of such a demonstration as her letter.  I ask one simple question:  Is not this slave-babe, (and her mother,) of “the down-trodden,” and is not this lady one of the down-treading?  And yet she weeps,—­not because, as I would have supposed, she had lost one hundred and fifty dollars in the child, but as though she loved it like the sick and dying child of a fellow-creature, of a mother like herself.  Now, who at the North ever hears of such a thing in slavery?  The old New York Tabernacle could have said, It is not in me;—­the modern Boston Music Hall says, It is not in me.  None of the antislavery papers, political or religious, say, We have heard the fame thereof with our ears.  Our Northern instructors on the subject of slavery, the orators, the Uncle Tom’s Cabins, “The Scholar an Agitator,” have never taught us to believe this.  The South, we are instructed to think, is a Golgotha, a valley of Hinnom; compacts with it are covenants with hell.  But here is one holy angel with its music; a ministering spirit; but is she a Lot in Sodom?  Abdiel in the revolted principality? a desolate, mourning Rizpah on that rock which overlooks four millions of slaves and their tortures?

In a less instructed state of mind on this subject, I should once have said, on reading this letter,—­This is slavery.  Here is a view of life at the South.  As a traveller accidentally catches a sight of a family around their table, and domestic life gleams upon him for a moment; as the opening door of a church suffers a few notes of the psalm to reach the ear of one at a distance, this letter, written evidently amidst household duties and cares, discloses, in a touching manner, the domestic relations of Southern families and their servants wherever Christianity prevails.  It is one strain of the ordinary music of life in ten thousands of those households, falling accidentally upon our ears, and giving us truthful, artless impressions, such as labored statements and solemn depositions would not so well convey, and which theories, counter-statements, arguments, and invectives never can refute.  Our senior pastor would say that the letter is like the Epistles of John,—­not a doctrinal exposition, but a breathing forth of the spirit which the evangelical history had inspired.  I have come to know more, however, than I did when I could have had such amiable but unenlightened feelings.  I have read the “Key to Uncle Tom” and the “Barbarism of Slavery.”

Still, I am sorely puzzled.  “Kate,” she says, “wanted to have it go, it had been sick so long; but I knew, when she said it, she did not know what the parting would be.”