Northerners could do great things for us, if they would but know us
as we are, study our feelings, cast aside selfish motives, and
sustain our rights!" Clotilda now commenced giving Maxwell a history
of her mother,--which, however, we must reserve for another chapter.
"And my mother gave me this!" she said, drawing from her pocket a
paper written over in Greek characters, but so defaced as to be
almost unintelligible. "Some day you will find a friend who will
secure your freedom through that," she would say. "But freedom-that
which is such a boon to us-is so much feared by others that you must
mark that friend cautiously, know him well, and be sure he will not
betray the liberty you attempt to gain." And she handed him the
defaced paper, telling him to put it in his pocket.
"And where is your mother?"
"There would be a store of balm in that, if I did but know. Her
beauty doomed her to a creature life, which, when she had worn out,
she was sold, as I may be, God knows how soon. Though far away from
me, she is my mother still, in all that recollection can make her;
her countenance seems like a wreath decorating our past
associations. Shrink not when I tell it, for few shrink at such
things now,--I saw her chained; I didn't think much of it then, for I
was too young. And she took me in her arms and kissed me, the tears
rolled down her cheeks; and she said-'Clotilda, Clotilda, farewell!
There is a world beyond this, a God who knows our hearts, who
records our sorrows;' and her image impressed me with feelings I
cannot banish.
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