The Garies and Their Friends | Page 5

I wish I knew what is the matter
with her; sometimes I am quite distressed about her. She goes about the
house looking so lost and gloomy, and does not seem to take the least
interest in anything. You saw," continued he, "how silent she has been
all tea time, and yet she has been more interested in what you have
been saying than in anything that has transpired for months. Well, I
suppose women will be so sometimes," he concluded, applying himself
to the warm cakes that had just been set upon the table.
"Perhaps she is not well," suggested Mr. Winston, "I think she looks a
little pale."
"Well, possibly you may be right, but I trust it is only a temporary
lowness of spirits or something of that kind. Maybe she will get over it
in a day or two;" and with this remark the conversation dropped, and
the gentlemen proceeded to the demolition of the sweetmeats before
them. And now, my reader, whilst they are finishing their meal, I will
relate to you who Mr. Winston is, and how he came to be so familiarly
seated at Mr. Garie's table.
Mr. Winston had been a slave. Yes! that fine-looking gentleman seated
near Mr. Garie and losing nothing by the comparison that their
proximity would suggest, had been fifteen years before sold on the
auction-block in the neighbouring town of Savanah--had been made to
jump, show his teeth, shout to test his lungs, and had been handled and

examined by professed negro traders and amateur buyers, with less
gentleness and commiseration than every humane man would feel for a
horse or an ox. Now do not doubt me--I mean that very gentleman,
whose polished manners and irreproachable appearance might have led
you to suppose him descended from a long line of illustrious ancestors.
Yes--he was the offspring of a mulatto field-hand by her master. He
who was now clothed in fine linen, had once rejoiced in a tow shirt that
scarcely covered his nakedness, and had sustained life on a peck of
corn a week, receiving the while kicks and curses from a tyrannical
overseer.
The death of his master had brought him to the auction-block, from
which, both he and his mother were sold to separate owners. There they
took their last embrace of each other--the mother tearless, but
heart-broken--the boy with all the wildest manifestations of grief.
His purchaser was a cotton broker from New Orleans, a warm-hearted,
kind old man, who took a fancy to the boy's looks, and pitied him for
his unfortunate separation from his mother. After paying for his new
purchase, he drew him aside, and said, in a kind tone, "Come, my little
man, stop crying; my boys never cry. If you behave yourself you shall
have fine times with me. Stop crying now, and come with me; I am
going to buy you a new suit of clothes."
"I don't want new clothes--I want my mammy," exclaimed the child,
with a fresh burst of grief.
"Oh dear me!" said the fussy old gentleman, "why can't you stop--I
don't want to hear you cry. Here," continued he, fumbling in his
pocket--"here's a picayune."
"Will that buy mother back?" said the child brightening up.
"No, no, my little man, not quite--I wish it would. I'd purchase the old
woman; but I can't--I'm not able to spare the money."
"Then I don't want it," cried the boy, throwing the money on the ground.
"If it won't buy mammy, I don't want it. I want my mammy, and
nothing else."
At length, by much kind language, and by the prospect of many
fabulous events to occur hereafter, invented at the moment by the old
gentleman, the boy was coaxed into a more quiescent state, and trudged
along in the rear of Mr. Moyese--that was the name of his purchaser--to
be fitted with the new suit of clothes.

The next morning they started by the stage for Augusta. George, seated
on the box with the driver, found much to amuse him; and the driver's
merry chat and great admiration of George's new and gaily-bedizened
suit, went a great way towards reconciling that young gentleman to his
new situation.
In a few days they arrived in New Orleans. There, under the kind care
of Mr. Moyese, he began to exhibit great signs of intelligence. The
atmosphere into which he was now thrown, the kindness of which he
was hourly the recipient, called into vigour abilities that would have
been stifled for ever beneath the blighting influences that surrounded
him under his former master. The old gentleman had him taught to read
and write, and his aptness was such as to highly gratify the kind old
soul.
In course of time, the temporary absence of an out-door clerk