And I see, as I took my notes, that Victor and Genieve wuz no more to be compared with the rest of the race about them than a eagle and a white dove wuz to be compared with ground birds. These two seemed to be the very blossoms of the crushed vine of black humanity, pure high blossoms lifted up above the trompled stalks and tendrils of the bruised and bleeding vine that had so long run along the ground all over the South land, for any foot to stamp on, for every bad influence of earth and sky to centre on and debase. (That hain’t a over and above good metafor; but I’ll let it go, bein’ I am in some of a hurry.) I spozed then, and I spoze still, that all over the land, wherever this thick, bleeding, tangled undergrowth lingered and suffered, there wuz, anon and even oftener, pure, fair posys lifted up to the sky. I spozed there wuz hundreds and thousands of bright, intelligent lives reachin’ up out of the darkness into the light, minds jest as bright as the white race could boast, lives jest as pure and consecrated. And I spozed then, and spoze now, that faster and faster as the days go by, and the means of culture and advancement are widening, will these souls be lifted up nigher and nigher to the heavens they aspire to. A race that has given to the world a Fred Douglass, and that sublime figure of Toussaint L’Ouverture, that form that towers higher than any white saint or hero—and he risin’ to that almost divine height by his own unaided powers, without culture or education—what may it not hope to aspire to, helped by these aids? Truly the future is glorious with hope and promise for the negro. But to resoom and continue the epistol I commenced. The most of the colored people about Belle Fanchon wuz fur different from Victor and Genieve. But a close observer could trace back their faults and weaknesses to their source. Maggie’s cook wuz a old black woman who wuzn’t over and above neat in her kitchen (it didn’t look much like the kitchen of a certain person whose home wuz in Jonesville—no, indeed), but who got up awful good dinners and suppers and brekfusses. She wuz tall and big-boneded, and black as jet. Her hair, which wuz wool and partly white, wuz twisted up on top of her head and surmounted by a wonderful structure which she called a turben. Sometimes this wuz constructed of a gorgeous red and yeller handkerchief, and sometimes it wuz white as snow; and when she wore this, she always wore a clean white neckerchief crossed on her breast, and a large white apron. She wore glasses too, which gave her a more dignified appearance. Evidently she wore these for effect, as she always looked over them, even when she took up a paper or book and pretended to be readin’ it; she could not read or write. Indeed, when she had heavy work on hand, such as washin’, which made the situation of her best glasses perilous, I have seen her wear a heavy pair of bows, with no glasses in them whatever.