LETTER III.

Augusty, Georgia, May 12, 1845. TO MR. THOMPSON:-Dear Sir-This far I have travelled in the bowels of the land without any diffikilty, as Mr. Shakespeer ses; but whether I'm gwine to git safe to my jurny's eend, or find myself like Jony in the bowels of a whale's belly before I git home agin, is a bisness what opens a fine field for speckelation, as the cotton byers ses.

But that's neither here nor thar. I sot down to tell you 'bout my jurny to this city. Well, this mornin all the famly was up before the crack of day gettin reddy for me to start. Evrything was reddy three or four days ago, but it seemed like the nearer the time come to start, the more ther was to do. Thar was old Miss Stallins in the kitchen raisin a harrycane among the niggers 'bout gettin breckfust for me the niggers was all crazy 'bout my gwine away-Ned was rairin and pitchin 'bout the lot cause one of the nttle niggers let the horses git out of the stable--some of the harness was lent-old Simon had tuck the tar-bucket off with him, so ther wasn't no way to grease the carrige-Prissy upsot the tea-kittle, gittin some water for me to shave-Fanny tripped up and spilt all the biskits in the yard-the galls was lookin for the kee of my trunk, what couldn't be found no whar-little Harry was squallin like blazes cause he couldn't have on his new hat and cote and go with me in the carrige-and in the middle of the everlastin rumpus, I like to cut my nose off with the razer!

Bimeby though, things all settled down into a pretty considerable calm. Ned cotcht the horses-the harness was brung home-the wheels was greased--the kee

was found rite whar Mary had put it herself-little Harry stopped cryin-my nose stopped bleedin, and breckfust was sot; but after all ther wasn't one could eat a mouthful, spite of all the 'swadin old Miss Stallins could do.

Mary tuck on considerable, pore gall; though she tried to hide it all she could. She didn't have much to say, but she looked monstrous droopy; and whenever I tried to cheer her up by tellin her I wouldn't stay no longer than I could help, her lips would sort o' quiver, and she'd turn round to tend to the baby or something; but when she looked at me agin, her long eyelashes was damp with tears. Ah! Mr. Thompson, me and you know how to preciate the deep pure founting from whar them tears flowed-we married men know how to vally the ever-gushin feelins of a true woman's hart, which, like the waters of the spring what no summer can't dry up and no winter freeze, is coolest when the day is hottest and grows warmer when the world grows cold. I felt monstrous bad myself, but it wouldn't do to let on, for I know'd it would only make

her worse.

By this time old Mr. Mountgomery, and cousin Pete, and a heap more nabors, and all the niggers on the plantation, was come to bid me good-by. Old Termination, my driver, was mounted on the box, with his clean clothes on, and a bran new lash to his whip, the proudest nigger you ever did see. He couldn't notice none of the rest of 'em for his shirt collar, but if any of the little niggers come too close to his team, axin him to by 'em something in Augusty, he was monstrous apt to anser 'em with a little tetch of the lash.

When the trunks was tied on, and old Miss Stallins was sure ther wasn't nothin forgot-which she sed she know'd ther would be—I went through the shakin hands with the nabors.

"Good by, Majer," ses old Mr. Mountgomery, "I wish you a plesant jurny and a safe return." "Thank you," ses I.

"Good by, Joe," ses Pete" don't you git in no ass with them abolitionists-if you do, old feller, you won't find no frends thar, mind I tell you."

"Don't you fear for me," ses I-"Good by, and take care of yourself."

"Good by, Majer," ses all of 'em, as they shuck my hand.

Then here come all the niggers.

"Good by, Massa Joe," ses all of 'em.

"Good by," ses I, " and be good niggers till I come back."

"Don't let none of dem pesky old bobolitionists kotch you, Massa Joe," ses Prissy.

"Massa Joe, massa Joe, ant Moma say cum da!" ses one of the little niggers.

Pore old Moma was the fust nigger my father ever owned. She's more'n a hundred years old now, and her hed's as white as the cotton she use' to pick for us when she was a gall. She's been monstrous porely this winter, and hain't been able to go out of her little house in the yard, whar she's lived ever sense she was too old to do anything on the plantation. She was 'fraid I was gwine off without bidden her good by, and that's the reason she sent for me. She was settin in the door when I went to her, and she raised her old dim eyes, almost white with age, and looked at me.

"Why, Massa Joe, God bless you; you gwine away widout tellin pore ole Moma good by?--ole Moma what use to nuss you, when you was leetle baby like leetle massa Harry. Moma no able run after Massa Joe new-maybe ole Moma neber see you gin. Pore ole Moma, lib too long make trouble for white fokes; but Moma's time mose come."

"No, no, Moma," ses I, "you mustn't talk that

"She was sittin in the door when I went to her, and she raised her old dim eyes, almost white with age, and looked at me. Why, Massa Joe, God bless you.'"-Letter iii. p. 20.