derstand this matter; I see it in your eyes."

Our gentleman of colour bowed, and with an air of mischievous intelligence, protested that he never interfered with other gentlemen's matters, while sundry of his brethren in office looked unutterable things out of the corner of their eyes.

"There is some cursed plot hatched up among you," said the young man. "You have talked Sam into it; I know he would never have thought of leaving me unless he was put up to it. Tell me, now," he resumed, "have you heard Sam say anything about it? Come, be reasonable," he added in a milder tone. "You shall find your account in it."

Thus adjured, the waiter protested he would be happy to give the gentleman any satisfaction in his power. The fact was, Sam had been pretty full of notions lately, and had been to see Simmons, and, in short, he would not wonder if he never saw any more of him.

And as hour after hour passed, the whole day, the whole night, and no Sam was forthcoming, the truth of the surmise became increasingly evident. Our young hero, Mr. Alfred B- -, was a good deal provoked, and, strange as the fact seems, a good deal grieved, too, for he loved the fellow. "Loved him?" says some scornful zealot, "a slaveholder love his slaves?" Yes, brother, why not? A warm hearted man will love his dog, his horse, even to grieving bitterly for their loss, and why not credit the fact that such a one may love the human creature whom accursed custom has placed on the same level. The fact was, Alfred B did love this young man; he had been appropriated to him in childhood, and Alfred had always redressed his grievances, fought his battles, got him out of scrapes, and purchased for him, with a liberal hand, indulgencies to which his comrades were strangers, He had taken pride to dress him smartly, and as for hardship and want, they never had come near him.

"The poor, silly, ungrateful puppy!" soliloquized he," what can he do with himself?" Confound that quaker, and all his meddlesome tribe-been at him with their bloody-bone stories I suppose -Sam knows better-the scamp-Halloa, there," he called to one of the waiters, "Where does this Simpkins-Simon Simmons, or what d'ye call him, live?"

"His shop is at No. 5, on G. street." "Well I'll go to him, and see what business he has with my affairs."

The Quaker was sitting at the door of his shop, with a round, rosy, good-humoured face, so expressive of placidity and satisfaction, that it was difficult to approach him with ireful feeling.

"Is your name Simmons ?" demanded Alfred in a voice whose natural urbanity was somewhat sharpened by vexation.

"Yes, friend; what dost thou wish ?"

"I wish to inquire whether you have seen anything of my coloured fellow, Sam; a man of twenty-five or thereabouts, lodging at the Pearl Street House."

"I rather suspect that I have," said the Quaker, in a quiet, meditative tone, as if thinking the matter over, with himself.

"And is it true, sir, that you have encouraged and assisted him in his efforts to get out of my service?"

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Such truly is the fact, my friend." Losing patience at this provoking equanimity, our young friend poured forth his sentiments with no inconsiderable energy, and in terms not the most select or pacific, all of which our Quaker received with that placid, full-orbed tranquillity of countenance, which seemed to say, "Pray sir, relieve your mind; don't be particular; scold as hard as you like." The singularity of this expression struck the young man, and as his wrath became gradually spent, he could not help laughing at the tranquillity of his opponent, and he gradually changed his tone for one of expostulation. "What motive could induce you, sir, thus to incommode a stranger, and one that never injured you at all?"

"I am sorry thou art incommoded," rejoined the Quaker. Thy servant, as thee calls him, came to me, and I helped him, as I would any other poor fellow in distress."

"Poor fellow," said Alfred, angrily; "that's the story of the whole of you. I tell you there's not a free negro in your city so well off as my Sam is, and always has been and he'll find it out before long."

"But tell me, friend, thou mayst die, as well as another man; thy establish ment may fall into debt, as well as another man's; and thy Sam may be sold by the sheriff, for debt, or change

bands in dividing the estate, and so, though he was bred easily, and well cared for, he may come to be a field hand, under hard masters, starved, beaten, overworked-such things do happen, do they not?"

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Sometimes, perhaps, they do,” replied the young man.

Well, look you, by our laws in Ohio, thy Sam is now a free man; and as free as I or thou; he hath a strong back, good hands, good courage, can earn his ten or twelve dollars a month-or do better; now taking all things into account, if thee were in his place, what would thee do?-would thee go back a slave, or try thy luck as a free man?"

Alfred said nothing in reply to this, only after a while he murmured, half to himself, "I thought the fellow would have shown more gratitude after all my kindness."

"Thee talk of gratitude," said the Quaker. "Now how does that account stand? Thou hast fed, and clothed, and protected this man; thou hast not starved, beaten, or abused him; it would have been unworthy of thee; thou hast shown him special kindness, and in return, he has given thee faithful service of fifteen or twenty years; all his time, all his strength; all he could do or be, has been given to thee, and ye are about even.'

The young man looked thoughtful, but made no reply.

"Sir," said he at last, "I will take no unfair advantage of you. I wish to get my servant once more; can I do so?"

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Certainly. I will bring him to thy lodgings this evening, if thee wish it. I know thee will do what is fair," replied the Quaker.

It were difficult to define the thoughts of the young man, as he returned to his lodgings. Naturally generous and humane, he had never dreamed that he had rendered injustice to the human beings he claimed as his own. Injustice and oppression he had sometimes seen with detestation in other establishments, but it had been his pride that they were excluded from his own. It had been his pride to think that his indulgence and liberality made a situation of dependence on him preferable even to liberty.

The dark picture of possible reverses which the slave system hangs over the lot of the most favoured slave, never oc

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"O, massa, I want to be a free man." Why, Sam; ain't you well enough off, now.'

"O, massa may die; then nobody knows who get me, as they did Jim Sanford, and nobody to take my part. No, massa, I'd rather be a free man."

Alfred turned to the window, and thought a few moments, and then, turning about said, "Well Sam, I believe you are right. I think. on the whole, I'd like best to be a free man myself, and I must not wonder that you do. So, for aught I see, you must go; but then, Sam, there's your wife and child." Sam's countenance fell,

"Never mind, Sam, I will send them up to you."

"O, master!"

"I will; but you must remember, now, Sam, you have got both yourself and them to take care of, and have no master to look after you; be steady, sober, and industrious, and then, if you ever get into distress, send word to me, and I'll help you."

Lest any one accuse us of over colouring our story, we will close it by extracting a passage or two from the letter which the generous Alfred the next day left in the hands of the Quaker for his emancipated servant. We can assure our readers that we copy from the origi nal document, which now lies before

not see you again for a long time, perhaps never, and I leave this letter with your friends, Messrs A. and B., for you, and herewith bid you an affectionate farewell. Let me give you some advice -which is, now that you are a free man, in a free State, be obedient as you were when a slave; perform all the duties that are required of you, and do all you can for your own future welfare and respectability. Let me assure you that I have the same good feeling towards you that you know I always had; and let me say further, that if you want a friend call upon or write to me, and I will be that friend. Should you be sick, and not be able to work, and want money to a small amount, at different times, write to me, and I will always let you have it. I have not with me at present much money, though I will leave with my agents here, the Messrs. W., five dollars for you; you must give them your receipt for it. On my return from Pittsburgh, I will call and see you, if I have time. Fail not to write to my father, for he made you a good master, and you should always treat him with respect, and cherish his memory as long as you live. Be good, industrious and honourable, and if unfortunate in your undertakings, never forget that you have a friend in me. Farewell, and believe

me your affectionate young master and friend. ALFRED B-."

That dispositions as ingenuous and noble as that of this young man are commonly to be found either in the slave states or free, is more than we dare assert; but when we see such found even among those who are born and bred among slaveholders, we cannot but feel that there is encouragement for a fair, and mild, and brotherly presentation of the truth, and every reason to lament hasty and wholesale denunciations The great error of controversy is, that it is ever ready to assail persons rather than principles. The slave system, as a system, perhaps concentrates more wrong than any other now existing: and yet those who are under and in it may be, as we see, enlightened, generous, and amenable to reason. If the system alone is attacked, such minds will be the first to perceive its evils and to turn against it; but if the system be attacked through individuals, self love, wounded pride, and a thousand natural feelings will be at once enlisted for its preservation. We therefore subjoin it as the moral of our story, that a man who has had the misfortune to be born a slaveholder, may be capable of the most disinterested regard to the welfare of his slave.

GO AND DO LIKEWISE. LITTLE Mary was a member of a Sabbath School in Philadelphia, and became, while thus connected, truly converted to God. Her health declining, it was thought advisable for her to take a Voyage upon the water.

Her father was a sea captain. His vessel sailed between Philadelphia and France, and with him the little sufferer was to sail. She was now confined to her bed but she sent for her Sabbath School teacher, to inquire what good she might do, sick as she was, while away from home. She herself suggested that she might distribute some tracts. The pious teacher approved the heavenly ardor of the child, and procured for her a bundle of tracts. She was carried on board, with much exertion, and placed, almost helpless, in her berth. The

voyage proved beneficial; she was soon enabled to look out of the companionway of the cabin. While here, one day, she heard some of the sailors swearing frightfully. She was shocked, and very much grieved at heart. She began to consider what she could do for them, and she recollected her tracts. The first pleasant day, when she could endure it, taking them, she was borne upon the deck. Sailors are proverbially kind and exceedingly fond of children. They gathered around her, and were charmed with her sweetness. At a favourable moment she selected from her bundle, the "Swearer's Prayer,," and, handing it to the sailor that had been most profane, very sweetly asked him to accept the little book, and read it for her sake. He could not refuse; but opened it in the presence of them all, and began to read. Soon he hesitated, the tears began

to fall, and he could read no farther. The feeling became general, and the result of the faithful labour of this little girl, but eleven years old, was the conversion of the whole crew. If this devoted child, while sick, could accomplish so much, with the blessing of God, how much good, ought you, my little reader, to do, favoured, as you are, with perfect health? Obtain a bunch of tracts, and circulate wherever you find an opportunity, then pray to God to follow them with his spirit and no tongue can tell the good you may thus accomplish.

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"Yes sir," they all eagerly replied. What can be more beautiful than such an exhibition of children honouring the memory of departed parents! Reader, are

you an orphan? never forget the dear parents who loved and cherished you in your infant days. Honour their memory by doing those things which you know would please them were they now alive; by a particular regard to their dying commands; by imitating their virtues and piety; and by carrying on their plans of usefulness. Are your parents still spared to you? Ever treat them as you will wish you orphan at their graves. How will a remembrance of kind and affectionate conduct towards those departed friends, then help to soothe your grief and heal your wounded heart!-Well Spring.

PARENTS.

As a stranger went into the churchyard of a pretty village, he beheld three children at a newly-made grave. A boy about ten years of age was busily engaged in placing plants of turf about it, whilst a girl, who appeared a year or two younger, held in her apron a few roots of wild-flowers. The third child, still younger, was sitting on the grass, watching, with thoughtful look, the movements of the other two. They wore pices of crape on their straw hats, and a few other signs of mourning, such as are sometimes worn by the poor who struggle between their poverty and afflictions.

The girl soon began planting some of her wild flowers around the grave, when the stranger thus addressed them:

"Whose grave is this, children, about which you are so busily engaged?"

Mother's grave, sir," said the boy. "And did your father send you to place these flowers around your mother's grave?"

"No sir; father 'lies here, too, and little Willy, and sister Jane."

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When did they die?"

Mother was buried a fortnight yesterday, sir; but father died last winter; they all lie here."

"Then who told you to do this?" Nobody sir," replied the girl. 'Why then, do you do it?" They appeared at a loss for an answer; but the stranger looked so kindly on them, that at length the eldest replied, as the tear started into his eyes, "Ö, we did love them so !"

"Then you put these grass turfs and wild-flowers around where your parents are laid, because you loved them?"

ALLEINE'S ALARM AND THE INFIDEL.

(From the New York Evangelist.) MESSRS. EDITORS:-I send you the fol. lowing incident, as illustrating the power of one of the many instrumentalities with which God has so abundantly furnished Christians of the present age for doing good. One sunny afternoon in June, I took a short walk into the country, from a pleasant village in New Jersey. I took with me a few tracts, and a volume or two of Alleine's Alarm, for use in case of need. The weather was delightful, and the fields were clothed with the richest green. The handy work of God was visible on every side. Amid this scene of beauty I entered one cottage among others, and found the owner, a man of about fifty years old, sitting near the open door. His countenance was pale and dejected, and his whole mien gave indication that the worm was undermining his health, and that the rapid decay of consumption was passing over him. To my kind inquiries he expressed himself sensible of the ravages of disease, but seemed to look forward with dread to the dark uncertainty of the future. And when I inquired what his prospects were for eternity, he replied, we know nothing about eternity. I said the Bible gives us a satisfactory account of the coming world. He denied the Bible, and said in a spirit of great bitterness, it was