How had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little playmate of her childhood?  She, also, was very beautiful; but the flowers and sunshine of love were not for her.  She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery, whereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink.

In view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women of the north?  Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the right?  Would that I had more ability!  But my heart is so full, and my pen is so weak!  There are noble men and women who plead for us, striving to help those who cannot help themselves.  God bless them!  God give them strength and courage to go on!  God bless those, every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of humanity!

VI.  The Jealous Mistress.

I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among the slaves of America.  I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an unprincipled master and a jealous mistress.  The felon’s home in a penitentiary is preferable.  He may repent, and turn from the error of his ways, and so find peace; but it is not so with a favorite slave.  She is not allowed to have any pride of character.  It is deemed a crime in her to wish to be virtuous.

Mrs. Flint possessed the key to her husband’s character before I was born.  She might have used this knowledge to counsel and to screen the young and the innocent among her slaves; but for them she had no sympathy.  They were the objects of her constant suspicion and malevolence.  She watched her husband with unceasing vigilance; but he was well practised in means to evade it.  What he could not find opportunity to say in words he manifested in signs.  He invented more than were ever thought of in a deaf and dumb asylum.  I let them pass, as if I did not understand what he meant; and many were the curses and threats bestowed on me for my stupidity.  One day he caught me teaching myself to write.  He frowned, as if he was not well pleased; but I suppose he came to the conclusion that such an accomplishment might help to advance his favorite scheme.  Before long, notes were often slipped into my hand.  I would return them, saying, “I can’t read them, sir.”  “Can’t you?” he replied; “then I must read them to you.”  He always finished the reading by asking, “Do you understand?” Sometimes he would complain of the heat of the tea room, and order his supper to be placed on a small table in the piazza.  He would seat himself there with a well-satisfied smile, and tell me to stand by and brush away the flies.  He would eat very slowly, pausing between the mouthfuls.  These intervals were employed in describing the happiness I was so foolishly throwing away, and in threatening me with the penalty that finally awaited my stubborn disobedience.  He boasted much of the forbearance