“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.