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 234 in the way of printed or even written papers. Some of the citizens have sons at college in one or another of the Northern States; and I find myself questioned by their acquaintance about the supposed opinions of this or that college, and the probable effect on the mind of youth. I even see the parents themselves scrutinising their sons’ letters, watching for traces of “bad opinions,” and for evidence whether they are, or are not, upholding on all occasions the institutions of their own State. If I feel the wear and tear of this kind of chronic agitation during a visit of two or three weeks in ordinary times—called quiet—I cannot but be sensible of the evil of a perpetual residence in so troubled a social atmosphere.

When the children are at play with me, pulling me about at their pleasure, one or other of them is sure to want to know why I don’t come and live with them. Then they tell me they wonder how I can bear to live among those terrible people by whom I am surrounded. On inquiry, I find that these terrible people are the working class, who are, as I am now informed, all dirty, all starving, all desperate, and so degraded, that they can only hide themselves in dens, and die like heathens. Like other children, these enjoy hearing stories; so I tell them the real story of the working men and their families in my neighbourhood. I tell of their white frame-cottages, with green Venetian blinds; their shelves of books and evening studies; the church they have built; the lecture-room in which they hear lectures from some of the first men of the country, whom they have engaged to give them a course. Amidst frequent interruptions, to know whether Uncle is in earnest, whether Uncle means really so, I give a sketch of the working-day and Sunday of the fisherman, the shoemaker, the cotton-spinner, the cultivator, &c.; and it is all very surprising, considering the general belief that all white labourers are famishing paupers. Still, the children prefer their own ways. They have artisans of their own: papa can make them do what he likes. Perceiving that I rather doubt this, little Lizzy tells me that they can all do what they like with the servants; and that she got “a boy” flogged last week for not doing what she bade him. My sister caught my eye at this moment, and explained that Carlo (a man of five-and-thirty), had been insolent, and that it was necessary to bring him to a sense of his duty. It did not seem to occur to the mother that the lesson would do more harm to the child than it could—in the most visionary sense—do good to the “boy” (as negro men are called to their latest day).

With the quick instinct of childhood, my nieces divined, without a word said, that I was displeased: and they hastened to tell me what “a fine boy” papa had in the country—meaning a capital fellow who could do anything. This is a story one hears in almost every house. Every family has, or has possessed, a singularly able negro, who is boasted of by his owners and by himself as a nonpareil. In each case I believe the thing is true; but it is not a fact fertile in consequences. Nobody perceives that it has any bearing on the question of negro capacity. In each case, it is a phenomenon to boast of, and yet an appeal to magnanimity to admit that a negro can be so clever. My sister smiles while Lizzy and Emma talk, and, as soon as we are alone, sounds me as to my admiration of their appreciation of the virtues of dependents, and of the fine feeling they showed, when they spoke of a passionate neighbour as “ungentlemanly” for having maimed a “boy” who had displeased him. She hoped I should admit that her children had at least not suffered morally from the circumstances amidst which they were reared!

Our drives are pleasant at the spring season I have described. I never grow tired of the woods, or the mansions, framed in their evergreen background, or the hedges of Cherokee roses, or the distant sea view. The heat is great enough to make one wish that these drives could be in the evening, and by moonlight. But the negroes ought not, as a habit, to be out of their quarter after sunset; so we must take our moonlight in the balcony, or enjoy its effects in a walk through the hoary old streets. If we dine out, we return early. The last time we went to the theatre we were at home within two hours. There was an obstinate whistler in the pit, who coveted the musicians for another purpose; and he took advantage of the habitual caution of the public. He was aware that the whole public would yield to him rather than risk any disturbance; and he gained his point. We all rose and went home before the play was done: and when bed-time came, we were still listening from the balcony for any token of “something being wrong.” The streets are profoundly still at such an hour. Many a time have I seen all Broad Street or Meeting Street lying in the moonlight as if they were avenues of a deserted town : the sand flecked with the shadows of the yuccas or of the dancing roses above the wall; and the blackened ruins of St. Philip’s Church (after the second fire) standing up against the sky. I have been told twenty times over that a negro was presented with his freedom for giving the alarm about the fire, and helping to put it out; and I have as often wondered at the information being given by the same persons as those who insist that liberty is a mere curse to a negro, such as only the enemy of mankind could desire for him.

The fires at Charleston seem to create awe in the mere mention. The fire-bell has rung twice during my visits; and I shall never forget the impression. No great damage was done in either case, but it was agreed on all hands that the incident was becoming more common. Of course, the Abolitionists were concluded to be at the bottom of it. My sister came to rouse me, and bid me dress and look to my arms; her husband bade me I stay with his family while he went to do his duty. The mother dressed her children with her own hands, and did his best to quiet their alarms. They asked me what their cousins did when there was a fire, and were surprised to learn that they had never happened to see one, as their mother and I had not wakened them. For this I was judged to be very remiss, “because,” as Lizzy sagely said, “we never know what may happen.”

One night in the week is lively enough—the Saturday night when the negroes hold their