Houghton, as
extraordinary as it certainly would be futile in their belief. Mr.
Houghton was quite as bitter against the South in general and Charleston
in particular as Mrs. Hunter in her enmity of all that savored of the
North; and, as human nature goes, they both had much reason, or rather
cause, for their sentiments. The experiences of many of that day were not
conducive to calm historical estimates or to "the charity that suffereth
long and is kind." Mr. Houghton was a New England man, and hated slavery
almost as intensely as it deserved to be hated. The trouble with him had
been that he did not separate the "peculiar institution" widely enough
from the men who had been taught by their fathers, mothers and ministers
to believe in it. He made no allowances for his Southern fellow-citizens,
as many of them would make none for him. With him, it was "Slave-driver";
with them, "Abolitionist"; yet he revered and they revered the
great-hearted planter of Mount Vernon.
When the war came at last to teach its terrible, yet essential lessons,
Mr. Houghton's eldest son was among the first to exercise the courage of
the convictions which had always been instilled into his mind. The grim
New Englander saw him depart with eyes that, although tearless, were full
of agony, also of hatred of all that threatened to cost him so much. His
worst fears were fulfilled, for his son was drowned in a night attack on
Fort Sumter, and, in his father's morbid fancy, still lay in the mud and
ooze at the bottom of Charleston harbor.
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