miles, having succeeded in finding
his house, we awoke him, gave him the necessary directions, and, at
sunrise, forded the river.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

At last we arrived at the plantation of Mr Courtenay: the house was one
of the very few buildings in the United States in which taste was
displayed. A graceful portico, supported by columns; large verandahs,
sheltered by jessamine; and the garden so green and so smiling, with its
avenues of acacias and live fences of holly and locust, all recalled to
my mind the scenes of my childhood in Europe. Every thing was so neat
and comfortable; the stables so airy, the dogs so well housed, and the
slaves so good-humoured-looking, so clean and well dressed.

When we descended from our horses, a handsome lady appeared at the
portico, with joy and love beaming in her face, as five or six beautiful
children, having at last perceived our arrival, left their play to
welcome and kiss their father. A lovely vision of youth and beauty also
made its appearance--one of those slender girls of the South, a woman of
fifteen years old, with her dark eyelashes and her streaming ebony hair;
slaves of all ages--mulattoes and quadroon girls, old negroes and boy
negroes, all calling together--"Eh! Massa Courtenay, kill plenty bear,
dare say; now plenty grease for black family, good Massa Courtenay."

Add to all this, the dogs barking and the horses neighing, and truly the
whole tableau was one of unbounded affection and happiness. I doubt if,
in all North America, there is another plantation equal to that of Mr
Courtenay.

I soon became an inmate of the family, and for the first time enjoyed
the pleasures, of highly-polished society. Mrs Courtenay was an
admirable performer upon the harp; Miss Emma Courtenay, her niece, was a
delightful pianist; and my host himself was no mean amateur upon the
flute. Our evenings would pass quickly away, in reading Shakespeare,
Corneille, Racine, Metastasio, or the modern writers of English
literature after which we would remain till the night had far advanced,
enjoying the beautiful compositions of Beethoven, Gluck, and Mozart, or
the brilliant overtures of Donizetti, Bellini, and Meyerbeer.

Thus my time passed like a happy dream, and as, from the rainy season
having just set in, all travelling was impossible, I remained many weeks
with my kind entertainers, the more willingly, that the various trials I
had undergone had, at so early an age, con