NEGRO LIFE IN AMERICA. 13

“Just like you, Eliza; and you are the handsomest woman I
ever saw, and the best one I ever wish to see; but, oh, I wish I'd
never seen you, nor you me ?

“Oh, George, how can you?”

“ Yes, Eliza, it’s all misery, misery, misery! My life is bitter
as wormwood; the very life is burning out of me. I’m a poor,
miserable, forlorn drudge; I shall only drag you down with me,
that’s all. What's the use of our trying to do anything, trying
to know anything, trying to be anything ? What's the use of
living? I wish 1 was dead !”

“Oh, now, dear George, that is really wicked! I know how
you feel about losing your place in the factory, and you have a
hard master; but pray be patient, and perhaps something—”

« Patient!” said he, interrupting her; “ haven't I been patient ?
Did I say a word when he came and took me away, for no earthly
reason, from the place where everybody was kind to me? I paid
him truly every cent of my earnings ; and they all say I worked

ell.

“Well, it is dreadful,” said Eliza; “ but, after all, he is your
master, you know.”

“My master! and who made him my master ? That’s what I
think of—what right has he to me? I’m a man as much as he
is; I’m a better man than he is; I know more about business
than he does; I'm a better manager than he is; I can read
better than he can; I can write a better hand; and I have
learned it all myself, and no thanks to him—lI’ve learned it in
spite of him; and now what right has he to make a dray-horse
of me ?—to take me from things I can do, and do better than he
can, and put me to work that any horse can do? He tries to do
it; he says he'll bring me down and humble me, and he puts me
to just the hardest, meanest, and dirtiest work, on purpose.”

“0 George—George—you frighten me! Why, I never heard
you talk so; I’m afraid you'll do something dreadful. I don't
wonder at your feelings at all; but oh, do be careful—do, do—for
my sake—for Harry’s!”

“ Thave been careful, and I have been patient ; but it’s growing
worse and worse—flesh and blood can’t bear it any longer. Every
chance he can get to insult and torment me, hetakes. I thought
I could do my work well, and keep on quiet, and have some time
to read and learn out of work-hours; but the more he sees I can
do, the more he loads on. He says that though I don’t say any-
thing, he sees I've got the devil in me, and he means to bring it
out; and one of these days it will come out in a way that he won't
like, or I’m mistaken.”

“Oh, dear, what shall we do?” said Eliza mournfully.

“It was only yesterday,” said George, “as I was busy loading
stones into a cart, that young Mas’r Tom stood there, slashing his
whip so near the horse that the creature was frightened. I asked