University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Yes sir, said one of the number as we drew near.
But I maintain that the words A. and B. were married
on such a day, are sufficiently precise to show that
the said A. and B. were, on such a day, made husband
and wife.

Excuse me Judge Blarney.

And excuse me brother Lyman.

In every such case, all that we require should be
certainty to a common intent, a reasonable certainty.

Very true, Judge.

And Lord Coke says that, in pleading, which I
regard as analogous, we shall not be required to state
things with more certainty than they are capable of.

Does Lord Coke say that?

He dooze indeed—

And, that where pleading tends to infiniteness.

Well, well Judge; but how does it appear by the
words in question that A. and B. are male and female?
And if they are not, Judge—I put this to you, with
great confidence—if they are not! how can they be
man and wife?

True brother—true, said another lawyer by the
name of Sewall.

What if you save the point? said a third.

And—proceeded the speaker, and sir—and!—if that
be the case, and if it be demurrable to for uncertainty
sir, as I hold it to be sir—and sir!—and!—as you

cannot travel out of the record, sir—it appears to me
sir, that the words A. and B. sir, were married sir, are
not enough to show that A. and B. are entitled to relief
as parties to the Bill in question!

Well put brother Lyman! well argued brother
Blarney! cried a little man who stood in the rear of
the judge; nevertheless I submit (looking over the
the arm of the judge, and vociferating as if he were on
trial, in a matter of life and death,) I submit, I say,
(The devil you do, cried Gage, who'd a thought it?)
that in addition to the words A. and B. were married—
the said A. and the said B. I suppose'—

To be sure—

—I assumed that, from my knowledge of the high
legal character of our learned brother; in addition to
those words I say, I submit with all due deference,
that the word together might have been used, or may
hereafter be used—a hem!—with propriety.

So as to read thus, brother Parsons—A. and B.
were married together—hey? said Lyman.

Precisely, sir, That's the point I would make.

But how would that show what you are desirous to
show; they may be both men, or both women, and
yet both married together.

Well, to be sure! and so they might brother Lyman.

In which case, added another, what if we say that
A. married B. or B. A.?

Well, and if we do, what then? said the learned
brother in the blue cravat; A. may have been a clergyman,
a minister, or a magistrate, (vide laws of the colony,
Re-Co.)

Re-Co., said I, what does that mean?

Revised code—

—Or a notary (vide laws of France, code Napoleon
etc. etc.) or a blacksmith, (vide laws of Scotland) in
which case, though A. were to marry B. still B. would
not be A's. wife.

True, true, cried several of the group, nodding to
each other all round with a look of admiration.

Pray brother H.— continued the Judge, how
would it work to say,—perhaps you have authorities
already on the point—

Brother H. made a very low bow.

—To say, in such a bill, that A. and B. married together,
in the active sense, you observe—not in the
passive, brother H.; not were married together.

Why, it appears to me, if the court please—(a laugh)
—I beg pardon of the court, (another laugh) I mean to
say, Judge Blarney, that we have disposed of that point
already, because if people are married at the same
time, they are married together, although as we have
it in Sir Matthew Hale, and in the great case of Perrin
and Blake, they are not married so as to become
legally man and wife; which I take to be the point in
issue. Our bill being intended to shew that A. & B.
are in fact husband and wife, we say—

Ah! ha! but I have you now, brother H!— we
shall adopt your idea, we shall say that A. and B.
were made husband and wife.

Liable to the same objection brother B. for they
may be made so, not to each other, but to some other
individuals.

Good God, sir! cried Gage, is there to be no end of
this—no way of telling the story on paper.

What if you say that A. and B. were united on such
a day—together, said I, not knowing what else to say.

Just as bad: for two people may be united together
—to two different people, and at the same instant,
you observe.

How are we to say it, I beseech you! said Middleton,
who began to get interested, in common with
every body else, carried away by the earnestness, perplexity,
and subtlety of the disputants, who looked to
be sure as if they were discussing a matter of life and
death to each.

Why,... hesitating... why—a—a—

Tip him a fee Middleton, said Gage in a whisper.

You might say, continued the lawyer, that on such
a day, (naming the day) at such a place, (naming the
place,) A. and B. (the said A. and the said B.) were
joined together in lawful wedlock—viz. the said A. to
the said B.

And why not say they were married to each other,
or that they married with each other, or that the man
took the woman to wife?

Why to be sure—but you'll excuse me—the law sir,
the law requires great nicety in these matters; mere
common sense might allow you to say—that is—that
is—in short sir, there is no authority on your side—

No authority, sir!

None, sir, none in the world sir.

Why, sir, it is the very language of the classics.

The lawyer smiled, and the Judge drew a long breath,
which to my ear, sounded like the monosyllable pooh!

Quere de hoc. Here we parted, I was thunder-struck.
I had never seen the exceeding efficacy of
words before, never seen the mystery of language
so delicately obvious. Lord! how the study of the
law, thought I, must enlarge and elevate and sharpen
the proud faculties of man.

My reflections were interrupted by a voice near me
—Pooh, pooh, love—pooh, pooh! said a large man
to his little wife, who hung upon his arm, like a heap
of millinery, pooh, pooh love, how you talk—

Ah, but he's proper smart though...

Smart! a fellow with only one idea in his head.

One eye, dear!.. how can you say so! I'm sure
he's got two eyes, dear!

Why, mother!... why, ma!... good lord, what
a fool you are, love!

What for?... did'nt you say he'd got but one eye,
dear? (to the husband.)

Yes ma, but father meant what you call an idee.

There now!... that's always with you; talking
about forchune and virtchue, and idee-ahs, how should
I know what you mean, if you dont talk like other
people?

I tell you what, brother Joe, said a sweet girl near
me, as we moved away, he may pick and choose
among the very women that make mouths at him, and
you'll find it so: he may marry any woman here he
pleases.

And who may not, Miss Peggy. The ugliest and
the silliest may marry whom they please, may they
not, my dear? added a joker by profession.

Sister Peggy. I do beseech you to make more use
of the relatives, whispered her brother, a tall stiff young
man, just away from Harvard for the holidays. You
never hear me say that I would marry any body I
please—

No, indeed... you are not such a fool as that comes
to, I hope.

But any body whom I please, or that I please.

Do you mean, said the lawyer, in a blue stock, who
had followed us to the spot; pray sir, allow me to ask
you—drawing out a rose-colored handkerchief, with
a low bow and a flourish, and taking off his gold-mounted
spectacles, and wiping them very deliberately
before he went any further—to ask you sir, if you
hold a—a—

Permit me, interrupted a man whom I heard called
master Gray, permit me to observe sir, that the idiom
of our language will admit of a... of a sort of a—

To be sure, that is the very thing sir, I assure you
sir, that I intended to lay before the—to offer that
is—for the consideration of the.....

You'll excuse me! added the grammarian—he
stood six feet four—the idiom of our language—raising
his voice as the lawyer tried to raise his, but the tall
man having got the start of him by at least eleven
inches, the lawyer could never hope to overtake his
altitude—of our language I say sir, and I think I ought
to know—

Yes, you ought to know, said somebody near me;
there is no doubt of that—

The idiom of our language I say, will permit us
to employ either mode indifferently.

Oh! very indifferently! cried the same voice; I
knew by the very key—the very pitch—that it belonged
to somebody who had a reputation for wit, so
eager, and so sharp, and so decided, and so well-timed
for effect was it.

Every body laughed, and then, after the laugh had
continued for a minute or so, every body began to
look about for the cause. O! but it grieved me to
hear the laugh that followed every speech and almost

every word that escaped from the mouth of this man.
To see how eagerly he was followed, how he was
waited for, and how they would laugh as if they were
ready to die, if he but opened his mouth or pointed
his finger.

I withdrew from the place, and I know not how long
I should have kept away, though the woman of my
heart was there and the southerner who appeared to
have got possession of hers, but for a strange quiet
which caused me to look up; when I beheld the latter
standing near the centre of the room, and literally
holding forth, in a low voice to be sure, but loud
enough to fill the air with music, unabashed, unmoved
by the stare of a hundred eyes.

He never talked so well, nor so fluently, nor so
eloquently, nor so connectedly before, whispered
Gage, who stood near me. And he is sure to talk
best, where no other man would be able to talk at all.
No matter where he is, nor how situated, he can bear
the heavy, dead, insupportable silence of a large company,
better than any other talker I ever heard.

He seems to me very sure of being heard with favor.

Pray, sir, how do you define it? said a middle-aged
young lady, as if she had entered the course for a talk
with him.

I should say, was the reply, though it would be no
easy matter to give a definition, that enthusiasm is a
sort of moral electricity—

Pooh!—said Gage—his talking was for talk sake.

I knew it, I saw it in his air—I saw it in every
word he spoke, and yet he carried me away with him
at last: he stood so bravely up to the encounter of all
the eyes in the room, and poured his heart out with

such unstudied, earnest, clear simplicity, in such a
fine, free colloquial style, with such impassioned sincerity;
using with wonderful aptitude the very words
that seemed made for their places, and fitted for the
expression of a thousand subtle and exquisite meanings,
which became instantly perceptible to me, as he
talked and reasoned.

But while we were gathered about him, his fine bold
voice died away, and immediately a pair of large glass
doors were thrown open, and all the company poured
into the garden, which lay below us like a theatrical
show of wood and water.

Follow me, said Mrs. Amory, tapping Middleton
on the arm—with a smile which went to my heart.

He obeyed with a careless lounge, and we followed
them to the river side. Ah! cried Gage, one may
look into the lighted water now, like the disembodied
—among the stars. Look! upon my word, I can see
the fish darting hither and thither like so many flashes
of light, through the dim shadowy depth; and you
I hope will stick by us, he added glancing at the plate
of the preacher who lingered in the rear; and as for
you (in a whisper to the widow) my notion is that you
had better have an eye on that serious-looking pale
man. I have been at his elbow this half hour, and you
may take my word it, he is not a fellow to be quieted
with nuts and gingerbread—

Hush, Atherton—hush, he'll hear you—

—Nor to be bribed into insignificance by a stray
smile, or a great piece of pound-cake.

We were now at the very edge of the water—a large
green spot of well-trodden turf on our right, and a
group of old trees on our left.

Now, sir, said Gage, now if you desire to know the
real character of the woman who rules you, and would
rule every body if she could, with a sceptre of iron—
twisted about with full blown roses—stick to my side.
If he does not bring her out, I will—what say you—
yes or no?—will you pitch me into the river, knock
me down, or give me the hug of a brother?

I could not reply—my heart was too heavy and my
breathing too thick.

You know, continued he, that your every-day women
have a knack of be-praising each other, till they
provoke you either to laugh at or to contradict them,
which contradictions by the by, I never knew a woman
lose her temper about, although the dearest of
her “dear five hundred friends” were the sufferer.
Now, if you will keep near me and watch the widow,
you shall see her play a game as much superior to
that, as that is superior to the bare-faced play of two
fish-women, who hate each other and abuse each other
by the hour.

The younger part of the females were now dancing
away, every one with her heart in her eyes, much as we
might expect from newly-born creatures, never permitted,
save under the most jealous and vigilant guardianship,
to feel the influence of shadow and greenness,
or wind and moonlight, or sky and water.
Among them was one, who excited a universal murmur
of surprise wherever she went. Every eye was
upon her—every bound and every swing was followed
by a leap of the heart among those who stood near
me (if they were to be believed) and by correspondent
inclinations of the part of those who were a little
further off. They persuaded her to sing, and I should

say from the little I heard, that—somehow or other,
it was not music, but something better than music—
the melody of wild birds in the sky—it issued I dare
say from her benign mouth, but it appeared to issue
from her large dreaming eyes—I borrow this idea
from Gage, who filled me with poetry before I knew
where I was. While we were looking after her, she
emerged for a moment from the shade of a drooping
willow near us, into the broad light of the moon.

Gracious God! breathed somebody at my elbow—
it was the cry of a heart overburthened with joy,
brimful of prayer—instantaneously delivered of some
bright hope. Gracious God—what a face!—

Now for it, whispered Gage, now for the beautiful
widow!

—Look into the depth of her eyes! you may see
her very soul in motion there!

That you may! said the widow—

You may look down as it were into the deep of her
heart—

Precisely, said the widow.

But how is this—you do not appear to like her so
much—who is she?

Not like her! bless your heart, how mistaken you
are! why that is the very girl you have heard me
speak so much of—

Not Rosa Moore!

—The same; but I see you like her, and I am so
glad! for do you know, my friend, that there are
people, who some how or other, don't appear to like
that wild expression of the eye, which to me, and I
dare say to you, is the chief charm of her face—the
pure poetry of the girl's nature.

I never saw so much poetry in a mortal's face before
cried Middleton; nor so much purity.

Indeed—never!

No, never!

Well, I am glad to hear you say so—poor thing!

Poor thing, widow! is she so very much to be
pitied?

Pitied—O, no! what could put such an idea into
your head; to tell you the truth, she is a prodigious
favorite of mine—heigho.

Indeed, as you say, in—deed!

—though for the last year or two I have not been
able to see poor Rosa, quite so—ah, we are overheard—

Well, what if we are—

Some other time if you please—

Nay, nay, my dear widow, if you please; out with
what you have to say, if you mean to impeach her
character—

Impeach her character!—I!—Heaven forbid!

But you might as well impeach it, as to say you
have something to tell me about her, which you dare
not tell me before a third person—

How you talk! Hush, hush—don't talk so loud—
all I meant to say was—

No, no, my dear Madam, no whispering here, if
you please.

—Well then—the dear girl does look rather too
much like her unfortunate mother; but—a—a—how
do you like her dancing?

Beautiful!—beautiful!

You do think so, don't you? I knew you would;
and you have no idea how delighted I am to have you

on my side.. It is beautiful, and they may say, what,
they please, now.

Quite wonderful I think!

So do I! very wonderful!

Ah, my dear widow!

And what if the poor girl (in a soothing coaxing,
voice) never did learn a step, that only makes it so
much the more wonderful, you know--

Here Gage looked at me, in such a way, that I
knew not whether to laugh or cry; and after a word
with Middleton which I did not hear, he begged the
widow to say when she would go to the theatre with,
him and his four maiden sisters--

Whenever you please--

On Friday we have the School for Scandal, the part
of Mrs. Candour by--perhaps you know the play--

Perhaps I do, said she, giving him a rap over the
head with her fan. What weather! two nights ago,
we found a fire comfortable, and now, it is warm
enough in the open air to put us all out of breath--
However to finish what I was going to say about our,
beloved Rosa--I have an idea that--heigho.

Lord! how she flashes over the green turf!
--that if she had a fine ear for music now, it would
be of great advantage to her--in the step--

Have you, really!

She would keep time better of course--though, to
be sure, it, would not be so very wonderful as now--

Keep the time better--she keep time to the music!
hang it widow, the music ought to keep time to her.

In-deed! Yes my dear madam--in-deed!

And though she did take it up all of her own head,
as we say, and rather late in life--

Rather late in life?

Considering her age, I mean; her poor mother, as
I told you, being a sort of a—having a—but that's no
fault of her's you know, and I would not have our
dear sweet Rosa reminded of it, no not for the world—

Tut—tut—

Ah! cried Gage, looking up to the sky, ah! upon
my soul, widow, I can see the rest of the family.

Oh fye, Mr. Gage.

Don't stare, widow, I mean the creatures of the blue
sky, the angels that keep watch over the pure and
good—Ah, widow, widow! the Being that made her
must have been less terrible than you believe in your
church.

Why, how you talk Atherton Gage! how dare you
—are you not afraid the sky will fall.

No indeed, not I.

All very true and very sublime, I dare say, continued
Mrs. Amory, but, I'll leave it to Mr. Fox—
would'nt it have been as well for the dear, dear creature,
to learn a figure with live partners, before she
threw off with such people as you see there—

Madam, said I.

Widow! said her companion, letting go her arm.

Sir.

A word more and I shall hate you—continued the
latter.

And so shall I; whispered Gage.

In-deed! why, you know she must have learnt with
chairs, for you see that whenever the people change
places the poor girl is all at sea—

Fire and fury!

If she would turn her toes out however, I do say,

and I do not care who hears me, that Rosa would be
a most lovely dancer....

Whew!—whew!—whew! cried Fox, do the women
up there, (pointing to the sky) do they turn their
toes out, think ye?

How do I know, said the widow—such mysteries
are above our knowledge; but—

But if they dance, you will say—

If they do dance, I humbly hope they do not dance
parrot-toed.

Now as for me, said Middleton, I'd rather see all
the cherubim at work on all-fours parrot-toed, than
beautiful creatures of earth dancing after the fashion of
our day.

Oh—dreadful!

Why Mr. Middleton! said somebody else, you are
enough to scare every body out o' the room.

Really, Mr. Middleton, added the fair widow, you
make our blood run cold—

I am sorry for that, my dear widow; but when
I see people who ought to know better, praising a step
in the dance of a pretty girl, not because it is beautitiful
or graceful, but because it is difficult, I am—ah—
ready to—ready for—'sdeath! it cannot be!

Well, sir, ready for what?

Heavens! how pale you are! cried the widow.

Pale! not I, indeed!

But you are pale Gerard, you are! whispered Gage
and your lip quivers, and I see a fine sweat on your
forehead, which—my dear fellow!—let us begone!
you are ill—very ill, I am sure.

No, no—I am better now, that sweep of the fresh
air, and the voice, I don't hear it now—do you?

What voice?

What voice, my dear Atherton, look at me.

Gage turned and looked—and then throwing up his
hands with a remarkable change of countenance, he
added in a low voice, madman! all eyes are upon you!

Atherton Gage! I did hear it, I tell you.

Hear what!

I heard a peculiar note in the uproar just now—
don't laugh at me—I would swear to it on my death-bed.

Nay, may, Gerard—recollect yourself—you are deceived.

The widow grew very pale now, and her breathing
changed, and her eyes wandered away into the shadow,
with a look that made me wish myself on board
the ship once more, and once for all.

How do you like her singing? continued a pretty
girl near me, who had not opened her mouth for a
whole hour, and she opened it now, in the hope that
nobody would hear what she said—just as I have seen
a youthful orator, who had made up his heart for a
speech, wait—and wait—and wait—and stew and
wriggle, and wriggle and stew, till the meeting was
nearly over, when if a great uproar occurred, enough
to encourage him, up he would jump and call on the
Moderator—Mr. Moderator! Mr. Moderator! Mr.
Moderator! in a big bold voice, which if the Moderator
saw him, or the mob grew still, in the hope of a
speech, would end with—I beg leave to say, uttered
in a hurried far off squeak, that nobody, not even the
Moderator could be able to trace.

Very much, said I.

I did'nt speak to you, said she, putting up her lip at

me, and looking at the hero of the night, as if we all
three belonged to the nursery.

Ah, but if you had been so lucky as to hear the
sweet girl sing before she took lessons, you would
have liked her still better I am sure, said Mrs. Amory.

Why so—

Ah, she was so natural then!

But what a fine figure though! said Gage, touching
me with his elbow.

Very fine, said I—very! Superb!

True, said Mrs. Amory—that's precisely the word
for her—superb—and yet, would you believe it? she
has not come to her growth yet; she is only in her
fifteenth year—

In-deed!

Yes—but her mother was very large; are you partial
to large women, Gerard—Mr. Middleton. I mean.

Large women! said Middleton—no indeed, not I—
but who said any thing about large women or fat
women? She is what Mr. Fox calls her, a superb-looking
girl—

And so she is, and I quite agree with you; a superb
woman for a ride on horse-back, for the head of a
table, for a walk on the battery, or a walk in the ball-room,
though not perhaps petite enough altogether,
for a dance—a tea-table, or a fire-side, or a nursery.

There, there! that'll do—ah! what is that but a
step, I should like to know! as pretty a rigadoon as
ever I saw in my life.

And so it is I declare! and see too how near she is
to the music, now—only a little too fast, a very little
—dear Rosa!

She a little fast, no my dear widow—the music's a
little too slow, whenever they do not move together.

There again! cried Gage, the sound appears to
come up out of the earth where her foot falls, very
much as if it waited for the step; and her voice too—
Lord, Lord! what a voice to be sure! Would you
have such a voice whimpering a lullaby over a heap
of blue and white yarn; with the toe of such a foot
as you see there, on the tip-end of a cradle-rocker?
Why, it sounds like a—like a—a nest of canary-birds,
in a hawthorn bush, pure Italian coming up by starlight
from the deep sea—where now Gerard?

Mr. Middleton!—Mr. Middleton? what's the matter!
what ails you! stop, I beseech you!

Madam—

Before you go that way, a word with you, and with
our two friends here—

With me! said the haughty southerner.

With me, said I, and my heart was in my throat.

Why, Middleton! how agitated you are!—cried
Gage.

Woman—woman!—are you playing tricks with
me again!

Middleton—Gerard Middleton, hear me—recollect
yourself, I beseech you.

Woman! repeated he, in a low voice, woman—I
feel a dread here—my heart misgives me—you know
the story—you know the whole of it, I never asked
you how; but you have heard my oath, and I should
hope—look at me—I hear a voice—you know what I
mean.

I do—you have heard the voice of a broken-hearted
girl; a girl that should have been your wife, Gerard
Middleton, years, ago, though you are still a boy—

Here's a to-do! thought I—here's a blow up! hang

me, if I don't believe I shall suffer the ship to go sea
without me, after all!

My wife! she my wife! a half-breed of the Creeks.

And what are you, but a half-breed?

Madam! say what you have to say, and let me go?
I have not come here to be insulted: my birth is pure
—my blood is pure, though I may be somewhat
darker than your babies of the north.

You loved her, did you not?

I did.

You married her too, did you not, according to the
laws of her tribe?

And what if I did?

Ah! you blush!

And what if I do?

It gives me hope, it gives me courage. That woman
is now here. She is not so dark as I am—will
you see her—I beseech you to see her!

And why should I see her! You do not hope—
surely, surely, you do not hope that I would marry a
woman with a drop of indian-blood in her veins! I
loved her, and I love her yet—I love her too much to
risk her with my kindred—but you do not believe
me—

No sir, I do not—

Well, then, hear the truth. I would not put my
hand into hers now, I would not kiss her forehead
now, for all the wealth of America. Had you known
me, you would never have dared to say what you
have now said—were she a white woman, I tell you,
were she from among the proudest of our proud white
women, I would not marry her now. You have an
idea that because I love, because I have acknowledged

to you that I never should cease to love her;
because I would drain my heart here, before your
face, to make her happy, you believe I would be
wretch enough to marry her—

No sir, not to marry her, but to acknowledge her.
We know that she is your wife now, your lawful
wife—and a wife that you or any other man might be
proud of—

You do not know all.

I do, I do; I know that you deserted her, that after
she knew our law, you refused to marry her by that
law, and that you left her a prey to the white men—

If you knew all—all—you would not speak as you
now do to me.

I know enough to justify me in saying that she deserves
you, and that she loves you so much that you
will be the death of her, and that—ah!—where is
your courage now!

God be merciful to you! I feel that she is near me!
Speak to her! speak to her I conjure you! let her
not see me!

Something approached here: and he folded his
arms and waited for it with his eyes fixed upon the
earth; and after a few moments two females drew
near, one a little in advance of the other in a black
satin dress that glittered and shivered as if her very
soul were escaping from her body. She saw Middleton,
and stopped short on her way, and held out both
her hands—but he would not see her, and I had only
time to observe, by a side view of her face and the
turn of her neck, that she was very beautiful and
rather fair, with little or nothing to show that she
had the impure drop in her blood.

Madam, said Middleton, to the widow, in a voice
that I should not have known, so altered was it—I do
not shrink nor quail, you perceive. She does. Now
is your time to save her—go to her—go to her if you
have any mercy; tell her that I forgive her, she will
know what you mean; but say that—so help me God!
—I will never touch her hand again, while I breathe
the breath of life! She has made a devil of me! and
wo to her, and wo to you! if you do not check her
now that she is about crossing my path!

Let us go! said a voice, which appeared father off,
as if it came from her companion. There is no hope.
I have made the trial, I have done my duty, and now,
he is yours—I have done with him forever. His fate
is in your hands—do with him what you will. I told
you how it would be. Let us go.

I started with astonishment, and was satisfied that
the speech issued, not from the lips of the girl I saw,
but from the other. That is no Indian, said I to Gage,
as we walked away.

You are mistaken—she is a fourth breed.

How so?

Come this way—Her grand-father was a Spaniard;
her grand-mother a native Creek; she is a quadroon,
therefore; she was brought up among the Creeks:
and there he met with her full five years ago. They
were married, and they were happy, for he did not
know until they had been married a few weeks, that
her blood was not pure—

Not pure!—

—No; and as they were married, not according to
our law, he told her that she should never be his
wife—his real wife; and forsook her; and his father

sent him to college to complete his education: There!
you know the whole story now—poor fellow, I pity
him; he'll never marry another, and he cannot marry
her by the laws of Georgia.

D—n the laws of Georgia!

So I say; for she's a noble creature.

And he!—what is he!—

He!—oh, he is of the blood-royal of the south.

By the Gods, if I knew her, I would offer myself to
her—

Would you really!

Yes, I would!

Are you aware of the consequences?

Perfectly: if it were known to the whites of our
free and equal community, she and I both, and our
children's children would be pointed at and scoffed at,
for the marriage. And yet, were we to cross the sea,
and take refuge in Europe, I should be greeted by
princes for the sake of my wife, and she would be the
equal of their proudest women.