. . . March, 1859.
Though this is March, the Japonicas are just passing out of blossom and the roses are in their first fresh glory—yellow and white Banksia, the Lamarque, and all those choice fresh varieties. I’ll just run down in the garden here and pick you a rosebud. There it is —my voucher for the floral stories.
While we were at the Pulaski in Savannah, the great sale of Pierce Butler’s slaves took place, and there all the gentlemen interested were congregated. You would never suppose the young meek pale little man, Pierce Butler, to be either a slave-owner or Mrs. Kemble’s husband. He is the indignant vestryman, I am told, who walked out of Rev. Dudley Tyng’s Church when that sermon was preached. I am glad to hear that Mrs. Kemble has never drawn a dollar of her alimony, $3,000 a year, but allows it to accumulate for the children. She has the honest pride of maintaining herself, under the circumstances. Of course, you have read the Tribune’s account; the girls sent it to us, and we have kept it well concealed, I assure you, for there are fire-eaters in the house, who would not hesitate to insult us. But now it is copied into the New York Herald—the only northern daily sold here — and has gone all through the city. There is a shrewd Philadelphian here, with his wife, Mr. Ashmead. He knew the agent at that sale. He attended the sale; took notes of course, as every northerner had to do, and now and then made a modest bid—to appear interested as a buyer. He says: “ All I can say of Doe-stick’s account is it does not go one bit beyond the reality — hardly comes up to it, indeed.” He heard all the remarks quoted about Daphney’s baby; says the story of Dorcas’ and Jeffrey’s love is true; and it was to himself and one other that the negro driver’s remarks about the efficacy of pistols were made. He thought Mr. Ashmead was one of the same sort! The latter was a Buchanan man; he goes home an Abolitionist, and says: “Now I can believe that everything in Uncle Tom’s Cabin might really happen.” [click to continue…]
