ADDRESS TO THE READER.

Ir may be that those who dwell in Northern latitudes may believe that we have thrown too fair a colouring over our pictures of Southern life, and that we have attempted to palliate traits in themselves harsh and repulsive. Being a native of the North, and a dweller of the South, with affections strongly clinging to both of the beautiful divisions of our common country, we trust that we have brought to the task an unprejudiced mind, a truthful spirit, and an earnest and honest purpose.

It has been our destiny to be something of a wanderer, and to dwell in several of the Southern States, and we can say, in all truth and sincerity, that the view of the social institutions of the South presented in the following pages is what we ourselves have witnessed; and as no one will accuse us of having set down aught in malice, so we can assert we have in nothing extenuated. We believe, if the domestic manners of the South were more generally and thoroughly known at the North, the prejudices that have been gradually building up a wall of separation between these two divisions of our land would yield to the irresistible force of conviction.

The description of Mr Bellamy's plantation is drawn from the real, not the ideal. The incident recorded of Mrs Bellamy, of her endeavouring to rescue the mulatto girl from the flames at the risk of her own life, occurred during the last winter in

our city. The lady who really performed the heroic and selfsacrificing deed is a friend of our own, and we saw her when her scarred and bandaged hands bore witness to her humanity and sufferings.

The chivalry of the sable pilot, and the disinterestedness and heroism of the lady whom he rescued, were exhibited, about a year since, on the waters of the Chattahoochee.

We have seen devotion and fidelity equal to Aunt Milly's, and the magnanimity of Hannibal has many a prototype among the dark sons of Africa.

Under circumstances of peculiar interest has this work been written. The perusal of its chapters, as they have been completed day after day, has beguiled the weary and painful hours of an invalid husband, whose suggestive mind has corresponded to the movements of our own: and when we have seen disease thus robbed of its sting, and confinement of its depressing influence, we have hoped the work might find its way to the couch of some other sufferer, and occasion even a temporary oblivion of anguish.

We have also had the privilege of reading the manuscript to some intelligent and literary friends; and when we recall the interest they have manifested in its pages, and the frank and hearty encouragement they have given us during its progress, we feel emboldened to hope that the public will judge us as kindly, and do equal justice to the motives that actuated us.

CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.

Columbus, Georgia.

THE LONG MOSS SPRING.

CHAPTER I.

"There beautiful and bright he stood-
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form."

HEMANS.

"HARK!" exclaimed Warland, rising from his chair and walking with an unsteady step to the door, which he opened with a shaking hand. "Hark! there is some one shouting from the opposite bank of the river. Light the lantern, Marcus. Quick, I say. What are you standing in that blast for? Give it to me, and do not keep me waiting here all night."

Snatching the lantern from the hands of his son, he seized the tongs and tried to bring the glaring coal in contact with the wick; but though he blew his hot breath in strong gusts upon it, and produced a bright flame, his wavering hand was unable to carry it through the open door of the lantern. Setting down the tongs, or rather throwing them on the hearth, he swung the

A

lantern back into the hands of his son, who immediately lighted it, closed the door, and took down his cap from the wall.

"What are you going to do with your cap, sir ?" asked Warland.

"Going with you, father," firmly, but respectfully, answered the boy.

"And what good are you going to do me, I want to know? The night is as dark as pitch, and the wind howling like a pack of wolves."

"That's the reason I want to

go with you. It is not the first time I have been out with you when it was dark as it is now ?"

"True, true," said the father, rubbing his forehead with his hands; "but if Katy wakes, she will be frightened at finding herself alone."

"She never wakes, father; and if she does, Aunt Milly will hear her from the kitchen, and come to her directly."

"Poor thing," cried the father, in a softer tone, looking down upon a pale-cheeked, dark-haired little girl of about eight years old, fast asleep in a low cot-bed, in the back part of the room. "Poor thing!" repeated he, stooping over and kissing her, "what has she ever done that she should be cursed too ?"

"Father! they are shouting again, louder than ever," said the boy. "Had we not better start?"

"Yes-wait one moment." He opened the door of a small cupboard in the darkest corner of the apartment, and taking out a black bottle, began to pour a lightcoloured fluid in a glass. He was just putting it to his