“The gentleman who bears this letter is my husband’s cousin. He has all my husband’s generosity of character, and will seek you for the purpose of finding Annette, and bearing her safely to me. He has proffered his services, and sworn to carry out his object; and being on his way to New York for the purpose of entering into business with his uncle now in that city, will touch at Charleston, for the object herein stated. Further his object, my dear Franconia, and that heaven will reward the hand that in mercy helps the enslaved, “Is the prayer of your grateful “Clotilda Maxwell.”
“I knew mother would never forget me; I knew she would come back to me, would be kind to me, as she used to be, and save me from such cruelty as I have suffered. Several times have I resolved on putting an end to my unhappy existence, but as often did something say to me, ‘live hoping-there is a better day coming.’ God guides, governs, and raises up the weary soul,” says Annette, in touching accents, as Franconia finished reading the letter.
While this conversation is progressing, and the plan of getting Annette out of the city being devised, a nice supper, at Mrs. Rosebrook’s request, is being prepared in the adjoining room. To this the stranger is invited, and all sit down in a happy circle. Franconia seems invested with new life; Annette forgets for the time her troubles; Mrs. Rosebrook, who does the honours of the table, wishes every ill-used slave could find means of escaping into freedom; and Deacon Rosebrook says he will join heart and hand in getting the forlorn girl free from her base purchaser.
Other phases of the subject.
We must leave to the reader’s imagination much that transpired at the Rosebrook Villa during the night above mentioned, and ask him to accompany us on the following morning, when curious placards may be seen posted here and there at corners of streets and other conspicuous places about the city. Mr. Pringle Blowers has lost a beautiful female slave, whose fair hair, beautiful complexion, deep blue eyes, delicate features, and charming promise, is in large type and blackest printer’s ink set forth most glowingly. Had Mr. Pringle Blowers been a poet instead of a chivalric rice-planter, he might have emblazoned his loss in sentimental rhyme. But Pringle Blowers says poets always make fools of themselves; and, although the south is a sweet and sunny land, he is happy indeed that it is troubled with none of the miscreants. He owned niggers innumerable; but they were only common stock, all of whom he could have lost without feeling any more than ordinary disappointment at the loss of their worth in money. For this one, however, he had a kind of undefined love, which moved his heart most indescribably. Disappointed in the gratification of his desires, he is mortified