ppeal to her. And as for Dorothy--she was as kind to me as
a sister; and yet....

I loved the country and this little city of 6000 people on the hills
above the Cumberland valley. Still, so many negroes. In this whole state
of about 700,000 people, nearly 150,000 were slaves, so Dorothy told me.
It amazed me. Negro slavery, so far as England was concerned, had never
to me been a visible thing. But here in America, here in Tennessee, and
in this city, it struck one at every turn. It entered into all the daily
thinking and plans of every one. It was omnipresent. It touched every
life.

This was the town of James K. Polk, whose name meant nothing to me; but
Dorothy spoke of him as a leading man in Congress from Tennessee. Here
also was the residence of President Jackson, a place called the
"Hermitage," a few miles into the country. Dorothy and I drove to it.
These were the places of interest to see; and everywhere the southern
mansion: the upper and lower porch in front, the spacious windows, the
Dorian or Ionic columns, as the case might be; the great entrance door
set between mullioned panes at either side, and beneath a lunette of
woodwork and glass. The Clayton house was like this, for Dorothy's
father had been a man of wealth, a slave owner too in his prosperous
days. He had failed and died, Reverdy had gone to the newer country of
Illinois to seek his fortune, leaving Dorothy and the mother to the
possession of the diminished property which Mr. Clayton had left.

But above everything in the way of delight, for the beauty of the
prospect, for the opportunity it gave me to be with Dorothy, were the
hills that overlooked the Cumberland valley and the river. We climbed
here daily and sat beneath the lovely oaks that shaded the richness of
the grass. To the west and north the river flowed to its confluence with
the Ohio. Around us the hills. The valley between. The silence of
nature, the intensity of unfolding life around us. Always on my mind was
the thought of Dorothy as my wife. And why not speak my heart? I could
not tell why. Was it Zoe; Dorothy's knowledge of Zoe? Was I investing
Dorothy with my own thoughts, putting into her mouth the objections that
I could make against myself? I could not tell what Zoe might bring into
the life of the woman I married, as well as my own. Surely I was not
very robust, very hearty in my speculations. For Dorothy had received
me. There was nothing lacking in the warmth of her hospi