Positively, I, living down here in Georgia, knew more about the character and condition of the coloured people of the Northern States, than he who lived right in the midst of them. Would you believe that beyond their laundress and a drunken negro that they occasionally employed to do odd jobs for them, they were actually unacquainted with any coloured people: and how unjust was it for him to form his opinion respecting a class numbering over twenty thousand in his own state, from the two individuals I have mentioned and the negro loafers he occasionally saw in the streets."

"It is truly unfortunate," rejoined Mr. Winston, "for he covers his prejudices with such a pretended regard for the coloured people, that a person would be the more readily led to believe his statements respecting them to be correct; and he is really so positive about it, and apparently go deaf to all argument that I did not discuss the subject with him to any extent; he was so very kind to me that I did not want to run a tilt against his favourite opinions."

"You wrote me he gave you letters to Philadelphia; was there one amongst them to the Mortons?"

"Yes. They were very civil and invited me to a grand dinner they gave to the Belgian Charge d'Affaires. I also met there one or two scions of the first families of Virginia. The Belgian minister did not seem to be aware that slavery is a tabooed subject in polite circles, and he was continually bringing it forward until slaves, slavery, and black people in general became the principal topic of conversation, relieved by occasional discussion upon some new book or pictures, and remarks in praise of the viands before us. A very amusing thing occurred during dinner. A bright-faced little coloured boy who was assisting at the table, seemed to take uncommon interest in the conversation. An animated discussion had arisen as to the antiquity of the use of salad, one party maintaining that one of the oldest of the English poets had mentioned it in a poem, and the other as stoutly denying it. At last a reverend gentleman, whose remarks respecting the intelligence of the children of Ham had been particularly disparaging, asserted that nowhere in Chaucer, Spencer, nor any of the old English poets could anything relating to it be found. At this, the little waiter became so excited that he could no longer contain himself, and, despite the frowns and nods of our hostess, exclaimed, 'Yes it can, it's in Chaucer; here,' he continued, taking out a book from the book-case, 'here is the very volume,'[*] and turning over the leaves he pointed out the passage, to the great chagrin of the reverend gentleman, and to the amusement of the guests. The Belgian minister enjoyed it immensely. 'Ah,' said he, 'the child of Ham know more than the child of Shem, dis time.' Whereupon Mrs. Morton rejoined that in this case it was not so wonderful, owing to the frequent and intimate relations into which ham and salad were brought, and with this joke the subject was dismissed. I can't say I was particularly sorry when the company broke up."

[Footnote * See Chaucer, "Flower and the Leaf."]

"Oh, George, never mind the white people," here interposed Mrs. Garie. "Never mind them; tell us about the coloured folks; they are the ones I take the most interest in. We were so delighted with your letters, and so glad that you found Mrs. Ellis. Tell us all about that."

"Oh, 'tis a long story, Em, and can't be told in a minute; it would take the whole evening to relate it all."

"Look at the children, my dear, they are half asleep," said Mr. Garie. "Call nurse and see them safe into bed, and when you come back we will have the whole story."

"Very well;" replied she, rising and calling the nurse. "Now remember, George, you are not to begin until I return, for I should be quite vexed to lose a word."

"Oh, go on with the children, my dear, I'll guarantee he shall not say a word on the subject till you come back."

With this assurance Mrs. Garie left the room, playfully shaking her finger at them as she went out, exclaiming, "Not a word, remember now, not a word."

After she left them Mr. Garie remarked, "I have not seen Em as happy as she is this afternoon for some time. I don't know what has come over her lately; she scarcely ever smiles now, and yet she used to be the most cheerful creature in the world. I wish I knew what is the matter with her; sometimes I am quite distressed about her. She goes about the house looking so lost and gloomy, and does not seem to take the least interest in anything. You saw," continued he, "how silent she has been all tea time, and yet she has been more interested in what you have been saying than in anything that has transpired for months. Well, I suppose women will be so sometimes," he concluded, applying himself to the warm cakes that had just been set upon the table.

"Perhaps she is not well," suggested Mr. Winston, "I think she looks a little pale."

"Well, possibly you may be right, but I trust it is only a temporary lowness of spirits or something of that kind. Maybe she will get over it in a day or two;" and with this remark the conversation dropped, and the gentlemen proceeded to the demolition of the sweetmeats before them. And now, my reader, whilst they are finishing their meal, I will relate to you who Mr. Winston is, and how he came to be so familiarly seated at Mr. Garie's table.

Mr. Winston had been a slave. Yes! that fine-looking gentleman seated near Mr. Garie and losing nothing by the comparison that their proximity would suggest, had been fifteen years before sold on the auction-block in the neighbouring town of Savanah—had been made to jump, show his teeth, shout to test his lungs, and had been handled and examined by professed negro traders and amateur buyers, with less gentleness and commiseration than every humane man would feel for a horse or an ox. Now do not doubt me—I mean that very gentleman, whose polished manners and irreproachable appearance might have led you to suppose him descended from a long line of illustrious ancestors. Yes—he was the offspring of a mulatto field-hand by her master. He who was now clothed in fine linen, had once rejoiced in a tow shirt that scarcely covered his nakedness, and had sustained life on a peck of corn a week, receiving the while kicks and curses from a tyrannical overseer.

The death of his master had brought him to the auction-block, from which, both he and his mother were sold to separate owners. There they took their last embrace of each other—the mother tearless, but heart-broken—the boy with all the wildest manifestations of grief.

His purchaser was a cotton broker from New Orleans, a warm-hearted, kind old man, who took a fancy to the boy's looks, and pitied him for his unfortunate separation from his mother. After paying for his new purchase, he drew him aside, and said, in a kind tone, "Come, my little man, stop crying; my boys never cry. If you behave yourself you shall have fine times with me. Stop crying now, and come with me; I am going to buy you a new suit of clothes."

"I don't want new clothes—I want my mammy," exclaimed the child, with a fresh burst of grief.

"Oh dear me!" said the fussy old gentleman, "why can't you stop—I don't want to hear you cry. Here," continued he, fumbling in his pocket—"here's a picayune."

"Will that buy mother back?" said the child brightening up.

"No, no, my little man, not quite—I wish it would. I'd purchase the old woman; but I can't—I'm not able to spare the money."

"Then I don't want it," cried the boy, throwing the money on the ground. "If it won't buy mammy, I don't want it. I want my mammy, and nothing else."

At length, by much kind language, and by the