[WE commence a Tale, by an eminent American authoress, which will be found of great interest to our readers, because its scenes are laid in a country dear to Englishmen, though far away from the little spot of which even "Americans are proud. Because also, it introduces to the reader a race of people scourged and oppressed, and proves that though the colour of the skin may differ, there is a likeness of heart between the white man and his sable brother, which Americans will do well to hold more sacred. It also gives an example of the degrading influences of intemperance, and proves what good resolutions may accomplish even when the soul is sadly downcast. To every well-wisher of mankind the story will prove of welcome interest; whilst to the mere reader searching for novelty and excitement, it will be attractive. Its moral tone is unquestionable; and the chief incidents will be found additionally interesting when it is stated that they are founded upon fact.-ED. F. F.] "HARK!" exclaimed Mr. Warland, rising from his chair, and walking with an unsteady step to the door, which he opened with a shaking hand. "Hark! there is some one shouting from the opposite bank of the river. Light the lantern, Marcus. Quick, I say. What are you standing in that blast for? Give it to me, and not keep me waiting here all night." Snatching the lantern from the hands of his son, he seized the tongs and tried to bring the glaring coal in contact with the wick; but though he blew his hot breath in strong gusts upon it, and produced a bright flame, his wavering hand was unable to carry it through the open door of the lantern. Setting down the tongs, or rather throwing them on the hearth, he swung VOL. VII.NO. LXXIII. the lantern back into the hands of his son, who immediately lighted it, closed the door, and took down his cap from the wall, "What are you going to do with your cap, sir?" asked Mr. Warland. "Going with you, sir," firmly, but respectfully, answered the boy. "And what good are you going to do me, I want to know? The night is as dark as pitch, and the wind howling like a pack of wolves." "That's the reason I want to go with you, sir. It is not the first time I have been out with you when it is dark as it is now." "True, true," said the father, rubbing his forehead with his hands; "but if Katy wakes she will be frightened at finding herself alone." "She never wakes, father; and if she does, Aunt Milly will hear her from the kitchen, and come to her directly." "Poor thing!" cried the father, in a softer tone, looking down upon a palecheeked, dark-haired little girl, of about B eight years old, fast asleep in a low cotbed, in the back part of the room. "Poor thing!" repeated he, stooping over and kissing her, "what has she ever done that she should be cursed too?" "Father! they are shouting again, louder than ever," said the boy. "Hadn't we better start?" "Yes-wait one moment." He opened the door of a small cupboard in the darkest corner of the apartment, and taking out a black bottle, began to pour a light-coloured fluid in a glass. He was just putting it to his lips, when Marcus stepped quickly up, and laying his hand on his arm, exclaimed "No, father, you must not drink that now. You cannot ferry the boat steadily if you do, and the wind is so strong." "Let me alone, boy. What right have you to prevent me? Let me alone, I say." 66 Please, father. It's wrong. You don't know what you are doing. You just now said she was cursed-you know you didand yet you are going-Nay, father, you shall not drink that before you start." The resolute boy snatched the glass from his father's hand, and dashed the contents into the fire. A sudden illuminating blaze flashed through the room, as suddenly producing a pale-blue flame, curling slenderly upward. Then darting through the door, he waved his lantern in the air, and gave the peculiar halloo of the boatman to indicate to the waiting traveller that the ferry was about to cross the river. Mr. Warland, who would have wrestled with a man who endeavoured by mild means to deprive him of the burning beverage, by which he sought to stimulate his dulled and exhausted spirits, yielded to the bold will of a boy of ten, without daring to resist, and followed him, muttering, not loudly, but deeply, out of the cabin. Marcus hoisted the lantern on a slight post that was elevated at the end of the boat, but so as not to interfere with the entrance of carriages, and seizing one pole, gave the other without speaking into his father's hand. The river had a strong, rapid current, so that they were obliged to go up the stream some distance before they were able to cross it. The lantern threw a red wake on the dark water, over which the boat glided heavily and sullenly, though now Mr. Warland emulated the vigorous strokes of the pole which was swayed by the youthful arm of his son. He did not speak, for he was angry and ashamed, yet with his anger and shame an exulting pride in his son was mingled. He was proud of the boy, who dared to control his brutal appetite, and save him momentarily from a yet deeper degradation. As he looked upon his slight figure thrown back, standing out in the glare of the lantern, while he pressed the pole with all his strength against the rushing water, and thought what he might have made of him, and what his probable destiny now was, he could not suppress a groan of remorse. 66 "You are tired, father," said Marcus. "But never mind," he added, in an encouraging tone, we shall soon be over, and we don't have to tug as hard coming back." One would have supposed that he was the elder and stronger of the two, to hear his inspiring tone. 66 "This is a sorry life we lead," said the father, speaking for the first time since the rebellious act of Marcus. Obliged to be called out like a dog, in the darkest night, and the roughest winds, for anybody and everybody. I don't mind it in the daytime; but when the heavens scowl as black as they do now, and the water looks like ink beneath us, I feel as if I were on the gloomy Styx." As "I like it better in the night, father; it is so much more exciting. I don't care how dark it is; we can turn the boat into a comet, and send out a long, red streamer, that looks grandly enough behind us. for the wind, the stronger the better. I love to hear the river roar after us. It sounds like music to me. Hurrah! father, here we are, and here is a carriage waiting for us, sure enough." The rough, grinding sound of the boat upon the gravelly bank, and a sudden jerk which almost threw Mr. Warland from his feet, but which Marcus stood without a vibration, gave notice to the occupants of the carriage that the ferry was ready for them to cross. The horses came slowly, and tightly reined, down the steep bank, and stepped with thundering hoofs on the wet planks of the boat, which pushed off the moment the wheels rolled from the sand. A gentleman and lady were in the carriage, and the lady leaned on the shoulder of the gentleman, as if feeble and weary. She was wrapped up daintily in rich shawls, and blankets were placed in the bottom of the carriage to cover her feet. There was a young black girl too on the front seat, but her dark outline was scarcely distinguishable amid the dark shadows of night. When the boat was about half-way over the river, the horses began to be restless and step backward and forward, much to the alarm of the lady. Lifting her languid head from her husband's shoulder, she insisted upon getting out of the carriage. "There is no danger, Isabel," said her husband. 66 Keep quiet, and do not expose yourself to taking cold by this needless alarm." But even while he was speaking the horses went back still farther, though the driver stood at their head, with a controlling arm. Forgetting her fatigue and debility, the lady jumped out, while her husband, finding it in vain to reason with her, followed, and taking one of the blankets, threw it on the bottom of the boat for her to stand on, and gathered her shawls round her, which the strong winds were filling like the sails of a ship. "Look! husband," she whispered, "look at that boy-what a beautiful face and figure he has!" Marcus was standing, with his right hand grasping the long pole, by which he was propelling the boat, while with his left he pushed back the locks that were blowing over his temples. The blaze of the lantern fell full upon him, and lighted him up with a pale glory, while the thick shadows all settled behind him, in a kind of rich, Rembrandt background. Though he had been recklessly, fearlessly exposed to the sun and wind, regardless of their bronzing influence, his cheek and brow were as fair as a girl's; and his fair hair too, long and curling, floated back from his forehead, with a wild grace and glossiness, as if it were born to sport with the river breeze that so often wantoned with its profusion. His eyes were of a clear, deep, cerulean blue, with very dark lashes, and his finely formed eyebrows were also of a much darker hue than his hair. His mouth, beautiful as the Apollo Belvidere's, had also the slightly scornful expression that curls the parted lip of the young divinity. He certainly was a very remarkable-looking boy for a ferryman's son, and the lady forgot her alarm while gazing upon him, and the gentleman his fears for the lady. He was struck with the mind, the spirit that breathed from that boyish face-she with the striking beauty of its lineaments-both with the contrast he presented to the rude occupation in which he was engaged. The boy caught their earnest gaze, and turning with a quick, deep blush, he again bent over the pole, which began to dip in a deeper, stronger current. When they reached the opposite bank, the lady and gentleman held a low conversation, and then the gentleman, turning courteously to Mr. Warland, asked him if he knew of any house of entertainment near, where they could pass the night, as Mrs. Bellamy was very much fatigued, and unwilling to travel farther in the darkness. "There is no house of entertainment at all," answered Mr. Warland, "within several miles of here, and no house within a mile. The roads are very bad, and there is a very steep hill to go up before you reach it." "What shall I do? exclaimed the lady, looking anxiously at the log cabin before them; "I cannot, I dare not travel farther to-night. Cannot this good man give us a bed?" "I am very sorry, madam," replied Mr. Warland, with much more politeness of manner than they expected from a ferryman, "I cannot offer you any suitable accommodations. My cabin is too rough and ill-furnished to ask you to sit down in, much less to sleep in." "I don't care for accommodations," she cried, earnestly. "No matter how rough the bed, how coarse the fare, I will not complain; but I cannot ride with these wild horses any farther this dark night." "The horses are not wild, Isabel," said her husband, with a smile. "They are very safe and manageable; but I know you are timid, and cannot help it. If this gentleman is willing to take us in for the night, I shall certainly be under obligations to him, for your sake." "If I had a bed," stammered Mr. Warland, ashamed and vexed at his poverty, well knowing that it was the curse he had drawn upon himself, and that he too once had the bread of affluence. "Let us give them our bed, father," said Marcus, in a low voice, approaching close to refuse it." The beams overhead being unfloored, the eye could travel upward to the apex of the roof, so that there was an illusion of loftiness given to the building, low and confined as it was. Mr. Bellamy, who had been with Mr. Warland, to arrange in some way for the accommodation of his horses, now entered with the master of the house, and drawing a chair towards the fire, appeared to gladden in the influence of the cheering blaze. He was a fine, benevolent-looking man, with a kindness and heartiness of manner which even Mr. Warland could not resist. He seemed so well satisfied with the accommodations offered, so sorry for the trouble they were giving, it was impossible to grudge a hospitality so gratefully received, and so urgently required. Marcus did not like to be called a "fine boy" by the rich man whom he was about to accommodate. It sounded too patronising. He did not mean that he should hear the offer. He wanted his father to have the credit of it, if there was any credit in it, of which he was not at all convinced. He knew what was due to the stranger within one's gate, as well as the children of the wealthy; and there was something about the lady so sweet and winning, her slightest request seemed clothed with the absoluteness of a command. He led the way to the cabin, holding his lantern low, SO as to illumine the ground where the lady stepped. When they entered, there was certainly nothing very inviting in the aspect of those unlathed, unplastered walls, and poorly furnished room, to the eye of the delicate and weary traveller; but it was a place of safety, and it was certainly preferable to the danger of bad roads, fiery horses, and a night of inky darkness. The only chairs that were visible were wooden frames, with untanned leather bottoms; and a low bedstead, covered with a blue and white woollen counterpane, looked hard and repulsive. Still there was an air of neatness, and even of comfort. There were curtains to the lower part of the windows, which, though made of white domestic, were perfectly neat, and the pillow-coloured. He was now, however, perfectly cases, and all of the sheets that were visible, were of snowy purity. Mrs. Bellamy sat down on the side of the bed, while the black girl brought in her blankets, and kneeling down, spread one beneath her feet on the uncarpeted floor. Marcus thought the lady's feet must be very dainty things, since they were not allowed to press anything harder than wool; and he thought, too, how many there were who would be thankful to have those soft, nice blankets to cover them, and shield their bodies from the cold. He threw some pine-knots on the dying embers of the hearth, which soon kindling, a flood of radiance went rolling all over the dark walls, converting them, for the time, into an illuminated dome. The blazing fire in the chimney threw every object out in strong relief, and even suffused with a glow the fair, pale face of the weary lady, who, half reclining on the bed, supported by her elbow, suffered her eye to wander over the group around the fireplace, though it rested with increasing interest on the remarkablelooking boy, who stood beside her husband with the air of a young aristocrat, in spite of his common apparel. She looked from him to his father, on whose brow the unmistakeable seal of intemperance was stamped,-that mark of sin and shame, which grows broader and deeper, till the image of God is utterly defaced. He might once have been a handsome man; for his forehead was lofty, and his features symmetrical; but his eyes had a pale, watery lustre, and his face was bloated and dis sober,-thanks to the bold interference of his dauntless boy before they left the cabin,-and as he sat conversing with Mr. Bellamy, the latter was astonished at the ease and refinement of his language. By certain classic allusions, he soon discovered that he had had a collegiate education, and was a good scholar; and he also learned that he had known some of the most distinguished men of the day; and yet he was located on the banks of that wild stream, in an obscure log-cabin, lonely and poor, a common ferryman, and he was bringing up his noble boy for the same inglorious occupation. These things troubled the benevolent Mr. Bellamy, and he longed to fathom their mystery. In the mean time another figure was added to the group, and a very important one in the ferryman's cabin. It was Aunt Milly, the only negro that remained of the wreck of Mr. Warland's fallen fortunes, which she endeavoured to retrieve in the dignity of her single person. She had a great deal of family pride, and notwithstanding the low condition to which her master was reduced, she remembered his former station in society, and in the presence of strangers treated him with marked deference and respect, as if, by clothing him in her imagination with the light of other days, she could cause others to forget his present altered and degraded situation. She had been the nurse of his children, and for two or three years had watched over their desolate and orphan childhood, with the tenderness and devotion of a mother. When Mrs. Warland was on her deathbed, where a broken heart had laid her, she bound her husband, then awakened to a remorseful consciousness of the fatal consequences of his degeneracy, by a solemn promise, never to part with this faithful and attached creature. "All the rest are gone," said the dying mother" all sold, scattered, and broken up-Milly alone remains; she loves my poor children, and will be a mother to them when I am gone. Promise me, as you hope for comfort and pardon in your last moments, never to give up this their last friend, their only stay." Mr. Warland, in an agony of remorse, promised all she required, and the faithful slave declared they should spill every drop of her heart's blood, sooner than separate her from the children she loved better than her own life. From that moment she devoted herself to their interests with a fidelity that never wavered, and an affection that never abated. There was no sacrifice too great for their comfort, or too mighty for her love. Let us not be accused of drawing an exaggerated picture of the sable race. "We speak what we do know -we testify to that which we have seen." Aunt Milly stood, with her hands folded over her clean, white apron, as on a comfortable little shelf, curtseying to the strange lady with respectful lowliness. A handkerchief of mingled orange and red was twisted round her retreating forehead, and another of the same blending hues was folded round her ebon neck. She had evidently prepared herself for the occasion, and looked as if she were conscious of bearing on her shoulders the tottering honours of the house of Warland. It must be acknowledged that Aunt Milly had one fault, that grew into a kind of monomania. In her desire to conceal the poverty to which her master was reduced, she indulged in a spirit of exaggeration, which increased upon her unconsciously. She actually began to believe herself in the existence of those resources which her imagination supplied, she had so often had recourse to them in the day of trouble. Mrs. Bellamy felt nearly as much surprise to see this very respectable and stately-looking negro a member of the family, as the fair-haired boy she admired so much, and acknowledged her lowly greeting with a gentle curtsey, that took captive at once Aunt Milly's susceptible heart. The black girl, who was sitting on the soft blankets at her mistress's feet, looked up, with a bright exhibition of smiling ivory, on this noble manifestation of one of her own colour. "What would mistress like for her supper?" asked Aunt Milly, rolling up her large eyeballs, as if endeavouring to recollect the many luxuries with which she could supply her. "The chickens would be too tough killed off all of a sudden, or I could have some fried in batter, and there wouldn't be time for the muffins and egg-cake to rise; but e'enemost anything else in the world that mistress would like, she shall have for the wanting. I haven't been head-cook in master's family these twelve years for nothing." An arch smile fluttered over the rosy lips of Marcus at Aunt Milly's grandiloquent exhibition of hospitality, knowing what a poor supper she really would be obliged to prepare for the appetite of the travellers. "Thank you," replied Mrs. Bellamy, "I will not trouble you for anything but a cup of tea; we all have eaten quite lately in the carriage, and are not hungry in the least. You know travellers always carry their luncheons with them." "Yes, mistress; bless your soul, yes," answered Aunt Milly, inexpressibly relieved; "when my poor dear mistress used to go a journeying, I allos stuffed the car |