The Planter's Northern Bride
Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz
Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson, 1854


  IT cannot be said that Moreland regretted the flight of Brainard. Detected villany is no longer to be feared.

  The threatened insurrection had been proclaimed trumpet-tongued through the state, and guards everywhere appointed to watch over the public safety. A minute description of his person was published in all the papers, so that none might unwittingly receive the traitor as a guest. Though Moreland was convinced that he was an impostor, he addressed letters to the Conference to which he professed to belong, making inquiries respecting his standing as a minister. The answer denied any knowledge of a person by the name of Brainard. There was no minister belonging to their Conference or denomination of that name. They did not hesitate to pronounce him a vile impostor.

  Mr. Hastings also affirmed, in his letters, that he knew nothing of such an individual, relieving his daughter's mind of an unspeakable weight. He could not account for his familiarity with the names of his


household, but by supposing he had passed through the village, and made himself acquainted, by report, with its principal inhabitants,—a supposition which was founded on truth. The agitation he had caused in the domestic circle and in the public mind gradually subsided, and the peace he had disturbed once more settled on the community. The negroes were pardoned, as their ringleader was white, but put under a stricter discipline. Having so shamefully abused their religious privileges, they were restricted in their nightly meetings, which were no longer allowed to be kept up beyond the ringing of the nine o'clock bell. The midnight hour, which was the scene of their unhallowed orgies, was constantly guarded, and no night passed without the scrutiny of the vigilant patrols within the walls of their cabins.

  The domestic establishment of Moreland resumed its usual peaceful and cheerful aspect. Jim and Crissy were seen, as formerly, unfurling the contents of the big chest to the morning sunshine, and Kizzie's countenance rejoiced once more in its former expression of consequential good-nature. Eulalia began to look upon the past as a frightful dream, and to enjoy, without fear of molestation, the comforts of her Southern home. There was one circumstance which she considered a blessing; for she never could think of Vulcan, the blacksmith, without horror and dread. As soon as he had recovered from the effects of the blow, and, after humbling himself


before his master, been released from imprisonment he absconded, stealing, in imitation of his illustrious predecessor, one of his master's finest horses, and baffling the vigilance of pursuit.

  "I am glad he is gone!" cried Moreland, when the tidings of his fight reached his ears; "for I never could have had any reliance on his fidelity, any confidence in his truth. He was an excellent workman, and, as far as labour is concerned, a great pecuniary loss to me, but he seemed to cast a dark shadow over the plantation, which I rejoice to have rolled away. I suspect he will soon be lionized at the North, as one of those poor, injured, persecuted beings, escaped from Southern tyranny to throw themselves in the expanded arms of Northern philanthropy. Brainard may become his keeper, and tell to a gaping multitude the story of his sufferings. When Vulcan was a little boy, a negro about his own age, who was playing with an axe, chopped off two of the fingers of his left hand, and he has the scar of a terrible burn on his shoulder. The mutilated hand may be shown as the mark by which a Southern planter identifies his slaves, and the scar as the brand of his cruelty. Mark my words, Eula, and see if I am not a true prophet."

  Eula remembered her father's giant protege, and blushed.

  Before we dismiss this era in our history, we ought, in justice to the intrepid wife of the jailer, to mention


the manner in which the grateful public manifested their appreciation of her services. When told by a friend that she was to be presented with a splendid silver waiter, on which the prison scene, of which she was the heroine, was to be wrought in bas relief, she remarked, with her usual sound, practical good sense—

  "I don't want them to give me anything, for I've done nothing but my duty—I would despise the woman that would do less—and least of all, a silver waiter. It would shame my homely furniture; and be as much out of place as if I should stick a crown on my head. If they would send my boy to a first-rate school, that would be something to be grateful for."

  In consequence of this hint, the silver streams of knowledge were poured into the boy's mind, and his education continued at the public expense.

  Eula hailed the opening spring with anticipations of delight. She was looking forward to a visit to her Northern home, and almost every thought and feeling had reference to that joyous event. She watched the unfolding charms of her beautiful boy with a jealous eye, fearing one infantile beauty might fleet, before the eyes of her parents could gaze upon its loveliness. She talked to Effie of her sweet little sister, Dora, as her playmate and companion, forgetting that three passing years had added considerable dignity to the five-year-old child, who used to call her sister-mother. She opened her casket of love-tokens, and spread them in


fond review before her, thus reviving, in all their early freshness, the associations of her youth:—the faded flowers she had pressed; even the humble ironing-holder and modest comb-case, which had been carefully preserved; and, more precious than all, poor Nancy's heart-shaped breast-pin, containing a lock of her long raven hair.

  "I fear I am selfish," said she to her husband, grateful for his animated sympathy in all her anticipations. "You can look forward with no such joy as mine. I fear even that the journey may be painful to you, from recent associations."

  "You are mistaken," he replied. "I shall revisit with delight the beautiful village of your birth. I never can forget the kindness I received, as a stranger, when I was lying sick and apparently dying there. There was no cold Levite passing the other side: all were ministering Samaritans, whom I bless in remembrance. Your excellent pastor—how I long to clasp his venerable hand once more! that hand which I last saw placed so tenderly on the head of my kneeling bride! My friend, the bridge architect, I respect as a high-minded and most honourable gentleman; and good Mrs. Grimly will receive from me a most cordial greeting. You need not think of appropriating to yourself all the joy, leaving me nothing but self-sacrifice to console me. But there is one thing, my dear Eula, that we must not forget. You know we are going quite strong in number,


and people are not accustomed, at the North, to visit in caravans, as we do. My sister, who will accompany us, has no claims on the hospitality of your home. Nay, let me finish my declamation. Our little Effie is another interloper. Then, two servants, my own inseparable shadow, and the nurse to the honourable heir of the house of Moreland, will make in addition a goodly company."

  "I was thinking I had better not take a nurse," said Eula. "Ildegerte's experience has intimidated me."

  "It should rather give you courage. There is no danger of any of them being induced to follow Crissy's example. Netty, who is now the wife of Albert, may go, in place of Kizzie, whose ample person is something of an encumbrance to a traveller. I do not intend that you shall endure the fatigue of a mother's cares unassisted, or that your parents shall be burdened with the expense of our family during our long summer visit. The fatted calf and golden ring of welcome will be ours; let this trifle" (putting a folded paper in Eula's hand) "be theirs. Coming from you as a filial offering, they will not shrink from receiving it. Do not blush, my Eula. Is not all mine thine, and all yours theirs, if occasion requires the appropriation? Had I millions to pour into their coffers, I never could repay them the countless debt I owe."

  "Flatterer!" exclaimed Eula, smiling through glistening tears. "Is not mine the debt, and shall not my


life repay it? How kindly, how generously and considerately do you relieve me of every anxiety! I well know that my father's means are limited; and the fear of drawing too largely on his resources has been the only drawback to my joyous anticipations. How can I do justice to my grateful heart?"

  "Hush, my wife; never, never speak of gratitude to me. If I could be angry with you, it would make me so."

  Kizzie would have been greatly mortified at being superseded by the young and airy Netty, had not Eula told her most truly that she could not leave the care of the household in any other hands than hers. Dicey was too aged to take the superintendence; Crissy too delicate in health, and Judy entirely too ignorant. They had lately received a valuable addition to the household establishment. Moreland, in accordance with the dying wishes of Davy, had sent for his wife and daughters, by a gentleman who was then travelling to the North. They had arrived, and were now members of his family. He had offered to settle them in a dwelling of their own, where they could be entirely independent, but they pleaded so earnestly to remain with him, that he could not refuse. This was a perplexing circumstance to him; for, notwithstanding the husband's and father's legacy, he looked upon them as free, and resolved never to be personally benefited by their labours, or to appropriate to himself the property bequeathed to him. He could


make no distinction in his treatment of them, however, and they seemed to desire none. Davy was now dead. His last injunction to them was, to place themselves under the protection of Master Moreland.

  This is a remarkable fact, and, if placed in the scales of justice, might outweigh a thousand exaggerated statements of oppression and cruelty. But prejudice is stronger than iron, more heavy than lead, more sounding than brass,—opposed to its weight, the deeds of an angel would be as down in the balance; the ordinations of Heaven but as dust. Its trumpet-cry to the sons of men is,"Tekel, Tekel! thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting!" Is there no invisible handwriting on the walls of its conscience? Is there not a greater than Daniel to interpret the mystic characters?

  At length the time appointed for the departure of the travellers arrived, and with it all the customary bustle and preparation. We have intimated before, that our good friend Kizzie was a very bustling body, and fond of creating a breeze wherever she moved. Now, when she was about to be left, with a charge scarcely inferior, in her estimation, to the seven churches of Asia, it is not strange that she should make her responsibilities known.

  "Yes! mistress," said she,—enumerating a few of her duties to Eula, with emphatic gesticulations,—"I shall have a heap of things to see to; but you'll find I've taken an obligation of the whole. There'll be the


pickles to make, the vegetables to be gathered, the peaches to dry, and the preserves, and jellies, and catchups to be put up; the watermillion rinds to be cut into citron; Master's winter clothes to be aired, so that the moths can't get in 'em, and your winter ones too, mistress; the linen aired, the carpets taken up, and the picter frames converted with muslin, to keep the flyspecs off. The curtains must be taken down, too, for they needn't be wasting themselves on nobody but niggers!"

  "You will really have a hard time, Kizzie," said Eula, compassionately, while Moreland laughed at Kizzie's tremendous vocabulary.

  "You had better let Jim and Crissy do the airing part," said he; "they understand it by this time."

  "I tell you, mistress," said Kizzie,—after honouring her master's remark with a respectful laugh,—"the hardest part of all is to part with little master. I love little missy, but your baby has got the nighest place in my heart. It goes mighty hard, mistress, to gin him up. If anything should happen, and you never bring him back no more!—"

  "Don't, Kizzie!—don't!"

  "I can't help it, mistress!" cried she, beginning to sob, while she hugged the beautiful boy in her arms, and pressed her cheek on its silky hair; "things is so unsartin in this world, and children's lives are nothing but spiders' webs, any way! Lord Almighty bless you,


honey sweet baby! and keep you a burning and a shining when Kizzie's candle done need no more snuffing!"

  Eula could not help being affected by the grief of the demonstrative Kizzie; and the young Russell seemed to appreciate, in its fullest sense, the affection of his old nurse. He clung to her neck, refusing to unlock his loving hands, till Moreland, with gentle firmness, withdrew him from her arms, and gave him in charge to the waiting Netty.

  "You must not forget me, either, mammy!" said Effie, blowing kisses to her from the carriage, where she had enthroned herself.

  "Bless your little heart, no!" cried the tender-hearted nurse, sobbing afresh.

  Ildegerte was very sad, for she remembered her last fruitless journey, and that she was lonely now; but the bright and beautiful morning, the air fragrant with the breath of opening roses, and the exhilaration of motion, soon produced a reaction in the spirits of the travellers, and Ildegerte's sadness became illuminated by the cheerfulness of her companions.

  While the travellers are pursuing their way rejoicing, we will turn to the beautiful New England village, to which the reader was introduced in the early pages of this history.

  How fresh and green and quiet it looks! Fresh as when baptized with the morning dew of creation, it first


reflected its Maker's smile; green as when emerging from the waters of the deluge, the dove of the ark hovered over its bosom. It was fair and beautiful three years ago: it is fair and beautiful now. Scarcely one new building has been erected, one change made to remind one of the insensible lapse of time. Mr. Grimby's sign, having an eagle on one side, and Washington, prim and dim, on the other, swings majestically in the wind, and the beautiful bridge constructed by Mr. Brooks, spans with its graceful arch the river's azure volume. There stands the church, with its glittering vane, and leaden dome, and snowy pillars, "looking tranquillity;" yonder is the parsonage, embosomed in its consecrated shades; and here is the well-known mansion, rising mid its grove of sycamore and mountain ash. Methinks it looks younger and fairer than it did three years ago,—and well it may, for it has just put on a new robe of paint, and the old green blinds have been rejuvenated also. Let us peep in the inside, and see if it wears the same familiar aspect. The painter's brush has been there likewise,—the ceiling is dazzling in its fresh, unsoiled whitewash, and the walls papered and bordered anew. Everything is as fair and smiling as a bride adorned for her husband.

  Ah! dear must be the daughter and sister for whose welcome even inanimate objects thus renew and beautify themselves!

  Eulalia's expected return was indeed an era in the


quiet, monotonous life of our villagers. There was not a house whose inmates were not excited, in some degree, by the anticipation. Even strangers, and there were a few, who had sought the retirement of the valley, participated, through sympathy, with the all-pervading feeling. If such was the general interest, what must have been the emotions of the household where, as a young divinity, she was enshrined and worshipped? Yet, while every chord of their hearts was vibrating with hope and quivering with love, there were one or two little discordant notes mingling with this music of nature. Moreland, the planter, whose princely abode and broad possessions Eulalia had so often described, was more awe-inspiring than the stranger who had wooed her for his bride. Then, he merely visited them, now he must be domesticated; and the contrast between his own luxurious style of living, and their plain and necessarily economical habits, would be inevitably more conspicuous. Then his sister—they shrunk from the thought of her being admitted into their simple, unadorned circle, accustomed as she had been to all the appliances of wealth. The house was small, the rooms low and old-fashioned, the furniture, most of it, handed down from other generations. Mrs. Hastings, with all her genuine piety and sound good sense, could not help occasionally being troubled and careful about these things. It was one of the weaknesses to which poor human nature is liable, and, though one of the most


excellent of her sex, she was still a woman, and had all a true woman's pride of appearance and self-respect.

  Betsy was in a perfect fever of expectation and preparation. She scarcely slept at night, thinking of the morrow's work. The ghost that haunted her came in the shape of the negro nurse. Albert she knew, and did not care for him; but Netty must be proud and "sarcy," and would turn up her nose at everything she saw and heard. She would give all the world if Miss Eula had left her at home. She was willing to work her fingers to the bone herself—she did not mind that; but she could not bear to be interfered with, as she knew she should be. Yet such is the inconsistency of human nature, that while Betsy gave utterance to these misgivings, she liked to boast of the style in which Miss Eula was coming, and would have been quite ashamed to have had any one suppose that she had to attend to her baby herself. The way she scrubbed and cleaned and cooked was almost miraculous. The genius of Aladdin's lamp hardly wrought more wonders than Betsy out of her limited materials.

  One day, after receiving a letter from the South, Mrs. Hastings entered the kitchen with a glowing countenance.

  "Betsy!" she said, "I want you to look out for a young girl, who can help you while Eula is here—a nice, respectable young person, who can wait upon table and put the rooms in order."


  Betsy opened her eyes wide, and dropped the shovel in her astonishment.

  "That would be grand," she answered; "that's what I've been wanting all along, but I was afraid to say it, 'cause you allers said you couldn't afford any extras."

  "We cannot do too much in honour of Mr. Moreland," said Mrs. Hastings. The letter of Eulalia was in her bosom, containing the munificent gift her husband had insisted upon her offering to her mother, and it was accompanied by words so sweet and affectionate, the most fastidious delicacy could not shrink from its reception. All that her warm and liberal heart had yearned to do, could now be done without impoverishing her husband, who was burdened with many cares.

  "To-morrow they will be here," cried Reuben, now a graduate of ———- College, with the highest honours of the institution adorning his reputation, and who had been distinguished among his classmates as the eloquent champion of Southern rights.

  "To-morrow and one day more, you mean," exclaimed Dora, in whose intelligent eyes and darkened hair the shade of three passing years softly rested. "How long the days are now! It seems as if they would never, never end!"

  The morrow came and went; the one day more was nearly closed, and Dora, in her best white frock and curls smooth as satin, stood on the gate. and, shading her eyes with her hand, watched the road through the


vista of lofty poplars, this side of the tavern. Reuben's glowing locks were seen leaning against the sycamore tree, which commanded the most distant view. Mrs Hastings, too agitated to leave the house, gazed through the windows, which often grew dim as she gazed. Mr. Hastings's portly figure stalked up and down the yard, in its suit of Sunday broadcloth; and Betsy flourished about the kitchen in her finest calico frock, pinned up to be sure, and guarded by a blue-checked apron. Never were the setting-sun rays so anxiously watched. Every object seen through the poplar vista was a coming carriage. Sometimes it proved a black cow, sometimes a gentleman in black with a white vest, who was mistaken for a white-faced horse. The buzzing of a humble-bee was converted into the humming of distant wheels, and the haziness of twilight for the dust that heralded the approaching carriage. For hours, the supper stood untouched on the table, waiting for the expected guests, but they came not. Dora, who had soiled her white dress rubbing against the gate, and strained her eyes till they ached, and their clear white was streaked with little blood-shot veins, went supperless and weeping to bed. Betsy folded up her nice calico frock, grieved that she had tumbled it for nothing, and sighing over the flannel cakes so light and melting, and the muffins, white and porous as the froth of albumen.

  "What was the reason folks never come when folks were ready and looking for them? 'Twas such a putty


time to come about sundown, and have a whole night to rest in! One does hate to be cotched in their duds!"

  Poor Betsy! people are so perverse they never will come at the exact moment,—they will take their own time, and it is generally the very worst in the world.

  The morning was veiled in mist, so dense that not one solitary sunbeam could penetrate it. As Betsy said, "one could hardly see a hand before them." The disappointment of the preceding evening had cast a gloom over the family; and Dora wondered if it would be possible to live through another long day of expectation,—and foggy days were so dreary, they were longer than any other. But a short time before noon, the fog began slowly to lift up, like the curtain of a theatre, revealing the charming scenery concealed by its folds. It rose, becoming more and more thin, and brightening as it rose, till it assumed the appearance of transparent, silvery gauze, through which the green foliage was seen waving and sparkling, and the spring flowers softly glowing. It rested, a gossamer canopy, on the tops of the sycamores, then, melting into soft, bluish wreaths, floated up into the depths of ether. Just as the silver veil was slowly lifting, the sound of carriage-wheels was heard, right at the very gate, before any one was aware of their coming. Two carriages were there, and the steps of both let down before the door flew open, and the welcome home commenced. Oh! was not the glorious sunburst, penetrating the vaporous, gauze-like


folds, an emblem of the joy of that meeting hour,—a joy shining through tears! That lovely youthful matron, with such a pale yet radiant face, who throws herself trembling in her mother's arms,—ah! that is sweet Eula Hastings, the flower of her native village! That beautiful boy, nestling, dove-like, in its father's bosom, and looking wonderingly at the strange faces that surround it,—that cherub boy is hers. For one moment, even Moreland was forgotten, who turned with glistening eyes to his sister, that seemed to say,

  "You see, New England hearts are warm and tender as our own."

  The Southern stranger was not chilled by her reception, though her own demonstrative nature exceeded its warmth. Her heart involuntarily sprang forward to meet Mrs. Hastings, whom she loved already, as the mother of Eulalia. When she came forward to greet her, with that air of subdued kindness which shows there is a well-spring flowing within, and extended her hand to the young creature clad in the sable weeds of widowhood, Ildegerte threw her arms round her neck, and exclaimed,

  "Let me be your daughter, too!"

  The warm embrace that followed this petition was a mute but expressive answer. Was this the lady whom her imagination had invested with such stately grace and aristocracy, whose coming she had secretly dreaded,


this fair, pensive, loving being, who claimed so sweetly her maternal love?

  The little black-eyed fairy, whose hand is already closely locked in Dora's, every one knows it is Effie, "the child of the sun," as Eula had often called her; Dora leads her into the house with such a protecting, motherly air, so confidential yet so patronizing, it is impossible to describe it. Dora has become such a precocious little woman, since Eula left her home, has so many responsibilities resting upon her, as the only unmarried daughter,—has so many of Eula's proteges to take care of, and her own reputation to sustain as the brightest scholar in school, that there is some danger of her losing some of the graces of childhood, without receiving a full equivalent. The wild and pranksome Effie will soon bring her back to the right level.

  The "neat-handed Phillis," who had been engaged as Betsy's assistant, insisted upon relieving Netty of the carpet-bags and bundles which she was bearing, so that, fortunately, Netty's first impression of the village servants was, that they were very polite and well-bred; and Albert, who was never outdone in politeness, insisted upon taking them from the "neat-handed Phillis," who, on her part, thought the Southern slaves the best bred people in the world. But where was Betsy herself, that she had not appeared to welcome one whom she so dearly loved? She had been flying halfway upstairs


stairs, and halfway down stairs, in a state bordering on distraction,—resolving one moment she would change her domestic morning dress, the next, thinking it would take too long,—almost crying for joy at the thought of seeing Miss Eula's beautiful face once more, yet recoiling in imagination from the "sarcy" black negro, who accompanied her.

  Eulalia's affectionate heart waited not for Betsy's vacillating and bewildered movements. Catching her baby in her arms, she sought the kitchen with eager steps, and found Betsy hovering, like Mahomet's coffin, between two counter influences.

  "Why dear, good, faithful Betsy, how glad I am to see you!" cried she, her voice tremulous from excitement, and pressing Betsy's callous hand in her soft and rosy palm. "I have brought my boy to show you—my fair and beautiful Southern blossom."

  Betsy gazed upon the mother and gazed upon the child with brimming eyes, that soon overflowed in a genuine heart-shower.

  "Oh! you are puttier than ever, Miss Euly!" said she, laughing and crying in the same breath, "and just as good—better you couldn't be. And is this your own sweet precious baby—the beautifulest darling that ever my eyes sot upon!"

  There was something in Betsy's homely, but honest, sterling features that attracted Master Russell's discriminating


eyes, and, with a most engaging smile, he extended his snowy arms towards her.

  "Bless his little heart and soul! I'm ashamed to touch him, that I am—all in my dirty morning working clothes. I dressed in my best last night and you didn't come, and now ain't I a sight to see?"

  "You look very well indeed, Betsy, and your kitchen, as usual, as neat as wax. How is your poor lame brother, Betsy?"

  "He is better off, a great deal, Miss Euly, for he's gone to Him that makes the lame to walk like the bounding roe. For a long time it seemed as if I'd nothing to live or work for; but them that has a plenty to do hasn't time to spend a grieving, and it's a mercy in the end."

  It is not to be supposed that so important a personage as Eulalia would be suffered to remain alone in the kitchen, for the doorway was soon filled with those that followed her movements and hung upon her accents, as if her lips dropped manna. Moreland greeted Betsy with genuine cordiality, and Count D'Orsay himself could not have displayed more grace than Albert, in introducing his young and coquettish-looking bride to the sturdy, republican Yankee servant. Netty though herself vastly superior to Betsy, but she, had been so well drilled by Albert in the proprieties of a Northern kitchen that she condescended to be very courteous and genteel. Indeed she stood too much in awe of her master to do anything which she knew would displease him.


Betsy saw the vision of the insolent black woman fade away, and a trim, smiling, smooth-faced mulatto beaming in its place. From moment she extended the hospitalities of the kitchen with excellent good-will. Betsy was an uncommon instance of unchanging devotion to one family, in the midst of general fluctuation. It is not often that you find, among Northern servants, one who remains, as she had done, a fixture in the household, identified with the best interests of the family, and participating heartily in all its joys and sorrows. But in a small inland town, where the tide of emigration does not come flowing in, there is less of the spirit of change than in the large cities. Those who prefer labouring in a family to toiling in the crowded factories, are generally of steady, domestic habits, and, having made up their minds to work as a necessity, see no advantage in rolling, like the stone that gathers no moss, from door to door.

  Had Mr. Hastings become reconciled to his Southern son-in-law? One would suppose so, from the bright sparkling of his keen black eyes, the constant friction of his hands, and the "very happy to see you again," that repeatedly gladdened his lips. Not that he had voluntarily yielded one iota of his principles—he still persisted that they were as firm as Mount Atlas; but he was more guarded in the expression of his feelings, and the letters of his daughter had insensibly wrought a change in them greater than he himself was aware of.


He could not but respect and admire the character of Moreland, and rejoice in the happiness of Eulalia. He was proud, too, of the wealth of her husband, and the distinction his alliance had given the family.

  The being, beloved as Eulalia was, returning after the absence, even of a few years, to the bosom of her family and friends, has an earnest of the bliss of reunion in the spirit-world. There was no mistaking the testimonies of joy and affection that greeted her wherever she moved. The venerable Dr. Ellery, her beloved pastor, shed tears of joy when he embraced her; and when, with all a mother's pride and tenderness, she placed her blooming boy in his arms, he raised it towards heaven, and blessed it with the inspiration of a prophet and the solemnity of a saint. Then gently drawing it to his bosom, he said,

  "I remember you, my daughter, an innocent, smiling babe, thus nestling in my paternal arms. I love to look back to that period, seeing before me the fulfilment of my fondest prayers. I love to look forward to the future destiny of this child. The blood of the North and the South is blended in its veins, and may he be a representative of the reunion of these now too divided parties!"

  "Amen!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings. The spirit certainly moved him to utter it, for he seemed as much electrified by its sound as any of his auditors. The truth was, that little child, with its soft, downy touch,


had done more to make Mount Atlas shake, than the giant efforts of reason, or the strong though invisible pressure of conscience.

  On the following Sunday, Eulalia, dressed as she was accustomed to do as a village maiden, in simple, unadorned white, took her place behind the green curtain with the choral throng. With but few exceptions the same choristers were there, composing the singing band, the same "Harmonicas Sacras" lay open, at the notes of the same old, majestic anthems, which were wont to usher in the morning worship of the temple. The temple itself was unchanged. Pure from the breath of sacrilege, its walls presented the same spotless surface, and the same spotless hands ministered at the altar. When the choir rose, and, with a simultaneous burst of melody, chanted the sublime hymn commencing thus—

"Before Jehovah's awful throne,
Ye nations bow with sacred joy;"

  Eulalia met the uplifted eyes of her husband, and they both remembered the first time he had heard her voice sustaining the magnificent chorus. The memories of three years of wedded happiness, such as seldom is given to mortals to enjoy, were gathered in that single glance. Her heart swelled with adoring gratitude, and gave utterance to its emotions in strains of angelic sweetness and power. There were some, whose aged ears had never hoped to hear that voice again, save in the celestial orchestra, were moved to tears as they listened, and


blessed the lips that still, pure from worldly guile, loved to sing the holy songs of Zion.

  Nature itself harmonized with the spirit of the scene, and breathed forth its gentlest, balmiest influences. The air, soft and bland as the gales of the South, stole in through the half-opened blinds, reverently parting the white locks of age, and fluttering the ringlets of childhood. Effie's gipsy curls and Dora's light-brown tresses, as they sat side by side, unbonneted, as children usually are during the heat of summer, were twined together by the loving gale. Beautiful representatives of the North and the South, they sat, with hand linked with hand and heart meeting heart! Oh! that they might be typical of that harmony which ought to exist between two regions which God has so greatly glorified, so abundantly blessed!

  Moreland was exceedingly gratified by the cordial manner in which the citizens expressed their congratulations for his return, greeting him at the door of the church, when the services of the morning were over Mr. Grimby's swarthy features wore quite a benignant glow.

  "What a man soweth, that doth he also reap."

  Moreland's charities, though unostentatiously bestowed by the gentle hands of his wife, had glided through the byways of the village, quietly as the stream that fertilized its soil, imparting, like its clear and shaded waters, greenness and bloom. The blessing of


the poor rested upon him, neutralizing the curse of fanaticism,—the anathema of prejudice.

  Where was the aged mother of Nancy? This was a question Moreland and Eulalia both asked. She dwelt in the almshouse, the abode she had so long dreaded to inhabit. After Nancy's death, it was impossible for her to remain alone, in her age and infirmity. Though all were kind to the lonely octogenarian, none could assume the heavy burden of her support. Few had a room to spare or time to devote to one requiring so much watchfulness in life's second childhood,—that sad, sad era, marked by the helplessness of infancy, without its innocence; the infirmity of age, without its majesty. So she was borne to the almshouse, where many of the poor, unhappy, scattered members of the great human family were doomed to meet. The building was ample and comfortable, their common wants were supplied; but the withered and rent associations of home were trailing after their weary steps, and hanging in mournful tangles round their broken hearts. Who, while they bless the benevolence that founded these institutions of mercy, does not pity the miserable beings who, deprived of all other shelter, are condemned to bear the cross of humiliation, and suffer the most melancholy of earthly privations? We would ask any unprejudiced person, if old Aunt Dicey, in her comfortable cabin, in the midst of home and its unbroken associations, was not happier than Dame Brown, the companion of the drivelling idiot,


the imbecile, the crazed, the lame, the halt, and the blind?

  The poor old creature wept like an infant, when Moreland and Eulalia sought her in her sad retreat. They tried to comfort her, but their own hearts were full. How strange it seemed, that she should be suffered to live, the survivor of all earthly ties and joys, with the clanking of life's broken chain ringing in her ears; and Nancy, the joy and comfort of her age, blighted and cut down in the flower of her youth!

  Never had Eulalia felt such an oppression of the heart, as in quitting that melancholy abode. The inequality of happiness in this world struck her with a force that was appalling. Why was she so richly blessed, and others so barren of comfort? Were poverty and suffering the black clouds prepared as the background for the exhibition of Christian graces? Must the earth for ever be darkened by the smoke of human suffering, creation for ever groan beneath the burden of sorrow and of want? Eulalia gave utterance to these interrogations, on her homeward path, and Moreland answered thus,—

  "I have pondered long and deeply over these things, and have come to the conclusion, that, if every individual would do all that he can to relieve the sorrows and trials of those within his reach, whom Heaven has placed under his immediate influence, the sum of human misery would gradually and surely diminish, and dwindle into


nothing. But man places himself on the hill-top, and, overlooking the valley at his feet, stretches his hands afar, grasping at intangible objects, and wasting his energies in fruitless and impossible efforts. He is not obliged to lift up his voice, to appease the groaning poor at his side,—the world will not hear the soft hushings of his benevolence,—his name will not echo to the distant hills. Every once in a while, he mounts a hobby, whose thundering hoofs trample down all individual rights, and disturb the repose of nations. Antislavery is the monomania of the present day; and a black face, provided it belongs to a fugitive, irrespective of every moral claim, a passport to favour and distinction."

  Moreland started, and a glow of pleasure illumined his serious and thoughtful countenance. Whom should he meet near the threshold of Mr. Hastings's door but his Western friend, Dr. Darley? The doctor was making a Northern tour, the present summer, and his route leading him through this beautiful village, he learnt, with joy, that he might have an opportunity of meeting his Southern friends. This unexpected addition to their happiness was duly appreciated by all, but most especially by the grateful Ildegerte, whose countenance became literally radiant with the joy of welcome. Mr. Hastings was "very, very happy to see Dr. Darley, and to entertain so distinguished a guest." He was proud of the honour—so proud and so happy that he almost


rubbed the skin from his hands by incessant friction. The doctor, who was an enthusiastic and poetic lover of the beauties of nature, and who thought he had found the loveliest resting spot in creation, consented to remain a few days, and, during that short time, he had an opportunity of exercising that commanding influence for the public good which he exerted wherever he went.

  A placard had been put up at Mr. Grimby's tavern, and in the most conspicuous public places, announcing that Mr. Howard, a distinguished philanthropist, would lecture on such a night in the Lyceum hall. He was to be accompanied by a fugitive slave, who would relate some of the most startling and thrilling incidents of the horrible system from which he had recently escaped.

  Mr. Hastings was placed in a very perplexing dilemma. His house had always been a kind of abolition-tavern, and all itinerant lecturers were received by him with all the honours of hospitality. They were sure to bring him letters of introduction, and he was sure to introduce them to the public with a glowing smile of patronage. Supposing this stranger came, with his sable satellite, expecting admission to his home, how could he receive him under the same roof with Moreland? Yet, if he refused, how recreant to the principles he had so often declared himself ready to die to defend! Dr. Darley, too, whose sentiments on the subject he had been careful to ascertain, and whose good opinion he was most anxious to secure, would consider


himself insulted as well as Moreland, by his countenance of one, the avowed champion of a cause, against which he had thrown the weight of his talents and the influence of his reputation. Poor Mr. Hastings was sadly troubled and perplexed. The large, staring black letters on the placards seemed branded on his mind, and by a most painful introspection, he beheld them from "morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve."

  "I want to hear this orator," said Moreland, "and his African colleague. If he has the eloquence of a Brainard, he may make every green leaf of the valley thrill. I want to hear Dr. Darley, too, on the other side of the question."

  "Not when Mr. Moreland is present."

  "Surely you, Dr. Darley, standing as you do on the borders of the West, with the North on one side and the South on the other, can speak with a far better grace than one whose personal interests are identified with either."

  "It will be as the occasion prompts," replied the doctor. "I do not believe I ever stayed three days in a place without being called upon to make a public address, by the imperiousness of circumstances."

  Moreland had related to him the history of Brainard, the insurrection he had plotted, the scene at the grave of Dilsy, and the after flight of Vulcan.

  "Perhaps this is the self-same man, figuring under a new name," said Dr. Darley.


  "I have been thinking so," replied Moreland.

  "If so, we may anticipate some great scenes," said the doctor, the merry spark in his eye scintillating with unusual brilliancy.

  This was not said in the presence of Mr. Hastings, who wandered like a restless ghost the whole afternoon of the appointed evening. Every knock made him start and change colour: but to his unspeakable relief his hospitality was unclaimed—the modern Howard had not yet made his appearance.

  When they arrived at the Lyceum Hall, it was already crowded almost to suffocation, all the front seats being occupied by ladies, and the window sills by little boys, with long republican sticks in their hands, ready to applaud the coming orator. Neither Mrs. Hastings, Eulalia, or Ildegerte were present, and Moreland, for reasons well known to himself, took the most remote and obscure corner of the hall. Dr. Darley glided in very quietly and seated himself at his side, while Mr. Hastings, with a reddening brow, walked forward with slow and measured tread to his accustomed place of honour on the platform.

  The appointed hour came and passed. Heads were constantly turning towards the door, shuffling feet betokened impatience, and there was an incessant coughing and hemming in the audience, as if they were endeavouring to fill up the awful pause of expectation. Some accident must have occurred to detain the orator: there


was no use in remaining longer in that close, oppressive atmosphere. Just then, a commotion near the door caused a sudden revulsion of feeling, the crowd divided, and a tall and slender figure, of erect and dignified mien, passed on towards the platform, ushered by the obsequious Mr. Grimby, and followed by a stout, brawny framed negro, black as the shades of Erebus. Moreland gave a sudden start, and laid his hand on Dr. Darley. He understood the pressure, and smiled. Yes! that was the sinewy arm which had forged the weapons of rebellion in the midnight forge, which had been wrapped in straining coil round his master's form when paralyzed by Paul's avenging blow. Yes! there were the murky brow, the sullen, bloodshot eye, the fierce, vindictive mouth, and glittering teeth of the Herculean rebel. But the orator! Moreland gazed upon his face, doubting and bewildered. Was it, could it be the false, hypocritical Brainard, thus transformed? His hair was short, and pushed far back from his high, fair forehead; Brainard's long, sleek, and meekly parted on his brow. A thick, dark beard, clustered round his mouth and chin, giving it a messy and bold appearance; Brainard's was smooth and sharp, as little Effie's classic eye had at once discovered;—yet there was the same half-sheathed, steel-like glance, and the voice, though more clear and ringing, had the same false, silver sound. The garb of the minister, the clothing of the sheep, were cast aside


for the bolder lion's skin, but the wolf was apparent behind them all.

  Moreland's blood began to seethe in his veins when he saw Vulcan, far more embruted and animal in appearance than when he defied him over the ashes of the dead, ascend the platform and sit down side by side with his own father-in-law; when he saw the vile impostor, whose path had been marked with the slime of the snake, the brand of the incendiary, and the steel of the assassin, standing in that elevated position, the centre of every gazing eye, assuming to be the champion of truth and humanity, while violating their most sacred rights. He announced himself as a traveller recently returned from the South, that beautiful, but accursed region, "where all save the spirit of man was divine." He had had the most abundant opportunities of studying and examining its social and domestic institutions, and he was prepared to lay the result before an intelligent and enlightened community. He began with the utmost calmness and deliberation, describing the delicious climate, the luxuriant vegetation, the gardens of roses, the bowers of jessamine, and groves of orange trees, which made an Eden of that smiling land. He dwelt with enthusiastic admiration on the grace and loveliness of its daughters, the brave and gallant bearing of its sons. One would have supposed that to praise was his only task; but he was making a flowering groundwork, to enhance by contrast, the effect of the hideous structure


he was about to rear upon it. Anon the hand that had been gently scattering roses, began to hurl the hissing thunderbolt, and in the wild and thrilling eloquence which succeeded, Moreland found no difficulty in recognising the splendid orator of the African church. He heard himself (for in what other planter's home had he been so closely domesticated?) described as a demon of cruelty, his slaves the subjects of the most atrocious barbarity, his plantation the scene of horrors that baffled the power of imagination to conceive. The clanking chain, the excoriating manacle, the gashing scourge, the burning brand, were represented as tortures in daily, nay, even in hourly use; the shrieks of womanhood, the cries of infancy, and the lamentations of age, as no more regarded than the yelling of wild beasts or the whistling of the wind. The audience was becoming painfully excited. Ladies were passing little bottles containing the spirits of ammonia from one to the other, and covering their faces with their white handkerchiefs; men groaned audibly, and many a dark and sinister glance was turned to the dim corner, where the Southern planter sat, unseen as yet by the orator of the night.

  "Hush, hush!" whispered Dr. Darley to the excited and indignant Moreland. "Not for worlds would I have you prematurely interrupt this scene. Wait, and you shall have a signal triumph."

  It was a terrible struggle with Moreland, to keep


from rushing forward and hurling the wretch from the platform, exposing him at once to the crowd, whom he was deluding by his falsehoods and magnetising by his electrical eloquence.

  "Behold," said Brainard, after having exhausted, for the time, the vocabulary of horrors, "behold one of the poor victims of Southern barbarity—behold his mutilated fingers, his branded and disfigured body. Hold out your hand, long-suffering son of Africa—and show the awful mark of your master's cruelty."

  Vulcan stretched out his left hand, in which the two central fingers were wanting, making a sickening chasm. We have already related the accident which caused this loss, as well as the burn which had left such an enduring cicatrice.

  "Look at this poor disfigured shoulder," continued Brainard, folding back the negro's shirt-collar and displaying a terrible-looking scar (probably embellished by a few touches of reddish paint). "This is but a small portion of the scars which seam and corrugate his whole body."

  Groans and faint shrieks were now heard from every part of the house, and again Dr. Darley's restraining hand was laid on Moreland's quivering arm.

  "Not yet, not yet! We must hear the negro's story. The climax is to come."

  But, just as Vulcan opened his huge lips to speak, in obedience to a gesture of Brainard, and people were


pressing forward, half standing in their eagerness to catch every word of the hideous speaker, a young man forced his way through the crowd in the doorway, and rushed to the centre of the hall. So sudden was his entrance, so rapid his movements, that no one recognized his colour till, slackening his pace and looking wildly round him, he disclosed the bright yellow hue and dark-beaming eyes of the mulatto.

  "Master, master, Mars. Russell!" he exclaimed, breathlessly, pantingly; "where are you? Why don't you speak, and tell 'em they're all lies? Why don't you tell 'em it's Vulcan, that tried to kill you, and Master Brainard, that tried to make everybody kill you? You may kill me if you want to!" cried he, shaking his clenched fist at the astonished Brainard. "I don't care if you do! I'll call you a story-teller and a rogue. I'd a heap rather be killed, than stand still and hear the best master that ever lived made out a monster of a brute!"

  It is impossible to give the faintest conception of the effect of this impassioned appeal. The young republicans in the windows brought down their sticks like rattling thunder, while, high above the din, several voices were heard exclaiming—

  "Put him out, put him out!" and many leaped forward to execute the order.

  "Stop!" exclaimed a voice of command, and Moreland, without waiting to make a passage through the


people, sprang from bench to bench, till he reached the spot where Albert stood, directly opposite the platform, in the full glare of the lamplight. With glowing cheek and flashing eye, he faced the bold, but now pale impostor and cowering slave, then turning to the people—

  "Let no one," he cried, "on their peril, touch this boy. He is under my protection, and I will defend him with my life. He has spoken the truth. This man is a vile impostor. Pretending to be a minister of God, he introduced himself into my household, and, under the cloak of religion, plotted the most damning designs. I received him as a friend, cherished him as a brother, and obtained for him the confidence of a generous and trusting community. I blush for my own weakness; I pity the delusion of others. As to the horrible charges he has brought against me and my Southern brethren, I scorn to deny them. If you could believe such atrocities of any man, your good opinion would be valueless to me. That you can believe them of me, knowing me, as most of you now do, I know it is impossible. Had he been less malignant, he had done me more evil."

  "I have spoken the truth, and nothing but the truth," interrupted Brainard, grinding his teeth with suppressed rage; "our black brother can bear witness to all I have declared."

  But "our black brother" did not seem disposed to back his falsehoods with the boldness he had anticipated. Though brute force, roused by long continued excitement


had once triumphed over moral cowardice, it gave him no sustaining influence now, and he shrunk and quailed before the thrilling eye of his deserted and injured master. The influence of early habits and feelings resumed its sway, and gloamings of his better nature struggled through the darkness of falsehood and treachery. Notwithstanding the bluntness of his perceptions, he felt the power of Moreland's moral superiority over Brainard, and when he found himself called upon to confirm his unblushing lies in the pure light of his master's countenance, a sudden loathing for the white man who could stoop to such degradation, filled his mind; and a strong desire for the favour he had forfeited and the place he had lost, stirred his heart.

  "Speak, Vulcan!" cried Moreland, who had marked the changes of his dark face with intense interest, "speak! and in the presence of an all-hearing God, say if this man utters the truth, or I."

  "You, massa, you!" burst spontaneously from the lips of the negro, and it seemed as if a portion of blackness rolled away from his face, with the relieving consciousness of having borne testimony to the truth.

  "Villain!" cried Brainard,—stamping his foot, and turning fiercely on the blacksmith,—"villain, you lie! you and your master—"

  "Order, order!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings, who had been terribly agitated during this scene. Before he could add another syllable, Moreland, with one bound,


stood upon the platform, and seizing Brainard by the arm, gave him a downward swing that sent him reeling against the living wall below. The act was instantaneous as lightning, and the mimic thunder of the pounding sticks followed the flash. Brainard could not, at any time, compete in strength with Moreland, and now, when indignation nerved the arm of the latter, it seemed to have a giant's sinews. Conscious of a great revulsion of feeling in the audience, since Vulcan's testimony against him, he began to feel the insecurity of his situation. Turning in desperation to the platform, like an animal at bay,

  "Sir," said he, addressing Mr. Hastings, "I appeal to you for redress, and protection from insult and outrage. I appeal to this whole assembly, as a stranger foully wronged. I appeal to Northern justice, for defence against Southern insolence and aggression."

  For one moment, there was a breathless stillness, awaiting the reply of Mr. Hastings. The face of Moreland crimsoned, and his heart throbbed audibly. Would Eulalia's father throw the shield of his protection round this man? If so, they must be for ever separated.

  "Sir," cried Mr. Hastings,—coming forward and speaking with emphasis, though in an agitated voice,— "I have no protection to offer an impostor and a liar. This people have no redress for one who insults them by asking it, in the face of such a shameful detection. He shall find to his cost, that Northern justice will


protect the South from aggressions and slanders like his!"

  A deafening shout went up as Mr. Hastings concluded, showing how warmly public sentiment was now enlisted in the cause of Moreland. Moreland, relieved from an intolerable dread, involuntarily grasped the hand of his father-in-law, and pressed it with more cordiality than he had ever felt before.

  Where was Dr. Darley all this time? Was he a cool, indifferent spectator of this exciting scene? By no means. Look at his keen, scintillating eyes, sparkling right over Brainard's shoulder; see the ignited, glittering particles they emit, and say if he is cool,—think of coolness if you can, in the presence of that countenance of fire. He has been biding his time, and it has come.

  "My friends," said he,—addressing Mr. Hastings and Moreland,—"may I stand by you a few moments? I have a few words which I would like to say to this good people, if they will permit me. I want this man to hear me, also," —laying his hand on Brainard's shoulder,—"I pray you," turning courteously to the gentlemen in his rear, "not to suffer him to depart."

  Mr. Hastings, who seemed quite inspired by the occasion, immediately descending the steps, led up Dr. Darley, and introduced him in the most flattering manner to the audience, as one of the most distinguished citizens of the American republic.


  "You see before you a plain, blunt man," said the doctor,—bowing with great dignity to the audience,—"as deficient as the Roman Antony in the graces of oratory and the flowers of rhetoric. Yet, I am given to making long speeches, and if I chance to indict one on you, you must impute it to the force of habit, rather than inclination. The man who has addressed you to-night, and who is a most wonderfully eloquent speaker, is not entirely unknown to me. No testimony of mine, however, is requisite, to add force to the words of Mr. Moreland, whom I am proud to call my friend, whose hospitality I have experienced, whose domestic virtues are fully known to me, and whose kindness to his black family I have myself witnessed and appreciated,—no testimony of mine is needed to give effect to the spontaneous tribute paid by this son of Africa to his master's truth and worth. Your own hearts have given the verdict, your own consciences bearing witness to the justice of the decree. But, I said before, I have some little knowledge of Mr. Howard,—alias, the Rev. Mr. Brainard,—alias, Mr. Hiram Coates."

  "Alias Ichabod Jenkins," cried a voice from the back part of the house.

  Brainard started as if he had been shot, but there was no egress through that mass of living beings.

  "I doubt not that he has innumerable aliases," continued the doctor, "but my present business is with Mr.


Hiram Coates, who figured rather extensively in the West several years since. His magnificent forgeries are even now the wonder of the Queen City, where I reside. Now, if a man is determined to be a villain, I like to see him go on a grand scale. If he sells his soul, he should set a lofty price. Gentlemen, I recognized this individual the moment I beheld him, as the accomplished criminal who broke the prison bars of the West, and eluded the punishment of his transgressions. His after course you have learned; and what his future will be, if his evil passions are allowed to have scope, it requires no prophetic inspiration to tell. He is a dangerous, unprincipled, and lawless man, who should no more be suffered to roam at large than the brindled tiger or the shaggy bear. If there is a sheriff present, I call upon him to arrest him, on my own responsibility. If not, I call upon every lover of the peace of society, every advocate for the rights of mankind, to assist in securing him, till proper legal measures can be taken."

  The prompt response of the sheriff, who was present, proved the alacrity with which he obeyed the summons. There was no escape for Brainard. Wherever he turned, detection glared him in the face. The individual who had called out "Alias Ichabod Jenkins," now came forward, and begged permission to recall to the public mind an incident which occurred in the county many years since. He asked if there were not some present who remembered a boy of that name put in the penitentiary


for theft, but whose sentence was mitigated in consequence of his extreme youth, and the influence of many benevolent individuals, who interested themselves largely in his behalf, and defrayed the expenses of his collegiate education. He reminded them of the notorious character the young man afterwards established, of his wonderful powers of dissimulation, and his successful villany. For years he had disappeared from public notice; but there he was, the self-same individual, and he would swear to his identity though hundred thousands were present endeavouring to prove the contrary.

  It is singular, but there are oftentimes moments in the life of individuals, who have seemed to possess a supernatural power of elusion, when an accumulation of evidence suddenly falls upon them, and they are crushed as if with a thunderbolt from Heaven; when the keystone of the proud arch of their iniquity gives way, and they are buried beneath its ruins.

  As they were bearing this man of many aliases out of the hall, he turned round, and bursting into a sardonic laugh, exclaimed—

  "Fools! dupes that you are! who strain at a gnat and swallow a camel! if I had not known your credulity, and proneness to believe evil of your brethren, I never should have prepared the black and bitter pill ye have been rolling as a sweet morsel under your tongue. You had better profit by the lesson."

  "Yes, my friends," said Dr. Darley, as soon as the


criminal had passed through the door, where the rabble received him with hootings and hissings of scorn, "it will be well to profit by a lesson which, though it comes from a polluted source, may be salutary to you. We are too prone to believe evil of others, to forget extenuating circumstances, to put our own consciences in other men's bosoms, to decide upon their motives of action, and shake them, at our own will and pleasure, over the borders of the flaming lake. I am a man of many faults, but there is one thing I claim as a virtue, and that is patriotism. I love my country—my whole country. I recognize no North or South, East or West in the affection I bear it. I find no cardinal points in my heart, though they are convenient to use for geographical purposes. Born in one of the Middle States, I emigrated, in my boyhood, to the West. Since I have been a man, I have devoted much of my time to travelling, and studying the great book of mankind. I have learned to respect the rights of my countrymen, wherever they reside; to appreciate their virtues, to judge kindly of their motives of action, and to mete them with the golden measure which I would have applied to myself. I have learned to consider the iron bed of Procrustes as an abomination of heathenism, and the shame of a Christian land. I do not believe that when you and I and the whole congregated universe shall be arraigned before the great God and Judge of all, that he will ask whether we came from the North or the South, the East or the


West (there will be no cardinal points in heaven either); that He will ask whether we were born in a free or a slave State: but whether we have been faithful to the responsibilities imposed upon us, faithful to our own peculiar duties; whether we have done all we could to advance the sum of human happiness, and to promote His sovereign glory."

  It is not our intention to repeat all that Dr. Darley said, for he spoke at least two hours, yet they scarcely seemed more than two minutes, so intent was the interest that hung upon his words. Every one felt that it was a whole-souled, whole-hearted, high-minded man who addressed them, lifted above all party zeal or sectional feeling, acknowledging the great brotherhood of humanity, while respecting the distinctions the Almighty has made. The kindling eye, the earnest tone, the impressive rather than the graceful gesture, the whole countenance illuminated with intelligence and sensibility, riveted the attention and made it impossible for it to wander.

  There was one present on whom the events of the evening and the eloquence they elicited had a most powerful and enduring influence—and that was Reuben Hastings. He had listened with unspeakable indignation to the false representations of Brainard, and with difficulty restrained himself from rushing forward as Albert had done, in defence of the slandered Moreland.

  But the youth of New England are accustomed to


repress their emotions, and habits of self-control are woven in with the woof and warp of their existence. At his father's indignant denunciation of the impostor, he could not help waving his hat in the air, while he pressed the other hand on his lips to hold back the exulting hurrah. Nor was he the only one who responded in heart to Mr. Hastings's remarks.

  "That was the best speech you ever made in your life, squire," said Mr. Grimby to him the next day. "You hit the nail right on the head. To tell the truth, squire, I begin to think we have been a little too hard on the Southern people. It won't do to believe everything we hear. I wouldn't feel as cheap another time as I did last night to be made President of the United States. Now, that doctor of the West is the right sort of man. He don't shut up one eye and squint with the other, but he looks wide awake all round him, and sees everything at once. There ain't many men could keep me standing two hours on my feet without knowing it, as he did. We needed just such a speech, and it will do us all good. I tell you what, squire, if all the Southern people were like your son-in-law, Mr. Moreland, I wouldn't say one word against them as long as I live."

  "There are few such men anywhere as Mr. Moreland," replied Mr. Hastings, delighted to find that he had not injured his social position by the stand he had taken the previous night. "You know," he added, in


a self-appreciating tone, while his palms gave each a friendly salute, "that I made a sacrifice, a great sacrifice, when I gave him my daughter; but, like every act of self-immolation, it has met its reward. If ever woman was happy in marriage, my Eulalia is."

  "If ever woman deserved to be happy, she does," said Mr. Grimby. On this the two gentlemen shook hands very warmly, and Mr. Hastings seemed to be attacked with a sudden cold, for he blew his nose and cleared his throat several times before he continued the conversation.

  Vulcan humbled himself in the dust before his master, begged to be reinstated in his favour and received again into his family, but this Moreland refused.

  "I forgive you, Vulcan," said he, "but I cannot place that confidence in your fidelity necessary to the relation that has existed between us. I have always said that the moment one of my slaves became rebellious in feeling to me, they might go. I want no unwilling service. You have an excellent trade, and, if steady and industrious, can earn a comfortable living. If you want money, I will give it to you. Come to me if you are in trouble, and I will relieve you,—but the relation of master and servant must exist no longer."

  Vulcan had one of those surly, animal natures, that grow affectionate and yielding under a stern, controlling will. He had not appreciated his master's favour while


basking in its sunshine, but now it withdrawn for ever, he crouched in abject submission at his feet.

  "I forgive you," again repeated Moreland, "but the rebel arm which dared to lift itself against my life, must never more wield the hammer or strike the anvil for me. Nothing can change this resolution. Go—you are free."

  Vulcan turned gloomily away, cursing the tempter who had lured him from the white-walled cabin, the "old plantation," and taught him to lift his hand against his once affectionate and indulgent master.

  The stirring events and denouement of that memorable night furnished subjects of conversation that appeared inexhaustible. The result was the diffusion of a more liberal, charitable, and enlightened spirit in the whole community. But the change in Mr. Hastings was most remarkable. His very person seemed to alter. His eyes looked larger, and his hair had a more subdued colour. He was constantly quoting Dr. Darley's opinions, and inveighed with great bitterness against one-sided and prejudiced people. As Mr. Brooks said, when first describing him to Moreland, he always had a hobby, which he rode without mercy. As his last had given him such a terrible kick, he resolved to discard it, and mounting another, it was not long before he was in danger of being carried as fast and far in an opposite direction. He talked a great deal about "our visit to the South" next winter, or rather the winter after next, of the fine prospects of "my son Reuben," who was to be


established there as a lawyer, under the patronage of "my son-in-law." He even spoke of the possibility of his remaining there himself, and opening a classical school.

  Shall we describe the visit of the Northern family to Eulalia's Southern home? Not minutely, lest we weary the reader by recapitulation; but it was an event unparalleled in interest in the lives of our villagers. It was long before Mrs. Hastings yielded her consent to the journey, well knowing that they would be placed under new obligations to the generous and uncalculating Moreland. But he bore down at last all her scruples, and when he had obtained her promise to accede to their wishes, he insisted upon carrying with them the young Dora, as a hostage of its fulfilment.

  When he told Betsy that she must accompany the family, as it would not be considered complete without her, she shook her head, and said,

  "I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for not being ashamed to ask me, but I ain't fit to travel about and wait on ladies. My place is in the kitchen, and I wouldn't feel at home anywhere else. I'd feel as strange as a fish out of water, anywhere, but where I had to knock about and scuffle with my work. People gets used to the way they live, and, though it mayn't be the best way, it's hard to turn 'em any other. Your fine niggers don't make fun of me here, 'cause they see me in the right place; but let me stick up as a lady's maid, and


go among 'em, I'd be the biggest laughing-stock under the sun!"

  Betsy was right, and Eula, feeling that she was, did not endeavour to shake her resolution. She had too much regard for her feelings to wish to see her in an uncongenial situation, where her visible awkwardness might expose her to ridicule, and her innate worth be undiscovered or unappreciated.

  The family made their visit in the winter season; but they were not suffered to return till they had witnessed the beauty and magnificence of a Southern spring,—a spring which does not break forth at once, in the full glory of the Northern season; but comes stealing gently on the scarcely perceptible footsteps of departing winter, showering roses, and distilling the odours of Paradise. They were enchanted with the climate, the luxuriant vegetation, the wilderness of blossoms and profusion of sweets, and even bondage, which at a distance had seemed so dark and threatening, lightened up as they approached it, like the mist of their valley, and receded from their view.

  They passed a week at the plantation, from which all traces of the arch-fiend Brainard were now removed, and their respect and admiration for Moreland were heightened, when they saw him in his true position of planter and master, and filling it with such dignity, firmness, and humanity. Mr. Hastings acknowledged, that, if all masters established as excellent regulations, and


enforced them with the same kindness, wisdom, and decision, the spirit of Abolitionism would die away for want of fuel to feed its flames. He carried a memorandum-book in his pocket, which he filled with notes, as materials for a new course of lectures, with which he intended to illuminate the prejudices of the Northern people. He had relinquished the idea of the classical school, believing that he would not be considered as great a man at the South as in the little village of which he had long been the intellectual autocrat. His son Reuben was to remain as his representative, and among his parting injunctions, while rubbing his hands with serene self-complacency, he warned him from cultivating an illiberal, narrow spirit, and bade him sustain his father's reputation for candour and philanthropy.

  Perhaps some young, romantic girl may ask, "Did Ildegerte never marry again?" Perhaps they may wish that Dr. Darley were a young man for her sake, or that he had not devoted himself with such matchless constancy to the memory of his buried wife. It is certain, that Ildegerte values his esteem and friendship now more than the admiration of more youthful men; but the time may come when her blighted affections will bloom afresh, and another fill the place of the departed Richard. She is still young and very beautiful, a charming representative of her native South, by the side of the Northern Eula.

   We are loth to leave her, our sweet "Northern bride,"'


now a wife and mother, far happier than the bride; but, committing her to the guardianship and kindness of generous public, we bid her farewell.

  We know there are some who will throw aside the pages, with the impression that they give false and exaggerated views of Southern life; but, with a conviction that a God of truth beholds the lines traced by the hand which He has formed, we give them to the world. We have not gone groping in dark by-lanes and foul dens for tales of horror, which might gratify a morbid and perverted taste; but we have described what we have seen and known, without the intention of enhancing what is fair or of softening what is repulsive. We believe the Southern character to be misunderstood, misrepresented, and wronged, and that it is the duty of those in whose minds this conviction is rooted, to vindicate it, as far as their influence extends, from calumny and animadversion.

  Not merely in the expectation of honour or profit, have we entered the lists as a champion of the South, but from a motive which we glory in acknowledging. We love it as the home of noble, generous hearts, of ingenuous and lofty minds. We love the magnanimity and chivalry of its sons, the pure and high-toned spirit that animates its daughters. Shall we dwell in its beautiful bowers and see the canker-worm eating into the heart of its blossoms, without reaching out a hand to rescue their bloom from the destroyer? Shall we breathe


its bland, delicious climate, and know that the noxious miasma is rising and spreading, without endeavouring to disperse its exhalations, or trying to counteract its deadly influence? We love the North—

Land of the wild and wintry blast,
Of spirits high and glowing,

  of minds exalted and refined, of hearts steadfast and true; even its snows and icicles are dear to our bosom; but it needs no champion to assert its uninvaded rights. Enthroned on its granite hills, it reigns in unmolested grandeur and serene repose. No volcanic elements are heaving under its wintry shroud, or threatening to lay waste its summer bloom. But, should the burning lava of anarchy and servile war roll over the plains of the South, and bury, under its fiery waves, its social and domestic institutions, it will not suffer alone. The North and the South are branches of the same parent tree, and the lightning bolt that shivers the one, must scorch and wither the other.