When you are safely there,
when you can breathe the free air of liberty, write me, and she
shall meet you. Leave her to me; think of her only in my care, and
in my trust she will be happy. Meet Maxwell-he is your friend-at the
centre corridor; he will be there as soon as the ceremony commences;
he will have a pass from me; he will be your guide!" She overcomes
Clotilda's doubts, reasons away her pleadings for her child, gives
her a letter and small miniature (they are to be kept until she
reaches her destination of freedom), and commences preparing for the
ceremony.
Night arrives, the old mansion brightens and resounds with the
bustle of preparation. Servants are moving about in great confusion.
Everything is in full dress; "yellow fellows," immersed in trim
black coats, nicely-cut pantaloons, white vests and gloves,
shirt-collars of extraordinary dimensions, and hair curiously
crimped, are standing at their places along the halls, ready for
reception. Another class, equally well dressed, are running to and
fro through the corridors in the despatch of business. Old mammas
have a new shine on their faces, their best "go to church" fixings
on their backs. Younger members of the same property species are
gaudily attired-some in silk, some in missus's slightly worn
cashmere. The colour of their faces grades from the purest ebony to
the palest olive. A curious philosophy may be drawn from the
mixture: it contrasts strangely with the flash and dazzle of their
fantastic dresses, their large circular ear-rings, their
curiously-tied bandanas, the large bow points of which lay crossed
on the tufts of their crimpy hair.
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