e way: dat chile never
kin git enuff": and as often relenting at sight of my hungry tears,
has fairly bribed me into her love again with the very choicest bits
of the savory messes of her art. She was haughty as Juno, and
aristocratic as though her naked ancestors had come over with the
Conqueror, or "drawn a good bow at Hastings," . . . and yet her pride
invariably melted at the sight of certain surreptitious quantities of
tobacco, with which I made my court to this high priestess of the
region sacred to the stomach.

And there, too, plainest of all, I can see the fat and chubby form of
my dear old nurse, whose encircling arms of love fondled and supported
me from the time whereof the memory of this man runneth not to the
contrary. All the strong love of her simple and faithful nature seemed
bestowed on her mistress' children, which she was not permitted to
give to her own, long, long ago left behind and dead in "ole
Varginney." Oh! the wonderful and touching stories of them, and a
hundred other things, which she has poured into my infant ears! How
well do I remember the marvellous story of the manner in which she
obtained religion, of her many and sore conflicts with the powers of
darkness, and of her first dawning hopes in that blessed gospel whose
richest glory is, that it is preached to the poor, such as she was!
From her lips, too, I heard my first ghost-story! Think of that! None
of your feeble make-believes of a ghost-story either, carrying
infidelity on its face; but a real bona-fide narrative, witnessed by
herself, and told with the earnestness of truth itself. How my knees
smote together, and my hair stood on end, "so called"--as I stared and
startled, and declared again and again with quite a sickly manhood
indeed, that _I wasn't scared a bit_!

Perhaps the proudest day of my boyhood was when I was able to present
her with a large and flaming red cotton handkerchief, wherewith in
turban style she adorned her head. And my satisfaction was complete
when my profound erudition enabled me to read for her on Sabbath
afternoons that most wonderful of all stories, the Pilgrim's Progress.
Nor was it uninstructive, or a slight tribute to the genius of the
immortal tinker--could I but have appreciated it--to observe the
varied emotions excited within her breast by the recital of those
fearful conflicts by the way, and of the unspeakable glories of the
celestial City, within whose portals of pearl I trust her faithful