other region. Gain is no consideration for those who live in every muscle, and who find enjoyment from the exercise of every limb. The man who lives by measuring tape and pins by the sixpence worth, may make money by his vocation-but, God help him! he is scarce a man. His veins expand not with generous ardor; his muscles wither and vanish, as they are unemployed; and his soul—it has no emotions which prompt him to noble restlessness, and high and generous exertion. Let him keep at his vocation if he will, but he might, morally and physically, do far better if he would.

My resolves were soon known to all around me. They are not yet known to the reader. Well, they are quickly told. The freed youth at twenty-one, for the first time freed, and impatient only for the exercise of his freedom, has but few purposes, and his plans are usually single and unsophisticated enough. Remember, I am speaking for the forester and farmer, not for the city youth who is taught the arts of trade from the cradle up, and learns to scheme and connive while yet he clips the coral in his boneless gums. I was literally going abroad, after the fashion of the poorer youth of our neighborhood, to seek my fortune. As yet, I had but little of my own. A fine horse, a few hundred dollars in specie, three able-bodied negroes, a good rifle, which carried eighty to the pound, and was the admiration of many who were even better shots than myself these made pretty much the sum total of my earthly possessions. But I thought not much of this matter. To ramble a while, at least until my money was all gone, and then to take service on shares with some planter who had land and needed the help of one like myself, was all my secret. I had heard of the Chickasaw Bluffs, and of the still more recent Choctaw purchase at that time a land of promise only, as its acquisition had not been effected- and I was desirous of looking upon these regions. The Choctaw territory was reported to be rich as cream; and I meditated to find out the best spots, in order to secure them by entry, as soon as the government could effect the treaty which should throw them into the market. In this ulterior object I was upheld by some of our neighboring capitalists, who had urged, to some extent, the measure upon I was not unwilling to do this for them, particularly as it

me.

did not interfere in my own plans to follow up theirs ; but my own desire was simply to stretch my limbs in freedom, to traverse the prairies, to penetrate the swamps, to behold the climbing hills and lovely hollows of the Choctaw lands, and luxuriate in the eternal solitudes of their spacious forests. To feel my freedom was now my hope. I had been fettered long enough.

But do not think me wanting in natural affection to my parents: far from it. I effected no small achievement when I first resolved to leave my mother. It was no pain to leave my father. He was a man, a strong one too, and could do well enough without me. But, without spoiling me, my mother, of all her children, had made me most a favorite. I was her Richard always. She considered me first, though I had an elder brother, and spoke of me in particular when speaking of her sons, and referred to me for counsel in preference to all the rest. This may have been because I was soon found to be the most decisive of all my brothers; and folks did me the further courtesy to say, the most thoughtful too. My elder brother, John Hurdis, was too fond of eating to be an adventurous man, and too slow and unready to be a performing one. We often quarrelled, too; and this, perhaps, was another reason why I should desire to leave a place from which he was quite too lazy ever to depart. Had he been bold enough to go forth, I might not have been so ready to do so, for there were motives and ties to keep me at home, which shall have development as I proceed.

My father, though a phlegmatic and proud man, showed much more emotion at the declaration of my resolve to leave him, than I had ever expected. His emotion arose, not so much from the love he bore me, as from the loss which he was about to sustain by my departure. I had been his best negro, and he confessed it. Night and day, without complaint, my time had been almost entirely devoted to his service, and his crops had never been half so good as when I had directed the labor of his force, and regulated his resources. My brother John had virtually given up to me the entire management, and my father was too well satisfied with the fruits of the change to make any objection. My resolution to leave him now, once more threw the business of the plantation upon John; and his incompetence, the result of his inertness and obesity, rather

than of any deficiency of mind, was sorely apprehended by the old man. I felt this to be the strongest argument against my departure. But was I always to be the slave I had been? Was I always to watch peas and potatoes, corn and cotton, without even the poor satisfaction of choosing the spot where it would please me best to watch them? This reflection strengthened me in my resolves, and answered my father. In answer to the expostulation of my mother, I made a promise, which in part consoled her.

"I will go but for a few months, mother-for the winter only; you will see me back in spring; and then, if father and myself can come to anything like terms, I will stay and superintend for him, as I have done before."

"Terms, Richard!" were the old lady's words in reply; "what terms would you have, my son, that he will not agree to, so that they be in reason? He will give you one fifth-I will answer for it, Richard-and that ought to be quite enough to satisfy any one."

"More than enough, mother; more than I ask or expect But I can not now agree even to that. I must see the world a while; travel about; and if, at the end of the winter, I see no better place—no place, I mean, which I could better like to live in-why then I will come back, as I tell you, and go to work as usual."

There was some little indignation in the old lady's answer: "Better place! like better to live in! Why, Richard, what has come over you? Are not the place you were born in, and the parents who bred you, and the people whom you have lived with all your life-are they not good enough for you, that you must come to me at this time of day, and talk about better places, and all such stuff? Really, my son, you forget yourself to speak in this manner. As if everything was not good enough for you here!"

"Good enough, mother; I answered gloomily; "good enough; perhaps I deny it not; and yet not exactly to my liking. I am not pleased to waste my life as I do at present. I am not satisfied that I do myself justice. I feel a want in my mind, and an impatience at my heart; a thirst which I can not explain to you, and which, while here, I can not quench. I must

go elsewhere

I must fix my eyes on other objects. You for

get, too, that I have been repulsed, rejected—though you told me I should not be where I had set my heart; and that the boon has been given to another, for which I had struggled long, and for a long season had hoped to attain. Can you wonder that I should seek to go abroad, even were I not moved by a natural desire at my time of life to see some little of the world?"

There were some portions of my reply which were conclusive, and to which my mother did not venture any answer ; but last remark suggested the tenor of a response which she did not pause to make.

my

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'But what can you see of the world, my son, among the wild places to which you think to go? What can you see at the Bluffs, or down by the Yazoo but woods and Indians? Besides, Richard, the Choctaws are said to be troublesome now in the nation. Old Mooshoolatubbé and La Fleur are going to fight, and it will be dangerous travelling."

"The very thing, mother," was my hasty reply. "I will take side with La Fleur, and when we have to fight Mooshoolatubbé, get enough land for my reward, to commence business for myself. That last speech of yours, mother, is conclusive in my favor. I will be a rich man yet; and then”—in the bitterness of a disappointed spirit I spoke-" and then, mother, we will see whether John Hurdis is a better man with thirty negroes than Richard Hurdis with but three.

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Why, who says he is, my son ?" demanded my mother with a tenderness of accent which increased while she spoke, and with eyes that filled with tears in the same instant.

My heart told me I was wrong, but I could not forbear the reply that rose to my lips.

Mary Easterby," were the two words which made my only

answer.

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Richard, Richard!" exclaimed the old lady, "you envy your brother."

Envy him! No! I envy him nothing, not even his better fortune. Let him wear what he has won, whether he be worthy of it or not. If, knowing me, she prefers him, be it so. She is not the woman for me. I envy not his possessions; neither

his wife, nor his servant, his ox, nor his ass. It vexes me that I have been mistaken, mother, both in her, and in him; but, thank Heaven! I envy neither. I am not humble enough for that."

"My dear Richard, you know that I have always sought to make you happy. It grieves me that you are not so. What would you have me do for you?"

"Let me go forth in peace. Say nothing to my father to prevent it. Seem to be satisfied with my departure yourself. I will try to please you better when I return."

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'You ask too much, my son; but I will try. I will do anything for you, if you will only think and speak less scornfully of your elder brother."

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And what are my thoughts and words to him, mother? He feels them not-they do not touch him. Is he not my elder brother? Has he not all? The favor of our grandmother gave him wealth, and with his wealth, and from his wealth, comes the favor of Mary Easterby."

"What! she takes

"You do her wrong!" said my mother. "Do I, indeed?" I answered bitterly. him then for his better person, his nobler thoughts, his boldness, his industry, and the thousand other manly qualities, so winning in a woman's eyes, which I have not, but which he possesses in such plenty? Is it this that you would say, my mother? Say it then if you can; but well I know you must be silent. You can not speak, mother, and speak thus. For what then has Mary Easterby preferred John Hurdis? God forgive me if I do her wrong, and Heaven's mercy to her if she wrongs herself and me. At one time I thought she loved me, and I showed her some like follies. I will not say that she has not made me suffer; but I rejoice that I can suffer like a man.

Let me go from you in quiet, dear mother; urge my departure, and believe, as I think, that it will be for the benefit of all."

My father's entrance interrupted a conversation, which neither of us was disposed readily to resume.