At births she frequently officiated, and few young mothers thought
themselves entirely safe if the black good-humoured face of Aunt Comfort
was not to be seen at their bedside. She had a hand in the compounding of
almost every bridecake, and had been known to often leave houses of
feasting, to prepare weary earth-worn travellers for their final place of
rest. Every one knew, and all liked her, and no one was more welcome at the
houses of the good people of Warmouth than Aunt Comfort.
But whilst rendering her all due praise for her domestic acquirements,
justice compels us to remark that Aunt Comfort was not a literary
character. She could get up a shirt to perfection, and made irreproachable
chowder, but she was not a woman of letters. In fact, she had arrived at
maturity at a time when negroes and books seldom came in familiar contact;
and if the truth must be told, she cared very little about the latter. "But
jist to 'blege Miss Cass," she consented to attend her class, averring as
she did so, "that she didn't 'spect she was gwine to larn nothin' when she
got thar."
Miss Cass, however, was of the contrary opinion, and anticipated that after
a few Sabbaths, Aunt Comfort would prove to be quite a literary phenomenon.
The first time their class assembled the white children well-nigh
dislocated their necks, in their endeavours to catch glimpses of the
coloured scholars, who were seated on a backless bench, in an obscure
corner of the room.
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