"Not been cutting up nigger tricks?" he ejaculates, enquiringly,
about to spring from his couch with his usual nimbleness. Mine host
places his left hand upon his shoulder, and assures him there is no
cause of alarm.
"Tell me if any thing's wrong about my property. Now do,--be candid:"
his eyes roll, anxiously.
"All right-except the preacher; he's run away," mine host answers,
suggesting how much better it will be to take the matter cool, as he
is sure to be captured.
"What! who-how? you don't say! My very choicest piece of property.
Well-well! who will believe in religion, after that? He came to my
sick chamber, the black vagabond did, and prayed as piously as a
white man. And it went right to my heart; and I felt that if I died
it would a' been the means o' savin my soul from all sorts of things
infernal," says the recovering M'Fadden. He, the black preacher, is
only a nigger after all; and his owner will have him back, or he'll
have his black hide-that he will! The sick man makes another effort
to rise, but is calmed into resignation through mine host's further
assurance that the property will be "all right" by the time he gets
well.
"How cunning it was in the black vagrant! I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if he cleared straight for Massachusetts-Massachusetts
hates our State. Her abolitionists will ruin us yet, sure as the
world. We men of the South must do something on a grand scale to
protect our rights and our property. The merchants of the North will
help us; they are all interested in slave labour.
Pages:
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495