ed her behind his saddle,
astride of the horse as if she were a man. In this position, what dress
she had on, and it was not much, was necessarily drawn up above her
knees. She had an old pair of scuffs of shoes on, the rest of the limbs
were bare. And in this way we went on through the cold, she shivering,
sobbing, and clinging to the negro-trader, all the way to Lexington.
Only at Nicholasville, I persuaded Meminger to alight and get some
clothes to wrap up the girl's legs to prevent them from being frosted
before he got her home.'

'And do you really think she had a mother's affection for her child, and
felt its loss as acutely as other mothers--white mothers?' I asked him.

'Do I think so?' he asked, almost fiercely. 'Come here, Henry Clay!' and
he reached down and lifted his boy up into his huge arms and kissed him
with fervor.

'Do you see that boy? Do you think his white mother loves him?' he
asked.

'No doubt of it,' I answered.

'And I tell you, Owen Glendower,' he resumed, 'that just as my wife,
Mrs. Winters, loves this boy, did that black mother love her child. More
strongly, more firmly did she love it; more frantically did she bewail
its loss, because her reason did not suggest any hope of its ultimate
recovery, such as might be entertained by an intelligent white woman.
And when it was suddenly snatched from her bosom, on that cold day, by
the Kentucky River, it was as much lost to her as if it had been
snatched by the hand of death instead of that of her inhuman master.'

'This was a single instance, you may say; but if I've seen _one_, I've
seen _fifty_ such. Not all alike, but varying with circumstance,
locality, and occasion; and yet all due alike to the essential elements
of human slavery, and inseparable from the institution.'

* * * * *

My time was up. I bade adieu to my hostess, shook Tom Winters' hand, and
started for the cars with a feeling of satisfaction at having
encountered him again, even if it should be for the last time.

THE WHITE HILLS IN OCTOBER.

Our town friends, who fly from the heat and dust, and menacing diseases
and insupportable _ennui_, of their city residence during the months of
July and August, may have an escape, but they have little enjoyment. We
admire the heroism with which they endure, year after year, the
discomforts of a country hotel, or the packing in the narrow,
half-furnished bed-rooms and rather warm attics of ru