degraded they are, after they imbibe these ridiculous notions.  When I behold the Southern country, and am convinced that it is impossible to manumit the slaves, I conclude that here, at least, they are in their natural condition.  Heretofore, I feel that I have only done my duty in retaining mine, while I give them every means of comfort, and innocent enjoyment, that is in my power.  Now I have seen the result of the Abolition efforts, I am more convinced that my duty has been, and will be, as I have said.  Could they be colonized from Virginia, I would willingly consent to it, as in our climate, white labor would answer; but farther South, only the negro can labor, and this is an unanswerable objection to our Southern States becoming free.  Those servants that are free, the benevolent and generous Abolitionists ought to take North, build them colleges, and make good to them all the promises they held out as baits to allure them from their owners and their duties.”

Mr. Weston found he had not two very attentive listeners in the young ladies, for they were returning the many salutations they received, and making remarks on their numerous acquaintances.  The carriage began slowly to ascend Capitol Hill, and they all remarked the beautiful prospect, to which Washingtonians are so much accustomed that they are too apt not to notice it.  Their ride was delightful.  It was one of those lovely spring days when the air is still fresh and balmy, and the promise of a summer’s sun lights up nature so joyfully.

There were many visitors at the burial-ground, and there had been several funerals that day.  A woman stood at the door of the house, at the entrance of the cemetery, with a baby in her arms; and another child of two years old was playing around a large bier, that had been left there until it should be wanted again.

Mrs. Weston met with an acquaintance, soon after they entered the ground, and they stopped to converse, while Mr. Weston and the younger ladies walked on.  Near a large vault they stopped a moment, surprised to see two or three little boys playing at marbles.  They were ruddy, healthy-looking boys, marking out places in the gravel path for the game; shooting, laughing, and winning, and so much occupied that if death himself had come along on his pale horse, they would have asked him to wait a while till they could let him pass, if indeed they had seen him at all.  Mr. Weston tried to address them several times, but they could not attend to him until the game was completed, when one of them sprang upon the vault and began to count over his marbles, and the others sat down on a low monument to rest.

“Boys,” said Mr. Weston, “I am very sorry to see you playing marbles in a burial-ground.  Don’t you see all these graves around you?”

“We don’t go on the dead people,” said an honest-faced little fellow.  “You see the grass is wet there; we play here in the walk, where its nice and dry.”