His plantation, a small one, some few miles from the Villa, presented the same neatness and comfort, the same cheerfulness among the negroes, and the same kindly feeling between master and slave, which characterised the Villa.

We enter a neatly-furnished parlour, where the deacon and a friend are seated on a sofa; various pictures are suspended from the wall,—­everything betokens New England neatness.  The old-fashioned dog-irons and fender are polished to exquisite brightness, a Brussels carpet spreads the floor, a bright surbase encircles the room; upon the flossy hearth-rug lies crouched the little canine pet, which Aunt Dolly has washed to snowy whiteness.  Aunt Dolly enters the room with a low curtsy, gently raises the poodle, then lays him down as carefully as if he were an heir to the estate.  Master is happy, “missus” is happy, and Aunt Dolly is happy; and the large bookcase, filled with well-selected volumes, adds to the air of contentment everywhere apparent.  In a niche stands a large pier-table, upon which are sundry volumes with gilt edges, nets of cross-work, porcelain ornaments, and card-cases inlaid with mosaic.  Antique tables with massive carved feet, in imitation of lions’ paws, chairs of curious patterns, reclines and ottomans of softest material, and covered with satin damask, are arranged round the room in harmony and good taste.

“Now, Mr. Scranton,” the deacon says to his friend, who is a tall, prim, sedate-looking man, apparently about forty, “I pity Marston; I pity him because he is a noble-hearted fellow.  But, after all, this whispering about the city may be only mother Rumour distributing her false tales.  Let us hope it is all rumour and scandal.  Come, tell me-what do you think of our negroes?”

“Nigger character has not changed a bit in my mind, since I came south.  Inferior race of mortals, sir!-without principles, and fit only for service and submission.  A southern man knows their composition, but it takes a northern to study the philosophy-it does,” replies Mr. Scranton, running his left hand over his forehead, and then his right over the crown of his head, as if to cover a bald spot with the scanty remnant of hair that projected from the sides.

The deacon smiles at the quaint reply.  He knows Mr. Scranton’s northern tenacity, and begs to differ with him.  “You are ultra, a little ultra, in all things, Mr. Scranton.  I fear it is that, carried out in morals as well as politics, that is fast reducing our system to degradation and tyranny.  You northern gentlemen have a sort of pedantic solicitude for our rights, but you underrate our feelings upon the slavery question.  I’m one among the few southerners who hold what are considered strange views:  we are subjected to ridicule for our views; but it is only by those who see nothing but servitude in the negro,—­nothing but dollars and cents in the institution of slavery.”

Mr. Scranton is struck with astonishment, interrupts the argument by insisting upon the great superiority of the gentlemen whites, and the Bible philosophy which he can bring to sustain his argument.