presents to her bosom, and carrying his books in his arms, went to the kitchen, where he exhibited the beautiful engravings they contained to the wondering and enraptured eyes of Milly and Simon. Warland did not deceive Mr. Bellamy; he related the scene so disgraceful to himself, so honourable to his son, which has already been recorded, and the thorough change he believed wrought within himself in consequence of his boy's conduct.

"Yes, Mr. Bellamy, you see before you a fallen man, utterly unworthy of your confidence; still so dreadful was the shock I received that night, so terrible the revulsion of my feelings, have since loathed the very idea of drink; I think I could see it without being tempted, but I may be deceived. I do not ask any favour for myself I ought not to receive any-but for my children. Sir, anything you could do for them would be a blessing worthy of eternal gratitude. My boy is a noble child; he was born for something better than the miserable destiny to which I have doomed him."

"You judge too hardly of yourself. I am encouraged and strengthened in all my hopes with regard to you. One lapse, so sincerely repented of, is less than I dared to expect. No, no, Warland, I am not going to give you up so readily; your countenance is the seal of your reformation. I never saw a man improved so much in six months; I scarcely recognised you. I am not afraid to trust you. I am more afraid that you will reject the situation I am about to offer, as beneath your merits and ambition."

Warland turned an inquiring glance upon his friend-"There is no situation that you would offer me that I should consider too low for acceptance, if it brought my children within the pale of civilized life."

"I have a large plantation," said Mr. Bellamy," and a great number of negroes, that require superintendence in their labour. I have always found it difficult to obtain an overseer qualified for the office -one who can combine the suaviter in modo with the fortiter in re. The one whom I now employ will be dismissed in a short time. Will you supply his place? You can bring your talents and education to hear upon the office; for the slaves do

homage to mind, and know, as if by intuition, the man whom knowledge has enlightened and polished, from the unlettered boor. You shall have a salary sufficient for the support of your family. Marcus I intend to send immediately to school; and my wife, who has been entreating me to adopt a little girl, will take little Katy under her own immediate charge. I wish I could offer you a situation more congenial; but I think it better than the one you now occupy. It is rather as an assistant overseer I want to engage you, for I devote a great deal of my own time to superintending my plantation, and watching over the interests of my slaves."

"Most gladly, most gratefully would I accept the proposition," replied Warland, deeply sensible of the kindness of his new friend, "could I believe myself qualified for its duties; but ought I, who have so lately manifested such a melancholy instance of the want of self-government, to assume the control of others? Ought I to take advantage of your benevolence, and perhaps expose you to disappointment and loss?"

"I am willing to expose myself to all the risk; but you must not give me more credit than is due. Mrs. Bellamy has been a quickening spirit to me, and planned the whole, leaving me nothing but a willing co-operation in her designs. Your boy has perfectly bewitched her. She looks upon him as a young eaglet, whose yet unfledged wings will one day bear him to a sunbright eyrie. I think myself he was born for distinction, and that he will attain it. Will you lay the first steppingstone for him?"

"I cannot refuse. I will do all I can to deserve your confidence. The time has been when such an offer would have been considered by me an unpardonable insult; now, I feel ennobled by it. Let me call my son, and communicate to him his brightening prospects."

Marcus, while he felt the most intense gratitude to Mr. Bellamy, could not help shrinking from the idea of his father's becoming an overseer. He had been thinking so long of seeing him reinstated in his former standing in society as a gentleman and a scholar, that any position short of that seemed inferior to his merits, and below his ambition. Mr. Bellamy

read all this in the boy's expressive countenance, and he liked him better for his noble pride.

"Your father will be my friend, my boy," said he. "I mean he shall dignify his office, and raise it to a higher stand than it usually occupies; and I consider it only a preparatory step to his future advancement. Had I made him a gratuitous proposition, he would have rejected it at once. I could think of nothing better than this at present."

"Do not think me ungrateful, sir," said Marcus; 66 we cannot fail to be happy near you and Mrs. Bellamy. It ought to be the business of our whole lives to endeavour to repay your kindness. Words can never do it, I know; but I hope some day my actions will speak my heart."

The boy spoke with an earnest grace and a kindling blush. Every strong emotion sent a glowing herald to his cheek, and a radiant messenger to his eye, bearing witness to its reality and truth.

When Milly learned, through Marcus, the change in his father's situation, her family pride was at first wounded; for, if there is anything an African despises, it is a common overseer. But when she heard that little Katy was to be taken into the household of that "sweet Mrs. Bellamy," and that she herself was to go with her and take care of her; that master Marcus was to be sent to a fine school, where he would prepare for college, and associate with gentlemen's sons, she was in a fever of joyful excitement. She had arrayed little Katy in one of the pretty frocks Mrs. Bellamy had sent her, and it so adorned the child, that, seeing herself in the mirror of Aunt Milly's admiring eyes, she blushed at her own loveliness.

"Katy will be a lady, and ride in a fine carriage," said Milly, turning her round and round, and smoothing down the folds of her short, redundant skirt ;" she no wear homespun no more; she live among the quality folks."

"Katy will be a good girl," said Marcus, putting his arms round the beautiful child; " and she will love the dear lady who is so good to us all. She will not be vain, nor proud, because she may wear a finer dress, for that would spoil all her

sweetness."

"Jist hear him," said Milly, giving

Simon a punch in his side; "he allos sets everybody right, and make 'em feel 'shamed. He was born for a preacher."

Simon answered not, for his heart was full. The thought of being parted from his friend filled him with unutterable sorrow; and when the children saw his dark, wrinkled cheeks irrigated with tears, sympathizing drops filled their before glad eyes. Aunt Milly began to rock, like a storm-blown tree.

"She'd never thought about it. What would they do without Simon, and what would Simon do without them? Poor ole Simon! Poor ole Milly!"

This was really a dark cloud to their newborn happiness. They all loved the old soldier, as they called him, and mourned to think they must leave him behind.

Milly promised to write to him by proxy; Marcus to come and see him as soon as possible; and Katy never to leave him at all. Still poor Simon sat with his head bowed on his hands, his breast heaving with stifled sobs. "He spoke not, for his grief was very great."

CHAPTER IV.

No fairer, richer picture of southern life could be drawn than from the plantation of Mr. Bellamy. Far as the eye could reach, his magnificent cotton and corn-fields rolled in snowy opulence, or waved in golden splendour in the undulating gale. The house was situated on a gradual eminence, which was crowned with a beautiful grove of young hickories, and was in consequence known by the name of Hickory Hill. It was also called Bellamy Place by those familiar with the name of its munificent master. Occupying so commanding a site, with its broad, spreading wings, and lofty piazza that extended the whole length of the building, it was a kind of landmark to the traveller who might be journeying through the pine woods that girdled the boundaries of his domain. At night, when its myriad windows reflected the hospitable radiance glowing within, and the pine torches blazed from the tall posts without, it resembled a light-house, flashing its beacon

lustre on the eye of its stranger, perchance in danger of being lost in that unknown sea of verdure. On each side of the mansion-house a long row of neat, white cabins, individualized by some favourite tree, or vine, or plant, showed that the master, who had so amply provided for his own comfort, had not forgotten the accommodation of his slaves. Behind each of these cabins was a small garden, belonging to the negro who occupied it, which was as much his exclusive property as the fields he assisted to cultivate were his master's. They all had time allowed them to till these peculiar lots, as the luxuriant melon vines and flourishing vegetables indicated, and every Saturday afternoon they carried their produce to market, as well as the poultry and eggs they themselves had raised. It is true, they were slaves, but their chains never clanked. Each separate link was kept moist and bright with the oil of kindness, applied with a downy touch. Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy were both actuated by high and holy principles. They felt deeply and seriously the responsibilities resting upon them. They were each the inheritors of a large fortune, consisting, as it usually does at the South, of negro families. None had been purchased except where marriages had been formed, and the wife or husband pleaded in behalf of their chosen partners, and Mr. Bellamy had never violated the promise made to his dying father, that he would not separate the families which had grown up around him, or sell one accessible to gratitude and kindness. He respected the holy ties of nature, and believed that the domestic affections glowed as warmly and purely in the dark bosom of the African as the fairer European's. No severed, bleeding heart ever accused him before God of its widowhood and desolation; no cry of maternal anguish; no sable Rachel, "weeping for her children," would rise up in judgment against him, at the tribunal of sovereign justice. Did all southern planters imitate his noble example, the foulest blot that darkens the page of slavery would be effaced, its deepest reproach wiped away. Those who batten on the sale of human blood would be obliged to stop their languishing traffic, and resort to some more honourable and Christian occupation.

Could Mr. Bellamy have believed that the happiness and best interests of his slaves would be secured by presenting them the gift of freedom, he would have done it. But he felt, that by turning hundreds of helpless beings adrift upon the world, he would be rather exposing them to want and temptation, than administering to their well being.

I re

"I didn't purchase them," thus reasoned he with his own conscience. "I did not wrest them from their native land, benighted and degraded as it is. ceived them as a trust; and a heavy one it is. If I give them freedom, it will be like a diamond crown on the head of an infant. It will weigh it down, without its being conscious of its splendid value. No! though I would give all that I am worth, or ever expect to be worth, to be free from this moral encumbrance, I cannot shake it off without doing violence to my own sense of duty. I will endeavour to perform the work appointed by my great Task-master in such a manner, that when I am called to render up my account at the great day of reckoning, I can bare my heart to the blazing eye of Almighty truth, and say, 'Here am I, and the beings intrusted to my charge.''

It was a lovely summer evening,-(in the South, as soon as the sun has passed the zenith, the evening is supposed to begin,)- and the windows of Bellamy Place were all opened to admit the balmy air, that flowed in redolent with a thousand perfumes exhaled from the wreathing vines and flowering shrubs. The lovely mistress of this charming spot had beautified it with all the wealth of Flora, and all the wild garlands of the forest. Every thing seemed to flourish under her gentle care, every thing took root and grew in her genial soil. The very air of heaven seemed to love her, for it always stole in blandly and fragrantly, even on the sultriest days, to kiss her benign brow. This sweet evening she was sitting in a crimson - covered rocking chair, reading the pages of a book, that seemed "her inmost soul to find," while a young girl of about fourteen stood by her side, twisting the flowers of the white jasmine in her dark and braided locks. The sweet face of Mrs. Bellamy had lost none of the winning charms that distinguished

her several years before, while the soft glow of health now added to its attraction. A dress of thin white muslin softened the graceful outlines of her figure, and the flowers with which youthful taste and affection had decorated her hair, gave even a juvenile loveliness to her appearance, congenial to the young maiden who was bending over her. Katy's violet eyes had lost none of their pensive loveliness of expression, nor had her pure white cheek won one tint of rose from the fragrant and elevated atmosphere she breathed; but the bright hue of her lips redeemed her face from the idea of pallidness, and there were moments when those drooping eyes, suddenly lifted, would flash with gay emotion, and a rosy shadow flit over the lilies of her cheeks. On a low chair, a little removed from Mrs. Bellamy, sat a young mulatto girl, who, from her singular beauty and docility, was the pet of the household. Her hair, long, black, and shiny as an Indian's, with a slight inclination to wave, was braided behind in imitation of her mistress; her eyes were soft and bright as a gazelle's, and beneath her clear, dark cheek the red blood glowed with a vermeil tinge. Her teeth, white and transparent as alabaster, glittered when she smiled, and her walk had the springy, yet flowing, grace of the leopard's. Cora, for such was the name of the beautiful mulatto, was mistress of the needle, and had been brought up in the house under the affectionate and watchful eye of her mistress. Her language, in consequence of this, was free from the peculiarities of the African dialect. Mrs. Bellamy loved Cora as tenderly as if no dusky tint shaded the ruby of her cheek; and had Mrs. Bellamy been an angel of light, Cora could not have worshipped her with more entire devotion.

"Can any thing look sweeter than that?" exclaimed Katy, appealing to Cora to admire the starry blossoms that gleamed on the dark satin of her mistress's hair.

"Mistress looks sweet, let her wear what she will," replied Cora, looking up from her work with a bright smile.

"You are both flatterers," said Mrs. Bellamy, "and I know you are making me look too girlish," putting her hand to her head.

66

"Oh, please don't!" cried both voices, 'please don't spoil it!"

At this moment a rapid step was heard ascending the stairs; there was a light bound over the threshold, and a youth of sixteen summers leaped into the centre of the room. Waving his straw-hat in one hand, while he pushed back with the other the fair brown curls from his moist brow, he cried,

"Victory, dear Mrs. Bellamy! Victory, Katy! I've won the prize, the golden badge of merit, and I come to lay it at the feet of my benefactors." Then bending one knee with sportive grace before Mrs. Bellamy, he took from his neck a blue ribbon, from which was suspended a golden medal, and laid it on her lap.

"Well done, Marcus," said Mrs. Bellamy, gazing with pride and delight on the noble-looking boy who thus vindicated her early prophecy. "I knew you could not fail; this is only a foretaste of the honours which await you in a larger sphere."

"I hope so, madam; I hope so for your sake. I only cared to obtain this because I thought it would gratify you. What shall I do with it? I should despise myself tricked out with blue ribbons and trinkets. Katy must wear it till I return from college, and let it be in her eyes an emblem of ambition. It is in the form of a harp, Mrs. Bellamy, you see, strung with twisted threads of gold. It will remind Katy of her music, and how anxious you are that she should excel."

Marcus passed the azure band round the fair neck of Katy, who felt proud of wearing the badge of her brother's excellence. It was a prize awarded by a committee of gentlemen for the best essay on a given subject written by the pupils of a high school, at which he had graduated. He could have entered college two years previous, but Mr. Bellamy thought him too young to be exposed to the temptations of such a life, and preferred that he should enter in advance, and thus shorten the time of his collegiate studies. He was to depart in a few weeks for the most distinguished university of the South, and should he bear away the first honours, Mr. Bellamy promised to reward him by sending him afterward to one of the

literary institutions of the North. Burning with desire to prove himself worthy of this munificence, Marcus looked forward to his departure with the eager anticipations of youth, and the distinction he had just won seemed only an earnest of his future success.

When supper was announced, Warland came in with Mr. Bellamy, and took his seat at the table by the side of his children. While there was no apparent change in the person of the latter, he looked greatly altered, and the burden of many years seemed added to his frame. His hair was almost white, proof of the terrible warfare he had sustained with his bosom foe; his complexion was very pale, and his upright form bent from its perpendicular line; but his eye was clear, and the throne of an unclouded intellect. Though its light was ofttimes darkened by the shadows of memory, never since his dwelling with Mr. Bellamy had it been quenched in the night of intemperance. He had performed his duties to his benefactor with unerring fidelity and marked success, and it was now as an honoured friend and faithful coadjutor, even as a beloved brother, that he remained in the household of the planter. Aunt Milly came in her ancient costume of the white turban and stiff white apron, and stood with folded hands behind her master's chair till the customary blessing consecrated the board; then with an elevated brow and aristocratic mien, she carried her gilded waiter back and forth to supply the wants of her children, as she always called them, and "ole master." There was a peculiar delicacy of kindness in Mrs. Bellamy's giving this office to Milly, for her own servants were trained to wait upon her table, and did its honours with more grace and dexterity, than one belonging, like Aunt Milly, to the ancient regime. She knew she would be happy in proportion as she thought herself useful, and she had no desire to wean Marcus or Katy from their allegiance to their true and faithful nurse. Sometimes the little ebony images that stood on each side of the table waving beautiful brushes of suneyed peacock's feathers, with tremendous flourishes, would purposely hit her lofty turban, but she never swerved from her majestic course, satisfying her dignity by

giving them a rebuking roll of her large eyeballs. The beautiful mulatto girl had the post of honour by her mistress's chair, and a tall, handsome mulatto man, with an apron of snowy whiteness reaching to his knees, and a waiter under his arm, held the same position at the right hand of his master. Many a brilliant eye-beam and glittering smile were exchanged across the table by this distinguished pair. They were betrothed in marriage, and the coming Christmas was appointed for their nuptials. The coquettish Cora denied the truth of this fact, and declared it was only a false report, and that there was nothing in the world in it; but when her mistress told her what a beautiful wedding-dress she was going to give her, and what a fine supper too, she hung her head and laughed, and said, "she shouldn't wonder if she did get married."

Cora was the belle of the plantation, and there were others besides King, the handsome mulatto, who contended for her smiles. There was one negro, of Cimmerian blackness, of the name of Hannibal, who was a formidable rival to the gallant King; not that Cora regarded him with a favouring eye, but he possessed great muscular power, and his temper when roused was fierce as the goaded lion's. Mr. Bellamy had more trouble with him than any other slave on the plantation, but he was at the same time one of his most valuable men. was nicknamed the General, and honoured his title by exercising authority over his younger and weaker brethren. He was attached to his master, and when no counter feelings opposed his sense of obligation to him, he would work with an enthusiasm that communicated like wildfire to all around him.

He

"Push on," they would exclaim, "don't you see the General ahead?" And the cotton bolls would fly thick as northern snow-flakes, and the huge baskets heave high with their downy burdens.

Continued at page 91.

MAN ought never to be idle. Inactivity frustrates the very design of his creation; whereas an active life is the best guardian of virtue, and the greatest preservative of health.