a peach-tree, leaning against its bole. I accosted him, and asked him of one thing and another. Another slave came up, and then still another, and the conversation with them was as follows:—
“At what time do you get up in the morning?”
“Before sunrise.”
“When do you leave off in the evening?”
“When the sun sets—when it is dark.”
“But when do you get time to look after your gardens?”
“We must do that on Sundays, or at night, for when we come home we are so tired that we could drop down.”
“How do you get your dinners ?”
“We have no dinner! It is all we can do if, while we are working, we can throw a bit of bread, or some corn into us.”
“But my friend,” said I, now a little mistrustful, “your appearance contradicts what you say; for you look in very good condition, and quite brisk.”
“We endeavour to keep ourselves up as well as we can,” replied the man by the tree; “what can we do unless we keep up a good heart. If we were to let it droop we should die!”
The others responded to the song of lamentation.
I bade them good night and went my way, suspecting that all was not true in the slaves' representation. But still—it might be true; it was true if not here, yet in other places and under wicked masters; it might always be true in an institution which gives such irresponsible power at will—and all its actual and possible misery presented itself to me, and made me melancholy. The evening was so beautiful, the air so fragrant, the roses were all in blossom; nature seemed to be arrayed as a bride; the heaven was bright; the new moon, with the old moon in her arms, was bright in the firmament, and
