"This is God's curse on slavery!—a bitter, bitter, most
accursed thing!—a curse to the master and a curse to the
slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything good out
of such a deadly evil. It is a sin to hold a slave under laws
like ours,—I always felt it was,—I always thought so
when I was a girl,—I thought so still more after I joined
the church; but I thought I could gild it over,—I thought,
by kindness, and care, and instruction, I could make the
condition of mine better than freedom—fool that I was!"
"Why, wife, you are getting to be an abolitionist, quite."
"Abolitionist! if they knew all I know about slavery, they might talk! We don't need them to tell us; you know I never thought that slavery was right—never felt willing to own slaves."
"Well, therein you differ from many wise and pious men," said Mr. Shelby. "You remember Mr. B.'s sermon, the other Sunday?"
"I don't want to hear such sermons; I never wish to hear Mr. B. in our church again. Ministers can't help the evil, perhaps,—can't cure it, anymore than we can,—but defend it!—it always went against my common sense. And I think you didn't think much of that sermon, either."
"Well," said Shelby, "I must say these ministers sometimes carry matters further than we poor sinners would exactly dare to do. We men of the world must wink pretty hard at various things, and get used to a deal that is n't the exact thing. But we don't quite fancy, when women and ministers come out broad and square, and go beyond us in matters of either modesty or morals, that's a fact. But now, my dear, I trust you see the necessity of the thing, and you see that I have done the very best that circumstances would allow."
