I have been having a long talk with Mr. ——­ about Ben and Daphne, those two young mulatto children of Mr. K——­’s, whom I mentioned to you lately.  Poor pretty children! they have refined and sensitive faces as well as straight regular features; and the expression of the girl’s countenance, as well as the sound of her voice, and the sad humility of her deportment, are indescribably touching.  Mr. B——­ expressed the strongest interest in and pity for them, because of their colour:  it seems unjust almost to the rest of their fellow unfortunates that this should be so, and yet it is almost impossible to resist the impression of the unfitness of these two forlorn young creatures, for the life of coarse labour and dreadful degradation to which they are destined.  In any of the southern cities the girl would be pretty sure to be reserved for a worse fate; but even here, death seems to me a thousand times preferable to the life that is before her.

In the afternoon I rode with Mr. ——­ to look at the fire in the woods.  We did not approach it, but stood where the great volumes of smoke could be seen rising steadily above the pines, as they have now continued to do for upwards of a week; the destruction of the pine timber must be something enormous.  We then went to visit Dr. and Mrs. G——­, and wound up these exercises of civilized life by a call on dear old Mr. C——­, whose nursery and kitchen garden are a real refreshment to my spirits.  How completely the national character of the worthy canny old Scot is stamped on the care and thrift visible in his whole property, the judicious successful culture of which has improved and adorned his dwelling in this remote corner of the earth!  The comparison, or rather contrast, between himself and his quondam neighbour Major ——­, is curious enough to contemplate.  The Scotch tendency of the one to turn everything to good account, the Irish propensity of the other to leave everything to ruin, to disorder, and neglect; the careful economy and prudent management of the mercantile man, the reckless profusion, and careless extravagance of the soldier.  The one made a splendid fortune and spent it in Philadelphia, where he built one of the finest houses that existed there, in the old-fashioned days, when fine old family mansions were still to be seen breaking the monotonous uniformity of the Quaker city.  The other has resided here on his estate ameliorating the condition of his slaves and his property, a benefactor to the people and the soil alike—­a useful and a good existence, an obscure and tranquil one.

Last Wednesday we drove to Hamilton—­by far the finest estate on St. Simon’s Island.  The gentleman to whom it belongs lives, I believe, habitually in Paris; but Captain F——­ resides on it, and, I suppose, is the real overseer of the plantation.  All the way along the road (we traversed nearly the whole length of the island) we found great tracts of wood, all burnt or burning; the destruction had spread in every direction, and