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 [title page]

 

THE

 

NORTH AND SOUTH,

 

OR,

 

SLAVERY AND ITS CONTRASTS,

 

A TALE OF REAL LIFE.

 

 

 

"TRUTH IS" STRONGER "THAN FICTION."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is an annotated text of Caroline Rush’s The North and the South, or, Slavery and its Contrasts, published by Crissy and Markley in Philadelphia in 1852.  Original spelling, punctuation and page citations have been retained; minor typographic errors have been corrected.

 

This electronic edition has been prepared for the Antislavery Literature Project, Arizona State University, a public education project working in cooperation with the EServer, Iowa State University.   Digitization has been supported by a grant from the Institute for Humanities Research, Arizona State University.

 

Editorial annotation by Joe Lockard.  Digitization by Noel Borde,

Mahesh Bhutkar, Nilesh Ralbhat, and Manoj Salvi of NetConnect India.  All rights reserved by the Antislavery Literature Project.  Permission for non-commercial educational use is granted.

 

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Introduction

 

 Caroline E. Rush was a mid-nineteenth century Philadelphia writer who, alongside The North and the South (1852), published three proslavery novels.  These novels were Way-marks in the Life of a Wanderer: The Incidents Taken from Real Life (1850), Robert Morton, or The Step-mother, a Book Founded on Fact (1850), and The Dew-drop of the Sunny South; A Story Written from Everyday Life (1851).  Her literary reputation, never large, was limited to the decade of the 1850s.  There are no critical treatments of her writing currently available, and only the briefest mention of her proslavery novels appears in the critical literature.  Little biographical information currently is available concerning her life.

 The North and the South, or, Slavery and its Contrasts, defends Southern culture and slavery by comparing the supposed benevolence of slavery with the rapacious social cruelty of the Northern states.  Rush writes in explicit response to public sentiment against slavery aroused by publication of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, published beginning 1851 serially in the Washington antislavery newspaper The National Era.  This novel belongs to a wave of counter-fiction and prose attacks against  Uncle Tom’s Cabin.  See Alan Dowty, “Urban Slavery in Pro-Southern Fiction of the 1850s,” Journal of Southern History 32 (1966) 1:25-41, and Barrie Hayne, “Yankee in the Patriarchy: T.B. Thorpe’s Reply to Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” American Quarterly 20 (1968) 2, 1:180-195.  One of many Northerners writing pro-South texts, Rush makes clear that her purposes lie in defending slavery, beginning the first chapter in an authorial voice and writing:

 

“I do not for a moment imagine that any thing I can write can equal in style, logic or depth, that far-famed work of Mrs. Stowe, which has aroused a nation’s sympathy.  ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ is a highly wrought fiction, abounding in touching incidents, and clothed with dangerous sophistry, that indeed looks so much like truth, that it is often mistaken for it.” (9)

 

The truer slavery, Rush argued together with many defenders of slavery, lay in northern industrial cities where exploited workers ‘toil their weary way from the cradle to the grave, and whose worn, emaciated frames…sink into that quiet rest never known in life.” (10) Rush writes that she had daily social contact with abolitionists and opposed slavery, but lived in the South for three winters and learned that plantation life was entirely different from her suppositions.  She states that Stowe’s book is “an unjust and unfaithful picture of Southern life and character,” and “I do not deny that some such facts may have occurred, but as to their being matters of common incident, I do most fully, certainly, and unconditionally deny.” (12)  For a discussion of Rush and the factuality of romance literature, see Zeno Ackerman, “’Working at Romance’:  Poetics and Ideology in Novels of the Antebellum American South, 1824-1854,” Ph.D. dissertation, Universität Regensberg, 2004, at 193ff.

 Rush writes from a deeply racialist, racist and white supremacist position.  She states that while she would not refuse blacks kindness, the white race has “more honor, honesty, affection, virtue, every thing in fact, that tends to exalt the mind, and purify the character.” (14) She believes blacks to be “an idle, worthless, and improvident race,” and suggests that her Philadelphia readers walk through the mostly-black Seventh Ward with its “abodes of sin and debauchery” to witness the truth of her assertion. (15)  Rush condemns northern abolitionists for philanthropic hypocrisy, comparing her own charitable contributions and those of proslavery Southerners with those of ungenerous members of the Anti-Slavery Society.  (17; also 47)  She points to malnutrition and starvation among factory workers and the poor in northern cities as a manifestation of “white bondage” (21) that she alleges abolitionists ignored in favor of intervention into Southern culture.  The tragic hero of her novel is a young woman, Gazella, “one of those White Slaves of the North whose sufferings are unheeded…in whose gentle, uncomplaining life of toil and privation, is crowded more real and degrading slavery, than falls to the lot of any twenty slaves of the South.” (31) Or, when poverty causes a white mother to relinquish a child for adoption, Rush writes: 

 

“Say what you will, the affections of the Negro are never so strong as those of the white man.  The tenderness that is bur natural in the breast of a white mother, is very much lessened in the blacks, and I have here convinced you that the bondage of poverty, forces a lady to give up her child to the care of strangers, with scarcely a hope of ever seeing her again.  So then, here is another proof of the slavery that exists in the North.” (238)

 

Throughout the novel, Rush elaborates an antagonistic comparison between poor Northern whites and satisfied Southern black slaves, arguing that slavery protects blacks from far worse exploitation and oppression.  While she voices concern for the welfare of the urban working classes, that concern is deployed to instantiate alleged failures of abolitionists to reform conditions in northern cities.   Frequently Rush employs personal witness interspersed in the narrative to evidence such conditions. For example, she complains 

 

“How little do your Abolitionists seem to think or sympathize with such cases of cruelty as this…I lived, myself, within a few doors of a so-called respectable family, who had a little bound girl…They dressed her in the meanest tatters, fed her with what was scarcely fit for a dog, and made her to work so hard, that the flesh absolutely left her bones, and she was little more than a walking skeleton.  They used to whip her so unmercifully, that her cries for help resounded through the neighborhood…” (99)

 

Rush compares this adversely to the South, where she asserts that masters used whipping very sparingly and only as a disciplinary last resort.  Rather, she states, “No one has a right to draw inferences and declaim against abuses, until they are positive that such abuses exist, and it is very certain that no intelligent, sincere, plain-spoken man or woman will go through the Southern country, as I have done, and come back and write a book on the cruelty of masters to their slaves.” (100) Concern for distant uncertainties, Rush argues, is misplaced where there are near-at-hand certainties of poverty, she informs readers, where “you live in the midst of poverty that you never see; while your houses are within hail of those poor wretches, who are starving for the bread thrown to your dogs, and while you continue to grind down the wages of that most desolate and pitiable class of all the poor, the plain needle-women.” (131) With such arguments and a sentimental novel plot upon which to illustrate it, Rush provided a prose fiction echo of Southern demands that the Northern states not interfere with slavery and instead recognize the suffering caused by their own economic system.

 

Plot Summary

 

 The novel traces the mostly-declining fortunes of the Harley family, from a wealthy merchant home in New York City to obscure poverty in a Philadelphia slum district.  Frank Harley, the father, makes a poor business decision under the influence of alcohol, goes bankrupt, loses his health, and can no longer work.  Once a rich woman, Mrs. Harley becomes a seamstress in order to support their seven children, work in which her eldest daughter, Gazella, joins.  Despite hard work their living conditions remain desperate; an infant daughter, Ida, dies of fever.  Entries from Gazella’s journal constitute long passages of the novel.  They describe and ever-continuing process of impoverishment, degradation, and the depredations of disease.  

 To reduce household expenses, the Harley family apprentices its children and a continuing string of tragic consequences result.  One daughter, Lily, goes into service with the Anson family, where she is severely mistreated and whipped.  Another son, Harry, is placed with a Chester County farmer, Timothy Hardgripe, and gets heavily overworked and beaten.  Ellen, placed with another farm family outside Philadelphia, is so abused that she commits suicide by drowning herself in the Schuylkill river at age ten.  Yet another son, Frank, is disabled and can help his family only by weaving baskets.  Only Rose, twin sister of Lily and adopted by the Atlees, a proslavery Quaker family with homes both in Philadelphia and on Maryland’s eastern shore, receives a good education and opportunities.  

  The father, Frank Harley, eventually succumbs to his ill-health and is buried alongside his two children who pre-deceased him.  After Harley dies, his widow bears a final child, once again named Ida.  The family’s misfortunes are further compounded when the now-widowed mother is seized on a false and malicious complaint and lodged in Walnut Street prison, from where she obtains release through the assistance of the Atlees.  Dire circumstances cause the loss of another child. During a visit in the North from her Mississippi plantation, the wealthy Mrs. Dunlap pays a charitable visit to the Harley family and adopts Ida, now age two.  

 Troubles continue to plague the Harley family; some survive them, and others succumb.  Gazella, who has sustained the family and her mother, dies after a long illness.  Harry fights with his master and is imprisoned on false charges of horse-stealing.  He gains release after a trial that reveals his master’s abuse, and is offered a sailor’s berth on a merchant vessel owned by Mr. Norton, whose wife has befriended the Harley family.  He becomes a sea captain; his brother Frank becomes a scholar. Lily lives with her mother, but as a woman embittered by her childhood mistreatment.  Rose becomes a governess at a Southern plantation, marries well, and becomes a satisfied mother.  Ida, raised in Mississippi, becomes the happily-married mistress of her adopted family’s plantation.  

 

 

Digital Editions

 

 Two further Rush novels are available in digital editions via the Wright Collection at University of Indiana:  Way-marks in the Life of a Wanderer [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/wright2/wright2-2139] and The Dew-drop of the Sunny South [http://purl.dlib.indiana.edu/iudl/wright2/wright2-2137].

 

 — Joe Lockard

 

[unnumbered page]

TO

 

A. M. Bolbrook, Esq.

 

 

OF NEW ORLEANS,

 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, AS A TRIBUTE OF GRATITUDE AND ESTEEM,

 

BY HIS HUMBLE FRIEND

 

THE AUTHOR. 

 [page v]  

                                  

PREFACE.

 

 Go forth, little book, and do your humble work in the world.  Teach the rich to be humble; the proud to be abased.  Teach the philanthropist the true duties which devolve upon him, and open his eyes to the misery and starvation that surrounds his own home.  Teach him love for his brethren of the South, and give him a sacred reverence for the Union of his country.  Give him strength to abjure all false doctrines, and stand resolutely forth the champion of his beloved country's best interests.  Teach him the blessings, the loveliness, the beauty of Union, and give him a new aim in life, the amelioration of the Slavery of his own colour, in his own enlightened Northern home.  

 Teach him, oh! little book, to seek in the vile alleys of our cities, for the widows and orphans of bankrupt

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merchants, or ruined tradesmen: to draw from their obscurity, souls rich in all the virtues, and bless by his assistance, countenance and protection, the wretched victims of poverty and want. Teach him to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to visit the sick, and to carry comfort to the prisoner in his lonely cell, or the crowded common room of a goal. Teach him to forget his own righteousness, his own purity, his own innocence of all evil, in the desire to rescue souls from infamy, and win them to God. Teach him the blessings that will be his, if he labors diligently and patiently for the benefit of his fellow man; blessings that will smile upon his pathway through life, shed an immortal halo around his memory when dead, and sparkle in his crown of glory in the world to come.

     Teach him, too, the great uniting link that binds together the whole human family: love, boundless illimitable love; born of God, admiration of saints and angels; magical power, that withholds the punishment of evil to guilty man, in all forgiving, all forgetting, all divine affection.

     Teach him wisely to regret the necessary evils of the Slavery of the South, without bitter fellings, animosities or dissensions towards those who are born and 

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reared amid the peculiar rights and duties of the slaveholder. Show him all the noble and generous traits of character of the men and women of the South, and induce him to hold out his hand in brotherly unity of feeling towards them, determined to eradicate other and more terrible evils which your pages, oh! my little book, shall show him.

     If you will perform, oh! child of my brain, the duties I require of you, then indeed I shall be blessed and happy, and shall thank God that I have been your

AUTHOR.

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THE NORTH AND SOUTH,

OR,

SLAVERY AND ITS CONTRASTS.

___________________

 

CHAPTER I.

 

INTRODUCTION. 

 

"Magna est veritas et praevalebit."

 

     I DO not for a moment imagine that any thing I can write can equal in style, logic or depth, that far-famed work of Mrs. Stowe, which has aroused a nation's sympathy. " Uncle Tom's Cabin" is a highly wrought fiction, abounding in touching incidents, and clothed with that dangerous sophistry, that indeed looks so much like truth, that it is often mistaken for it. I know not if Mrs. Stowe actually believes what she asserts: I presume she does, but it is very evident she knows little or nothing of Slavery as it really exists in the South, and still less can she comprehend or sympathise with the Slavery of the North. Perhaps she may go so far as to deny its existence in these, 

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our glorious Northern States; she may say there are no slaves around her own home; and in all the great cities of the North, who are born and suffer and die; who toil their weary way from the cradle to the grave, and whose worn, emaciated frames, at last give way in the struggle, and sink into that quiet rest never known in life.

     I admire the picture of little Eva: indeed who would not! Sweet, lovely child: embodiment of innocence and love and purity; every feeling heart must be drawn towards her; but I too have known my little Evas; have played with the golden tresses of their hair, and kissed their rosy lips. I have looked into those deep mysterious eyes that told me of the heaven which was their home, and have envied the parents who possessed them; but I have seen likewise, the cheek grow paler, and the eye more dim; I have seen the soft curls hang damp and matted around the pure spirit-like brow, and have watched Death, as he bore away the slight fragile forms, so slight, so very fragile, because they had suffered for bread: for even a small portion of that staff of life, of which so much is given to the rich, and so often withheld from the worthy and industrious poor.

     It has been my fate, from early childhood, to mingle much with abolitionists. At first I rather disliked them, and had a singular fashion of loving every thing belonging to the Southern country. I read of its genial climate, its hospitable inhabitants, its mountains, 

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lakes, and rivers; its woods echoing with the song of birds, and variegated with many tinted flowers, so sweet, so fragrant, that one breathed there the very essence of perfume: I loved that beauteous land, liveing in my imagination, so fair, so goodly, with its groves of oranges, its fields of cotton, and its plantations of rice and sugar cane, and I looked towards it as did the poor Israelites who journeyed in the wilderness, looked to their land of promise. But as I said before, I mingled daily with abolitionists; I heard constantly, tales of horrid cruelty that the slaveholder practised upon his victim: I saw many images of kneeling figures, who with chained hands upraised to heaven, and big tears of agony rolling down their cheeks, implored the mercy of God upon their helpless condition. My sympathy became aroused, and my heart bled at the recital of these wrongs. Ah, what would I not have dared, to benefit these unhappy beings who so awoke my childish pity. Since then, however, I have grown older and wiser, and have learned not to believe all I heard. I have spent three winters in the South, and have lived on a plantation seven months at a time. I have been in daily intercourse with negroes from other plantations, and have visited the different quarters at all hours of the day. I have been thrown into intimate intercourse with both master and slave, and have made it my business to enquire into the truth of the statements I had heard. From the facts that I have gleaned, I have drawn inferences,  

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and these inferences condemn Mrs. Stowe's book as an unjust and unfaithful picture of Southern life and character. I do not deny that some such facts may have occurred, but as to their being matters of common incident, I do most fully, certainly, and unconditionally deny.

Murder is a very terrible thing. Nothing can excuse it. God gives life, and he alone should take it: but is murder never committed saving and only by such savage creatures as had "Uncle Tom" whipped to death. Have we no cases of murder here at the North, in the midst of our enlightened communities, where are so many philanthropists: where are so many persons anxious to do good, and to reform all abuses. Do we have no cruel whippings, no torture, no forcing the poor overburdened frame to labor beyond its capabilities. In a word, oh! free and happy citizens of the North, have you no slaves in your midst. Have you no poor wretched, degraded fellow creatures around you, who drag out a miserable life from day to day: who pine and sicken and starve in loathsome cellars, in filthy courts and vile alleys, and who, work as hard as they may by night as well as day, yet cannot provide themselves with bread. If you will read these pages attentively, I will show you some few pictures of the slavery that exists here. I will try to convince you that man can never find a harder master than poverty: I will show you that children are torn from the bosoms that loved and 

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nurtured them, and exposed to every species of cruelty by this hard tyrant: that some of these innocents meet an untimely death, while others are cast into a prison, and a third and the most unhappy class of all, live through all the years of childhood; are tortured, goaded, and lashed until every refined sensibility is totally destroyed.

     But to return to the point from which I started: murder! I should like to draw upon the memory of the public a little, and see if they can recall the case which a short time ago appeared in most of our Northern papers; where a so-called lady whipped severely a little bound girl she had living with her, and then, after the whipping, shut her up in a room at the top of the house for many days without food, and when at last she was released with life just remaining in her, she died in a few hours of starvation. What was this but murder, and yet the monster who perpetrated it, was never brought to justice. The story was hushed up, and the rich lady is at liberty to commit as many more murders as suits her convenience.

     Do you remember, reader, that little Eva overheard the servants talking together about poor old "Prue" in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and telling each other that "the flies had got to her." Do you not think the flies might have got to that lonely garret, where, shut out from all the world, with no human creature to shield her from the cruelty of a fine lady, (God save the mark,) that poor little child, born perhaps amid the 

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sweet breathings of hope, nurtured by a tender mother, passed the long long hours of the day and night, sore and bruised, and turning uneasily on her bed of straw, and suffering at the same time the pangs of an insatiate hunger? Impress this picture on your mind, oh! reader.    Compare it with the highly wrought scenes of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." Remember that "Uncle Tom" was a hardy, strong, and powerful negro, while this poor victim was a helpless, defenceless child; of the same colour as yourself, and surely not the less to be pitied on that account.    Do you think I have been telling you an idle tale, or repeating an isolated fact. Let the thousands of slender fragile children, in each of our great cities, children covered with the coarsest garments; their little feet bare; their backs bowed over with the weight of the heavy burthens they have to carry; their features sharp and pinched; let these poor children answer for me: let their sorrows plead for my truth. Let their utter wretchedness convince the wonder-working abolitionists, that justice, as well as charity, begins at home.   I would never refuse to do a kind action for a person because that person happened to be black, but I would far rather relieve the suffering of my own colour, because I believe they stand far more in need of relief, and are far less apt to be relieved. I find too, in my own race, more honour, honesty, affection, virtue, every thing in fact, that tends to exalt the mind, and purify the character. I know quite well what my neighbor of the opposition 

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will say to this. He will tell me to free the blacks: to educate the blacks, to refine the blacks, and I shall find that they are in every respect equal to my own race. Then I would ask, why have we not some proofs of the elegant degree of refinement and cultivation to which my colored brethren can aspire, in the forty thousand and upwards of free blacks, that form part of the population of Philadelphia? They have had schools and ample instruction: friends have been numerous and kind: money has not been wanting, and yet, what are they now, to-day? Do they make any progress in the social scale? Are they not an idle, worthless, and improvident race? Do not our abolitionists as a general thing, keep white servants, declaring that the blacks are so impudent and so lazy, that they can do nothing with them? If any one doubts the truth of these assertions, let them take a walk some day through St. Mary, Baker, or Small streets, and numerous other lanes and by-ways, where they will find mostly colored people, and if they do not see and acknowledge some of the blessings of freedom to the colored population, I make a great mistake. The horrors of these abodes of sin and debauchery, would be too shocking for ears polite. I will pass over them, and only hope that the doubter will call and examine for himself.

     Let me relate a little instance of the unbounded love the noble-hearted abolitionists have for their "down- 

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trodden colored brethren." There was a period of my life, when I had the time to do some little good to the poor. I visited in a certain ward, and I heard one day of a poor black woman, who was lying very ill in a garret. She needed fire, food, a doctor, medicine, in short every thing that was necessary to make her comfortable. I went to see her, and found she was indeed in very destitute circumstances. I went to the overseers of the poor and got her some wood. I called upon the physician of the ward, and got him to visit her. He gave an order for her medicine, and her food from day to day I provided from my own purse, which was, to say truth, none of the heaviest.

     Under these favorable circumstances, Mary Ann grew better, but her disease was one not easily cured, and she lay for a long time on her bed perfectly helpless. I bethought me one day of a very rich lady who lived in an adjoining street, and who, by sending a servant through the gate-way of her house, could reach Mary Ann in two minutes time, with any little delicacy the poor invalid craved, and the rich lady could so conveniently spare. Now, be it known, this lady was a leading abolitionist, had traveled over the country making speeches in favor of her society, and was emphatically called among her brethren and sisters, a great light. None gave so freely to the cause as she. A thousand dollars a year, at the very lowest calculation, this good creature expended on her favorite 

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hobby. Her reputation for liberality was unbounded, and to her I resolved to go and plead for poor Mary Ann.

     Accordingly with this resolution, I called on the philanthropist. I told her of the distressing poverty and illness of this daughter of her favorite race. I told her the little I had been able to do for her, and hoped that she would now take this case in hand as it was so near her own home. She told me to give myself no further uneasiness upon the subject; assured me she would attend to it immediately, and I left her with great satisfaction of mind.

     The next day I went to see Mary Ann. My lady had not been there, nor the next, not the next. On the fourth day I called: she had been there: complained dreadfully of the steepness of the stairs that led up to Mary Ann's garret: gave her a great deal of good advice about loving God, and obeying his commandments, told her to read her bible, and closed the interview by opening her pocket book, and taking there from a quarter of a dollar, which she handed to Mary Ann, telling her at the same time not to be extravagant. She then left her, and from that day to this, Mrs. Makeafuss has never been seen or heard tell of in Mary Ann's garret.

     Such is the character of one of the pillars of the Anti-Slavery Society. All of them are not so ungenerous. I met a few days since a gentleman, a merchant in Front street, with a heart so truly liberal, 

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with a conviction so earnest that he was in the right as regarded his peculiar notions, that I could not but feel sympathy for him. He expressed, too, so much love for the Southern people, and had so much good feeling for all men, that his abolitionism excited my pity rather than anger.

     Permit me here to introduce a few remarks by an editor of this city, whose comprehensive view of the matter, has placed the whole case in a nut-shell. I feel that whoever reads them with attention, must admit the truth of all that is contained in them.

 

STARVATION AND FICTION.

 

     "The extraordinary demand which has prevailed for the Abolition work of Mrs. Stowe, has extended, we perceive, to England, where it is exciting some considerable amount of virtuous indignation. They are, of course, in a condition there to feel a just abhorrence of the inhumanity of their cruel white brethren on this side of the Atlantic. Every thing is correct and delightful there; no misery in the British islands—no brutal task-masters to grind down the miserable white slaves in the mining or manufacturing districts of free, happy old England! Well may they look on our poor 'Uncle Tom and his Cabin' with a ravenous sympathy, and possibly an amelioration society for the relief of our suffering slaves may he started in the very heart of the land, among their work-house paupers. Auxiliaries could be formed in the purlieus of London,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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amidst the comfortable and happy thousands in the under-ground lodgings, in the dump and suffocating cellars, in the stifled courts and alleys, and fever-fed rookeries, where the pure light of heaven and a fresh gasp of air never enters. The throngs there who linger in sickness and starvation, with no one to care for them—no hand to do a friendly office as the soul is being starved out of its wasted tenement—whose festering misery would make the change from its charnel-house to a negro's cabin, a perfect paradise, they could feel for 'Uncle Tom,' and, poor souls, do all they can for the cause. The 'cabin' of the black man, though a palace, compared with the kennels in which the white paupers herd and sicken and die, we have no doubt will do a great work in England.—There is need of some sort of effort there, judging by the shocking pictures of misery—not merely among the worst of all human slaves, the manufacturer's paupers—but in the very centre of English civilization, London itself. What pictures are presented to us, constantly, of wretchedness and suffering there. Look at a single instance:

     "An English paper says, that Coroner G.S. Brent held, lately, an inquest at Gray's-Inn lane, London, upon the body of Jonathan Nichols, who had been a school-master. With all his industry, he could sometimes only earn but a few pence a-week. The wife of the poor man was a paralytic, and on the scanty earnings of the husband they sustained a miserable existence, eked out by one loaf of bread a week from the

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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parish, and buoyed up by the hope of coming into possession of a small estate to which he was entitled.

     "For the last twelve months he had been gradually sinking under absolute starvation, and was found at last by his wife one morning in bed, dead by her side. On the day following his decease, the paper states, he became entitled to £120, and £60 a-year thereafter. The foreman of the jury expresses his horror at the supineness of the parochial authorities, and the jury rendered a verdict in accordance with the facts above stated.

     "It may seem strange that a teacher could not have awakened some sympathy among his former pupils or their parents. But we suppose, like the crocodile philanthropists in our own country, they were all members of some society for the relief of far-off suffering, which has no existence except in their own distempered imaginations. In England, as here, there are an abundance of Mrs. Jellybys, mock-sympathisers, furious declaimers against imaginary or distorted ills, and occasionally authors, who pervert the genius that might do good into plausible engines of misrepresentation; making even their fine talents a curse rather than a blessing.

     "The case of the poor school-master is but a type of a large class of similar sufferers. Nay, his misery was far less, because of so much shorter duration, than the life-long misery of whole families, whose entire existence, from the lisping infant, almost, to the feeble exhaustion of premature old age, is prolonged in the

 

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poisoned atmosphere of pent-up factories. Talk of negro cabins! why what a mockery of human wrong and outrage, to mention the worst ills of negro slavery in contrast with this white bondage—a bondage from which there is no relief but in death. A contrast still more strongly marked from the fact, that in the one case there are always those who have the strongest motive—self-interest—to feed, clothe, nurse and care for the toilers, while in the other, food or clothing, or sickness, suffering, or even death, is a matter of no concern whatever, since even death itself is no loss to the task-master. But while sympathising over the starvation of the poor school-master and his paralytic wife, we see this enquiry made: 

'Could such an instance possibly occur in the United States? We have misery enough, and poverty enough, it is true, especially in our great cities; but a case like this, we are sure, can find no parallel amongst us.'

 

     "Indeed! How little do ' Uncle Tom's' sympathisers know or care about the suffering or the misery that exists among their own colored dupes in all our principal cities. Since the account of the English starvation reached us, we read, in one of the papers of our city, this paragraph:

 

     "DIED OF STARVATION.—The Coroner on Saturday held an inquest on the body of Ann Maria Wilson, a colored woman, aged about thirty-five years, who lived in Baker street, below Seventh. The jury returned a verdict that she died 'for want of food.'"

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     "That is exactly to the point, and shows how little our hypocritical fanatics really know or care about the poor slave. What do they care—the notoriety seekers, the convention spouters, or fiction writers—how many slaves may he coaxed or stolen away from kind masters and comfortable homes, to be left in the putrid dens of Baker street, to die of neglect and starvation? Do they know or care how extensive a system of fraud may be practised by noisy fanatics against the 'fugitive?'—taking advantage of both his ignorance and his gratitude, to make him labor, (as is done to a frightful extent,) until strength fails and health is exhausted, and then turn him off to find his way into some airless, filthy cellar, in the city, to die? There is a fearful amount of such inhumanity heaped up against some of the most rampant of these pretended friends of the slave. There is much misery of a deplorable kind owing its origin, directly or indirectly, to those who picture out imaginary negro horrors at a distance; but have no heart for that infinitely more deplorable cruelty that condemns amiable, respectable white females, to perpetual but unrequited toil. Let the mind that has so much sympathy to pour out on imaginary horrors, dwell for a moment on the condition of the seamstress, who toils for eighteen hours out of twenty-four, dragging out her sad existence on a pittance which barely keeps her alive. There may possibly be some scenes of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' that have really existed, though over-colored and exaggerated by the

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same fanatical influence that has been most active in preventing the correction of the very abuses it now portrays. There are slave abuses and slave suffering, but what are they, after all, to the real, bitter, intense oppression that in our own midst sweeps its thousands out of a life of penury into premature graves?

     "Fine, profitable speculations maybe made from negro fiction. Wrought up into touching pictures, they may, under the spell of genius, look like truth and have the semblance of reality, but where is the genius to paint the scenes that exist in our own cities? —to awaken a sympathy that shall give strength to the white, wearied, worn-out daughters of toil?

     "For our own part, we have no liking for slavery of any kind, and hence it is that we deprecate the madness of those reckless intermeddlers in the affairs of others. The last steamer brings us developments, made in the British Parliament, which confirm our apprehensions of the ill-effect of officious and impertinent interference of the fanatics who let their own white brethren starve at home, while their sympathies are worse than wasted abroad. The deplorable effects of ill-timed and ill-advised emancipation in Jamaica, Antigua, and the Mauritius Islands, was such, the Earl of Derby himself declares, that the blacks were rapidly relapsing into a state of barbarism. Were our mock philanthropists here to have their own way, what a wretched condition, would they eventually sink our black population to, and in their disunion madness drag down even the high hopes of our own glorious republic.

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To pull down and destroy is all they can ever accomplish, and this work of destruction can only he, if ever, accomplished by such specious and plausible deceptions as form the staple of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.'  Its sole tendency, if not its sole aim, is to keep alive the bitter prejudices that unhappily exist, to excite bitter passion and abhorrence, where brotherly regard should alone prevail.

     "Heaven knows, we would rejoice to abolish any and every species of slavery, the black as well as the white, in the North as well as the South. We would gladly effect a universal emancipation of all classes could it be done without injustice to any; if in eradicating one evil we should not be overwhelmed with others of tenfold greater magnitude. Though we know that most of the evils of slavery which fanaticism trumps up, have either no existence in fact, or are the indirect results of disunion, fanaticism itself, we should still rejoice to see the bondsman go free, and every slave walk forth in the light of liberty. Let slavery of every kind be forever abolished. Such, we trust, will be the happy termination of the bitter contentions, the prejudices and discordances that have so fearfully threatened the stability if not the existence of our republic. But falsehood, not misrepresentation, nor detraction, however eloquent or plausible, can have any other possible tendency than to keep back the great work of judicious emancipation, a work that can alone be accomplished by those to whom the whole matter solely, justly and properly belongs."

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CHAPTER II.

 

THE  MARRIAGE.

 

"I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon

Must now light other feet, 

With the gathered flowers and the harp in tune,

            Thy homeward step to greet. 

Thou in whose voice to bless thy child,

            Lay tones of love so deep, 

Whose eye o'er nil my youth hath smiled—

            I leave thee!—Let me weep!

 

Mother, I leave thee!—on thy breast,

            Pouring out joy and woe, 

I have found that holy place of rest

           Still changeless—yet I go. 

Lips that have lulled me with your strain;

           Eyes that have watched my sleep! 

Will earth give love like yours again,

           Dear Mother!—Let me weep!

MRS. HEMANS.

 

     There is something of a peculiarly interesting character in that crisis of a woman's life, when she stands for the last time beneath the paternal roof, before going forth to try what realities the world has in store for her, and for the being she has chosen to be her partner through life; swearing to love, honor and obey him till death parts them. Alas, how many there are who would start with terror and affright if those reali-

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ties could be revealed. How many would come back into the parent nest, and be content to become that most dreaded of all feminine characters,—an old maid.

     One lovely morning in May, when the birds sang cheerily on every tree, and all nature was beautiful, there assembled a large family on the porch of a handsome country dwelling, the residence of a wealthy New England gentleman, who had earned his fortune as a merchant in the city of New York, but had now retired to the quiet shades of the country, and spent his time in agricultural pursuits. A large family of daughters, beautiful, highly accomplished and amiable, made this house the resort of the very best society of the neighborhood. One after another the fair girls married and left home; and now the loveliest flower of this lovely flock, the pride and joy of the household, the gentle, sweet-tempered Gazella was bidding farewell to father and mother, brother and sisters, ere she departed for another home. She had stood that morning at the altar, and vowed herself away to the tall dark man who stood beside her now, and whom she had chosen to be the arbiter of her fate. So strange, so sudden are those attractions that influence the human heart, that six months before, Gazella and the handsome stranger had never met, and now their fate through life was woven so closely together, that nothing but death could separate them.

     The bride wept: all brides do, I imagine, who leave such happy homes, such tender parents, so many dear

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friends, who until that moment of separation, have constituted their world. The tears rained from her dark blue eyes, as one after another clasped her in the farewell embrace, but when she stood before her mother, that mother who had been so fond, so indulgent, and yet so judicious, who had watched over her in sickness, and guarded her mental health, guiding her thoughts and feelings, correcting her faults; and forming her character with so firm and yet so loving a hand; what wonder that a tide of sweet remembrances crowded upon her mind and overpowered her; what wonder that she threw herself into those arms, ever so tender and caressing, and sobbed aloud while pressed to that true fond heart, suffering quite as

much as her own.

     But the bridegroom was becoming impatient at this scene, we must confess not too flattering to his feelings: the horses pawed the ground as if chafing at the delay, while the coachman walked to and fro upon the terrace, casting ever and anon uneasy glances at the assembled party on the porch. There came another hurried kiss, a closer embrace, a whispered word of advice, a promise to write soon, very soon, and the bride was gone, seated in the carriage, driven past the dear familiar objects amid which her innocent life had passed, while he, the chosen one for whom she had given up all, was seated at her side, his arm enfolding her slender waist, his lips breathing sweet vows of love, and his dark eyes beaming upon her with

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all the brightness and intensity of man's deepest, holiest affection: how could she dim the lustre of her beauty by those falling tears; how could she help drying them, and turning her eyes full of their soft and hallowed light, upon the noble face and form of him who was her husband. Ah! holy confidence; ah! rare exstatic joy, that comes but once in a life-time, why, oh why, is your season so fleeting, and why is the heart that has known you, and lived to see your decay, not also gifted with the power to forget you. A beautiful house in New York, furnished with all the adornments of wealth, all the luxurious comforts that make life pass like "a golden holiday," waited to receive the bride. Superb paintings, some by the old masters, others belonging to a newer school, were suspended upon the walls: well selected books graced the shelves, and richly carved furniture filled the rooms. A large garden belonging to the house was beautifully laid out and filled with choice flowers. "Well ordered servants attended to the housekeeping, and had every thing in readiness for the reception of the fair young bride and her husband. They came: those two beings, radiant with health and happiness: young, ardent and true, and loving each other so supremely, what could make them unhappy? Frank Harley was a merchant, doing an excellent business in Courtland street, standing high in the commercial world, with a reputation of the most unblemished integrity. From his earliest childhood everybody had loved the jovial, free-hearted boy,

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and the dark handsome man was not less dear to his friends. He had a kind word for all, alike the rich and the poor. He never closed his heart to the appeal of suffering, but sought instantly it came before him, to relieve it. Frank's superb dinners and petite soupers were the delight of his many friends. No gentleman had a finer stocked wine cellar. No wine merchant could boast an array of labels to vie with the antiquity of Frank's. His house became the resort of the gayest and most fashionable New York society, and the pure, unsophisticated Gazella, until now so complete a novice in the world's ways, became duly initiated into the follies and vanities that constitute the happiness of the gay votaries of fashion. She was a beautiful dancer, and it was Frank's delight to see her airy-like form gliding through the dance, with any and every one of his gay young friends. At such times, dressed in the most perfect taste, and brilliant with a beauty that time and sorrow has even yet failed to obliterate, the fair young bride looked well worthy of her husband's doting pride, and she gave herself up to the bewildering pleasure of the moment, and the feeling of intense delight which bathed her senses in perfect happiness. The soul-inspiring music, the brilliantly lighted rooms, the delicious perfume of flowers, and the crowd of beauty and fashion, blazing in lace and jewels, have sufficed to turn the heads and entrance the hearts of more sedate persons than of an innocent country girl. Do not blame her that she

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is happy. So little of happiness was mixed in the cup of that sweet girl's fate, so much of sorrow, that we should rejoice at every moment of her life that was not darkened by those storm-clouds that fell like a pall around her fair young form, and well nigh broke her gentle loving heart.

     Years rolled on, and our pretty bride had changed to the blooming matron, the mother of a large, fine family of children: all so near alike in age and size, that one might liken them to a flight of steps. Gazella the eldest, and named after her mother, was one of those mystic children, so full of love and goodness, so free from the infirmities of humanity, that her mother trembled when she looked at her and remembered that "whom the gods love, die young." This fairy child, dear reader, is not a creation of the fancy, but a real true character, taken from life, and vividly recalled to my mind by Mrs. Stowe's picture of "little Eva." I can see at this moment that meek and gentle child, with soft brown hair, and dark blue eyes, filled with such holy light: I can see her as she moved about her father's home, loving her parents as few children love; watching their slightest words, anticipating their requests, and performing every office that the tenderest affection could suggest. What more I learned of her as she grew to womanhood you shall learn presently, but I want you to pay particular attention to the unfolding of her character, as I wish to present her to you as an object worthy to share some of the sym-

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pathies you have been giving so lavishly to that abused creature of the imagination, "Uncle Tom." Gazella was one of those White Slaves of the North whose sufferings are unheeded; whose tears and sorrows meet with no sympathy; in whose gentle, uncomplaining life of toil and privation, is crowded more real and degrading slavery, than falls to the lot of any twenty slaves of the South.

     We will pass from her to her brother Frank, eleven months her junior. A cripple from his birth, and with extremely delicate health, the puny boy was never so much noticed as his sister; but the mother felt all the slights to her fragile child, and loved him the more dearly that he was ugly and deformed. He was unattractive to his gay father, and still gayer friends, and the mother was often chided for spending so much time in the nursery over that cross, whining thing, but nothing could wean her heart from its devoted tenderness, and the little Frank whined on through the helpless hours of infancy, and unfolded at a very early ago, the treasures of a soul lighted with the most divine intellect, and a heart filled with the most gentle affections.

     Next in order came Ellen, a fine rosy-cheeked girl, then Harry, a bright high-spirited boy, the exact counterpart of his father. Then Lily and Hose, twin sisters, only distinguishable by the marble-like paleness of the one, and the fresh ruddy bloom of the other. Then Lucien, who bade fair to be a spoiled and naughty boy, till the advent of two sisters at a separate interval of two years, deprived him of the right to make every

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body miserable on account of his being the youngest. Talk about spoiling the first born, indeed. Not all the first born children in the world, stand the chance of being even half ruined, when brought into opposition with one of these self-willed, saucy, pert creatures, who are introduced into the parlor as the youngest; who take precedence at the table when company is invited, for the same reason, and who as years roll away, and the doting parents are convinced there will be indeed no more, become by and by, so spoiled, so insufferable, so haughty, that they are a terror to the whole neighborhood. Pray deliver me from a petted youngest child.

     I have now introduced to you a family of nine children, but I have been a little too hasty, as two of them were not born at the opening of my story. However, perhaps it is as well you should know what you have to expect. I have selected the history of this one family, feeling that there has been in the changing scenes of their eventful lives, many incidents to show the Contrasts of Slavery, and to prove that it exists at the North as well as the South: the only difference being in the color.

     Those who read the pages of this book, may have the satisfaction of knowing that their sympathies are called into action for persons who have lived and suffered all, and more than I can tell. The cry for help has gone up to the Mercy seat. Is God deaf that he has not heard? Is his arm shortened, that he has not saved? No! no, we must wait his time.

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CHAPTER III.

 

FALLEN FORTUNES.

 

'Tis certain, greatness, once fallen out with fortune,

Must fall out with men too: what the declin'd is, 

He shall as soon read in the eyes of others, 

As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, 

Show not their mealy wings but to the summer.

                SHAKESPEARE'S TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

 

     Frank Harley was living too fast. He drank too much; so much, indeed, that it had become a fatal necessity to him: and he could not attend to his business without having fortified himself by ample potations. His naturally fine feelings and gentle affections were becoming blunted. He still loved his wife: oh! yes, he always loved her. The fond affection he had professed for her never knew change or abatement. He joyed in her smile; was true to her as the needle to the magnet, and surrounded her with all those delicate attentions with which their first acquaintance had begun; but Gazella felt that all was not right, and a weight rested on her heart. Frank no longer romped and played with the children as was his wont. He no longer filled his pockets with toys and candies, that the little rebels might have the pleasure of climbing upon his knees and finding them. The eye of

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love saw the cloud on his brow, and the shadows falling there, and she longed to know, in order to share his disquiet.

What could it be that rested so uneasily on his heart: what made him drink so deeply, and absent himself from home till all the family had retired. Alas for our poor Gazella, and her helpless children: reared in luxury, surrounded with all the delicacies of fashionable life, they were on the brink of ruin. One more step and they arrived at a turning in the road, dark, dreary and terrifying. A thousand paths led through this dreary waste, but all were alike thorny and rugged; all alike were filled with obstacles, and made the trembling soul shrink with horror at the thought of surmounting them. Is it to be wondered at, that the eyes that shone so late with happiness, were now filled with the bitter tears of unavailing regret and hopeless misery?

     The New York Journal of Commerce one day announced to the world, that Frank Harley was a bankrupt. He had stood security for a man that he had believed as good as gold: he risked all on the venture, and lost a fortune by it. It galled his proud spirit to owe a dollar, and he got his wife to appeal to her family for the share of her father's property, which would one day be hers. To ask was to obtain it, and the money was used to pay every outstanding debt. But Frank Harley, beggared as he was in purse, and having a large helpless family, felt that it was too late

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to retrieve his steps: perhaps his inaction might be attributed in a great measure to the fact, that disease was preying upon his vitals. Be that as it may, he would say—"If I was only young again, then I might commence the world anew, but it is too late, I feel like an old man withered before his time. My spirit is crushed. I cannot rise above this terrible calamity." Poor Frank seemed like one without hope. He moved and talked like one in a dream. The blow had been so sudden and so tremendous, that it had stunned him, and a sort of moral paralysis benumbed his mind. His tender wife, true to the nature of her sex, sought with tears and kisses to soothe his sad heart. She tried to interest him in the children, but the sight of them only served to add fresh poignancy to his misery. With hopeless despondency, the more terrible that it was so unlike his former self, he would ask—"where will they get bread to eat? who will buy them clothes to wear, or educate them, or do what my foolish, nay, my wicked act, has deprived me of the power of doing ? Oh! my God, if I could only die; if I could only know that dreamless sleep of the dead; ah! what bliss, what happiness it would be, to forget what I have been, and what I am. I could envy the madman, rattling his chains, for he, blest wretch, has forgotten the blow that broke his heart."

     Some wives would have scolded, and told their husbands that all this came of his foolishly trusting his fortune in such a dangerous position; that if he would

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have listened to her warning voice, all this evil might have been avoided. But Gazella had been reared in a different school; her mother, who was a tender and dutiful wife, had taught by her example the duties of her position; and her precepts of affection, her devoted love, and above all, the uncomplaining submissiveness of her life, became in turn the heritage of her daughters. No word of reproach ever passed her lips, and she strove even to hide her tears, lest he should blame himself as their cause. She accustomed herself to the absence of all luxury, and tried to condense her duties that she might have the more time to spend with her husband. He drank constantly, seeking, no doubt, in the enchanting delusions of the wine-cup, forgetfulness of the terrible calamity that had swept away his splendid fortune. How many are there in this world of sorrow, who, like him, would wish to forget?

     Sometimes, when his strength and the weather permitted, he would walk abroad and enjoy the freshness of the air. Oftentimes he would meet an old friend, who would rejoice to see him once more at his old haunts; but oftener still he met the boon companions of his prosperity, men towards whom he felt a deep and sincere friendship, and just as he was about to stretch out his hand with cordial warmth, he would feel himself restrained by the cold look and the averted head, and the ruined merchant would feel the hot generous blood suffuse his face as the iron entered

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his soul. What, then, was left to him but to seek again for that delicious forgetfulness, that flowery cup, within whose precincts lay the charmed essence of oblivion. 'Twas thus he sorrowed and thus he drank, until his wine cellar was empty, his last dollar spent, his cough fearfully increased, and the tender heart of his devoted wife breaking beneath the accumulation of her misery.

     Until the last dollar was spent: the last dollar. Think of that, oh! favored sons and daughters of fortune, who have never known want; to whom life has been one long summer's day; for whose comfort all the appliances of wealth have been lavishly afforded, and at whose simple word the vaults of the bank open, and give up their bright treasures of silver and gold. Think of the last dollar spent by one as delicately nurtured as yourselves—the last dollar gone where are a family of seven children, the oldest only eleven. The last dollar where the father, the provider, is stretched on a bed of illness, for poor Frank, in a violent fit of coughing, ruptured a blood vessel on the lungs, and lies prostrate, pale and death-like, while Gazella, sad and broken-hearted, but nerved by the energy of despair to superhuman exertions, watches over him and pays him all those delicate attentions with which a loving wife ever surrounds the couch of her sick husband.

     But their last dollar was spent. Should she appeal once more to her family? No; pride, affection, self-

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respect forbade it. Had they not blamed her husband? Had they not accused him of cruelty and un-kindness?—her Frank, who had so loved her, to whom she had given her young heart with all its rich mine of affection. No, she could starve, she could suffer and die, but appeal to them again, never, never. Something must be done, but what that something was, puzzled Gazella exceedingly. She thought of every means by which she might earn money, and only one available course seemed open to her pursuit, and that was to obtain plain needle-work. She resolved to set forth at once, and seek employment in some of the stores of the great metropolis. She bethought her of a gentleman's furnishing store, down Broadway, opposite the Park, where for years she had been in the habit of obtaining her husband's linen. She determined to go there and ask the proprietor to give her shirts to make. It was a difficult task for one so beautiful, so gentle, so unused to the world's rough ways; but when necessity compels who can choose? Gazella was nerved with additional power, when she remembered that it was for others and not herself that she was called upon to make this sacrifice of her pride. Who is there that has not felt how much easier it is to make exertions, overcome obstacles, and face the frowns of a cold, unfeeling world, for the beings who look up to us for support and protection, than it would be for ourselves?

     Before going out, the mother called her fair young

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daughter to her, and gave her charges respecting her father. He was to be nursed—oh, so tenderly—and not to he left alone for a single moment. Above all, if he awoke and asked for her, he must be assured she would be back very speedily. She was going out on a little errand, to attend to some business; it was not necessary to state what. She put on her bonnet and shawl, and sallied forth. Her course lay through the most crowded part of the city, and after traversing nearly a mile of the busy streets, she arrived at the store which she had so often visited before, for far different purposes.

     Now, for the first time, the extreme delicacy of her position struck the mind of Mrs. Harley. What an effort must it cost her to enter that store, and enquire for employment, where she had so long been a wealthy customer. Was it a foolish pride, think you, that made the heart-stricken creature nervously pass on, and delay the moment of entering a place now become so formidable to her?

     It sometimes happens, that one moment of life is big with fate to the child of misfortune. Just as Mrs. Harley had returned and entered the store, a carriage, drawn by two superb horses, drove up to the door, and a lady, very elegantly attired, alighted from it and followed her. A quick glance of recognition passed from her to the trembling figure that leaned over the counter, talking to the proprietor of the store. The side face was turned towards the stranger lady, and in

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its faultless contour she had no difficulty in recognizing the once rich and fashionable Mrs. Harley. At this moment a young man came forward to wait upon, the lady, and calling her by name, hoped he found her very well. At the sound of this familiar name Mrs. Harley turned quickly, and was about to give a cordial greeting to this friend, who had so often graced her hospitable board, and shone a bright particular star at her assemblies; but the frail summer-friend inclined her stately head without smiling, and turned at once to enquire for the article she wanted.

     Mrs. Harley resolutely commanded her feelings, and went on with the conversation she had commenced with the storekeeper. There is a something in the nature of woman that rises superior to all such petty mortifications. She endeavored to forget, as she stood there pleading for work, that she had ever been other than the poor destitute wife and mother, to whom a husband and seven children looked up for support. The proprietor of the store assured her the times were so dull, it would be impossible for him to employ her now, but if she would wait until the fall, he could promise her any amount of work. With a sad heart she turned away, leaving two persons she had benefited so much in the days of her prosperity, to pass heartless and unfeeling remarks upon her fallen fortunes. She went on to another store, and still another, until, after a hopeless search of hours, she turned her weary steps homeward, feeling that God had hidden from her,

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for a time, the light of His blessed countenance. She ran hastily up to her husband's room, and finding he was awake, advanced at once to the bed side: "Frank," said she, "I have a request to make of you; will you grant it?" "Alas! my poor girl, what is there in my power to grant? do you forget that I am ruined?" "No, dearest, no; I do not forget it; I ask nothing that you cannot grant. I only want you, my dear husband, to consent to leave this place; to go where we are unknown, and where we shall be less likely to meet with the cold glances of contempt from those who have been our friends." "With all my heart, dearest; but where is the means to come from? My purse has even parted company with its last dollar." "Your little wife would never have suggested the experiment, had she been in doubt as to the means of putting it into execution. I have in my possession a large number of jewels, which have been accumulating since my girlhood, and which now amount to a considerable item; they have been fondly prized as sweet tokens of the love which prompted the givers, but never can they be used in a better cause." " I cannot endure that you should make this sacrifice, my beloved wife. Ah, what punishment can I have, greater than the knowledge that I have entailed upon you so many privations; that I have brought upon your innocent head the sorrow and anguish from which I should so zealously have guarded it." "Do not reproach yourself, dear Frank. You know I never

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cared for them as ornaments, and shall know very well how to he happy without such trifles, while you still are spared to me."

     "Poor girl," he exclaimed, with great depth of feeling, as he drew her head down upon his bosom, and gently smoothed her soft dark hair.

Well might he pity thee, oh! troubled heart; well might he enfold thee in the arms of affection, oh! poor Gazella; for thine is a true woman's nature, and dost teach thee to cling all the more closely for the storm, to that poor wreck on which is freighted thine all of love.     

   Though the ocean hears him on its bosom now, canst thou tell, oh! true and tender wife, how soon the waves may roll over his grave? God shield thee, oh! child of sorrow, when that dark hour comes, in which thou shalt float off alone, to meet the waves of adversity, that will at each moment threaten to engulf thee!

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CHAPTER IV.

 

SOME LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL.

 

 

He who hath never warr'd with misery, 

Nor ever tugg'd with fortune and distress, 

Hath had n'occasion, nor no field to try 

The strength and forces of his worthiness.

 

DANIEL ON THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON.

 

     In order to place before my readers (if I should happen to find any,) a more faithful picture of what I have to relate, I will offer for their perusal the pages of a journal long since hidden from the world; and I fancy that some of its passages will stir the heart to its secret depths. If they do not, I am but a poor judge of my kind.

Let me first make a few remarks, which are induced by a recollection of that task which I

have set myself about accomplishing. I feel that I have right on my side, and that I have only

to handle my subject with skill, to turn the tide of sympathy from imaginary evils at the South, to those abuses which exist in our midst. But when I remember how little experience I have had in authorship: how poor my knowledge is to that of others, who have lived longer and seen more of the world, I tremble lest I shall not perform my

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duty faithfully,  and alleviate the sufferings which makes my heart bleed.

      It is my belief that the evils which exist around us and all over the Northern country, need only to be known and understood by the majority of our people, to be remedied. That there are many kind and noble hearts in our midst, is a fact that cannot be questioned. Another fact that I take great pleasure in declaring to the Southern people is, that a very small proportion of the population of the North are abolitionists. The wealthiest, most intelligent, and most refined class of our people, look upon slavery as an institution designed by God himself; and who could know the peculiar characteristics of the negro race, and not feel that they are so much inferior to ourselves, as to need constantly a guiding hand. It is not love or friendship that influences those persons who rant and rave and stir up discord between the slave and his master. No; such persons belong to that class who neglect all the duties of home, in order to make a great noise in the world, and create for themselves the reputation of philanthropists. 

    These persons are generally small and mean in all their operations. The sight of a widow struggling through the world with her fatherless children, cannot awaken their pity. The picture of misery presented by the forlorn state of those helpless children, who are taken into the houses of our citizens, and treated with a degree of cruelty that would appear apocryphal to those who have not been

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eye-witnesess to it, has no effect to call forth their sympathy. The wretched class of sewing girls, who form so large a proportion of our cities; who toil from early morning till late at night, for the miserable pittance that but just suffices to keep soul and body together; who go down to the grave while yet but very children, or, what is far worse, live on, if living it may be called, to a premature and imbecile old age, shut out from every enjoyment of life, debarred from all the innocent recreations of youth; aye, and deprived even of those bright hopes that come to the happy; these slaves, these very slaves of the North, find neither friendship or humanity amongst these abolitionists; but on the contrary, these noble beings, these friends of the oppressed and down-trodden slave, employ the poor sewing girl, beat her down in her price, make her work till as near midnight as possible, and then make her wait for her wages for weeks, and sometimes months after she has earned them. I knew a poor girl, a dress-maker, who worked at her trade until four weeks before her death; wearily dragging herself about to her customers, and then sitting down in her lonely garret to put together the finery that was to adorn them. She was a Christian; a member of the Episcopal church, and had a name and soul as pure as the untrodden snow. She was in consumption, and when she found herself growing very weak, she sent for my mother and myself, and we hastened to her and performed every little office of friendship

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that was in our power. One day she said to me, "Lizzie I have a request to make of you." "Name it, Bridget," I replied. Said she, " I want you to take this little bill to Miss So-and-So in Girard street; tell her how ill I am, and that I really need the money, and ask her to please settle it. I have already gone there several times, and she has always put me off." I promised to attend to it at once, and I started on my errand, accompanied by a female friend. Philadelphians who know the manner in which those houses are built, will understand me when I tell them that Miss So-and-So sat at the tea-table in the front room down stairs. The room was well lighted, and through the open door I had a view of a well covered table, and elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen sitting around it. The servant took me up stairs to the parlor, and in a few moments the young lady followed me there. She was dressed in a handsome silk dress, and had on quite a profusion of jewelry. I handed her the bill, told her poor Bridget was very ill and could not possibly live but a few weeks, and begged her to pay it. She spoke quite saucily about it, and seemed to think it a very insulting thing to her dignity to be dunned in that way. I left the matter in her hands, and I am ready to prove that poor Bridget went to her grave in Ronaldson's burying-ground without ever receiving one penny of the money. There is not a lady in the whole Southern country that could have been capable of such an act.

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But what matters it to the abolitionists that tho sewing girl is dying in a consumption, or has a widowed mother, or a sick father; or that she has little brothers and sisters starving for bread, freezing with cold and shivering over a few shavings in an open fire-place. Mr. and Mrs. Much-ado "are members of a society for sending the gospel to the South sea islands. They are also much interested in the purchase of yellow flannel for the purpose of providing every new born negro baby in the Southern country with a flannel shirt." They give largely to a printing society to disseminate the evils of Slavery amongst the wealthy classes; and then again it takes a large amount of Mr. Much-ado's income to help every plausible colored gentleman, who calls upon him and tells him a pitiful tale about a wife and thirteen children, all suffering the horrors of slavery under a cruel master, and all going to be separated and sold to fourteen different masters, without he can raise some few thousands to buy them off. Mr. Plausible generally has letters of recommendation from several of the leading aboli-tionists, and his subscription list now amounts to nearly fifteen hundred dollars. It is as little as Mr. Much-ado can do, seeing that Mr. Easy Gull has set down five hundred dollars, for him to do the same, and the sum must be made up by stinting his workmen in their wages, and giving short pay to servants and sewing women. It will not be necessary to state that Mr. Plausible has never even seen the Southern

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country, has neither wife or children, and is, in short, one of those numerous adventurers who play upon the credulity of their fellows: but I must hasten to the pages of Gazella's journal; else you will think I have forgotten my promise at the first of the chapter.

 

GAZELLA'S JOURNAL.

 

     My mother has often told me, when I laid down on my pillow at night, to review the actions of the past day; to institute a strict search into the motives that prompted those actions, and strive for help from above to correct all the evil in them. When I reflect how the bad preponderates over the good in my nature, I feel that I must admit the truth of what St. Paul says—that the human heart is deceitful, and desperately wicked. I tremble at the thought, that I, a little girl only a few months past eleven, should have so much inclination to do wrong. I strive for contentment and yet I find myself continually regretting that home in New York, where I had my birds and flowers, my music and books, and was indeed so very happy. Ah, I fear it will be a long time before I can estimate properly the duties which, in this new position, devolve upon me. I must learn how to help mother, and I must not be so proud: I fear I am very proud. I may write here in this secret journal what I would be afraid to confess to any one; now, how unhappy I felt to-day, when mother sent me with the little basket to the baker's to get bread. I thought

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every body in the street was looking at me, and yet my own sense ought to have taught me, that a little girl like me was not of enough consequence to attract the attention of people. Then I have another fault, which is the consequence of luxurious habits, and it is rising late. I see how my dear mother accommodates herself to her altered position, and I must try to he like her, and be ready to sit down early in the morning to help her sew.

 

* * * * * *

      Some weeks have passed since I have written any thing in my journal, but many changes have taken place in that time, and I desire to note them down. My father brought with him from New York to Philadelphia, many letters of introduction to persons of high respectability here. He has been offered a situation as cashier in a bank, and he has promised to accept it as soon as he is well enough. Alas, my poor father, I wonder when that will be. One of the letters was to a family residing in Arch street, who seem to be very much interested in us, and who have succeeded in obtaining my parent's consent to let little sister Lily come and live with them. They seem to have taken a great fancy to Lily, and she is indeed a very pretty child, but I do not like the idea of her going; poor little thing, she is a mere baby, only five years old, and has been so tenderly nursed and petted, that she will cry at every thing that does not please her. However it may be, that she will make out bet-

 

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every body in the street was looking at me, and yet my own sense ought to have taught me, that a little girl like me was not of enough consequence to attract the attention of people. Then I have another fault, which is the consequence of luxurious habits, and it is rising late. I see how my dear mother accommodates herself to her altered position, and I must try to be like her, and be ready to sit down early in the morning to help her sew.

 

Some weeks have passed since I have written any thing in my journal, but many changes have taken place in that time, and I desire to note them down. My father brought with him from New York to Philadelphia, many letters of introduction to persons of high respectability here. He has been offered a situation as cashier in a bank, and he has promised to accept it as soon as he is well enough. Alas, my poor father, I wonder when that will be. One of the letters was to a family residing in Arch street, who seem to be very much interested in us, and who have succeeded in obtaining my parent's consent to let little sister Lily come and live with them. They seem to have taken a great fancy to Lily, and she is indeed a very pretty child, but I do not like the idea of her going ; poor little thing, she is a mere baby, only five years old, and has been so tenderly nursed and petted, that she will cry at every thing that does not please her. However it may be, that she will make out bet

 

 

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ter than I think. The family are said to be very kind, and consist of a father and mother, five sons and one daughter. Ah! if they will only love our little girl as she deserves, she will be very happy.

     Ah! how my poor mother wept; what bitter tears she shed when she packed the little trunk, and gathered one by one the playthings, shoes, etc., which Lily, who was delighted at the idea of going, had brought to her. If the child had been dead, and she had been employed in collecting together to shut up from the world all that had been hers, she could not have shown deeper anguish.

     The day on which Lily left home, I went with her and staid till the evening, in order to reconcile her to her new home. It was not such an easy task. For a while the large house and its handsome appointments pleased Lily, but when she commenced to realize that I must leave her, and that she would be separated from all she loved, and left to the care of strangers, she screamed with perfect terror, and nothing I could do would pacify her in the least. She held her arms tight around my neck, cried and moaned and sobbed upon my shoulder as if her little heart was breaking, and begged me, with tones of touching entreaty, to take her to mamma, dear mamma, and she would be so good. I had hard work of it, and if nature had not at last given way, I do not know what I should have done; but sleep came to her little eyes and brought relief for her first sorrow, and

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I laid her down on her little bed, tenderly kissing her, and wondering how she would feel the next morning when she awoke and found herself alone. Even in her sleep she sobbed and moaned, and tossed her little arms about, perhaps seeking for that mother's bosom on which she was never to rest again. I breathed a prayer by her bed-side; I left a sister's tears on her cheek, and a farewell kiss on her lip and went away, after being promised by Mrs. Anson that she should be well cared for, and have every thing her heart could wish.

     To part with Lily seemed to my mother like the tearing asunder of soul and body, but all her friends tell her to bind the children out; to find good places for us all and bind us out, and then she will be putting us in the way of earning our own living. But the experience she has had seems to make her shrink from it, and all the answer is they are too young, yet. Yes, but Lily was younger than I, younger than Frank, or Ellen, or Harry. Well, but Gazella she cannot spare, as she is the oldest girl, and Frank, poor Frank, he is a cripple, and Ellen is very delicate, and as to Harry; well, as to Harry, if she can find a suitable place she will put him out, and so it goes, and my mother's wavering elicits black looks, and her friends thin off perceptibly.

     We have obtained considerable work from a lady who lives on Spruce street, and although our earnings were small, still it was sufficient to keep us from starva-

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tion. For four days we have now been laboring to complete some work for her, and we have been without food two days. How strange it seems to me, to feel the want of something to eat. When I look back and compare our plentiful larder to our present state of suffering, I feel that I am dreaming, but alas! the dream seems even more terrible than any reality I could have imagined. How little did I ever think when I knelt at my mother's knee and repeated the Lord's prayer, that I would ever ask in vain for my daily bread. It seems strange that in a large city where there is so much money, and so much to eat, that any one can actually suffer; but I suppose there are many persons who, like ourselves, are too proud to beg, and who often do go hungry to bed. Ah, it is dreadful. I used to think so when I led little beggars into our kitchen, and coaxed the cook to fill their baskets with the best she had, but now since I have come to realize it myself, I find it is far worse than I ever imagined.

     We all help mother to sew, though we do not stick so closely at it as she does. She rises at four o'clock in the morning, and sits up till twelve at night. Today my sister Ellen, who is not very strong, rose from her chair, and crossed the room to get a drink of water. She fell down, and Harry screamed out, " Oh! mother, Ellen is dead." My mother and all of us ran to her, and found she had fainted. We carried her and laid her on the bed, and bathed her face and hands with cold water, (we have plenty of that.) At

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this moment my father came in; he had been out walking. He asked what was the matter with Ellen. My mother has been very careful to hide from my father how long we have been without bread; and, by selling small articles of dress at the shop, she has contrived to get something for him. She told him that Ellen had fainted from weakness, and would fain have hidden from him the real cause, but Harry, who is a free-spoken lad, said it was not weakness, it was starvation, and that we had none of us tasted food for more than two days, and he did not see the use in hiding it from father. "Is that true?" said my father, turning quickly to my mother, as she stood beside the bed. She slowly bowed her head, and said, "I would have spared you the knowledge, Frank, of what it is out of your power to help. It is only fretting you for nothing, and it is enough that you are sick and helpless, without worrying you about these trifles." "Trifles! trifles, did you say, wife? Is it so small a trifle, then, that my wife and children are starving ? But why struggle against fate ? Let us make up our minds to die. Better to die now than to go to the grave after a protracted process of starvation. I have been an honest man, and I never wronged any one. God is surely unjust, to let these calamities come upon me now, when I am sick and helpless. Why not get some charcoal, light a fire, and let us all lay down to sleep around it, for I find this burthen intolerable to be borne."

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It takes a great deal to make my mother angry, and I think I never heard her speak unkindly to my father before; but I shall not soon forget the way her face flushed, and her bosom heaved, as she answered him in these words: "You may think there is nothing left but to die: and you may feel that you would be doing right to hurry your own soul, and your children's, into the presence of that God, whose justice and mercy you arraign, but you must excuse me, if for once I differ with you. As long as I have hands to work, and strength to drag myself about, I will make every exertion to provide for the helpless creatures I have brought into the world: and when I am prostrated upon my sick bed, and my unborn child sees the light, I will trust in God, who, though he has seemed to forsake me, will not, I am sure, desert me at my utmost need."

     Considerable argument followed this determination, but my mother was firm as a rock, though gentle as a lamb at other times, and at last my father's cough put a stop to the conversation. I am very sorry that my father should have dreamed of suicide, for it is a crime that I do not approve of; but yet, who can wonder that the thought suggested itself to his mind? Poor man, to be hurled from affluence to beggary, at one single revolution of the wheel of fortune—to lose health, spirit, ambition, every thing which would have helped him to regain his position—one might pity rather than blame him. Had he come down gradually,

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he might, by degrees, have reconciled himself to his fate; hut his heart, mind, and soul arc all crushed and paralyzed, and he is, indeed, a ruined man. Oh! I weep for thee, my dear, dear father! Would that God would give me of thy bitter cup, and spare thee; how gladly I would drain it to the dregs!

* * * * * *

     I have a new little sister, only a week old, and her name is Ida. She is very little, and, oh! so pretty. She is a very good baby, and scarcely ever cries; and then she looks with her little eyes as if she knew a great deal. I wonder if babies do know anything. I should like to know how they think. It is certain they can cry when they are hungry, at all events.

     Mother sent Ellen and I home with the work she had just completed, when she was taken sick. We had not a morsel of anything to eat in the house, and not even a penny towards buying any. We live in two garrets, one of which is almost empty. There is a table and some chairs in it, and we eat there, when we have anything that requires such exertion on our part, which, alas, for our stomachs, is not too often. Before going out, I could not forbear going in there, and kneeling before God, and begging that he would send us bread. Little did I think, a year ago, that I should ever offer such a prayer. However, better people than we are have starved in a dungeon, and all for the love of God, mother says.

     The lady we went to take the work to, Mrs. Harri-

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son, is a very rich lady, and lives in a large elegant house, on Spruce street. We went up a broad flight of white marble steps, and rang the bell. A portly servant man opened the door, and was about to shut it in our faces, thinking, no doubt, that we were beggars, if he judged by our dress, but I quickly passed through the open door, and Ellen followed like my shadow. I asked for Mrs. Harrison. He told me I could not see her, as she was holding an assembly. I told him my mother had been doing some work for Mrs. Harrison, and that she was very sick, (I could not bear to tell him we were starving, and that my mother had sent me with the last dress that morning to the shop, to pledge it for some oat-meal and a few other necessaries.) He said, yes, he knew about Madam having employed a poor person who was in great distress; Madam was very charitable, very. He had heard Madam telling some company, at dinner, the other day, and they had all joined in saying that Madam had a noble heart, a very noble heart; still it would not do to disturb her now; it would be as much as his place was worth; but come to-morrow morning, and she would pay the money. The waiter took the bundle and went in, shutting the door, through which we had seen glimpses of a soft velvet carpet, like that on our once happy home, and a broad flight of stairs, with their rods of burnished silver; of a brilliant chandelier of silver gilt, lighting up the hall, and of another door opening into a superb drawing room, blazing with

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innumerable wax lights, and filled with rich furniture, while stately men and beautiful women moved about, and over and above all, came to our ears, chastened and hallowed by the distance, delicious strains of music, like that which had once echoed through the walls of our own home, and which, coming to us now, as we turned, forlorn and destitute and starving, from the door, brought the tears to our eyes, and filled our minds with memories that were, alas! too sad, from contrast with the present.

     We descended the broad steps, and drew our shawls closer about us, for the winter wind crept over us, and we were hungry as well as cold. "Alas!" said Ellen, "what shall we do; mother wants the money so bad for those things?" "We must get some money somehow, Ellen." "Yes, I know that; but how?" said Ellen, with a gentle, patient smile. There is some-thing very lovely in sister Ellen's smiles; I imagine she looks like an angel when they break over her face. We returned home, and climbed the stairs to our garret. The children were all awake. They had expected to see us come back with bread to satisfy their hunger. My mother lay upon the bed with little Ida beside her. Father, wrapped in his cloak, lay upon an old settee, looking very pale and haggard. The children crowded around us, and felt under our shawls, and, oh! they looked so famished. My poor little brother Frank lay in the corner on some straw, and he looked at me so appealingly, it cut me to the heart. I

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shall be a woman soon, in this school. I feel that I grow older now in a day, than I used to in a month. I told mother, in a whisper, all that had passed. A contraction of agony distorted her face for a moment, then she clasped her hands together and burst into tears. I cried, too; and Ellen, sweet, gentle Ellen, joined her tears with mine; but of what avail those tears: they could not wash away the evil. I resolved to act, and to do it promptly. How I wish I was a man. I have the ambition and energy that belongs to that privileged race, and yet what good do they do me? I motioned to Ellen, and stole out of the room and down the stairs. Once in the street, she asked me where I was going. "Come," said I, "and you shall see." I retraced my way back to the elegant house of Mrs. Harrison. I tried the large silver knob of the door; it yielded, and I stood within its portals. I cast one hurried thought on the misery I had left behind me at home. I raised my eyes to heaven, and implored the aid of God; and then, taking Ellen by the hand, I walked boldly into the drawing room, and stood in the midst of the gay assembly. Some ladies threw up their hands and screamed; some said we looked like ghosts; but all united in shrinking away from us, thus making a circle around us, through which Mrs. Harrison, attracted by the noise, soon approached us. I looked at her, and tried to read her heart. She seemed very beautiful, and was dressed very elegantly in a light satin dress, richly embroi-

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dered. Still I was not afraid of her, all rich and splendid as she appeared; for was she not human, like myself?

     I took her hand and led her out of the room, and asked her to show me the way up stairs, where nobody would hear what I had to say to her. She did so, and Ellen followed still, like my shadow. She took me into an elegant chamber, where a richly carved bedstead stood in the centre of the room, canopied by curtains of blue satin damask and embroidered lace. I trod the soft, velvety carpet, and sat down in a chair covered with velvet. Ellen sat beside me; we were both so little we did not need more than one chair. Mrs. Harrison sat down before us on a lounge, and looked impatient for us to speak. I commenced and told her all. I gulped down my pride and shame, and confessed our starving condition. I told her of my new little sister; and my head reels yet when I remember her chilling reply. "And is this what you have had the impertinence to bring me from my company, for; to hear this miserable story about a sick father and mother, and a whole troop of starving brats? The old tale to move people's pity—but it won't do, I can tell you. You ought to be taken up as vagrants. If I was not very charitable, I should send you to prison at once. However, I won't be hard with you. Here is half a dollar; come back to-morrow and I will pay you the rest: and remember to tell your mother, that I shall never employ such a low person

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to sew for me again. I find it quite insufferable." She handed me the money between her thumb and finger, as if fearing lest she should touch me, and then, ringing the bell, told the maid, who came in answer, to show us out of the gate. The maid, more merciful than the mistress, took us into the kitchen, gave us each a good supper, and filled a little basket with such of the good things of this world as abounded in the pantry, and after all, my prayer for bread was answered, and we went on our way rejoicing.

 

* * * * * *

     Before quoting again from Gazella's journal, let me assure my readers, that, heartless as such things appear, they are really true. In many cases the rich employ persons to sew for them, who only work for spending money, and who thus can afford to work at a cheaper rate than those persons can who depend upon their needle for everything. A tradeswoman who is so unfashionable as to want her money imperatively when her work is done, will soon decrease the list of her patrons.

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     CHAPTER V.

 

GAZELLA’S JOURNAL CONTINUED.  

THE HARLEY FAMILY MEET NEW TROUBLES.

 

 

Do not insult calamity; 

It is a barbarous grossness to lay on 

The weight of scorn, where heavy misery 

Too much already weighs man's fortune down.

DANIEL'S PHILOTAS.

 

     Some months have now passed by, and Lily seems as much dissatisfied with her place as ever. She complains that she has to work too hard, lift things too heavy for her, and scrub the steps when the water freezes on them as she uses it. She does not tell my mother these things. She only confides them to me, and begs me not to tell. That child has a strange faculty of endurance; for I have seen her control her feelings at times when older persons would have given way. Mrs. Anson, who is Lily's mistress, tells her she is very proud. Mother never goes there that she does not hear some bad accounts of her child. She is quite disheartened: and yet Lily is not a bad child. We never found her so at home. She is made to scrub the steps, little as she is, not but what there are plenty of other servants to do it, but then it is necessary to

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bring her pride down. She has to wear aprons of tow cloth, and put aside all the little things made in her happier days, to bring her pride down. In short, if Lily has any pride left when her term of servitude expires, I shall be much surprised.

     A short time ago Mrs. Anson ordered Lily to call her daughter, who was a girl about fourteen years of age, Miss Julia. Lily, with a dash of her native independence, said she would do so on condition that she was called Miss Lily. Upon this Mrs. Anson got dreadfully angry, and declared that what she said was law, and must be enforced, and begged Lily to remember that Miss Julia was a gentleman's daughter, and therefore entitled to be called Miss, but that she, Lily, being a poor child, had no right to any such title. Poor Lily was severely whipped and sent into an empty garret, in which was only a case containing two skeletons; very handsome specimens of anatomy, but not exactly the thing to please a little girl. Lily trembled with fright, and expected every moment to see the gaunt limbs walk out before her. She screamed and beat against the door, and begged to be taken out and put in the cellar, or any where but with those frightful skeletons; but as well might she have pleaded with the dead. Mrs. Anson, if she possesses that human commodity called a heart, does not give evidence of it in her treatment of little Lily. All the poor child got was another whipping, and she was locked up again: and there in that garret she was

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kept for three days on bread and water, and was at last let out, not because she was conquered, but that she was wanted to help and run errands on wash day. I went home and told mother this. She wept bitterly, but begged me not to tell my father, as he would, no doubt, do something desperate. She said she knew that Lily was treated cruelly: she read it in her face, "but," said she, "Lily is bound to them. They have full power over her. If I complain, they will say that I want to bring her up a lady. What can I do to help her?" and sure enough, what could she do. 

 

*           *           *            *           *           *

     Let me introduce here a few remarks of my own regarding this cruelty, which I know to be true. Think of the cowardly spirit of the woman who could thus teach a helpless child to regard her father with contempt. Miss Julia was a gentleman's daughter, but Lily was a poor child. I have heard her say those words so often, that they echo in my ears yet. And was the fact that she was a poor child, incontrovertible proof that she was not a gentleman's daughter? Because Frank Harley had been ruined by the excessive goodness of his heart, because he was poor and destitute, and his family starving for bread, and he sick and unable to work for them, was he the less a gentleman? Had he lost the right to the title since he ranked amongst the highest and most honorable of New York merchants? Oh! hard-hearted, cruel woman, without one atom of the softness that is the greatest

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charm of the sex, I doubt not that conscience is repaying you for every word and action a thousand fold. I do not envy you the remembrance.

     I sho