distinguished society!  But, Grabguy, to make up for the vexatious rejection, has got to be an alderman, which is a step upward in the scale of his father’s attained distinction.  There is nothing more natural, then, than that Grabguy should seek his way up in the world, with the best means at his hands; it is a worthy trait of human nature, and is as natural to the slave.  In this instance-when master and slave are both incited to a noble purpose-Grabguy is a wealthy alderman, and Nicholas-the whiter of the two-his abject slave.  The master, a man of meagre mind, and exceedingly avaricious, would make himself distinguished in society; the slave, a mercurial being of impassioned temper, whose mind is quickened by a sense of the injustice that robs him of his rights, seeks only freedom and what may follow in its order.

Let us again introduce the reader to Nicholas, as his manly figure, marked with impressive features, stands before us, in Grabguy’s workshop.  Tall, and finely formed, he has grown to manhood, retaining all the quick fiery impulses of his race.  Those black eyes wandering irresistibly, that curl of contempt that sits upon his lip, that stare of revenge that scowls beneath those heavy eyebrows, and that hate of wrong that ever and anon pervades the whole, tell how burns in his heart the elements of a will that would brave death for its rights-that would bear unmoved the oppressor’s lash-that would embrace death rather than yield to perfidy.  He tells us-"I came here, sold-so they said-by God’s will.  Well.  I thought to myself, isn’t this strange, that a curious God-they tell me he loves everybody-should sell me?  It all seemed like a misty waste to me.  I remembered home-I learned to read, myself-I remembered mother, I loved her, but she left me, and I have never seen her since.  I loved her, dear mother!  I did love her; but they said she was gone far away, and I musn’t mind if I never see’d her again.  It seemed hard and strange, but I had to put up with it, for they said I never had a father, and my mother had no right to me” (his piercing black eyes glare, as fervently he says, mother!).  “I thought, at last, it was true, for everybody had a right to call me nigger,—­a blasted white nigger, a nigger as wouldn’t be worth nothing.  And then they used to kick me, and cuff me, and lash me; and if nigger was nigger I was worse than a nigger, because every black nigger was laughing at me, and telling me what a fool of a white nigger I was;—­that white niggers was nobody, could be nobody, and was never intended for nobody, as nobody knew where white niggers come from.  But I didn’t believe all this; it warn’t sensible.  Something said-Nicholas! you’re just as good as anybody:  learn to read, write, and cypher, and you’ll be something yet.  And this something-I couldn’t tell what it was, nor could I describe it-seemed irresistible in its power to carry me to be that somebody it prompted in my feelings.  I was white, and when I looked