxious face and listening ears did the woman absorb every word; and when the earnest skipper concluded with grasping firmly the man's hand, and saying-"Just you scheme the strategy, and if I don't carry it out my name aint Jack Hardweather!" would she fain have had him go on. "Lack a day, good man!" she rejoined, fondling closer to her bosom the little suckling; "get ye the wee bairn and bring it hither, and I'll mak it t'uther twin-na body'll kno't! and da ye ken hoo ye may mak the bonny wife sik a body that nane but foxes wad ken her. Just mak her a brae young sailor, and the Maggy Bell 'll do the rest on't." Hardweather here interrupted Molly's suggestion which was, indeed, most fortunate, and albeit supplied the initiative to the strategy afterwards adopted-for slavery opens wide the field of strategy-by reminding the stranger that she had a long Scotch head. The night had now well advanced; the stranger shook the woman's hand firmly, and bade her good night, as a tear gushed into his eyes. The scene was indeed simple, but touching. The hard mariner will accompany his friend to the wharf; and then as he again turns on the capsill, he cannot bid him good night without adding a few words more in praise of the little Maggy Bell, whose name is inscribed in gilt letters upon the flash-board of her stern. Holding his hand, he says: "Now, keep the heart up right! and in a day or two we'll have all aboard, and be in the stream waiting for a fair breeze-then the Maggy 'll play her part. Bless yer soul! the little craft and me's coasted down the coast nobody knows how many years; and she knows every nook, creek, reef, and point, just as well as I does. Just give her a double-reefed mainsail, and the lug of a standing jib, and in my soul I believe she'd make the passage without compass, chart, or a hand aboard. By the word of an old sailor, such a craft is the Maggy Bell. And when the Spanish and English and French all got mixed up about who owned Florida, the Maggy and me's coasted along them keys when, blowing a screecher, them Ingins' balls flew so, a body had to hold the hair on his head; but never a bit did the Maggy mind it." The stranger's heart was too full of cares to respond to the generous man's simplicity; shaking his hand fervently, he bid him good night, and disappeared up the wharf.

We apprehend little difficulty to the reader in discovering the person of Montague in our nervous man, who, in the absence of intelligence from his wife, was led to suspect some foul play. Nor were his suspicions unfounded; for, on returning to Memphis, which he did in great haste, he found his home desolate, his wife and child borne back into slavery, and himself threatened with Lynch law. The grief which threatened to overwhelm him at finding those he so dearly loved hurled back into bondage, was not enough to appease a community tenacious of its colour. No! he must leave his business, until the arrival of some one from New York, to the clerk who so perfidiously betrayed him. With sickened heart, then, does he-only too glad to escape the fury of an unreasoning mob-seek that place of bondage into which the captives have been carried; nay, more, he left the excited little world (reporting his destination to be New York) fully resolved to rescue them at the hazard of his life, and for ever leave the country. Scarcely necessary then, will it be for us to inform the reader, that, having sought out the Rosebrooks, he has counselled their advice, and joined them in devising means of relief. Blowers had declared, on his sacred honour, he would not sell the captives for their weight in gold.

Rosebrook had no sooner received Annette's letter from the hand of Pompe than he repaired to Blowers' plantation-as well to sound that gentleman's disposition to sell his captives, as a necessary precaution against the dangers he had incurred through his participation in the fair girl's escape; for albeit the disclosure might be extorted from her by cruelty. But Blowers was too much of a gentleman to condescend to sell his captive; nor would he listen to arguments in her behalf. Nevertheless, we will not underrate Blowers' character, that the reader may suppose him devoid of compassion; for-be it recorded to his fame-he did, on the morning following that on which the punishment we have described in the foregoing chapter took place, send the child, whose long and piercing cries he could no longer endure, to the arms of its poor disconsolate mother, whom he hoped would take good care of it.

Now, let not the reader restrain his fancy, but imagine, if he can, Pringle Blowers' disappointment and state of perturbation, when, three days after the punishment, he presented himself at Broadman's establishment, and was informed by that functionary that the fair mother was non est. With honest face did Broadman assert his ignorance of wrong. That he had not betrayed his duty he would satisfy the enraged man, by producing the very order on which he delivered them to Joe! "Yes, Joe was his name!" continues the honest man; "and he asserted his ownership, and told a straightforward story, and didn't look roguish." He passes the order over to Blowers, who, having examined it very cautiously, says: "Forgery, forgery!-'tis, by the Eternal!" Turning his fat sides, he approaches the window, and by the light reads each successive word. It is written in a scrawl precisely like his own; but, forsooth, it cannot be his. However, deeming it little becoming a man of his standing to parley with Broadman, he quickly makes his exit, and, like a locomotive at half speed, exhausting his perturbation the while, does he seek his way into the city, where he discovers his loss to the police. We have in another part of our history described Blowers as something of a wag; indeed, waggery was not the least trait in his curious character, nor was he at all cautious in the exercise of it; and, upon the principle that those who give must take, did he render himself a fit object for those who indulge in that sort of pastime to level their wit upon. On this occasion, Blowers had not spent many hours in the city ere he had all its convenient corners very fantastically decorated with large blue placards, whereon was inscribed the loss of his valuable woman, and the offer of the increased sum of four hundred dollars for her apprehension. The placards were wonderful curiosities, and very characteristic of Blowers, who in this instance excited no small amount of merriment among the city wags, each of whom cracked a joke at his expense. Now it was not that those waggish spirits said of his placard things exceedingly annoying to his sensitive feelings, but that every prig made him the butt of his borrowed wit. One quizzed him with want of gallantry,—another told him what the ladies said of his oss,—a third pitied him, but hoped he might get back his property; and then, Tom Span, the dandy lawyer, laconically told him that to love a fair slave was a business he must learn over again; and Sprout, the cotton-broker, said there was a law against ornamenting the city with blue placards and type of such uncommon size. In this interminable perplexity, and to avoid the last-named difficulty, did he invoke the genius of the "bill-sticker," who obliterated the blue placards by covering them over with brown ones, the performance of which, Blowers himself superintended. This made the matter still worse, for with jocose smile did every wag say he had hung the city in mourning for his loss; which singular proceeding the ladies had one and all solemnly protested against. Now, Blowers regard for the ladies was proverbial; nor will it disparage his character to say that no one was more sensitive of their opinions concerning himself. In this unhappy position, then, which he might have avoided had he exercised more calmly his philosophy, did his perturbation get the better of him;—an object of ridicule for every wag, and in ill-favour with the very first ladies, never was perplexed man's temper so near the exploding point of high pressure. And here, forsooth, disgusted within the whole city, nor at all pleased with the result of his inventive genius, he sought relief in strong drinks and a week of dissipation; in which sad condition we must leave him to the reader's sympathy.

As some of our fair readers may be a little prudish, or exacting of character, and as we are peculiarly sensitive of the reputation some of the characters embodied in this history should bear to the very end, we deem it prudent here not to disclose the nature of the little forgery which was perpetrated at Blowers' expense, nor the means by which it was so cleverly carried out, to the release of the fair captives, who must now be got out of the city. Should we, in the performance of this very desirable duty, fail to please the reader's taste for hair-breadth escapes, unnatural heroism, and sublime disinterestedness, an excuse may be found in our lack of soul to appreciate those virtues of romance. We have no taste for breathless suspenses, no love of terror: we deal not in tragedy, nor traffic in dramatic effects. But as the simplest strategy is often the most successful of results, so did it prove in this particular case; for, be it known, that on the morning of the twenty-fourth of March,—, was Molly Hardweather's suggestion adopted and effectually carried out, to the gratification of sundry interested persons. Calm and bright was that morning; Charleston harbour and its pretty banks seemed radiant of loveliness: the phantom-like Maggy Bell, with mainsail and jib spread motionless in the air, swung gently at anchor midway the stream; and Dame Hardweather sat in the dingy cabin, her little chubby face beaming contentment as she nursed the "t'other twin." The brusque figure of old Jack, immersed in watchfulness, paced to and fro the Maggy's deck; and in the city as trim a young sailor as ever served signal halliards on board man-o'-war, might be seen, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder, carelessly plodding along through the busy street, for the landing at the market slip. Soon the Maggy's flying jib was run up, then the foresail followed and hung loose by the throat. Near the wheel, as if in contemplation, sat Montague, while Hardweather continued his pacing, now glancing aloft, then to seaward, as if invoking Boreas' all-welcome aid, and again watching intently in the direction of the slip. A few minutes more and a boat glided from the wharf, and rowed away for the little craft, which it soon reached, and on board of which the young sailor flung his bag, clambered over the rail, and seemed happy, as old Jack put out his brawny hand, saying: "Come youngster, bear a hand now, and set about brightening up the coppers!" We need not here discover the hearts that leaped with joy just then; we need not describe the anxiety that found relief when the young sailor set foot on the Maggy's deck; nor need we describe those eyes on shore that in tears watched the slender form as it disappeared from sight. Just then a breeze wafted from the north, the anchor was hove up, the sails trimmed home, and slowly seaward moved the little bark. As she drifted rather than sailed past Fort Pinkney, two burly officials, as is the custom, boarded to search for hapless fugitives; but, having great confidence in the honesty of Skipper Splitwater, who never failed to give them of his best cheer, they drank a pleasant passage to him, made a cursory search, a note of the names of all on board (Jack saying Tom Bolt was the young sailor's), and left quite satisfied. Indeed, there was nothing to excite their suspicions, for the good dame sat nursing the "twa twins," nor left aught to discover the discrepancy between their ages, if we except a pair of little red feet that dangled out from beneath the fringe of a plaid shawl. And the young sailor, who it is hardly necessary to inform the reader is Annette, was busy with his cooking. And now the little craft, free upon the wave, increased her speed as her topsails spread out, and glided swiftly seaward, heaven tempering the winds to her well-worn sails. God speed the Maggy Bell as she vaults over the sea; and may she never want water under keel, slaves to carry into freedom, or a good Dame Hardweather to make cheerful the little cabin! say we.

And now, reader, join us in taking a fond farewell of the Rosebrooks, who have so nobly played their part, to the shame of those who stubbornly refuse to profit by their example. They played no inactive part in the final escape; but discretion forbids our disclosing its minuti. They sought to give unto others that liquid of life to which they owed their own prosperity and happiness; nor did selfish motive incite them to action. No; they sought peace and prosperity for the state; they would bind in lasting fellowship that union so mighty of states, which the world with mingled admiration and distrust watches; which in kindred compact must be mightier, which divided must fall! And while taking leave of them, hoping their future may be brightened with joys-and, too, though it may not comport with the interests of our southern friends, that their inventive genius may never want objects upon which to illustrate itself so happily-let us not forget to shake old Jack Hardweather warmly by the hand, invoking for him many fair winds and profitable voyages. A big heart enamelled of "coarse flesh" is his; but with his warm functions he has done much good; may he be rich in heaven's rewards, for he is poor in earth's!



CHAPTER LV.

IN WHICH IS A HAPPY MEETING, SOME CURIOUS FACTS DEVELOPED, AND CLOTILDA'S HISTORY DISCLOSED.



IT was seven days after the sailing of the Maggy Bell, as described in the foregoing chapter, that Montague was seen sitting in the comfortably furnished parlour of a neat cottage in the suburbs of Nassau. The coal fire burned brightly in a polished grate; the carpets and rugs, and lolling mats, indicated of care and comfort; the tabbied furniture and chastely worked ottomans, and sofas, and chairs, and inlaid workstands, seem bright of regularity and taste; and the window curtains of lace and damask, and the scroll cornices from which they flowingly hung, and the little landscape paintings that hung upon the satin-papered walls, and the soft light that issued from two girandoles on the mantel-piece of figured marble, all lent their cheering aid to make complete the radiant picture of a happy home. But Montague sat nervous with anxiety. "Mother won't be a minute!" said a pert little fellow of some seven summers, who played with his hands as he sat on the sofa, and asked questions his emotions forbid answering. On an ottoman near the cheerful fire, sat, with happy faces, the prettily dressed figures of a boy and girl, older in age than the first; while by the side of Montague sat Maxwell, whose manly countenance we transcribed in the early part of our narrative, and to whom Montague had in part related the sad events of the four months past, as he heaved a sigh, saying, "How happy must he die who careth for the slave!" Ere the words had escaped his lips, the door opened, and the graceful form of a beautiful woman entered, her finely oval but pensive face made more expressive by the olive that shaded it, and those deep soul-like eyes that now sparkled in gentleness, and again flashed with apprehension. Nervously she paused and set her eyes with intense stare on Montague; then vaulted into his arms and embraced him, crying, "Is not my Annette here?" as a tear stole down her cheeks. Her quick eye detected trouble in his deportment; she grasped his left hand firmly in her right, and with quivering frame besought him to keep her no longer in the agony of suspense. "Why thus suddenly have you come? ah!-you disclose a deep-rooted trouble in not forewarning me! tell me all and relieve my feelings!" she ejaculated, in broken accents. "I was driven from that country because I loved nature and obeyed its laws. My very soul loved its greatness, and would have done battle for its glories-yea, I loved it for the many blessings it hath for the favoured; but one dark stain on its bright escutcheon so betrayed justice, that no home was there for me-none for the wife I had married in lawful wedlock." Here the woman, in agonising throbs, interrupted him by enquiring why he said there was no home for the wife he had married in lawful wedlock-was not the land of the puritans free? "Nay!" he answered, in a measured tone, shaking his head, "it is bestained not with their crimes-for dearly do they love justice and regard the rights of man-but with the dark deeds of the man-seller, who, heedless of their feelings, and despising their moral rectitude, would make solitary those happy homes that brighten in greatness over its soil." Again, frantic of anxiety, did the woman interrupt him: "Heavens!-she is not dragged back into slavery?" she enquired, her emotions rising beyond her power of restraint, as she drew bitter pangs from painful truths. With countenance bathed in trouble did Montague return her solicitous glance, and speak. "Into slavery" he muttered, in half choked accents "was she hurled back." He had not finished the sentence ere anxiety burst its bounds, and the anxious woman shrieked, and fell swooning in his arms. Even yet her olive face was beautefully pale. The cheerful parlour now rung with confusion, servants bustled about in fright, the youthful family shrieked in fear, the father sought to restore the fond mother, as Montague chafed her right hand in his. Let us leave to the reader's conjecture a scene his fancy may depict better than we can describe, and pass to one more pleasant of results. Some half an hour had transpired, when, as if in strange bewilderment, Clotilda opened her eyes and seemed conscious of her position. A deep crimson shaded her olive cheeks, as in luxurious ease she lay upon the couch, her flushed face and her thick wavy hair, so prettily parted over her classic brow, curiously contrasting with the snow-white pillow on which it rested. A pale and emaciated girl sat beside her, smoothing her brow with her left hand, laying the right gently on the almost motionless bosom, kissing the crimsoning cheek, and lisping rather than speaking, "Mother, mother, oh mother!-it's only me." And then the wet courses on her cheeks told how the fountain of her soul had overflown. Calmly and vacantly the woman gazed on the fair girl, with whom she had been left alone. Then she raised her left hand to her brow, sighed, and seemed sinking into a tranquil sleep. "Mother! mother! I am once more with my mother!" again ejaculates the fair girl, sobbing audibly; "do you not know me, mother?" Clotilda started as if suddenly surprised. "Do I dream?" she muttered, raising herself on her elbow, as her great soft eyes wandered about the room. She would know who called her mother. "'Tis me," said the fair girl, returning her glances, "do you not know your Annette-your slave child?" Indeed the fair girl was not of that bright countenance she had anticipated meeting, for though the punishment had little soiled her flesh the dagger of disgrace had cut deep into her heart, and spread its poison over her soul. "This my Annette!" exclaimed Clotilda, throwing her arms about the fair girl's neck, drawing her frantically to her bosom, and bathing her cheeks with her tears of joy. "Yes, yes, 'tis my long-lost child; 'tis she for whom my soul has longed-God has been merciful, rescued her from the yawning death of slavery, and given her back to her mother! Oh, no, I do not dream-it is my child,—my Annette!" she continued. Long and affectionately did they mingle their tears and kisses. And now a fond mother's joy seemed complete, a child's sorrow ended, and a happy family were made happier. Again the family gathered into the room, where, as of one accord, they poured out their affectionate congratulations. One after another were the children enjoined to greet Annette, kiss her, and call her sister. To them the meeting was as strange as to the parents it was radiant of joy. "Mother!" said the little boy, as he took Annette by the hand and called her sister, and kissed her as she kissed him, "was you married before you was married to father?" The affectionate mother had no answer to make; she might have found one in the ignominy of the slave world. And now, when the measure of joy seemed full-when the bitterness of the past dwindled away like a dream, and when the future like a beacon hung out its light of promise,—Clotilda drew from a small workstand a discoloured paper written over in Greek characters, scarce intelligible. "Annette!" said she, "my mother gave me this when last I saw her. The chains were then about her hands, and she was about to be led away to the far south slave market: by it did I discover my history." Here she unfolded its defaced pages, lifted her eyes upwards invokingly, and continued—"To speak the crimes of great men is to hazard an oblivion for yourself, to bring upon you the indifference of the multitude; but great men are often greatest in crime-for so it proved with those who completed my mother's destruction. Give ear, then, ye grave senators, and if ye have hearts of fathers, lend them! listen, ye queen mothers of my country, whose sons and daughters are yet travelling the world's uncertainties! listen, ye fathers, who have souls above Mammon's golden grasp, and sons in whom ye put your trust! listen, ye brothers, whose pride brightens in a sister's virtue! listen, ye sisters, who enjoy paternal affections, and feel that one day you may grace a country's social life! listen, ye philanthropists, ye men of the world, who love your country, and whose hearts yearn for its liberties-ye men sensitive of our great Republic's honour, nor seek to traffic in the small gains of power when larger ones await you; and, above all, lend your hearts, ye brothers of the clergy in the slave church, and give ear while I tell who I am, and pray ye, as ye love the soul of woman, to seek out those who, like unto what I was, now wither in slavery. My grandfather's name was Iznard Maldonard, a Minorcan, who in the year 1767 (some four years after Florida was by the king of Spain ceded to Great Britain) emigrated with one Dr. Turnbull-whose name has since shone on the pages of history-to that land of sunshine and promise; for, indeed, Florida is the Italy of America. In that year did numerous of the English aristocracy conceive plans as various as inconsistent for the population and improvement of the colony. With a worthy motive did Lord Rolle draw from the purlieus of London [Footnote: See Williams' History of Florida, page 188.] State Papers, three hundred wretched females, whose condition he would better by reforming and making aid in founding settlements. This his lordship found no easy task; but the climate relieved him of the perplexity he had brought upon himself, for to it did they all fall victims in a very short time. But Turnbull, with motive less commendable, obtained a grant of his government, and, for the sum of four hundred pounds, (being then in the Peleponnesus) was the governor of Modon bribed into a permission to convey sundry Greek families to Florida, for colonization. Returning from Modon with a number of families, he touched at the islands of Corsica and Minorca, added another vessel to his fleet, and increased the number of his settlers to fifteen hundred. With exciting promises did he decoy them to his land of Egypt, which proved a bondage to his shame. He would give them lands, free passages, good provisions and clothing; but none of these promises did he keep. A long passage of four months found many victims to its hardships, and those who arrived safe were emaciated by sickness. Into the interior were these taken; and there they founded a settlement called New Smyrna, the land for which-some sixty thousand acres-was granted by the governor of Florida. Faithfully and earnestly did they labour for the promised reward, and in less than five years had more than three thousand acres of land in the highest state of cultivation; but, as Turnbull's prosperity increased, so did the demon avarice; and men, women, and children, were reduced to the most abject slavery. Tasks greater than they could perform were assigned them, and a few Italians and negroes made overseers and drivers. For food the labourers were allotted seven quarts of corn per week. Many who had lived in affluence in their own country were compelled to wear osnaburgs, and go bare-foot through the year. More than nine years were those valuable settlers kept in this state of slavery, the cruelties inflicted upon them surpassing in enormity those which so stigmatised the savage Spaniards of St. Domingo. Drivers were compelled to beat and lacerate those who had not performed their tasks; many were left naked, tied all night to trees, that mosquitoes might suck their blood, and the suffering wretches become swollen from torture. Some, to end their troubles, wandered off, and died of starvation in the forest, and, including the natural increase, less than six hundred souls were left at the end of nine years. But, be it known to those whose hearts and ears I have before invoked, that many children of these unfortunate parents were fair and beautiful, which valuable charms singularly excited the cupidity of the tyrant, who betook himself to selling them for purposes most infamous. A child overhearing the conversation of three English gentlemen who made an excursion to the settlement, and being quick of ear, conveyed the purport of it to his mother, who, in the night, summoned a council of her confidants to concoct the means of gaining more intelligence. The boy heard the visitors, who stood in the great mansion, which was of stone, say, "Did the wretches know their rights they had not suffered such enormities of slavery." It was resolved that three ask for long tasks, under the pretext of gaining time to catch turtle on the coast; but having gained the desired time, they set off for St. Augustine, which they reached, after swimming rivers and delving almost impenetrable morasses. They sought the attorney-general of the province, Mr. Younge,—I speak his name with reverence-and with an earnest zeal did he espouse the cause of this betrayed people. At that time, Governor Grant-since strongly suspected of being concerned with Turnbull in the slavery of the Greeks and Minorcans-had just been superseded by Tonyn, who now had it in his power to rebuke a tyrant, and render justice to a long-injured people. Again, on the return of the envoys, who bore good tidings, did they meet in secret, and choose one Pallicier, a Greek, their leader. This man had been master mechanic of the mansion. With wooden spears were the men armed and formed into two lines, the women, children, and old men in the centre; and thus did they set off from the place of bondage to seek freedom. In vain did the tyrant-whose name democracy has enshrined with its glories-pursue them, and exhaust persuasion to procure their return. For three days did they wander the woods, delve morasses, and swim rivers, ere they reached the haven of St. Augustine, where, being provided with provisions, their case was tried, and, albeit, though Turnbull interposed all the perfidy wealth could purchase, their fredeom established. But alas! not so well was it with those fair daughters whom the tyrant sold slaves to a life of infamy, and for whose offspring, now in the bitterness of bondage, do we plead. Scores of these female children were sold by the tyrant; but either the people were drunk of joy over their own liberty, and forgot to demand the return of their children, or the good Younge felt forcibly his weakness to bring to justice the rich and great-for the law is weak where slavery makes men great-so as to make him disgorge the ill-gotten treasure he might have concealed, but the proof of which nothing was easier than to obliterate.

"Maldonard, then, was my grandfather; and, with my grandmother and three children, was of those who suffered the cruelties I have detailed. Two of his children were girls, fair and beautiful, whom the tyrant, under the pretext of bettering their condition in another colony, sold away into slavery. One was my dear mother." Here tears coursed down the woman's cheeks. "And she, though I blush to tell it, was sold to Rovero, who was indeed my father as well as Franconia's. But I was years older than Franconia-I visit her grave by day, and dream of her by night;—nor was it strange that she should trace the cause of similarity in our features. Forsooth, it was that singular discovery-of which I was long ignorant-coupled with the virtues of a great soul, that incited her to effect my escape. Rovero, ere he married Franconia's mother, sold Sylvia Maldonard, who was my mother; and may angels bring glad tidings of her spirit! Yes, true is it that my poor mother was sold to one Silenus, of whom Marston bought my body while heaven guarded the soul: but here would I drop the curtain over the scene, for Maldonard is dead; and in the grave of his Italian wife, ere he gained his freedom, was he buried." Here again the fond mother, as she concluded, lifted her eyes invokingly, fondled her long-lost child to her bosom,—smiled upon her, kissed her, and was happy.



CHAPTER LVI.

IN WHICH A PLOT IS DISCLOSED, AND THE MAN-SELLER MADE TO PAY THE PENALTY OF HIS CRIMES.



WHILE the scenes which we have detailed in the foregoing chapter were being enacted at Nassau, there stood in the portico of a massive dwelling, fronting what in Charleston is called the "Battery Promenade," the tall and stately figure of a man, wrapped in a costly black cloak, the folds of which lay carelessly about his neck and shoulders. For some minutes did he stand, hesitating, and watching up and down the broad walk in front. The gas-light overhead shed its glare upon the freestone walls-for the night was dark-and, as he turned, discovered the fine features of a frank and open countenance, to which the flashing of two great intelligent eyes, a long silvery beard, and a flowing moustache, all shaded by the broad brim of a black felt hat, lent their aid to make impressive. Closer he muffled his face in the folds of his cloak, and spoke. "Time!" said he, in a voice musical and clear, "hath worn little on his great mansion; like his heart, it is of good stone." The mansion, indeed, was of princely front, with chiselled faade and great doric windows of deep fluted mouldings, grand in outline. Now a small hand stole from beneath his cloak, rapped gently upon the carved door of black walnut, and rang the bell. Soon the door swung open, and a negro in a black coat, white vest, and handkerchief of great stiffness, and nether garments of flashy stripes, politely bowed him into a hall of great splendour. Rows of statuary stood in alcoves along its sides; the walls dazzled with bright coloured paintings in massive gilt frames; highly coloured and badly blended mythological designs spread along the ceiling: the figure of a female, with pearly tears gushing from her eyes, as on bended knee she besought mercy of the winged angel perched above her, stood beside the broad stairway at the further end of the hall-strangely emblematical of the many thousand souls the man-seller had made weep in the bitterness of slavery; the softest rugs and costly Turkey carpets, with which its floor was spread, yielded lightly to the footfall, as the jetting lights of a great chandelier shed refulgence over the whole: indeed, what there lacked of taste was made up with air of opulence. The negro exhibited some surprise at the stranger's dress and manner, for he affected ease and indifference. "Is your master at leisure?" said he. "Business, or a friend?" inquired the negro, making one of his best bows, and drawing back his left foot. "Both," was the quick

THE END