“Not exactly.  But, after all, the colour makes the only difference between him and uneducated men of the same class.”

“Mrs. Moodie!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands in pious horror; “they are the children of the devil!  God never condescended to make a nigger.”

“Such an idea is an impeachment of the power and majesty of the Almighty.  How can you believe such an ignorant fable?”

“Well, then,” said my monitress, in high dudgeon, “if the devil did not make them, they are descended from Cain.”

“But all Cain’s posterity perished in the flood.”

My visitor was puzzled.

“The African race, it is generally believed, are the descendants of Ham, and to many of their tribes the curse pronounced against him seems to cling.  To be the servant of servants is bad enough, without our making their condition worse by our cruel persecutions.  Christ came to seek and to save that which was lost; and in proof of this inestimable promise, he did not reject the Ethiopian eunuch who was baptised by Philip, and who was, doubtless, as black as the rest of his people.  Do you not admit Mollineux to your table with your other helps?”

“Mercy sake! do you think that I would sit down at the same table with a nigger?  My helps would leave the house if I dared to put such an affront upon them.  Sit down with a dirty black, indeed!”

“Do you think, Mrs. D—–­, that there will be any negroes in heaven?”

“Certainly not, or I, for one, would never wish to go there;” and out of the house she sallied in high disdain.

Yet this was the woman who had given me such a plausible lecture on pride.  Alas, for our fallen nature!  Which is more subversive of peace and Christian fellowship—­ignorance of our own characters, or the characters of others?

Our departure for the woods became now a frequent theme of conversation.  My husband had just returned from an exploring expedition to the backwoods, and was delighted with the prospect of removing thither.  The only thing I listened to in their praise, with any degree of interest, was a lively song, which he had written during his brief sojourn at Douro:—­

TO THE WOODS!—­TO THE WOODS!

  To the woods!—­to the woods!—­The sun shines bright,
    The smoke rises high in the clear frosty air;
  Our axes are sharp, and our hearts are light,
    Let us toil while we can and drive away care. 
  Though homely our food, we are merry and strong,
    And labour is wealth, which no man can deny;
  At eve we will chase the dull hours with a song,
    And at grey peep of dawn let this be our cry,

        To the woods!—­to the woods!—­&c.

  Hark! how the trees crack in the keen morning blast,
    And see how the rapids are cover’d with steam;
  Thaw your axes, my lads, the sun rises fast,
    And gilds the pine tops with his bright golden beam.