erly.

I will pass over the remainder of this melancholy scene. We all felt for
the mother and the poor girl, who stood by with a look of despair.
Saddling our horses, Mr. Courtenay and I resumed our journey, the
hunters remaining behind till the arrival of the magistrate, whom we
promised to send. To procure one, we were obliged to quit the high road,
and, after a ride of several miles, having succeeded in finding his
house, we woke him, gave him the necessary directions, and, at sunrise,
forded the river.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

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 Shakspeare,
Corneille, Racine, Metastasio, or the modern writers of English
literature: after which we would remain till the night had far advanced,
enjoying the b