it comes, so long as the writer be a white man.  The pass is written; the negro partakes of refreshment that has been prepared for him at the stranger’s request, and they are wending their way through the city.  They pass between rows of massive buildings, many of which have an antique appearance, and bear strong signs of neglect; but their unique style of architecture denotes the taste of the time in which they were erected.  Some are distinguished by heavy stone colonnades, others by verandas of fret-work, with large gothic windows standing in bold outline.  Gloomy-looking guard-houses, from which numerous armed men are issuing forth for the night’s duty,—­patrolling figures with white cross belts, and armed with batons, standing at corners of streets, or moving along with heavy tread on the uneven side-walk,—­give the city an air of military importance.  The love of freedom is dangerous in this democratic world; liberty is simply a privilege.  Again the stranger and his guide (the negro) emerge into narrow lanes, and pass along between rows of small dwellings inhabited by negroes; but at every turn they encounter mounted soldiery, riding two abreast, heavily armed.  “Democracy, boast not of thy privileges! tell no man thou governest with equal justice!” said the stranger to himself, as the gas-light shed its flickers upon this military array formed to suppress liberty.

They have reached the outskirts of the city, and are approaching a pretty villa, which the negro, who has been explaining the nature and duties of this formidable display of citizen soldiery, points to, as the peaceful home of the Rosebrook family.  Brighter and brighter, as they approach, glares the bright light of a window in the north front.  “I wish Mas’r Rosebrook owned me,” says the negro, stopping at the garden gate, and viewing the pretty enclosure ere he opens it.  “If ebery mas’r and missus war as kind as da’h is, dar wouldn’t be no need o’ dem guard-houses and dem guardmen wid dar savage steel,” he continues, opening the gate gently, and motioning the stranger to walk in.  Noiselessly he advances up the brick walk to the hall entrance, and rings the bell.  A well-dressed negro man soon makes his appearance, receives him politely, as the guide retires, and ushers him into a sumptuously furnished parlour.  The Rosebrook negroes quickly recognise a gentleman, and detecting it in the bearing of the stranger they treat him as such.  Mrs. Rosebrook, followed by her husband, soon makes her appearance, saluting the stranger with her usual suavity.  “I have come, madam,” he says, “on a strange mission.  With you I make no secret of it; should I be successful it will remove the grief and anxiety of one who has for years mourned the fate of her on whom all her affections seem to have centred.  If you will but read this it will save the further recital of my mission.”  Thus saying, he drew a letter from his pocket, presented it, and watched her countenance as line by line she read it, and, with tears glistening in her eyes, passed it to her husband.