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withstanding in her system; and to the con
stancy of a martyr added something of ihe
wilfulness of a bigot. Indeed, it was hinted
by patrons arid patronesses of white charities,
lhat European objects had not their/mV share
in her benevolence. She was pre-eminently
the friend of the blacks. Howbeit, for all her
sacrifices, not a lash was averted from their
sable backs. She had raised discontent in the
kitchen, she had disgusted her acquaintance,
sickened her friends, and given her own dear
little nephews the stomach-ache, without sav
ing Quashy from on Jcut of the driver’s whip,
or diverting a single kick from the shins of
Sambo. 1 ler grocer complained loudly of be
ing called a dealer in human gore, yet not one
hogshead the less was imported from the plan
tations. By an error common to all her class
she mistook a negative for a positive princi
ple ; and persuaded herself that by not pre
serving damsons, she preserved the Niggers;
that by not sweetening her own cup. she was
dulcifying the lot of all her sable brethren in
bondage. She persevered accordingly in set
ting her face against sugar instead of slavery,
against the plant instead of the planter; and
had actually abstained for six months from
the forbidden article, when a circumstance oc
curred that roused her sympathies into more
active exertions. It pleased an American la
dy to import with her a black female servant,
whom she rather abruptly dismissed on her
arrival in England. The case was consid
ered by the Hampshire Telegraph of that day
as one of great hardship; ihe paragraph
went the round of the papers, and in due time
attracted the notice of Miss Morbid. It was pre
cisely addressed to her sensibilities, and there
was a “ Try Warren” tone about it that proved
irresistible. She read, and wrote, and in the
course of one little week, her domestic estab
lishment was maliciously but truly described
as consisting of “two white slaves and a
black companion.”
The adopted protegee was, in reality, a strap
ping clumsy Negress, as ugly as sin, and with
no other merit than that of being of the same
color as the crow. She was artful, sullen,
gluttonous, and above all so intolerably indo
lent, that it she had been literally “carved in
ebony,” as old Fuller says, she could scarcely
have been of less service to her protectress.
Her notion of Free Labor seemed to translate
it into laziness, and taking liberties; and, as
she seriously added to the work of her fellow
servants, without at all contributing to their
comfort, they soon looked upon her as a com
plete nuisance. The house-maid dubbed her
“a devil,” —the cook roundly compared her
to “a mischivus beast as runs out on a herd
o’ black cattle;” —and both concurred in the
policy of laying all household sins upon the
sooty shoulders—just as slatterns select a col
or that hides the dirt. It is certain that short
ly after the instalment of the Negress in the
family a moral disease broke out with consid
erable violence, and, justly or not, the odium
was attributed to the new-comer. Its name
was theft. First, there was a shilling short
in some loose change,—next, a missing half
crown from the mantle-piece,—then there was
a stir with a tea-spoon,—anon, a piece of
work about a thimble. Things went, nobody
knew how—the “Divil” of course excepted.
The cook could , the house-maid would , and
Diana should , and ought to take an oath, de
claratory of i nocence, before the mayor: but
as Diana did not volunteer an affidavit like
the others, there was no doubt of her guilt in
the kitchen.
Miss Morbid, however, came to a very dif
ferent conclusion. She thought the whites
who could eat sugar were capable of any atro
city, and had not forgotten the stand which
hail been made by the “pale faces” in favor
of the obnoxious article. The cook especial
ly incurred suspicion ; for she had been noto
rious aforetime for a lavish hand in sweeten
ing, and was accordingly quite equal to the
double turpitude of stealing and bearing false
witness. In fact, the mistress had arrived at
the determination of giving both her white
hussies their month’s warning, when unex
pectedly the thief was taken, as the lawyers
say, “ in the manner,” and with the goods up
on the person. In a word, the ungrateful
black was detected in the very act of levying
what might be called her “black mail.”*
The horror of Emilia, on discovering that
the Moor had murdered her mistress, was
scarcely greater than that of Miss Morbid !
She hardly, she said, believed her own senses.
You might have knocked her down with a
feather! She did not know whether she stood
on her head or her heels. She was rooted to
the spot! and her hair, if it had been her own,
would have Stood upright on her head! There
was no doubt in the case. She saw the trans
fer of a portion of her own bank stock, from
her escritoire into the right-hand pocket of her
protegee—she heard it chink as it dropped
downwards—she was petrified !—dumbfound
ed !—thunderbolted!— “ annillhted ! ” She ,
§®®lf[a gIE El &illf§E &IE ¥ ©&BSIF TB.
■ was as white as a sheet, but she felt as if all
j the blacks in the world had just blown in her
face.
Her first impulse was to rush upon the rob
ber, and insist on restitution—her second was
to sit down and weep,—and her third was to
talk. The opening as usual was a mere tor
rent of ejaculations intermixed with vitupera
tion—but she gradually fell into a lecture
with many heads. First, she described all
she had done for the Blacks, and then, alas!
all the Blacks had done for her. Next she
insisted on the enormity of the crime, and,
anon, she enlarged on the nature of its pun
ishment. It was here that she was most elo
quent. She traced the course ot human jus
tice, from detection to conviction, and thence
to execution, liberally throwing dissection in
to the bargain : and then descending with
Dante into the unmentionable regions, she
painted its terrors and tortures with all the cir
cumstantial fidelity that certain very old mas
ters have displayed on the same subject.
“And now, you black wretch,” she conclu
ded, having just given the finishing touch to
a portrait of Satan himself ; “and now, you
black wretch, 1 insist on knowing what I was
robbed for. Come, tell me what tempted you.
I'm determined to hear it! I insist, I say, on
knowing what was to be done with* the wa
ges of iniquity !”
She insisted, however, in vain. The black
wretch had seriously inclined her ear to the
‘whole lecture, —grinning and blubbering by
turns. The judge with his black cap, the
counsel and their wigs, the twelve men in a
box, and Jack Ketch himself—whom she as
i sociated with that pleasant West Indian per
-1 sonage, John Canoe—had amused, nay tick
led her fancy; the press-room, the irons, the
rope, and the ordinary, whom she mistook for
an overseer, had raised her curiosity, and ex
cited her fears; but the spiritualities, without
any reference to Obeah, had simply mystified
and disgusted her, and she was now in a fit
of the sulks. Her mistress, however, persist
ed in her question ; and not the less pertina
ciously, perhaps, from expecting anew peg
whereon to hang a fresh lecture. She was
determined to learn the destination of the
stolen money; and by*dint of insisting, cajol
ing, and, above all, threatening—.for instance,
with the whole Posse Comitatis—she finally
carried her point.
“Cuss him money! Here’s a fuss!” ex
claimed the culprit, quite worn out at last bv
persecution. “ Cuss him money! Here’s a
fuss! What me ’teal him for ? What me do
wid him? What any body ’teal him for?—
Why for sure, to buy sugar /”
A CHALLENGE IN THE BACKWOODS.
It so happened that Major Campton was
travelling in his own conveyance, and ac
companied by his wife, during a pleasant day
last summer, he came to a halt on the margin
of a certain river, and shouted for the ferry
man. In due time the indispensable gentle
man was ready, and while enquiring the news
of the day, he was suddenly smitten by anew
thought, and dropping the paynter of the old
scow, looked inquiringly into the Major's
face, when the following dialogue ensued.
“ Stranger, ain’t your name Major Camp
ton ?”
“ Yes sir, it is. What business have you
j to transact with me ?”
“ You are the very man I have long been
wanting to see, for you must know that I am
the “Bully of the North.”
“ Indeed. What do I care for that ?”
“ I’ve heard tell of that you are a famous
fighter, and I should like to have you give
i me a thrashing if you can.”
“ Why, man, l have nothing against you,
and do not want to make a fool of myself.”
“But you shall, though, my honey; and
you don’t cross this ferry until it is decided
who is cock of the walk.”
Remonstrance on the part of the Major was
all in vain—the ferryman was determined to
fight. The Major held a short consultation
with his lady, who was, of course, in great
trouble; but taking off his coat and unbut
toning his straps, he stepped out upon a gras
sy spot, and waited for the ferryman’s attack.
To shorten a long story, the fight was a
tedious one, and ended in the total defeat of
the challenger, who presented in himself, af
ter the struggle, an admirable picture of a
misspent life, lie had strength enough how
ever, to ferry the champion over the river;
and when the Major offered to pay the ac
customed fare, the latter held not out his hand,
but making a rude bow. he exclaimed—“ Not
a dime sir. Good afternoon.” —Lanmans
Summer in the Wilderness.
EPIGRAM....BY COLERIDGE.
Your poem must eternal be,
Dear sir! it cannot fail
For, ’t is incomprehensible,
And wants both head and tail.
£l)c Southern (fclcctic.
THE POETS.
B V JIARYE. LEE.
The poets! the poets !
Those giants of the earth;
In mighty strength they tower above
The men of common birth ;
A noble race, —they mingle not
Among the motly throng,
But move, with slow ancl measured step,
To music-notes along !
The poets ! the poets !
What conquests they can boast!
Without one drop of life-blood spill,
They rule a world’s wild host !
Their stainless banner floats unharmed
From age to lengthened age,
And History records their deeds
Upon her proudest page !
The poets! the poets !
How endless is their fame!
Death, like a thin inist, comes, yet leaves
Ao shadow on each name ;
But as you starry gems that gleam
In evening’s crystal sky,
have they won, in memory’s depths,
An immortality!
The poets ! the poets !
Who doth not linger o’er
The glorious volumes t hat contain
Their pure and spotless lore ‘l
They charm us in the saddest hours,
Our richest joys they feed ;
And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed!
The poets ! the poets/!
Those kingly minstrels dead,
Well may we twine a votive wreath
Around each honored head:
No tribute is too high to give
Those crowned ernes among men ;
The poets! the true poets !
Thanks be to God for them !
CHEVALIER BAYARD.
BY W M . GILMORE SIMMS.
Charles was absent from Lyons some three
years, making the tour of the realm. Mean
while, our page prospered as we have seen—
gradually passing into a premature manhood,
and acquiring the trusts which belong only to
that character. When the king returned to
Lyons, there was naturally a resumption of
all the courtly pleasures and pastimes which
made him a favorite with his people in spite
of his many royal deficiencies. Among the
events which occurred to increase the anima
tion of the Lyonese, after the return of the
court, was the appearance among them of a
celebrated Burgundian cavalier, named Claude
de Y T audray. He was a knight of extraordi
nary address in arms, who loved nothing bet
ter than to display his ability. He demanded
of the king a tournament, by which to occupy
his young noblesse, and keep them from idle
ness and rust. The king, whose piety didnot
interfere either with his pleasures or his am
bition, and who loved the sports of chivalry
as becoming images of war, readily gave ear
to the application. The tourney, as arranged
by Claude de Vaudray, who was well skilled
in all such matters, was to consist of several
courses of knights on horseback, and com! s.
between foot and horse, with the lance ;i
battle-ax. Those who desired to prove tL
courage and skill had nothing to do hut to
enter the arena where the gentleman of Bur
gundy‘had hung up his shield, awaiting the
challengers; to touch it with the hand or lance,
and send his name to the master of the tour
ney.
Our man-at-arms passed before the shields
with momently-increasing interest. He stood
before that, in particular, which belonged
to Claude de Vaudray, with eyes of long
ing and despondency. His meditations
were sufficiently discouraging. To touch the
shield was easy enough, hut the conditions
of chivalry were such as to put entirely out of
the question the claims of a gallant who could
not appear in certain style and equipage.—
Bravery was a ternj in that day of a two-fold
signification. Tha knight must not only /;e,
hut he must look brave; and the pomp and
splendor of the exhibition made no small part
of the attraction among the spectators. Our
man-at-arms, with a small stipend nicely cal
culated for his absolute necessities, was with
out the means to furnish himself with the ap
pointments proper to the combat. Armor,
and fine clothes, and horses, were essential
before he could presume to lake his station
with the amhitous company which Claude de
Vaudray had gathered around him. His mel
ancholy drew the notice of one of his com
panions. named Piere de Bocquieres, Lord of
Bellabre —a gentleman, like himself, of the
suite of the Count de Ligny, a very brave fel
low, and one whom Bayard had inspired with
a very warm attachment which continued
through his life. “ What troubles you com
rade? You seem thunder-struck,” said Bel
labre. “ 1 feel so, ’’was the reply; “and this
is the reason. Here, now, lam no longer a
page. Our good lord hath made me a gentle
man but i have not the means to appear as
one. I long to touch ihe shield of Messire
Claude de Yaudray but when 1 have done so,
where am 1 to find the armor, and where
the horses ?”
Bellabre was something older than Bayard,
and knew much more of the world. He was
a bold fellow, with possibly a sly humor of
his own, which did not always hesitate to
to seek indulgence at the expense of his neigh
bor. He answered his sorowful comrade with
a smile, “Why should these doubts distress
you ? Have you not a fat priest for a kins
man ? Is not your great uncle the rich Ab
bot of Esnay? We will go to him; and [
vow to God, if he won’t furnish us the means,
we will lay hands on crosier and mitre."-
This was a very irreverent boldness on the
part of Bellabre; but the anxiety of Bayard
to encounter the challenge prevented him from
the indulgence of many unnecesary scruples.
His companion made so light of the difficulty
that he at once proceeded to smite the shield.
We may imagine him to have done so with
something of the spirit and force -of Wilfred
of Ivanhoe. when he thrust the bright shaft
of his lance, for the combat a I'outrance ,
against that of Brian de Bois Guilbert. The
sensation was quite as great among the spec
tators. “How, my friend Piquet”—for the
surname of the king still clung to him—
“ How!” exclaimed the master-at-arms, “will
you, with beard not of three years’ growth—
will you presume to fight with Messire Claude
de Yaudray, one of the fiercest knights that
you may hear of.” Admirable as they
thought the youth in his bearing and ability,
there were none who did not regard this bold
ness as so much boyish presumption. But
Bayard answered with laudable modesty—“lt
is not from pride and arrogance, tny friend,
hut that 1 desire to have a knowledge of arms,
wherever I can, from those who can best be
stow it. I would learn by little and little,
and it may be that God may give me grace to
do something which shall please the ladies.”
The answer provoked the laughter of the
king-at-anns, and delighted all who heard it.
The noise of the proceeding soon ran through
the court. Piquet had touched the shield of
the Burgundian challenger. The Count de
Ligny carried the tidings to the king, who
rejoiced greatly, exclaiming, “By the faith of
my body, cousin of Ligny-, your breeding of
this boy will bring you honor, as my heart
tells me.” The count, though pleased, was
not without his anxieties. “We shall see
what will become of it,” he replied : Piquet
is yet very young to stand the blows of Mes
sire Claude de Yaudray. But 1 had rather
than ten thousand crowns that it should he
so.”
To touch the shield boldly did not by any
means overcome the worst difficulty in the
way of our champion. To procure the means
for the adventure from the miserly grasp of his
fatuncle was a toil from whichßayard shrunk
naturally, with doubt and apprehension. He
knew the niggardly disposition of his kins
man, and how little he was sensible to the
dee ■of chivalry. To have obtained the means
from the Bishop of Grenoble, had lie been at
h at, would have been an easy matter: —
bit this Abbot ol Esnay ! Our man-at-arms
turned to his comrade, Bellabre, who was by
no means disposed to desert him at his need..
They went together to the abbot whom they
found walking in his garden at Esnay, with
one of his monks, and at his devotions. The
news had already reached the reverend father
of the audacity of his nephew in touching the
sheild of Claude de Yaudray. He anticipated,
accordingly, the mission upon which he came,
and his reception, though warm enough, was
any thing but cordial. “What!” said he r
“you a boy but seventeen years old —hut
three days ago a page—who made you so
hold to touch the shield of Messire Claude de
Yaudray ? You grow too presumptuous, and
should be made to feel the rod again.” The
youth modestly replied: “ I assure yon, my
lord, it is not pride which has me do this, hut
solely the desire to become worthy of my an
cestors and yours. I beseech you, then, as
the only near relative whom 1 have at Lyons,
that you will furnish me with the means for
this occasion. “On my faith,” said the rev
erend father, “you get no money from me:
the wealth of the church is for the service of
God, and not to be wasted in jousts and tour
neys.”
The bishop looked inflexible, and Bayard
blank ;’but Bellabre here took up the parole,
and significantly reminded the reverend fath
er that, but for the prowess of knighthood
there had been no Abbey of Esnay to endow
--that it was the military reputation, indeed,
of his own ancestors which had obtained for