“Oh! oh! bless me! he will forget he is a runaway piece of property in his anxiousness to put forth his spiritual inclinations.  That’s what’ll betray the scamp;—­nigger will be nigger, you know!  They can’t play the lawyer, nohow,” mine host replies, with an assurance of his ability to judge negro character.  This is a new idea, coming like the dew-drops of heaven to relieve his anxiety.  The consoling intelligence makes him feel more comfortable.

The whiskey-and-bitters-most unpoetic drink-is brought to his bed-side.  He tremblingly carries it to his lips, sips and sips; then, with one gulp, empties the glass.  At this moment the pedantic physician makes his appearance, scents the whiskey, gives a favourable opinion of its application as a remedy in certain cases.  The prescription is not a bad one.  Climate, and such a rusty constitution as Mr. M’Fadden is blest with, renders a little stimulant very necessary to keep up the one thing needful-courage!  The patient complains bitterly to the man of pills and powders; tells a great many things about pains and fears.  What a dreadful thing if the consequence had proved fatal!  He further thinks that it was by the merest act of Providence, in such a desperate affray, he had not been killed outright.  A great many bad visions have haunted him in his dreams, and he is very desirous of knowing what the man of salts and senna thinks about the true interpretation of such.  About the time he was dreaming such dreams he was extremely anxious to know how the spiritual character of slave-holders stood on the records of heaven, and whether the fact of slave-owning would cause the insertion of an item in the mortal warrant forming the exception to a peaceful conclusion with the Father’s forgiveness.  He felt as if he would surely die during the night past, and his mind became so abstracted about what he had done in his life,—­what was to come, how negro property had been treated, how it should be treated,—­that, although he had opinions now and then widely-different, it had left a problem which would take him all his life-time to solve,—­if he should live ever so long.  And, too, there were these poor wretches accidentally shot down at his side; his feelings couldn’t withstand the ghostly appearance of their corpses as he was carried past them, perhaps to be buried n the same forlorn grave, the very next day.  All these things reflected their results through the morbidity of Mr. M’Fadden’s mind; but his last observation, showing how slender is the cord between life and death, proved what was uppermost in his mind.  “You’ll allow I’m an honest man?  I have great faith in your opinion, Doctor!  And if I have been rather go-ahead with my niggers, my virtue in business matters can’t be sprung,” he mutters.  The physician endeavours to calm his anxiety, by telling him he is a perfect model of goodness,—­a just, honest, fearless, and enterprising planter; and that these attributes of our better nature constitute such a balance in the scale as will give any gentleman slaveholder very large claims to that spiritual proficiency necessary for the world to come.