WE left Harry, the faithful servant, whose ministerial functions had been employed in elevating the souls of Marston's property, being separated from his wife and sold to Mr. M'Fadden. M'Fadden is a gentleman—we do not impugn the name, in a southern sense—of that class—very large class—who, finding the laws of their own country too oppressive for their liberal thoughts, seek a republican's home in ours. It is to such men, unhappily, the vices of slavery are open. They grasp them, apply them to purposes most mercenary, most vile. The most hardened of foreigners-that essence of degraded outcasts,—may, under the privileges of slavery, turn human misery into the means of making money. He has no true affiliations with the people of the south, nor can he feel aught beyond a selfish interest in the prosperity of the State; but he can be active in the work of evil. With the foreigner—we speak from observation—affecting love of liberty at home, it would seem, only makes him the greater tyrant when slavery gives him power to execute its inhuman trusts. Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden is one of this description of persons; he will make a fortune in the South, and live a gentleman in the North— perhaps, at home on his own native Isle. Education he has none; moral principle he never enjoyed,—never expects to. He is a tall, athletic man, nearly six feet two inches in height, with extremely broad, stooping shoulders, and always walks as if he were meditating some speculation. His dress is usually of southern red-mixed homespun,—a dress which he takes much pride in wearing, in connection with a black brigand hat, which gives his broad face, projecting cheek-bones, and blunt chin, a look of unmistakeable sullenness. Add to this a low, narrow forehead, generally covered with thick tufts of matted black hair, beneath which two savage eyes incessantly glare, and, reader, you have the repulsive personification of the man. Mr. M'Fadden has bought a preacher,—an article with the very best kind of a soul,—which he would send to his place in the country. Having just sent the article to the rail-road, he stands in a neighbouring bar-room, surrounded by his cronies, who are joining him in a social glass, discussing the qualities of the article preacher. We are not favoured with the point at issue; but we hear Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden say, with great force,—"Preachers are only good property under certain circumstances; and if them circumstances ain't just so, it won't do to buy 'em. Old aristocrat rice planters may make a good thing or two on 'em, because they can make 'em regulate the cummin' o' their property, and make it understand what the Lord says about minding their masters." For his-Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's-own part, he wouldn't give seven coppers for the thinking part of any property, having no belief in that fashionable way of improving its value. "My preacher has been nicely packed up and sent off in advance," he says, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, and smacking his lips, as he twirls his glass upon the zinc counter, shakes hands with his friends-they congratulate him upon the good bargain in his divine-and proceeds to the railroad dep“t. Harry has arrived nearly two hours in advance,—delivered in good condition, as stated in a receipt which he holds in his hand, and which purports to be from the baggage-master. "Ah! here you are," says M'Fadden, taking the paper from Harry's hand, as he enters the luggage-room. "Take good care on ye,—I reckon I will!" He looks down upon him with an air of satisfaction. The poor preacher-the soul-glowing property-is yet chained, hand and foot. He sits upon the cold floor, those imploring eyes swelling at the thought that freedom only awaits him in another world. M'Fadden takes a little flask from his breast pocket, and, with a motion of kindness, draws the cork, passes it to him. "It's whiskey!" he says; "take a drop-do ye good, old feller." Quietly the man passes it to his lips, and moistens his mouth. "No winking and blinking-it's tip-top stuff," enjoins M'Fadden; "don't get it every day."

Mr. M'Fadden will take a little himself. "Glad to find ye here, all straight!" he mutters, taking the flask from his mouth. He had returned the receipt to his property; and, having gratified his appetite a little, he begins to take a more perspective view of his theological purchase.

"Yes, master; I am here!" He again holds up his chained hands, drops his face upon his knees; as much as to say, be sure I am all safe and sound.

Looking at the receipt again, and then at his preacher, "Guess 'hain't made a bad rap on ye' to-day!" he ejaculates, taking out his pocket-book and laying away the precious paper as carefully as if it were a hundred dollar note. "Should like to have bought your old woman and young 'uns, but hadn't tin enough. And the way stock's up now, ain't slow! Look up here, my old buck! just put on a face as bright and smooth as a full moon-no sulkin'. Come along here."

The manacled preacher turns upon his hands, gets up as best he can-M'Fadden kindly assists by taking hold of his shoulder-and follows his purchaser to the platform,—like a submissive animal goaded to the very flesh, but chained, lest it make some show of resentment. "Good heap o' work in ye', old chuck; had a master what didn't understand bringing on't out, though!" mutters M'Fadden, as he introduces Harry to the negro car, at the same time casting a look of satisfaction at the brakeman standing at his left hand ready to receive the freight.

In the car-a dungeon-like box about ten feet square, the only aperture for admitting light being a lattice of about eight inches square, in the door-are three rough negro men and one woman, the latter apparently about twenty years of age.

"Got a tall chap here, boys! Make ye stand round some, in pickin' time; and can preach, too." M'Fadden shakes his head exultingly! "Can put in the big licks preachin'; and I'ze goin' t' let 'im, once in a while. Goin' t' have good times on my place, boys—ha'h! Got a jug of whiskey to have a fandango when ye gits home. Got it somewhere, I knows." Mr. M'Fadden exults over the happy times his boys have at home. He shakes himself all over, like a polar bear just out of the water, and laughs heartily. He has delivered himself of something that makes everybody else laugh; the mania has caught upon his own subtle self. The negroes laugh in expressive cadences, and shrug their shoulders as Mr. M'Fadden continues to address them so sportively, so familiarly. Less initiated persons might have formed very satisfactory opinions of his character. He takes a peep under one of the seats, and with a rhapsody of laughter draws forth a small jug. "You can't come the smuggle over me, boys! I knew ye had a shot somewhere," he exclaims. At his bidding, the woman hands him a gourd, from which he very deliberately helps himself to a stout draught.

"Sit down here!-Isaac, Abraham, Daniel, or whatever yer name is-Mr. M'Fadden addresses himself to his preacher. Ye'll get yer share on't when ye gits to my place." He sets the jug down, and passes the gourd back, saying: "What a saucy hussy ye are!" slapping the woman's black shoulder playfully. "Give him some-won't ye', boys?" he concludes.

Mr. M'Fadden (the cars are not yet ready to start, but the dep“t is thronging with travellers, and the engine is puffing and snorting, as the driver holds his hand on the throttle, and the stoker crams with pitch pine knots the iron steed of fiery swiftness) will step out and take the comfort of his cigar. He pats his preacher on the shoulder, takes off his shackles, rubs his head with his hand, tells the boys to keep an eye on him. "Yes, mas'r," they answer, in tones of happy ignorance. The preacher must be jolly, keep on a bright face, never mind the old gal and her young 'uns, and remember what a chance he will have to get another. He can have two or more, if he pleases; so says his very generous owner.

Mr. M'Fadden shakes hands with his friends on the platform, smokes his cigar leisurely, mingles with the crowd importantly, thinking the while what an unalloyed paragon of amiability he is. Presently the time-bell strikes its warning; the crowd of passengers rush for the cars; the whistle shrieks; the exhaust gives forth its gruff snorts, the connections clank, a jerk is felt, and onward bounds-mighty in power, but controlled by a finger's slightest touch-the iron steed, dragging its curious train of living merchandise.

M'Fadden again finds his way to the negroes' car, where, sitting down in front of his property, he will take a bird's-eye view of it. It is very fascinating to a man who loves the quality of such articles as preachers. He will draw his seat somewhat closer to the minister; his heart bounds with joy at the prime appearance of his purchase. Reaching out his hand, he takes the cap from Harry's head, throws it into the woman's lap; again rubs his hair into a friz. Thus relieved of his pleasing emotions, he will pass into one of the fashionable cars, and take his place among the aristocrats.

"Boss mighty funny when 'e come t' town, and git just so 'e don't see straight: wish 'e so good wen 'e out da'h on de plantation yander," ejaculates one of the negroes, who answers to the name-Joe! Joe seems to have charge of the rest; but he watches M'Fadden's departure with a look of sullen hatred.

"Hard old Boss on time-an't he, boys?" enquires Harry, as an introduction to the conversation.

"Won't take ye long t' find 'um out, I reckon! Git nigger on de plantation 'e don't spa' him, nohow," rejoins another.

"Lor', man, if ye ain't tough ye'll git used up in no time, wid him!" the woman speaks up, sharply. Then, pulling her ragged skirts around her, she casts a sympathising look at Harry, and, raising her hand in a threatening attitude, and shaking it spitefully in the direction M'Fadden has gone, says:—"If only had dat man, old Boss, where 'um could revenge 'um, how a' would make 'um suffer! He don' treat 'e nigger like 'e do 'e dog. If 'twarn't fo'h Buckra I'd cut 'e troat, sartin." This ominous expression, delivered with such emphasis, satisfies Harry that he has got into the hands of a master very unlike the kind and careless Marston.

Onward the cars speed, with clanking music making din as they go. One of the negroes will add something to change the monotony. Fumbling beneath the seats for some minutes, he draws forth a little bag, carefully unties it, and presents his favourite violin. Its appearance gladdens the hearts of his comrades, who welcome it with smiling faces and loud applause. The instrument is of the most antique and original description. It has only two strings; but Simon thinks wonders of it, and would not swap it for a world of modern fiddles, what don't touch the heart with their music. He can bring out tremendous wailings with these two strings; such as will set the whole plantation dancing. He puts it through the process of tuning, adding all the scientific motions and twists of an Italian first-fiddling artiste. Simon will moisten its ears by spitting on them, which he does, turning and twisting himself into the attitudes of a pompous maestro. But now he has got it in what he considers the very nick of tune; it makes his face glow with satisfaction. "Jest-lef'-'um cum, Simon;—big and strong!" says Joe, beginning to keep time by slapping his hands on his knees. And such a sawing, such a scraping, as he inflicts, never machine of its kind, ancient or modern, got before. Simon and his companions are in ecstasies; but such cross-grained, such painful jingling of sounds! Its charm is irresistible with the negro; he mustn't lose a note of the tune; every creak is exhausted in a break-down dance, which the motion of the "Jim Crow" car makes more grotesque by every now and then jolting them into a huddle in one corner.

Mr. M'Fadden has been told that his property are having a lively time, and thinks he will leave his aristocratic friends, and go to see it; here he is followed by several young gentlemen, anxious to enjoy the hilarity of the scene.

"All my property,—right prime, isn't it?" says M'Fadden, exultingly, nudging one of the young men on the shoulder, as he, returning, enters the car. The gentleman nods assent, sits down, and coolly lights his cigar. "Good thing to have a fiddler on a plantation! I'd rather have it than a preacher; keeps the boys together, and makes 'um a deal better contented," he adds, beginning to exhale the fumes from his weed.

"Yes!-and ye sees, fellers, how I'ze bought a parson, too. Can do the thing up brown now, boys, I reckon," remarks the happy politician, slapping his professional gentleman on the knee, and laughing right heartily.

Turning to Harry with a firm look, he informs the gentlemen that "this critter's kind o got the sulks, a'cos Romescos-he hates Romescos-has bought his wench and young 'uns. Take that out on him, at my place," he adds.

The dancing continues right merrily. One of the young gentlemen would like to have the fiddler strike up "Down in Old Tennessee." The tune is sounded forth with all that warmth of feeling the negro only can add to the comical action of his body.

"Clar' the way; let the boys have a good time," says Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, taking Harry by the arm and giving him a violent shake. He commands him to join in, and have a jolly good tune with the rest on 'em.

"Have no call for that, master. Let me act but the part of servant to you."

"Do you mean to come nigger sulks over this child?" interrupts M'Fadden, impatiently, scowling his heavy eyebrows, and casting a ferocious look at Harry. After ordering him to stow himself in a corner, he gets the others upon the floor, and compels them to shuffle what he calls a plantation "rip-her-up." The effect of this, added to the singular positions into which they are frequently thrown by the motion of the cars, affords infinite amusement.

"You see, gentlemen, there's nothing like putting the springs of life into property. Makes it worth fifty per cent. more; and then ye'll get the hard knocks out to a better profit. Old southerners spoil niggers, makin' so much on 'em; and soft-soapin' on 'em. That bit o' property's bin spiled just so-he points to Harry, crouched in the corner-And the critter thinks he can preach! Take that out on him with a round turn, when I git to my place," he continues.

Harry cares very little for M'Fadden's conversation; he sits as quietly and peaceably as if it had been addressed to some other negro. M'Fadden, that he may not be found wanting in his efforts to amuse the young gentlemen, reaches out his hand to one of them, takes his cigar from a case, lights it, and proceeds to keep time by beating his hands on his knees.

The train is approaching the crossing where Mr. M'Fadden will discharge his property,—his human merchandise, and proceed with it some eleven miles on the high road. The noise created by the exuberance of feeling on the part of Mr. M'Fadden has attracted a numerous assemblage of passengers to the "Jim Crow" car. The conductor views this as violating the rules of the corporation; he demands it shall be stopped. All is quiet for a time; they reach the "crossing" about five o'clock P.M., where, to Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's great delight, he finds himself surrounded by a promiscuous assembly of sovereign citizens, met to partake of the hospitalities offered by the candidate for the Assembly, who, having offered himself, expects the distinguished honour of being elected. The assembled citizens will hear what the learned man's going to talk about when he gets into the Assembly.

As Mr. M'Fadden is a great politician, and a greater democrat-we speak according to the southern acceptation-his presence is welcomed with an enthusiastic burst of applause. Shout after shout makes the very welkin ring, as his numerous friends gather round him, smile solicitously, shake him warmly by the hand, honour him as the peasantry honour the Lord of the Manor.

The crossing-one of those points so well known in the south-is a flat, wooded lawn, interspersed here and there with clumps of tall pine-trees. It is generally dignified with a grocery, a justice's office, and a tavern, where entertainment for man and beast may always be had. An immense deal of judicial and political business "is put through a process" at these strange places. The squire's law-book is the oracle; all settlements must be made by it; all important sayings drawn from it. The squire himself is scarcely less an individual of mysterious importance; he draws settled facts from his copious volume, and thus saves himself the trouble of analysing them. Open it where he will, the whys and wherefores for every case are never wanting.

Our present crossing is a place of much importance, being where the political effervescence of the state often concentrates. It will not do, however, to analyse that concentration, lest the fungi that give it life and power may seem to conflict with the safety of law and order. On other occasions it might be taken for a place of rural quiet, instead of those indescribable gatherings of the rotten membranes of a bad political power.

Here the justice's office is attached to the grocery, a little shop in which all men may drink very deleterious liquor; and, in addition to the tavern, which is the chief building-a quadrangular structure raised a few feet from the ground on piles of the palmetto tree-there is a small church, shingled and clapboarded, and having a belfry with lattice-work sides. An upper and lower veranda surround the tavern, affording gentlemen an opportunity to enjoy the shade.

Several of Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's friends meet him at the station, and, as he receives his property, assist him in securing it with irons preparatory to lodging it in a place of safe keeping.

"Goin' t' make this chap a deacon on my place; can preach like sixty. It'll save the trouble sendin' north for such trash as they send us. Can make this feller truer on southern principles," says M'Fadden, exultingly, addressing himself to his companions, looking Harry smilingly in the face, and patting him on the shoulder. The gentlemen view Harry with particular admiration, and remark upon his fine points with the usual satisfaction of connoisseurs. Mr. M'Fadden will secure his preacher, in iron fellowship, to the left hand of the woman slave.

"All right!" he says, as the irons are locked, and he marches his property up to the tavern, where he meets mine host-a short, fat man, with a very red and good-natured face, who always dresses in brown clothes, smiles, and has an extra laugh for 'lection days-who stands his consequential proportions in the entrance to the lower veranda, and is receiving his customers with the blandest smiles. "I thinks a right smart heap on ye, or I would'nt a' 'gin ye that gal for a mate," continues M'Fadden, walking along, looking at Harry earnestly, and, with an air of self-congratulation, ejecting a quantity of tobacco-juice from his capacious mouth. "Mr. M'Fadden is very, very welcome;" so says mine host, who would have him take a social glass with his own dear self.

Mr. M'Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to deposit his preacher and other property.

"Ah, ha!"-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;—"want grits for 'em, I s'pose?" he returns, and his round fat face glows with satisfaction. "Can suit you to a shavin'."

"That's right, Colonel; I know'd ye could," ejaculates the other. Mine host is much elated at hearing his title appended. Colonel Frank Jones-such is mine host's name—never fought but one duel, and that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel—"Colonel Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;" beneath which an impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M'Donal Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment." Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became gentlemen. The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put bullets in the weapons.

Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little. Mine host rubs his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then cries out at the top of his voice, "Ho, boys, ho!"

Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready to answer the summons. "Take charge o' this property o' my friend's here. Get 'em a good tuck out o' grits."

"Can grind 'em themselves," interrupts M'Fadden, quickly. "About the price, Colonel?"

"That's all straight," spreading his hands with an accompanying nod of satisfaction: "'commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the grits at seven-pence a day."

"No objection." Mr. M'Fadden is entirely satisfied. The waiters take the gentleman's property in charge, and conduct it to a small building, an appropriate habitation of hens and pigs. It was of logs, rough hewn, without chinking; without floor to keep Mr. M'Fadden's property from the ground, damp and cold. Unsuited as it is to the reception of human beings, many planters of great opulence have none better for their plantation people. It is about ten feet high, seven broad, and eleven long.

"Have a dandy time on't in here to-night," says Mr. M'Fadden, addressing himself to Harry, as one of the waiters unlocks the door and ushers the human property into its dreary abode. Mr. M'Fadden will step inside, to take a bird's-eye view of the security of the place. He entertains some doubts about the faith of his preacher, however, and has half an inclination to turn round as he is about making his exit. He will. Approaches Harry a second time; he feels his pockets carefully, and suggests that he has some mischievous weapon of liberty stowed away somewhere. He presses and presses his hands to his skirts and bosom. And now he knew he was not mistaken, for he feels something solid in the bosom of his shirt, which is not his heart, although that thing makes a deuce of a fluttering. Mr. M'Fadden's anxiety increases as he squeezes his hands over its shapes, and watches the changes of Harry's countenance. "Book, ha'h!" he exclaims, drawing the osnaburg tight over the square with his left hand, while, with his right, he suddenly grasps Harry firmly by the hair of the head, as if he has discovered an infernal machine. "Book, ha'h!"

"Pull it out, old buck. That's the worst o' learned niggers; puts the very seven devils in their black heads, and makes 'em carry their conceit right into nigger stubbornness, so ye have t' bring it out by lashin' and botherin'. Can't stand such nigger nonsense nohow."

Harry has borne all very peaceably; but there is a time when even the worm will turn. He draws forth the book,—it is the Bible, his hope and comforter; he has treasured it near his heart-that heart that beats loudly against the rocks of oppression. "What man can he be who feareth the word of God, and says he is of his chosen? Master, that's my Bible: can it do evil against righteousness? It is the light my burdened spirit loves, my guide—"

"Your spirit?" inquires M'Fadden, sullenly, interrupting Harry. "A black spirit, ye' mean, ye' nigger of a preacher. I didn't buy that, nor don't want it. 'Taint worth seven coppers in picking time. But I tell ye, cuff, wouldn't mind lettin' on ye preach, if a feller can make a spec good profit on't." The gentleman concludes, contracting his eyebrows, and scowling at his property forbiddingly.

"You'll let me have it again when I gets on the plantation, won't ye, master?" inquires Harry, calmly.

"Let you have it on the plantation?"-Mr. M'Fadden gives his preacher a piercingly fierce look-"that's just where ye won't have 't. Have any kind o' song-book ye' wants; only larn 'em to other niggers, so they can put in the chorus once in a while. Now, old buck (I'm a man o' genius, ye know), when niggers get larnin' the Bible out o' ther' own heads, 't makes 'em sassy'r than ther's any calculatin' on. It just puts the very d-l into property. Why, deacon," he addresses himself to Harry with more complacency, "my old father-he was as good a father as ever came from Dublin-said it was just the spilin' on his children to larn 'em to read. See me, now! what larnin' I'ze got; got it all don't know how: cum as nat'ral as daylight. I've got the allfired'st sense ye ever did see; and it's common sense what makes money. Yer don't think a feller what's got sense like me would bother his head with larnin' in this ar' down south?" Mr. M'Fadden exhibits great confidence in himself, and seems quite playful with his preacher, whom he pats on the shoulder and shakes by the hand. "I never read three chapters in that ar' book in my whole life-wouldn't neither. Really, deacon, two-thirds of the people of our State can't read a word out o' that book. As for larnin', I just put me mind on the thing, and got the meanin' out on't sudden."

Mr. M'Fadden's soothing consolation, that, as he has become such a wonderful specimen of mankind without learning, Harry must be a very dangerous implement of progress if allowed to go about the plantation with a Bible in his pocket, seems strange in this our Christian land. "Can fiddle just as much as yer mind t'," concludes Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, as he again shakes the hand of his preacher, and proceeds to mingle with the political gathering, the Bible in his pocket.