It makes money, while

ce in testua ya X Kirke, an' hab raya te sms massa Robert come at waren on human principles,

Tas vs su 1 metu a zone, that, in spite IT le seuls mmmer & he has and his master, I

Cleat pa nem a ST TM can't any humane principles a ser almır. na mi üstes, mi mukt money?”

'I' sut Presel, zang mit jacmg to and down in cie smal semarie brei jy the isa lamels; "that is

▼lat le News 20 SIT, MIL IS DIR.

Then how in the mass of tree pusziers in this SHOTO NIE? nonex Thy Di naken that is certain." By vang die manis, slavey does. All may not be as severe vai tiem as a rework them, more or less." replied Fruscia.

don kun in massa E.dert: twelve, an' eben free hour a day deter hum a prime hand, ef he hab good feed

~We sa c'tock, and supper mat be in waiting,” sand Preston, drawing on his viki : “we talk more on this BROJECT TOES. Fle, bring the books up to the house this evening Mr Kirke has promised to look into our affairs, and I shall need you"

“Yas, massa Robert," replied the black; and, mounting our horses, Preston and I rode back to the mansion.

CHAPTER X

A SOUTHERN WOMAN.

PRESTON and master Joe were on the piazza awaiting us, In the doorway, we were met by the younger children. lifted one of them upon his shoulder, and, taking in his arms, led the way to the supper room. Howturbed might be my friend's relations with the outer

world, all was peace by his cheerful fireside. No man was ever more blessed in his home. His children were intelligent, loving, and obedient; his wife was one of those rare women—seen nowhere more often than in the South-who, to a cultivated mind and polished manners, add the more homely accomplishments of a good housewife. It is years since she laid aside the weary cares of her plantation home, and entered on the higher duties of another life; but her kindly image is still as fresh in my memory as on that autumn day, when she placed her hand in mine for the last time, and spoke the last "God bless you" which I was to hear from her lips on this side of the grave. She was a

perfect woman—a faithful mistress, a loving wife, a devoted mother. Anticipating every want of her husband, carefully instructing her children, overseeing every detail of her household, meting out the weekly allowance of the negroes, visiting daily the cabins of the sick and the infirm, and with her own hand dispensing the soothing cordial or the healing medicine, —or, when all medicine failed, bending over the lowly bed of the dying, and pointing him to the "better home on high,” —she was a ministering angel—a joy and a blessing to all about her. She wore no costly silks, no diamonds on her fingers, or jewels in her hair; but she was arrayed in garments all rich and beautiful with human love. She knew nothing—thought nothing—about the right or the wrong of slavery; but, cheerfully and prayerfully, never wearying and never doubting, she went on in the round of duties allotted her, leaning on the arm of the GOOD ALL-FATHER, and looking steadfastly to HIM for guidance and support. And, truly, she had her reward. "Her children rose up and

called her blessed; her husband, also, and he praised her.” Supper was soon over, when my hostess rose and conducted me to the library. That apartment was in a wing communicating with the mansion by a covered passage way. It was plainly furnished, but had a cosy, homelike appearance. Its four walls were lined with books, some standing on end, some resting on their sides, and some leaning negligently against each other; and on the massive centre table, open volumes, old newspapers, and unfinished manuscripts were littered, in most delightful confusion. A half-dozen oldfashioned chairs straggled about the floor, as if they did not know exactly what to do with themselves, and a score of old worthies, their faces white as chalk, and their long hair and beards powdered with a whole generation of dust, looked complacently down from the top of the bookshelves. Dust

was on the table, on the chairs, on the floor, on the ceiling, and on the musty old volumes ranged along the walls, and dust everywhere told unmistakably that no profane hand ever disturbed the dusty repose which reigned in the apart

ment.

Two or three oaken logs, supported on bright brass andirons-the only bright things in the room-were blazing cheerfully on the broad hearthstone; and, drawing our chairs near, we sat down before them.

"May I come in?" said master Joe, thrusting his head in at the half-closed doorway.

"No, my son," answered his father; "Mr Kirke and I are to talk over business matters."

"Do let him come, Robert," said Mrs Preston; "he is old enough to learn something of such affairs."

The lad entered, and seating himself on a low stool by the side of his mother, and burying his head in her lap, was soon fast asleep.

“This room, Mr Kirke," said the lady, "is sacred to Robert and the dust. I beg you will not think I have the care of it."

"Oh no, madam; it is plain that a man has exclusive dominion here. But your husband has been away for some time."

66

That does not account for the dust; it hasn't been stirred for a twelvemonth; and after a pause she added, a thin moisture glistening in her eyes, "I have not yet thanked you, sir, for saving Phyllis and the children from the clutches of that wretched trader."

"No thanks are requisite, madam. It was a mere matter of business; we are in the practice of making advances to our consignors.'

66

Nevertheless, we thank you, sir; Robert and I will ever be grateful for it.'

"Do not speak of it, madam, I would be glad to serve you to a much greater extent."

The lady made no reply, and a rather embarrassing silence followed for some minutes, when I said

66

Preston, Joe is a remarkable negro; I think I never met one so intelligent and well informed."

“He is very intelligent,” he replied; "he has fine natural abilities."

"It is a pity Nature gave him so dark a skin, and made him a-slave."

"Not a pity, Mr Kirke," rejoined Mrs Preston; "Nature,

or rather God, always puts us in our right places. Joseph is more useful where is than he would be anywhere else.

"I understood him that he was raised on the plantation," I added.

"Yes," replied my host; "my grandfather bought his mother when she was a girl. She was a favourite houseservant, and Joe was born in a room over where we are sitting. This building was then all there was of the mansion."

"And how did he pick up so much information?"

"The old gentleman, who gave little heed to either law or gospel, taught them both to read and write." [Years after the date of this conversation, I learned that Joe was the son of that lawless, graceless old gentleman.] "And Joe, when a boy, read everything he could lay his hands on. Since I have brought my library here, he has devoured about half of the books in it. He devotes every night, from eight o'clock to twelve, to reading."

"I am surprised that, with so much reading, he uses so entirely the negro dialect."

"But he does not. In common conversation he expresses himself in it, for it is the dialect in which a black does his ordinary thinking; but let him get upon an elevated subject, as he frequently does in his sermons, and you will hear words as strong, pure, and simple as any found in the Bible, flow from him like a stream."

"Does he preach every Sunday?"

66 Yes;

I usually catechise the people in the evening, and he preaches in the morning."

"But do you learn all your negroes to read?"

"No; the law does not allow it. I teach them to repeat the catechism, texts of Scripture, and passages from good books, and I explain these to them."

"And Joe is your overseer?"

"Not exactly that. My father made him overseer about thirty years ago, but the law requires a white man in that situation; and when I took charge of the plantation, the neighbours made a clamour about my having a black. The result was, I whipped the devil round the stump,' by hiring a white distiller, and calling him overseer.' I let Joe, however, 'oversee' him, as you have seen to-day."

He

A rap came then at the door, and master Joe, waking up, ushered the subject of our conversation into the room. held his hat in his hand, and had under his arm a couple of account books.

"This is Joseph the First," said the lad, taking the black by the coat-tail, and bowing gravely to me.

“And you are Joseph the Second, I suppose?”

“Yas, sar; he 'm dat 'stinguished gemman,” replied the negro, stroking affectionately the lad's head; "an' he don't dishonour de name, sar. He'm de true blue, dyed in de wool."

"Bring up a chair, Joseph," said the lady, smiling kindly on the black.

"Tank you, missus ;" and the negro seated himself by the fire, between Preston and me.

"You have brought the documents, I see, Joe; let me look at them," I said, reaching out my hand for the books. 'Yas, sar; an' dey 'm all written up ter a week back. I reckon you kin pick 'em out, Mr Kirke, dough massa Robert he say he don't understand my way ob keepin' 'em.”

I opened the books, and any man of business will appreciate my surprise to find they were kept by "double entry." Cotton, corn, and turpentine had each its separate account, and at a glance I could see how much had been made or lost in the production of each staple. The handwriting was plain and bold, and the general appearance of the ledger compared favourably with that of a much larger one I knew of, which was the pride of an experienced book-keeper.

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"Why, Joe, I'm astonished!" I exclaimed, with unaffected gratification; 'you write like a schoolmaster." A flush, which would have been a blush on a lighter skin, overspread the negro's face, as he replied

"I don't hab practice 'nuff, Mr Kirke, ter write bery well."

"Practice!" said Preston; "he has constant practice; he writes the love-letters of all the darkies in the district."

"It am so, dat's a fac', sar," said Joe, a quiet humour twinkling in his eye. "One ob Cunnel Dawsey's folk come ter me ter day-his wife hab been sold down Soufh, an' he wanted ter say ter har, dat dough ribers rose, an' mountins run atween 'em, he'd neber hab nuffin' ter do wid no oder 'ooman-so he comes ter me, an' I writes de letter; an' when I'd aput in all de ribers, an' de mountins, an' eber so many runs, an' tought I'd done it up right smart, I read it ober ter him, but he say he sort ob reckoned it warn't quite done up 'pletely-not 'xactly 'cluded; so he 'sisted I muss 'sert a pose scrip, axin' har ter 'scuse de bad writin',"

"And you did it?"

"Yas, sar, I done it."