gone on, in
father and son, for two centuries, it must surely be the case--as surely
as that the qualities of the parent are transmitted to the child--that
the later generations are below the first. This deterioration in the
better nature of the slave is the saddest result of slavery. His moral
and intellectual degradation, which is essential to its very existence,
constitutes the true argument against it. It feeds the body but starves
the soul. It blinds the reason, and shuts the mind to truth. It degrades
and brutalizes the whole being, and does it purposely. In that lies its
strength, and in that, too, lurks the weakness which will one day topple
it down with a crash that will shake the Continent. Let us hope the
direful upheaving, which is now felt throughout the Union, is the
earthquake that will bury it forever.

The sun was wheeling below the trees which skirted the western horizon,
when we halted in the main road, abreast of one of those by-paths, which
every traveller at the South recognizes as leading to a planter's
house. Turning our horse's head, we pursued this path for a short
distance, when emerging from the pine-forest, over whose sandy barrens
we had ridden all the day, a broad plantation lay spread out before us.
On one side was a row of perhaps forty small but neat cabins; and on the
other, at the distance of about a third of a mile, a huge building,
which, from the piles of timber near it, I saw was a lumber-mill. Before
us was a smooth causeway, extending on for a quarter of a mile, and
shaded by large live-oaks and pines, whose moss fell in graceful drapery
from the gnarled branches. This led to the mansion of the proprietor, a
large, antique structure, exhibiting the dingy appearance which all
houses near the lowlands of the South derive from the climate, but with
a generous, hospitable air about its wide doors and bulky windows, that
seemed to invite the traveller to the rest and shelter within. I had
stopped my horse, and was absorbed in contemplation of a scene as
beautiful as it was new to me, when an old negro approached, and
touching his hat, said: "Massa send his complimens to de gemman, and
happy to hab him pass de night at Bucksville."

"Bucks_ville_!" I exclaimed, "and where is the village?"

"Dis am it, massa; and it am eight mile and a hard road to de 'Boro"
(meaning Conwayboro, a one-horse village at which I had designed to
spend the night). "Will de gemman please ride up to de pia