“Slavery is merely an idea!” said Mr. S——; “the slaves are, in reality, better off than we are, if they had sense enough to know it. They are taken care of—(they must be, you know, because it is the master’s interest to keep them in good condition, and a man will always do what is for his interest). They get rid of all responsibility,—which is what we are groaning under; and if they were only let alone, they would be happy enough,—happier than their masters, I dare say.”

“You think it, then, anything but kindness to urge their emancipation?”

“To be sure I do! and I would have every one that teaches them to be discontented hung up without judge or jury.”

“You seem particularly interested for the slave,—”

“Interested! I would have every one of them sent beyond the Rocky Mountains, if I could,—or into ‘kingdom come,’ for that matter. They are the curse of the country; but as long as they are property, I would shoot any man that put bad ideas in their heads or that interfered with my management of them, as I would shoot a dog that killed my sheep.”

“But do they never get what you call ‘bad ideas’ from any but white people?”

“O, there is no knowing where they get them,—but they are full of ’em. No matter how kind you are to them, they are never satisfied!”

“I can tell you where they get some of their ideas of slavery, if you will allow me.”

“Certainly,—I am always glad of information.”

“Well,—I will take up your time with nothing but actual facts, for the truth of which I will be answerable. In a Western tour, not many years since, I saw one day a young lady, fair as a lily, and with a sweet expression of countenance, walking in the street with a little black girl whom she held by the hand. The little girl was about six years old, neatly dressed and very clean; and on her neck she had a little gauze shawl that somebody had given her, the border of which was composed of the figure of the American Eagle many times repeated, each impression accompanied by the word ‘Liberty,’ woven into the fabric.

“This curious decoration, together with the wistful look of the child’s face, and the benevolent air of the young lady, with whom I was slightly acquainted, led me to ask some questions, which were answered with an air in which modesty and sensibility were blended. I learned that the young lady had undertaken the trying task of accompanying the little girl through the place—which was a considerable village—for the purpose of collecting the sum of fifty dollars, with which to purchase the freedom of the child.

“‘And how,’ said I, ‘did you become interested in the poor little thing?’

“‘She belongs to a member of my family,’ said Miss C——, with a blush; ‘to my aunt, Mrs. Jones.’

“‘And how did she find her way to the north?’

“‘Her mother, who is the servant of my aunt, got leave to bring Violet along with her, when her mistress came here for the summer.’

“‘But both mother and child are free by the mere circumstance of being brought here,—’

“‘O, but Momma Charlotte promised her mistress that she would not leave her, nor let Violet do so, if she might bring the child with her, and beg money to buy her. She says she does not care for freedom for herself.’

“I could not do less than go with the good girl for awhile, to assist a little in her labor of love, which in the end, and with a good deal of difficulty, was finally accomplished. It was not until after this that I became acquainted with Momma Charlotte, the mother of Violet, and learned a few of the particulars of a story which had made her ‘not care for freedom.’

“Momma Charlotte was the mother of ten children,—six daughters and four sons. Her husband had been a free black,—a carpenter, able to keep a comfortable home for his family, hiring his wife of her master. At the time of the Southampton insurrection, this man was among the suspected, and, on suspicion, not proof, he was taken up,—tried, after the fashion of that time, and hung, with several others,—all between sunset and sunrise of a single day.

“‘He was innocent,—he had had no hand in the matter, as God is my judge!’ said poor Momma Charlotte.

“This was but the beginning of troubles. A sense of insecurity made the sale of slaves more vigorous than ever. Charlotte’s children were sold, one by one—no two together—the boys for the sugar country,—the girls for—‘the New Orleans market,’ whence they were dispersed, she never knew where.

“‘All gone!’ she said; ‘where I could never see ’em nor hear from ’em. I don’t even know where one of ’em is!’

“‘And Violet?’

“‘O yes,—I mean all but Violet. She’s all I’ve got in the world, and I want to keep her. I begged Missus to let me keep jist one! and she said if I could get any body to buy her for me, I might have her,—for you know I couldn’t own her myself, ’cause I’m a slave.’

“‘But you are no longer a slave, Momma Charlotte; your mistress by bringing you here voluntarily has freed you,—’

“‘Yes,—I know,—but I promised, you see! And I don’t care to be free. I’m old, and my children’s gone, and my heart’s broke. I ha’n’t no more courage. If I can keep Violet, it’s all I expect. My mistress is good enough to me,—I live pretty easy.’

“Such was Momma Charlotte’s philosophy, but her face told through what sufferings such philosophy had been acquired. A fixed grief sat on her brow; since the judicial murder of her husband she had never been known to laugh,—hardly to smile. Her eyes were habitually cast on the ground, and her voice seemed always on the brink of tears. She was what you call ‘dissatisfied,’ I think, Mr. S——.”

“O, you have selected an extreme case! those things very seldom happen.” (Seldom!) “After all, you see the poor old thing knew what was right; she showed the right spirit,—”

“Yes,—she,—but her owners?”

Here Mr. S—— was sure he saw a friend at a distance to whom it was necessary he should speak immediately; so he darted off, and I lost the benefit of his defence of the peculiarities of the peculiar institution.