Smoking piles burn here and there, burned stumps and trees point their black peaks upward in the murky atmosphere, half-clad negroes in coarse osnaburgs are busy among the smoke and fire:  the scene presents a smouldering volcano inhabited by semi-devils.  Among the sombre denizens are women, their only clothing being osnaburg frocks, made loose at the neck and tied about the waist with a string:  with hoes they work upon the “top surface,” gather charred wood into piles, and waddle along as if time were a drug upon life.

Far away to the right the young corn shoots its green sprouts in a square plat, where a few negroes are quietly engaged at the first hoeing.  Being tasked, they work with system, and expect, if they never receive, a share of the fruits.  All love and respect Marston, for he is generous and kind to them; but system in business is at variance with his nature.  His overseer, however, is just the reverse:  he is a sharp fellow, has an unbending will, is proud of his office, and has long been reckoned among the very best in the county.  Full well he knows what sort of negro makes the best driver; and where nature is ignorant of itself, the accomplishment is valuable.  That he watches Marston’s welfare, no one doubts; that he never forgets his own, is equally certain.  From near mid-distance of the slope we see him approaching on a bay-coloured horse.  The sun’s rays are fiercely hot, and, though his features are browned and haggard, he holds a huge umbrella in one hand and the inseparable whip in the other.  The former is his protector; the latter, his sceptre.  John Ryan, for such is his name, is a tall, athletic man, whose very look excites terror.  Some say he was born in Limerick, on the Emerald Isle, and only left it because his proud spirit would not succumb to the unbending rod England held over his poor bleeding country.

Running along the centre of the slope is a line of cotton-fields, in which the young plants, sickly in spots, have reached a stage when they require much nursing.  Among them are men, women, and children, crouched on the ground like so many sable spectres, picking and pulling at the roots to give them strength.  John Ryan has been keeping a sharp eye on them.  He will salute you with an air of independence, tell you how he hated oppression and loved freedom, and how, at the present day, he is a great democrat.  Now, whether John left his country for his country’s good, is a question; but certain it is he dearly delights to ply the lash,-to whip mankind merely for amusement’s sake.  In a word, John has a good Irish heart within him, and he always lays particular emphasis on the good, when he tells us of its qualities; but let us rather charge to the State that spare use he makes of its gentler parts.

John Ryan, his face indicating tyranny stereotyped, has just been placing drivers over each gang of workmen.  How careful he was to select a trustworthy negro, whose vanity he has excited, and who views his position as dearly important.  Our driver not unfrequently is the monster tyrant of his circle; but whether from inclination to serve the interests of his master, or a knowledge of the fierce system that holds him alike abject, we know not.  At times he is more than obedient to his master’s will.