[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART Fifth Series ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832 CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS) NO. 52.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._] THE STORY OF ABE. Those who profess to know all about slavery will tell you that the negro was a thousand times happier as a slave than he is as a freeman. This may be true of some of the race; we do not enter into the question. The field-hand was in general an entirely irresponsible creature. He belonged to his master as thoroughly as the dogs and horses did, and he was of infinitely less importance. He had his daily task and his daily rations; he had also, if owned by a kind master, his little amusements, chief of which were the dance and the camp-meeting. Such a life would naturally not inspire one with any very high ambition. Give the plantation negro his hoe-cake and his bit of fat pork, his banjo, and the privilege of telling his experience to an unlimited chorus of ‘Halleluiahs!’ and ‘Bress de Lords!’ and you gave him perfect bliss. If the white man was his oppressor, he seldom knew it. ‘De family’ were, except in rare cases, admired and revered. And these poor creatures who did not own themselves, assumed and felt an air of proud proprietorship when speaking of the glories of their master’s state, and specially of each ‘young mas’r’ and ‘lily miss.’ ‘Young mas’r’ was at once their tyrant and their darling. I have heard a wedding ceremony wound up with, ‘Hark, from de tombs a doleful sound!’ with all its concomitant tears and groans, because ‘Marse Harry’ had so ordered. This state of things by no means came to an end with the civil war. Long after the slaves were freemen, and the broad acres had changed owners, and ‘old mas’r’ had fallen in battle or died broken-hearted, all that were left of the proud old name were still ‘de family’ to those loving hearts. While the writer lived in one of the border towns of Virginia, the mother of one of her maids appeared one day to ask for largess. ‘We’se done goin’ to hab a party, Miss Anne,’ said she; ‘an’ some ob de ladies dey gibs me flour; an’ some, eggs; an’ some, sugar; an’ ole missis she would a’ gib me a whole great big cake, but I up an’ tole her I had one.—It was a lie,’ she explained earnestly, fearing I would think further gifts unnecessary; ‘but some o’ dem pore white trash say de missis hain’t got nuff to eat.’ And Chloe fairly sobbed. I ventured to ask the occasion of the festivity. ‘Well, ye see, Miss Anne,’ said Chloe, brightening, ‘us cullud pussons is gettin’ married now just like white folks; an’ as my ole mammy ’ll be eighty the day after to-morrow, Marse George said I had oughter gib her an’ father a weddin’.’ Better late than never, thought I, as I added something to Chloe’s basket.