presses his hands to his skirts and bosom.  And now he knew he was not mistaken, for he feels something solid in the bosom of his shirt, which is not his heart, although that thing makes a deuce of a fluttering.  Mr. M’Fadden’s anxiety increases as he squeezes his hands over its shapes, and watches the changes of Harry’s countenance.  “Book, ha’h!” he exclaims, drawing the osnaburg tight over the square with his left hand, while, with his right, he suddenly grasps Harry firmly by the hair of the head, as if he has discovered an infernal machine.  “Book, ha’h!”

“Pull it out, old buck.  That’s the worst o’ learned niggers; puts the very seven devils in their black heads, and makes ’em carry their conceit right into nigger stubbornness, so ye have t’ bring it out by lashin’ and botherin’.  Can’t stand such nigger nonsense nohow.”

Harry has borne all very peaceably; but there is a time when even the worm will turn.  He draws forth the book,—­it is the Bible, his hope and comforter; he has treasured it near his heart-that heart that beats loudly against the rocks of oppression.  “What man can he be who feareth the word of God, and says he is of his chosen?  Master, that’s my Bible:  can it do evil against righteousness?  It is the light my burdened spirit loves, my guide—­”

“Your spirit?” inquires M’Fadden, sullenly, interrupting Harry.  “A black spirit, ye’ mean, ye’ nigger of a preacher.  I didn’t buy that, nor don’t want it.  ’Taint worth seven coppers in picking time.  But I tell ye, cuff, wouldn’t mind lettin’ on ye preach, if a feller can make a spec good profit on’t.”  The gentleman concludes, contracting his eyebrows, and scowling at his property forbiddingly.

“You’ll let me have it again when I gets on the plantation, won’t ye, master?” inquires Harry, calmly.

“Let you have it on the plantation?"-Mr. M’Fadden gives his preacher a piercingly fierce look-"that’s just where ye won’t have ’t.  Have any kind o’ song-book ye’ wants; only larn ’em to other niggers, so they can put in the chorus once in a while.  Now, old buck (I’m a man o’ genius, ye know), when niggers get larnin’ the Bible out o’ ther’ own heads, ’t makes ’em sassy’r than ther’s any calculatin’ on.  It just puts the very d-l into property.  Why, deacon,” he addresses himself to Harry with more complacency, “my old father-he was as good a father as ever came from Dublin-said it was just the spilin’ on his children to larn ’em to read.  See me, now! what larnin’ I’ze got; got it all don’t know how:  cum as nat’ral as daylight.  I’ve got the allfired’st sense ye ever did see; and it’s common sense what makes money.  Yer don’t think a feller what’s got sense like me would bother his head with larnin’ in this ar’ down south?” Mr. M’Fadden exhibits great confidence in himself, and seems quite playful with his preacher, whom he pats on the shoulder and shakes by the hand.  “I never read three chapters in that ar’ book in my whole life-wouldn’t neither.  Really, deacon, two-thirds of the people of our State can’t read a word out o’ that book.  As for larnin’, I just put me mind on the thing, and got the meanin’ out on’t sudden.”