“Remember, Mr. Scranton,” ejaculated the deacon, “there’s where you mistake the man in the negro; and through these arguments, set forth in your journal, we suffer. You must have contracted them by association with bad slave-owners. Mark ye! the negro has been sunk to the depths where we yet curse him; and is it right that we should keep him cursed?-to say nothing of the semi-barbarous position in which it finds our poor whites. He feels that his curse is for life-time; his hopes vibrate with its knowledge, and through it he falls from that holy inspiration that could make him a man, enjoying manhood’s rights. Would not our energy yield itself a sacrifice to the same sacrificer? Had we been loaded with chains of tyranny, what would have been our condition? Would not that passion which has led the Saxon on to conquest, and spread his energy through the western world, have yielded when he saw the last shadow of hope die out, and realised that his degradation was for life-time? Would not the yearnings of such a consummation have recoiled to blast every action of the being who found himself a chattel? And yet this very chattel, thus yoked in death, toils on in doubts and fears, in humbleness and submission, with unrequited fortitude and affection. And still all is doubted that he does, even crushed in the prejudice against his colour!”
“Well, deacon, you perfectly startle me, to hear a southerner talk that way at the south. If you keep on, you’ll soon have an abolition society without sending north for it.”
“That’s just what I want. I want our southerners to look upon the matter properly, and to take such steps as will set us right in the eyes of the world. Humanity is progressing with rapid strides-slavery cannot exist before it! It must fall; and we should prepare to meet it, and not be so ungrateful, at least, that we cannot reflect upon its worth, and give merit to whom merit is due.” Thus were presented the north and south; the former loses her interests in humanity by seeking to serve the political ends of the latter.
Mrs. Rosebrook’s project.
At this juncture of the conversation, a sprightly, well-dressed servant opens the parlour-door, announces missus! The deacon’s good lady enters. She is a perfect pattern of neatness,—a finely-developed woman of more than ordinary height, with blonde features, and a countenance as full of cheerfulness as a bright May morning. She bows gracefully; her soft eyes kindle with intelligence as she approaches Mr. Scranton, who rises with the coldness of an iceberg.