This does not apply to slavery.  A man born a slave, in a country where slavery is allowed by law, should feel the obligation of doing his duty while a slave; but Mr. Wilson, carried off by Indians, would feel as if he had been called to a state of life previous to the one in which he was so unfortunate to be doomed, while he was among savages.

George goes on to say—­“Let any man take care that tries to stop me, for I am desperate, and I’ll fight for my liberty.  You say your fathers did it:  if it was right for them, it is right for me.”

Too fast, George!  You are out in your history, too.  Your master must be a remarkably ignorant man if you know more than he.  Our glorious ancestors were never condemned to slavery, they nor their fathers, by God himself.  Neither have they ever been considered in the light of runaways; they came off with full permission, and having honestly and honorably attained their liberties, they fought for them.

Besides being of a prettier complexion, and coming of a better stock than you, they were prepared to be free.  There is a great deal in that.

Then, those very ancestors of ours—­ah! there’s the rub—­(and the ancestors of the Abolitionists, too,) they got us and you into this difficulty—­think of it!  They had your ancestors up there in New England, until they found you were so lazy, and died off so in their cold climate, that it did not pay to keep you.  So I repeat to you the advice of Mr. Wilson, “Be careful, my boy; don’t shoot anybody, George, unless—­well—­you’d better not shoot, I reckon; at least, I wouldn’t hit anybody, you know.”

As regards the practice of marking negroes in the hand, I look upon it as one of the imaginary horrors of the times—­delusion like spiritual rappings, got up out of sheer timidity of disposition, though I have heard of burning old women for witches in New England, and placing a scarlet letter on the bosom of some unhappy one, who had already sorrow and sin enough to bear.

It won’t do; the subject has, without doubt, been duly investigated already.  I’d be willing (were I not opposed to betting) to bet my best collar and neck ribbon, that a committee of investigation has been appointed, consisting of twelve of Boston’s primmest old maids, and they have been scouring the plantations of the South, bidding the negroes hold out their hands, (not as the poor souls will at first suppose, that they may be crossed with a piece of silver,) and that they are now returning, crest-fallen, to their native city, not having seen a branded hand in all their journeying.  Could aught escape their vigilance?  But they will say they saw a vast number, and that will answer the purpose.

(Ah!  Washington Irving, well mayest thou sigh and look back at the ladies of the Golden Age.  “These were the honest days, in which every woman stayed at home, read the Bible, and wore pockets.”  These days are for ever gone.  Prophetic was thy lament!  Now we may wear pockets—­but, alas! we neither stay at home, nor read our Bible.  We form societies to reform the world, and we write books on slavery!)