there was none. But Mr. G., an affable little man of about fifty, seemed delighted with his world, with himself, his children, and in particular with his wife, whom he described as the best wife in the world, and with whom he seemed to be enchanted. The wife, although grey as the earth, both in complexion and dress, and pitifully thin, was evidently still quite young and possessed real beauty of feature. She looked good but not gay, was silent, and kept her eyes very much fixed on her children, the handsomest, the most magnificent, unbaptised young creatures that any one can imagine, tumbling about with one another in perfect freedom, with natural grace, liveliness, and agility—very excellent human material thought I, and better than many a baptised, over-indulged drawing-room urchin. Mr. G. was talkative, and volunteered us various passages out of his life's history.
He had at one time been the overseer of a slave-holder and churchman: but the office was one of so much cruelty that he gave it up. He could not endure having to flog the slaves himself, nor yet to have them flogged. But his master would not permit him to abstain from it. And others were no better. He had tried them. This one, it seemed to him, ought to have been better as he was a religious man. “And in the beginning he was not bad,” said he, “but after awhile he married a rich planter's daughter, which changed him greatly, and he grew worse and worse every year. But that was the fault of his marriage, for he was unhappy with his wife.”
The clay-eater in the forest looked down with compassion upon the rich planter—religious professor though he was—unhappy with his wife and cruel to his people. He, the freeman in the wild forest, with his pretty, gentle wife, and his handsome children, was richer and happier than he! Mr. G. seemed proud as a king, in his free, innocent poverty.
“But cannot overseers be gentle to the slaves?”
