The poor fellow dies at last—­converting two awful wretches with his expiring breath.  The process of conversion was very short.  “Oh!  Lord, give me these two more souls, I pray.”  That prayer was answered.

The saddest part of this book would be, (if they were just,) the inferences to be drawn from the history of this wretch, Legree.  Mrs. Stowe says, “He was rocked on the bosom of a mother, cradled with prayer and pious hymns, his now seared brow bedewed with the waters of baptism.  In early childhood, a fair-haired woman had led him, at the sound of Sabbath bells, to worship and to pray.  Far in New England that mother had trained her only son with long unwearied love and patient prayers.”  Believe it not, Christian mother, North or South!  Thou hast the promises of Scripture to the contrary.  Rock thy babe upon thy bosom—­sing to him sweet hymns—­carry him to the baptismal font—­be unwearied in love—­patient in prayers; he will never be such a one.  He may wander, but he will come back; do thy duty by him, and God will not forget his promises.  “He is not man that he will lie; nor the son of man that he will repent.”

Legree is a Northerner.  Time would fail me to notice all the crimes with which Southern men and women are charged; but their greatness and number precludes the possibility of their being believed.  According to Mrs. Stowe, mothers do not love their beautiful children at the South.  The husbands have to go to New England and bring back old maids to take care of them, and to see to their houses, which are going to rack and ruin under their wives’ surveillance.  Oh! these Southern husbands, a heart of stone must pity them.

Then again, Southern planters keep dogs and blood-hounds to hunt up negroes, tear women’s faces, and commit all sorts of doggish atrocities.  Now I have a charitable way of accounting for this.  I am convinced, too, this is a misapprehension; and I’ll tell you why.

I have a mortal fear of dogs myself.  I always had.  No reasoning, no scolding, ever had the slightest effect upon me.  I never passed one on my way to church with my prayer-book in my hand, without quaking.  If they wag their tails, I look around for aid.  If they bark, I immediately give myself up for lost.  I have died a thousand deaths from the mere accident of meeting dogs in the street.  I never did meet one without believing that it was his destiny to give my children a step-mother.  In point of fact, I would like to live in a world without dogs; but as I cannot accomplish this, I console myself by living in a house without one.  I always expect my visitors to leave their dogs at home; they may bring their children, but they must not bring their dogs.  I wish dogs would not even look in my basement windows as they pass.

I am convinced therefore, that some Northerner has passed a plantation at the South, and seen dogs tied up.  Naturally having a horror of dogs, he has let his imagination loose.  After a great deal of mental exercise, the brain jumps at a conclusion, “What are these dogs kept here for?” The answer is palpable:  “To hunt niggers when they run away.”  Reader, imitate my charity; it is a rare virtue where white faces are concerned.