IDA MAY; ton of Swings Actual atrtr possible MARY LANGDON. 1 We speak that .we do know, and testify that we have scan.' FIFTY-FOURTH THOUSAND. X" c ty ~ o r Iv : H. DAYTON, SO HOWARD-STREET 1860. Entr.ni) accordhi,; to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & Co., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts Btereot; fit bj HOBAET * JIOBBISB ljpe BOSTON PREFACE. THIS story, which embodies ideas and impressions received by the writer during a residence in the South, is given to the public, in the belief that it will be recog- nized and accepted as a true picture of that phase of social life which it represents. In the various combinations of society existing in tt slave States, there may be brighter, and there certainly |M( are darker scenes, than any here depicted ; but I have preferred to take the medium tones most commonly met with, and have earnestly endeavored to " nothing exaggerate, Nor set down aught in malice." 1 have not written in vain, if the thoughts suggested by the perusal of this book shall arouse in any heart a more intense love of freedom, or bring from any lip a more firm protest against the extension of that system vrhich, alike for master and servant, poisons the springs 2075139 IV PREFACE. of life, subverts the noblest instincts of humanity, and, even in the most favorable circumstances, entails an amount of moral and physical injury to which no lan- guage can do justice M. L. IDA MAY. . CHAPTER I. " A child is always a charming novelty, although Cain was the only really venerable and truly original baby." DR. 0. W. HOLMES. EVERYBODY thought that Ida May was a wonderful child, and everybody said she would be completely spoiled; and it was a matter ofifcongratulation to all who desired her preservation from ultimate destruction, when one day it was announced that Mrs. May had given birth to a son. Great, indeed, was the rejoicing; not only among the " dear five hundred friends," but in the quiet home of the Mays. Every face wore a peculiarly happy and relieved expression, from the old doctor, who met the three years old Ida on the stairs as he descended from the sick-room and, patting her dark curls, said, " So, miss, your nose ia out of joint, now," to the little nurse-maid Bessy, who 1* IDA MAT. made an idiotic face and imitated the wailing of the new infant, by way of illustrating to the child the inestimable treasure of which her mother had become possessed. But when Miss Ida was ushered into the darkened room, and saw the formidable array of phials and caudle-cups on the mantel-piece, and the stern face of the nurse, who hushed her first rapturous greeting of her little brother by point- ing to the bed where her mother lay, the young lady began to doubt the extreme benefit she had been told was to be derived from this addition to the family. She stood a moment, gazing around, with her large, dark eyes wide open, and her ros.y lips set in a queer expression. " Come here, my darling," said her mother's feeble voice. " A'n't you very glad you have a little brother, and won't you love him very much ? " But the child was not in tho mood for sentiment. Climb- ing up into a chair, in order to reach her mother, she pointed with one chubby hand to the fireplace, where tho ^^ nurse was rocking the bab^ and said : " Mother, did God send that baby here ?" " Yes, my love," replied Mrs. May. "Well, then," said little miss, dropping her hand and curling her lip in great scorn, "I should think God might know better than to send him now, when you are so sick you have to hiro that great ugly woman to take care of him." But the little stranger, about whose coming the child thus irreverently expressed her opinion, was not destined IDA M >L Y long to endure the joys and sorrows of humanity. Not many weeks had elapsed before the immortal flower was transplanted to bloom in the gardens of Paradise, and then this bright, beautiful girl was watched over with even a tenderer devotion, and clasped more closely than ever to the parent hearts which death had so cruelly wounded. The baby died and was buried ; and, as Ida sat in her father's arms that evening, vainly trying to comprehend what was death, that had thrown such an unwonted gloom over the household, she suddenly broke the silence by saying : " Where is the baby, now ?" " The baby is an angel in heaven," replied the father, aadly. " And my littles chicken, you know, father, that I killed hugging it, the other day, and you buried for me, I sup- pose by this time that is an angel in heaven, too. I wish God knew it was mine, and then, maybe, he 'd let our baby have it to play with." The chicken thus referred to was one of a number of its race that had been the victims of Ida's fond but over-zealous care ; for, about this time, and during the summer that followed, she gave her almost undivided attention to that branch of ornithology that concerns the habits of domestic fowls. Her great delight was to watch the chickens in the henery, and many hours each day were spent in following them about, and imitating their motions, until the feathered bipeds came to regard her as one of themselves, and ceased IDA MAY. to feel alarm at her presence. Sometimes she was found with her rosy mouth covered with dust, after attempting to peck from the ground, as she had seen her favorites do ; and she came near having her eyes picked out, by an indignant hen. under whose wings she tried to introduce herself, along with the chickens that were brooding there. Often she would climb the hen-roost, and there, supporting herself in some angle, would sit patiently for a long time, balancing herself on her hands and feet; and the only drawback to her pleasure in this position was the melancholy fact that, notwithstanding all her efforts, she could not put her head under her wing. One evening she was missing when bed-time came, and, when her mother went to the door to seek her, a childish voice, that seemed to come from the clouds, answered her call. Looking up into a tree that stood near, she discovered Ida safely perched among the branches. " Mercy ! " exclaimed the terrified mother, " how came you up there, my child ? " "I a'n't a child now," w,as the reply ;" "I'm a hen, and I 'm gone to roost, and I 've got up high, so the cats shan't catch me." Fortunately her father was near, and his firm arm soon withdrew the little girl from her perilous position. One afternoon her mother was telling her of God's caro over us all, and that he sent his angels to guard us from evil and incite us to good. I D A M A Y . 7 fl Are they round us always ; in the night, too ? " asked [da, her eyes dilating with wonder. " Yes, they are always with us," replied Mrs. May. " They guard us while we sleep, and give us happy dreams. My darling, you need never feel as if you were alone, for the Messed angels are always near to protect you." * Ida was not at all timid in regard to physical danger ; but the idea of the supernatural, thus suddenly presented to her excited imagination, impressed her powerfully. She said nothing more, however, and, unconscious of her feelings, Mrs May pursued the subject some moments longer. That evening, after she had been undressed and left alone in her little bed, her parents were startled by hearing her call them in a loud, distressed voice; and, going to her room, found her sitting up in the moonlight, her face agitated with vexation and fear. To their inquiries, she answered with a burst of tears, which could no longer be restrained, " I wish the old angels would stay in heaven where they belong. They 'd better bo playing on their harps than stand- ing here watching me." It was a great pleasure to Ida to attend church. Her quick sensibilities were impressed by the solemn hush of the place. The softened light, the pale face of the minister in the sacred desk, and the music of the organ, thrilled her with a mysteri- ous awe. She was always wide awake then, and her child- ish soul overflowed with ecstasy ; and, as she was allowed to sleep quietly during the sermon, she was inclined to consider IDA MAT. the Sabbath worship, upon the whole, a very pleasant insti tution. Great, then, was her disappointment when, one day. she was detained at home by a slight illness. She begged and cried to be permitted to go, and, as a final argument, she s::id, looking up into her mother's face, with the greatest "earnestness, " Do let me go, mother. If you will, 1 'H indulge a hope, - 1 will, mother, and be a little mite of a candidate." " My dear," was the reply, " I cannot allow you to go to church, and if you really want to be good, you won't tease me any more." The child turned away with a deep sigh, and stood by the window, listening to the ringing of the church- bells, that came musically over the fields on the pleasant summer air. When they had ceased, she turned again to her mother. " Mother," said she, a curious expression of triumph breaking over her face, and sparkling through the tears which had been slowly gathering in her downcast eyes, " I don't care if I can't go to church to-day. One of these days I 'm going to heaven, and it is Sunday there always, and I will go to church whenever I 've a mind to." Think not, reader, that, in giving these few anecaotes of her childhood, I can convey to you any proportion of the quaint expressions with which my heroine was continually electrifying this admiring household. Even if circumstances had not made her so peculiarly dear, it would have been im- IDA SI A Y possible to withstand the winning ways and childish graces, the sprightliness and intelligence that sparkled in her dark eyes, and moved her restless limbs, and filled her busy brain with the oddest ideas and the most amusing fancies. Thus brightly and calmly, tinged with warm roseate hues, and musical with song, dawned the day of life that was to be so changeful ere its close. Thus tenderly, in a down-lined nest, was the birdling brooded, whose wings should wander so far over strange lands, and beneath such darkening skies CHAPTER II. What, 2# / did yon say all ? What, all mj pretty chickens and their dam In one fell swoop ! " MACSETB " World ! world ! 0, world ! Bat that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age." KING LEAR. " GOOD-EVENING, doctor." " Ah, Mr. May, good-evening. Chilly weather this. By the way, I saw Mrs. May out to-day. It won't do for her to breathe this air ; you must keep her in doors." " Do you think, her disease progressing ? " said Mr. May, anxiously. " No, no. Don't be alarmed ; I am not ; but we must be careful ; " and the worthy doctor hurried away. A shadow fell over Mr. May's face, and he sighed heavily as he proceeded homeward. His way lay over the brow of the hill, on which stood the church where he worshipped, and, to shorten the distance, he usually went across the church- yard. As he entered it, a cloud passed from before the moon, and her light fell brightly on the cross that crowned the church tower ; and the sight of that blessed emblem of IDA MAY. our faith raised in his mind associations and feelit^ that stilled the deep throbbing of his heart. Leaning thoughtfully against the low paling that enclosed one of the graves, he gazed around him. The village lay beneath him on the slope of the hill, and in the valley, with its houses gleaming -white, in the moonlight and the same radiance glittered on the surface of the rivei where a vessel was slowly sailing, with her snowy wings spread to the soft breeze. Lights gleamed in many windows, but the quiet of evening had fallen on the streets, and tho low rustling of the night wind among the trees was almost the only sound that fell upon his ear. " Yes," said he aloud, " the scene suggests only ideas of peace and comfort ; and yet in every home are fears and cares as great as those which disturb mine. Happiness, love, and the domestic ties that make life beautiful, all must end here ! " He paused, for with startling vividness there came ovir him the thought, " What if this were really the end ? " and his memory ran back to the ancient time when the grave was indeed the parting place ; when the eye of Faith was dim, and Hope questioned fearfully of an after life. Alas for the bereaved one then ! From the wide expanse of nature there came no answer to the soul's great question From the shadowy bourn, whither it had fled, never might the spirit return. Never might the cold lips of the dead murmur a reply to the anguish cf that thrilling questisn, " If a man die, shall he live again ? " 2 IDA MAY Hardly can we imagine the agony of the last hours of those blind heathen, when their grappling holl on life was loosened " Dark must have been the gushing of their tears, Heavy the unsleeping silence of the tomb On the impassioned soul in elder years, When, burdened with the mystery of its doom, Mortality's thick gloom Hung o'er the sunny world ! " With what a gush of exultation should gratitude ascend to Him whose death, rending in twain the mysterious veil that for ages had hung darkly over the portals of the tomb, brought life and immortality to light ! Still doth Love weep over the unconscious bier, but her- tears fall not despairingly as of yore. Christ hath risen. 0, words of triumph ! The cherished form is not given up to darkness and the worm, w* iiout the assurance that even from corruption shall come forth incorruption, and the glorified body be reunited to tho soul that made it sentient. Christ hath risen ! and we, too, in whose frail nature is enclosed a type of his infinite being, we shall rise from the sleep of the tomb, and ascend to those bright regions where there is no more night. A smile came over his face, and his heart grew less sad, as these thoughts passed through his mind ; for he was a man of strong religious feelings, and now, more than ever, he Beemed to find therein the consolation which he sought. Eight years had passed since Ernest May I rought to his IDA MAY. 13 father's home a gentle and beautiful bride, whom time had only served to make more dear to him. A pleasant home it was ; nestled coseyly in a grove of trees on the hill-side, a little out of the town of M , in the interior of Pennsylva- nia. He had inherited from his father this house, in which he was born, and a sufficient fortune to satisfy his unambitious desires ; and here, occupied with his favorite pursuits, and in the society of his wife and child, he had enjoyed a happiness that, until within a few months, seemed wholly without alloy. But now dim shadows were stealing ever the brightness of his days. A vague fear haunted him, and would not be driven away. The husband and wife gazed on each other, and felt that there was in the heart of each a thought of terror, which they dared not speak. As she leaned more and more heavily on his arm, and her light step grew slow and faltering in their daily walks, as he marked the quick panting of her breath and the fixed flush on her cheek, as he saw how, day by day, her voice grew weaker, and her fair flesh wasted, his heart sank within him ; for he feared that consumption had marked her for its victim. She knew it also. Well she recognized the footsteps of the silent destroyer, who had borne to the grave all the rest of her family ; and, as she felt those icy fingers sealing up the fountain of life, she turned shuddering from the tomb, and clung with trembling hope to the home where love had sur- rounded her with so many blessings. For a while the weak human nature prevailed over the divine, and she seemed tc IDA MAY. struggle vainly for the atta.nment of that strong faith thai triumphs over death. The moon was again hidden behind thick clouds, and the rain was falling, when Mr. May left the church-yard, and, after a few minutes' walk, reached his own door. Mrs. May sat in a large arm-chair before the fire, in a quiet room, adorned with pictures and books, with a stand of flowers in one window ; and the soft light of an astral lamp filled it with brightness that shone like a welcome into the night-darkness without. She had been musing silontly for some time, but, when her ear caught the sound of her hus- band's step, her pale face lighted with a smile, and she half rose to meet him as he entered. " You look tired, to-night, and sad, or thoughtful. Which is it ? " said he, when he had returned her greeting. " Perhaps both," she answered ; " for I took a walk this afternoon, and I have been sitting here thinking, since I came in ; and that is sad work now, is it not ? " she added, looking up with a faint smile. Her husband shook his head playfully. " Ah ! imprudent woman, where did you go ? I shall have to stay at home and watch you, if you are not more careful." " I did not think it would grow so damp, or I should not have ventured," she replied. " I went to see Mrs. Allin, and sat a long time talking with her How wonderful it is that she should be ro resigned to the aeath of that favorite child ! He was her only comfort in life ; b.ut yet I believe she is willing, in her inmost heart, that the will of God should ba IDA MAY. 15 t done She prefers it j she is really satisfied that her plans for earthly enjoyment should be thus suddenly crushed. When she was talking about it to-day, I was forcibly reminded of the words of David, ' Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.' " " There is something sublime in such exalted piety," she added, after a pause. " This conquering of all self-will, so that the soul can welcome all things in a holy silence, 0, is not this a state of mind worth suffering much to attain ? " " There are many qualities of mind, and many conditions of life, that go to make up such a character," said Mr. May, " and few attain to it. Few have strength to continue the self-discipline alike amid the smooth and the rough passages of existence. We are too apt to sink under affliction, with a kind of dumb despair, which, if it does not murmur at the hand that chastens, says, sadly, ' Never was sorrow liko unto my sorrow.' " . " And in our happy days," said his wife, " we find it easy to content ourselves with a cold and careless gratitude, that lessens self-control more than even the pressure of grief. We grow cold-hearted and careless, and then, when the hour of trial comes, we find ourselves weak and helpless. (), if it were not so hard to feel right, and to do right ! " I'oor Mrs. May closed her eyes, to keep back the tears, and sank down into her arm-chair with a deep sigh. Her husband gavied upon her with a throbbing heart, for ho knew whither her thoughts tended ; and like a shadow falling 16 I DA M AY. darkly down to shut her from his sight, there glided into hii mind the image of death. A shudder passed over him, and, foi a moment, his eyes were dim ; but he would not yield to his emotions, and, taking in his own the hands that had clasped themselves involunta- rily, as if in prayer, he said, cheerfully, " Courage ! courage ! dear one. These tremblings and fears are not for those whom the strong arm of God upholds. This darkness is not for those who walk in the light of his love." " 0, Ernest ! " she answered, mournfully, " I am weak. Never till now did I feel how weak, how incapable of self- abnegation. I admire the perfection of Christian character, but I shrink, weakly, wickedly, from the conflict by which alone it is to be obtained. I am as one who struggles faintly, in a dream, with shadows. Life passes over me, and her warm breath encircles me, but there is no answering life and energy within. Day after day glides from me ; hour after hour more surely my destiny reveals itself. Ernest," she cried, suddenly, raising herself and gazing intently into his eyes, " Ernest, can you read it ? " With an irrepressible cry jf anguish, her husband caughx her in his arms, and clasped her to his breast. " O, God ! " he said, " it must not be ! It shall not ^ ! "What can I do without you, Mary ; and you could you be happy, even in heaven, without me ? " " O, hush ! " said his wife, placing her thin hand over his quivering lips. " This is wrong. We are both wrong. Wo I 1) A M A Y. 17 have lived too much for each other. Ernest, for thy sake, even the eternal life, on which thou canst not now enter with me, seems less dear, less glorious to me ! And 0, who wil guard our child with a mother's cai 3 ? Who will love her with a mother's untiring sympathy and patience, if I am taken away ? How can it be best that she shall sustain such an irreparable loss ? 0, it is hard ! it is hard to die ! O, my husband ' 0, my child ! my little child ! " She paused suddenly, and a change came over her face as she pressed her handkerchief to her lips. When she removed it, it was colored with a bright-red stain. She had ruptured a blood-vessel. In a moment all was alarm and confusion in that once happy home. The doctor was called, and the usual remedies applied to stanch the bleeding, and, gently as one would bear an infant, Mr. May bore the wasted form of his wife up stairs to her bed, in that room she was never to leave again till shrouded in the garments of the grave. From the mo- ment of that fatal hemorrhage the cruel disease, whose ap- proaches had hitherto been so silent and slow, threw off all disguise, and with sure and rapid progress consummated its work. But in that chamber of suffering, where human love wrestled vainly with death, there was felt the presence of an unseen Power, making strong the weak-hearted, and upholding the footsteps that trod the dark valley. The prayers that were offered, the ceaseless, imploring cries for help and comfort, were not in vain. In that fierce furnace of affliction, beside 18 I D A M A Y those chastened ones, there walked " One having the likeness of the Son of God," and in taat divine companionship the anguish and the terror passed away. He touched their eyes, and the barriers that hide the invisible were removed. All that had seemed dark was lightened, all that was obscure was revealed. Calmly they took the bitter cup, and drank it slowly to its dregs ; and, lo ! it became a holy sacrament, whereon the soul feeds as on heavenly inanna. When the last word was said, and the last token given, he fflio was left alone at midnight with his dead, bowed his head in a holy and tearless silence ; for he seemed to himself to have seen the portals of heaven opened, and heard the unut- terable words wherewith a beautified spirit was welcomed to fiternal bliss. But the child, the little one over whom that mother's heart had yearned with inexpressible tenderness, the child who had been borne sleeping to the silent room, and laid on the bed beside the dying, that her hands might, till the last moment, retain their hold of her dearest treasures ; how Bad was her waking from that sleep beside the dead ! how pitiful the wail- ing cry of childhood, " O, my mother ! give rne back my mother ! " Sadder still, and more touching, if possible, was her endeavor at self-control, when she became sensible that her paroxysms of grief added to her father's distress, and her efforts to amuse him, wiping with her small, soft hand the tears from his eyes, and striving to amuse him with the play- things of which she took no notice at anj other time. How often, in {he deep and terrible trouble which afterwards I D A M A Y . 19 befell him, did that desolate father recall these winsome acts and the musical tones of her voice, and wonder that he should have esteemed himself so forlorn while he held that treasure to his heart ! For, one day, it was her fifth birth-day, three or four months after her mother's death, little Ida and her nurse walked oat to gather flowers that grew along the side cf a lonely road, which led through a piece jof woodland, not far from the house. It was one of those glorious days in June, that make poets overflow with inspiration, and awaken the dormant organ of ideality in the most prosaic; and the clear air, the sunshine shimmering through green branches, and the melody of birds that rang through the woods, tempted them" to prolong their walk till they reached the top of .a hill, up which, after the fashion of our ancestors, the road had been made to ascend. This had- once been the mail route from V Philadelphia, westward, but a more direct and less hilly one having been constructed, the old road was left to solitude, except for the occasional passing of the farmers' carts, and the loitering, carriages of the few pleasure-seeking travellers, who preferred it on account of the picturesque scenery through which it wound. Having ascended the hill, Ida seated herself to rest on a fallen tree that .lay along a bank by the roadside, and Bessy, the maid, who had gathered her apron full of flowers, sat down beside her to weave them into a wreath with which to ornament her straw hat. As they were thus occupied, a close carriage., drawn by two horses, came slowly up the hill fallowed by two men, who sauntered along as if 20 I D A M A Y . enjoying the beauty of the hour and the scene. When nearly opposite the fallen tree, the horses stopped of themselves, as if waiting for their driver, who, with his companion, soon came up with them. When they saw the two children for Bessy, a maiden of fifteen, was small of her age, and looked much younger they paused, and, after looking at them a moment, said a few words to each other, and then one of them got into the carriage and took the reins, while the other approached the place where they w?re sitting. Bessy was accustomed to having strangers compliment the beauty of her little charge, and never had she looked so beautiful as now. She had taken off her hat, and her long dark curls were hanging carelessly down her cheeks, and over her neck, twined with a long spray of delicate pink flowers, with which she had ornamented herself. The mourning-dress showed her clear, dark complexion to great advantage ; her cheeks and lips were like blushing rose-buds, and her brilliant eyes were lighted with merriment. Seen in the softened light of her leafy resting-place, with the deep shade of the forest for a background, she formed a picture on which a painter's eye would have rested with untold delight. But other thoughts were in the mind of the dark-browed man who now ap- proached them. Standing beside Ida, he twined her curls around his fingers, and asked her a few questions, such as are usually addressed to a pretty child, seen for the first time, to which she replied fearlessly. At length, turning partly away, as if to regain his carriage, the stranger stopped sud- denly, an/i said to Bessy, " I find T Ye dropped my whip, IDA MAY. walking up, there 't is, lying in the road," he added, point- ing to something on the ground, about half-way down the hill, " come now, you 're younger 'n I am ; s'pose you run down and get it, that 's a good girl, and I '11 stay with the little girl till you come back." Bessy hesitated a moment, not that she thought of danger, but she feared the child might not like to be left alone with a stranger. " Will you stay here while I go get the man's whip ? " she asked Ida. The child turned her eyes earnestly upon him for an instant, and then, unwilling to own any fear, but yet detecting, with a child's instinct something sinister in the gaze that was fixed upon her, she rose from her seat, and said simply, " I will go with you." " 0, no !" replied Bessy; "you can't run quick enough, without getting tired, and there 's no good place there to sit and rest, as there is here. I won't be gone but a minute." " Well," said the child, reseating herself with a dignified air, which she sometimes assumed, and which was amusing in one so young, " the man may go get into his carriage, and I '11 stay here alone and see you go." The stranger laughed, and took a few steps forward, and Bessy ran down the hill ; but when she arrived at the object pointed out, she found it only a dry stick, and was turning to go back, when a shriek struck her ear, and she saw th^ child struggling in the arms of the stranger, who put her into the carriage, jumped in after her, and immediately the horses iashed away out of sight. Fear lent her wings ; but when she IDA MAY. reached the spot whence they had started, they \pere in the valley below, and galloping at a pace that made pursuit hope- less. Still she ran after them, filled with terror and anguish for the loss of the child, and yet hoping it might be that the men were playing some rude joke to frighten them both, and expecting every moment to see the carriage stop, and allow her to take her little charge. But no ; it kept on and on, never slackening its speed, and the poor girl followed, calling wildly, and entreating the pity of those pitiless ones who were far beyond the reach of her voice. So long as the car- riage remained in sight, although far distant, she had still a little hope ; and when now and then she paused for an instant, to take breath, she heard, or fancied she heard, the piercing cries of the poor child, and the sound stimulated her to almost superhuman exertions ; so that, when at length a turn of the road hid it from her eyes, and she fell down on the ground, almost dead with exhaustion, she was more than two miles from home. How long she lay there, faint and insensible, she never knew, but she was roused by some one shaking her arm a little roughly as he raised her, and a voice that said, " Bless my soul, if this a'n't the little gal that lives to Squire May's! What on airth be you doin' here"? " "O Miss Ida! dear, little Ida!" moaned the girl,- " they 've carried her off; did you meet them, have you got her ? " she added, the sudden hope awakening her to life and energy. "Got who? Who's carried ell ' What you talking I D A M A IT . 23 about, gal, and how come you here ? " asked the astonished farmer, who, having nearly driven over her, as he rode lazily along to town, now stood half supporting her. " Why, yo poor cretur," he added, " one o' your shoes is off, and your foot 's a bleeding, and you 're all over dust. Who 's been a hurting of ye ? " " 0, Mr. Brady ! " said Bessy, who, having by this time collected her scattered senses, now recognized her companion, " did you meet a carriage, with two hordes, driving like mad ? I was with little Ida, on the top of the hill, just out on the Bridge-road, and that carriage came along, and two men were after it, and one of them stopped and spoke to us, and asked me to go get his whip that he had dropped, and while I was going, they took the child. I heard her scream, and turned round just in time to see them drive off with her, and so I ran after them till I dropped down here." " Bless my soul ! " said Mr. Brady, " who ever hear'n tell ! So they carried away the poor little girl, did they ? I thought they was driving awful fast." ". Did you meet them ? 0, did you see her ? " said Bessy. " Well, I s'pose 't was them. There was a carriage and two horses, jest down by widder Wilby's farm, in the hollow there, and they was driving like mad. I saw them coming down the hill, and so I hauled up, till they was by." " 0, then they do mean to carry her off! O, dear ! 0, dear ! what shall I do 2 I shall never dare to go home and 3 24 IDA MAT. tll her father ! " and the girl wrung hei hands in despair, and sank down again in the road. u Well, now," said farmer Brady, in his slow, calm man- ner, " I guess the best thing ye can do is to go home as fast as ye can, T '11 give ye a lift in my wagon, and tell her father, and he can go after 'em, with horses that '11 stand a better chance o' ketchin' up with 'em, than you will." This advice was followed, but the Brady "colt," the period of whose birth was lost in the mists of antiquity, hav- ing been asleep for the last ten years, it was rather difficult to induce him to quicken his pace on this occasion, and thus some time elapsed before the distressed and impatient girl reached Mr. May's house. He was not at home, and she was just going to town to seek him, when he arrived at the gate. His first glance at the group which came to meet him caused him to quicken his steps, for he knew something was amiss ; and when Bessy ran forward, and, sinking at his feet, sobbed out his daughter's name, a pang shot through his heart so severe as to foretell in some measure the suffering that was before him. ' My child what of her ? She is not dead ! " he said, in the low, hoarse tones of intense anxiety. " No, no ! " said Bessy, " but two men have stolen her carried her away in a carriage ! O, hurry and go after diem ! O, Mr. May, I shall die if we don't find her ! " Paler than death grew the face of that miserable father ; a mist passed before his eyes, and for a moirent he leaned heav- ily agai*t the fence beside him. It was but a moment, and IDA MA V 25 then he sprang forward to order the horses put ink the car- riage, and, having learned the sad story more explicitly from Bessy, he took her with him to aid in finding their track as far as she had followed it. They had no difficulty in pursu- ing the kidnappers forty miles, to a town where they had left some horses three days before, taken in exchange others, which they had now brought back, and, ordering their own, had proceeded on their journey a few hours before Mr. May's arrival in the same place. Without losing a moment, he had fresh horses put in his own carriage, and, leaving Bessy to the care of the landlady, he hired a man to assist him, when he should overtake the fugitives, as he had now strong hope of doing. But, unfortunately, only a few miles from town, one of the linchpins came out and they were overturned. Neither of them was injured, but some part of the harness was broken, and the accident delayed them an hour or two. Once again on the way, they followed the track of the car- riage, with ever increasing difficulty, for it had diverged into byways, and stopped at none of the large towns ; but they went on as swiftly as possible to Hagerstown, just within the borders of Maryland. Here they found that only the night before, the object of their pursuit had been returned, with the horses, to the stable from which they had been hired several days previously, by a man whcse appearance agreed with Bessy's description of the one who had seized the child ; but he had been alone both in hiring and returning the carriage. By further inquiry, he ascertained that the same person had tared carriages and horses at this stable several times before 'JO I D A M A y . and, though some curiosity had been excited with regard A him, his movements had never been watched, or any suspicious entertained respecting him. And thus the clue was lost ; for the mysterious stranger was nowhere to be seen. 0, the bitter, bitter anguish of that disappointment ! the fearful perplexity and uncertainty with which, all that night, Mr. May paced the floor of his chamber, feeling that the only drop of consolation remaining for him was the thought that the beloved mother of his child had been removed beyond thc reach of this woe. Again and again he groaned aloud, " Thou hast taken her away from the evil to come," and IE the unselfishness of his true heart his own desolation was for a moment forgotten. When morning came, his case had become known to the citizens, and. many of them came to offer sympathy and all of help that couldbe given ; but none knew what to advise and he was equally uncertain what to do ; for seven roads lead in different directions from the town, and by which of them should he seek his child ? At length it was determined to send messengers along each route, and Mr. May joined one party ; for, worn out as he was, he was too wretched to remain quiet. But nothing was heard of the persons they sought. It seemed almost as if the earth must have opened and swallowed them up, so completely had all traces of them vanished ; and nothing was left for the miserable man but to retrace his steps to his lonely home, and offer a reward for his daughter's recovery, in the hope that avarice might induce her ca tors to give her up. IDA MAY. 27 Poor Bessy was entirely overcome when she saw him return without the lost child, for his prolonged absence had raised her expectations, and no words can tell the dull despair of that long day during which they travelled to M . Bessy spent it in constant tears, and frequently broke out in lamentations and reminiscences; but Mr. May uttered neither word nor groan, and his glaring and burning eyes seemed incapable of weeping. For six nights he had not slept, and had only forced himself to swallow food, meantime, that his strength might not fail ; and now his whole frame was racked with feverish pain, and his brain seemed bursting. The sun was just setting when they reached the top of the hill where the fatal deed had been accomplished ; and, checking his horses almost involuntarily, he looked around. Everything was the same, green and beautiful as on that morning. Could it be the sorrow in his own heart that cast a black shadow over all ? As he sat, absorbed in gloomy thought, his eye fell on something white gleaming behind the fallen tree. Springing out of the carriage, and going nearer, he discovered that it was his daughter's straw-hat, still crowned with the faded flowers with which her own little hands had ornamented it. With a choking sob, that seemed to suspend his very breath, he seized and pressed it to his lips, to his heart ; and at the touch of that sacred relic of the lost one the torturing tension of his nerves gave way, and throwing himself along the log, he wept freely. They were the first tears he had shed, and they saved his reason or his life. But, ! the tomb-like silence of that deserted house ! 0, 3* 28 IDA MAI. the long days and months that followed ; the feverish excite, ment of hope, that was indulged only to baffle and rack the soul with fresh disappointment ; the wearing heart-sickness of expectations that were never realized, and the harrowing fears and images of terror that haunted him like a nightmare, waking him from slumber trembling and covered with tlie cold sweat of agony, and making his days a prolonged tor- ment ! Handbills were issued, and scattered in every direc- tion, offering enormous rewards for the child, or for any information respecting her ; and when they were found inef fectual, Mr. May's friends urged him to believe that some fatal accident had ended alike her sufferings and her life ; but though this thought would have been an infinite relief, he could not indulge it. One idea, suggested by the course the kidnappers had first taken, was constantly present with him , and the knowledge of the fate to which his innocent and beautiful child would be exposed as a slave, almost maddened him. Restless and utterly heart-broken, he spent two years in travelling through the Southern States, visiting every slave market, and growing more and more sick with apprehension, as he became acquainted with the evils inseparably connected with the system in its most favorable conditions, and saw the unutterable indignities and cruelties of the sla-rc pens and auctions. One thing which he learned, in his search, impressed him with astonishment, and that was the mtmber of children, both colored and white, that have been in various ways stolen and lost. From every direction tidings of this sort came to him, sometimes from those who, with the sympathy of a kindred IDA MAY. 29 sorrow, wished to condole with him on his loss, and sometimes from parents too poor to prosecute the search themselves, beg- ging him, while looking for his own child, to inquire for theirs. In a few cases he was successful in obtaining information that led to the discovery of the lost ones ; but of his own little wanderer he found no trace, and his hair grew gray, and his form thin and bent and prematurely old ; but, however hope- less of success, he could not relinquish his weary journeyings. At length, nearly three years after Ida's disappearance, when he had spent nearly all his fortune, one of his friends in M , received a letter from Mr. May, directing him to sell the house and grounds, and remit him the proceeds. He had heard of a little girl named Ida, who was sold in the slave market in New Orleans a year previous. True, the description given of the child was not exactly like his own Ida; but the auctioneer had noticed that there were no traces of negro blood about her, and, as this was the only clue he now possessed, he was determined to follow it. This girl had been purchased by a French gentleman, who soon aftei took her with his family to Cuba, and thither the father went to seek her. Letters were again received from him at Cuba, saying that the family he sought had left the island a few months before for their native land ; and he was about to embark for France, in the faint hope of finding his lost dar- ling. A few days after the date o\ his embarkation, one of the fearful hurricanes that sometimes visit that latitude, swept wer tho ocean, and the vessel in which he sailed was nevei igain heard from. CHAPTER III. I " But this is a people robbed and spoiled; they are all of them snared In holes and are hid in prison houses. They are for a prey, and none delivereth, for a spoil, and none saith, Restore." ISAIAH 42 : 22. FOR a few moments after Ida's capture, she continued to scream violently, partly from fright and partly from angor at the rudeness to which she had been subjected, for she had no definite idea respecting the cause or the duration of her forced drive in that closely -shut carriage. But when her companion, shaking her violently, told her to be still or he would kill her, and enforced his words by a tingling blow on her cheek, all other feelings, even the sense of pain, were lost in the extrem- ity of terror, and she shrank away from him and sat silent and motionless, save for the stifled sobs that swelled her bosom. Yet, as the swift motion continued, and she became sensible that she was being borne rapidly away from home and all she loved, she ventured timidly to ask her companion why he had taken her, and where she was going. " 0, I 'm only going to take you to ride a little way," he replied. "You be a good girl and keep still, and we '11 sec Jots of pretty things." " What made you strike me so hard for, then ? " said the I D A M A Y . 31 ciuld , and why did n't you let Bessy come ? I don't want to go without Bessy." " 0, Bessy '11 come by and by ; and if you are good, I 'U give you candy." " I don't want candy, and I do want Bessy. Bessy ! Bessy ! come and take me ! " she cried, piteously . " Come, now, hush ! " said the man. " What are you afraid of ? I '11 carry you back. Hush, I tell you ! I '11 be good to you, if you won't cry. I 'm a first-rate fellow to good little girls, and they all like me. Come, stop crying and give us a kiss. You 're a mighty pretty little girl." And, as he spoke, he drew her toward him with an ill-feigned show of tenderness, and attempted to kiss her. But the child indignantly resisted him. " Get away, you bad man ! " she said ; " you shan't kiss me. You have no right to take me away from papa and Bessy, and I will cry till I make you carry me home again ; " and she burst into wild screams, which could hardly be stilled, even for a mo- ment, by the fierce threats and repeated blows that were administered. At length, as they slackened their pace some- what, in ascending a hill, the driver opened a small win- dow in the screen behind him, that closed the front of the carriage, and said, shaking his fist at her as he spoke, " I see something coming up over the top o' the hill, and if you don't stop that young 'un yelling, the fat '11 be all in the fire. I say, Kelly, stop her" " I '11 fix her, Bill," was the reply ; and, taking a thick *'ooreri scarf from under the seat, he suddenly threw it ovei 32 I D A M A Y . her Lead atd aroun 1 her mouth, in such a way as completely to smother her cries, and almost to stop respiration. Thus they continued for some miles ; and when it was removed, the poor child, overcome by fright and suffering, dared make no further resistance, but wept silently, and at last fell into an uneasy sleep. "When she awoke, it was nearly dark, and as soon as she opened her eyes, Kelly ordered the carriage to stop ; and, taking a little cup and phial from his pocket, he poured out a spoonful of dark liquid, which he diluted with water from a large bottle beside him, and then put the cup to her lips. It was very bitter, and, after the first swallow, she drew back. " Drink it ! " said he, raising his hand as if to strike her ; and she complied instantly. " There, now, that 's a good girl," said he ; " you shall have some candy." And, as he spoke, he offered her a little piece. " I don't want the candy, but I 'm very thirsty, will you give me some water ? " " 0, yes," replied Kelly ; and, as she drank it, he added, " You are a little fool not to like candy. You '11 have bitter enough in this world, I 'm thinking, and you M better take all the sweet you can get." " Why will I have bitter enough ? ." said Ida, tinvicfly. " What are you going to do with me ? " "You '11 find that out soon enough," replied her companion, with a sardonic laugh ; " you need n't be in any hurry. Lit tie girls had n't ought to ask questions ; have n't yoi/ been told that ? " I I) A M A I . 33 Thus repulsed, the child sank back into her corner, and said nothing more, and soon, yielding to the influence of the powerful soporific she had taken, she fell into a deep slumber. Thus it was that, stretched lifelessly on the seat of the car- riage, with her senses fast locked in oblivion, she knew nothing of their stopping at the hotel to have the horses changed, and made no sound by which she could have been discovered. The days that followed, during that painful jour- ney, were but a repetition of the first, except that her at- tempts at resistance became fewer as she yielded more and more to the influence of fatigue, and fear, and suffering. The men stopped at small farm-houses to bait their horses, and ate their own food in the carriage, taking turns at driving and sleeping alternately. At length, one afternoon, just after sun- set, the carriage passed along a road which wound round the foot of a mountain, that was covered almost to its summit with an apparently unbroken forest, above which the gray crags, wild and broken, stood out in sharp relief against the clear western sky. Suddenly the driver checked his horses, and, opening the door of the carriage, his companion got out, and took in his arms the passive little figure beside him. Without further pause, Kelly, who was driving, applied the whip, and th horses darted rapidly away ; and almost as quickly, with the child still in his arms, Bill sprang behind the trees, and, after plunging for a few rods through a tangled maze of underbrush, he came out on a footpath, narrow in- deed, but distinctly defined even in that uncertain light. Here, putting down his burden, he paused and sat down to 34 IDA MAY. rest. The child stood still, and looked around her. Dim shadows were on every side, in which the hug trunks of the trees stood in grim silence, like threatening monsters ; but, gazing up between the branches that closed above her, she saw far away the blue, cloudless heavens, filled with softened light, just as she had seen them last when she stood with her father beside her mother's grave, and he had told her, in low, loving tones of that dear mother in heaven, and of the Infi- nite Father who cares for all. The recollection came back at that moment, and roused her benumbed and broken spirit to make one more effort to escape ; and, springing away, she ran down the steep and slippery path, anywhere, anywhere, even to die in that black and frightful forest, so she might only be out of the reach of those cruel men. But, poor little thins? her feeble limbs had not strength in proportion to her resolute soul ; and she had gone but a few rods, when a rough hand grasped her dress, and shook her with such force that the fastenings parted behind, and one sleeve was torn entirely away. " Take that, and that ! " said Bill, violently striking her bare shoulders. " And hark, now, you little fool ! if you 're up to any o' these tricks, I '11 come nigh to kill you ! Shut up, now ; don't yell it '11 be worse for ye it / u do." But, regardless of these threats, and thinking some one passing in the road beneath might hear her, the courageous cLild continued to scream loudly ; and it was only by muffling ner again in the scarf, and carrying her nearly all the way in hia a^ms, that the man was able to stifle her cries and force her IDA MAY. 35 up the steep path. At length, about half way up the moun tain, they carae out on a level space in front of a steep rocky cliff, more open to the light than the path had been, but still so surrounded with trees as to be hidden from the view of travellers in the road below. Here, before the door of an old log hut, sat an aged negro woman smoking. This woman, whose name was Chloe, had been through many of the rough passages of life. Her mother, a .beautiful colored girl, with eyes full of passion and a heart of fire, had been kept as the mistress, and treated as the wife of her mas- ter, a planter in South Carolina, who was really very fond of her, and would gladly have made her free. But the laws of the State rendered that impossible, unless she was sent out of its borders, and, as she was extremely attached to him, it was hard for both of them to separate ; and so the matter was delayed from time to time, until Death, that worst foe of the happy slave, suddenly came, and left her worse than a widow, and her children more than fatherless. Chloe, the eldest child, was old enough to appreciate fully the miserable change in their condition, and to participate in her mother's grief, when the property was divided among several heirs, and they were compelled to give up various articles of valuable jewelry and dress, the gifts now doubly dear of their indulgent benefactor, and sent away from the home where they had been so happy, to live as slaves in another family. In all the reverses of fortune throughout the world there is none sc great as this. In all other cases the sufferer ha^ himself left, the slave has not even 4 S6 1 1 A M A Y . Chloc and her mother were both of a bold, imperious dis- position, and both had been indulged to the last degree by the easy-tempered man, whose fondness had ' spoiled them, completely spoiled them," as their new mistress remarked on one occasion to her friends. " The mother especially is one of the most impudent and ungrateful creatures in the world, even for a nigger, and we all know they are a thankless set enough. She made such a fuss about having her family separated, that we took a good deal of pains to keep them together, and she has never seemed to be the least in the world grateful for it. She will beat her children her- self, if they trouble her, but if one of as touch them, she makes a terrible time." And so, indeed, it was ; and a hard time nad both mistress and servant to live along together. Elsie had so long had her time at her own disposal, and lived in luxury and ease, that the plain dress in which she was now clothed, the bare walls and scanty furniture of her mean dwelling, and the menial service required of her in her new position, were hard to be borne, and added to the poignancy of grief with which she mourned for the dead. That very grief became a source of contention ; for her mistress, having been always accus- tomed to regard the negroes as not having feelings and rights in common with the white race, insisted that it was sullenno^s, and not sorrow, that made her sad, and sternly forbade her tc mention her master's name in her presence ; telling her she ought to be ashamed of the connection instead of making a parade of it, and loading her with opprobrious epithets, when IDA MAY. 3V she dared call herself his wife. Judge not Mrs. Gorham too harshly ; her words were but the effect of her education, and she did not know she was cruel. It is not the least evil of slavery, that it checks and renders impossible the kindly flow of woman's sympathies towards the suffering and degraded Neither was Mrs. Gorham naturally a bad-tempered woman , but she had a desire for neatness and thrift, and the effort to attain these in a household of idle and careless servants, who had no ambition to excel, and evaded their work in every possible manner, had gradually worn out her patience. She could seldom bring herself to have them whipped, however much they exasperated her ; but she never praised, and she often scolded them from morning till night. This was annoy- ing even to those who, having grown up with her, were accus- tomed to it, and to the high-spirited Elsie it was almost intolerable, and often provoked insolent replies. Then, too, this slave-mother had been encouraged to believe that she nad a right to her own children^ and she found it very hard to be silent when her plans for them were frustrated, or when she saw them always blamed for any childish quarrel that occurred, and obliged to yield their rights and wishes to the caprice of their young masters. 'The young olive- branches that were growing up in this house were no more crabbed or crooked than others of their species ; but, in a family of ten girls and boys, there is always more or less of human nature, and the apparent equality between the black and white children that played together in the yard, only naade more galling the real superiority that was continually 38 IDA MAY. assumed by the latter. Poor Chloe, vho never forgot her father, and was proud to be his child, was continually rebel- ling against the authority of her little companions ; and many were the occasions on which her mistress found it necessary to interfere, and by taunting words, or by blows, to remind her that, after all, she was " nothing but a nigger," and must learn her place. It was at one of these times, when the child had gone cry- ing to her mother, that Mr. Gorham overheard Elsie break out into a perfect torrent of insolent reproach, and actually by force prevent the punishment that his wife was about to ad- minister because Chloe had struck one of the children. Stepping forward to the group, who were gathered near the door of Elsie's room, in the yard, he said, " Is this the way you talk to your mistress ; and you, Mrs. Gorham, do you allow such impudence ? It 's enough to spoil all the negroes on the place. Here, James, Henry," beckoning to his two sons, who stood by, " bring that girl here." This command being obeyed without difficulty, for th; whole party were struck with a sudden panic, " Now," he added, "boys, you hold her, while your mother punishes her as much as she thinks proper." Mrs. Gorham looked at her husband appe