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Knowing how egregiously the gentle and enlightened
reader is an hungered after stirring adventures,
bloody feats, and such like delectable
ingredients, which, like Cayenne and spices, give
a triumphant zest to literary entertainments, and
how justly he abhorreth that dull and diabolical
fiend called Common Sense, we shall not detain
him from the marvellous wonders in store for him
a moment longer than is necessary to record a
few indispensable preliminaries.

When it was known that the estate of Powhatan,
with all its live stock, two-legged and fourlegged,
saving and excepting Barebones, Pompey
Ducklegs, Pompey the Little, and the rest of the
Pompey family, young and old, amounting to
some five-and-forty, had passed away from their
ancient owner, there was weeping and gnashing
of teeth among the inhabitants of the little village
of cabins, where dwelt the slaves of Colonel Dangerfield,
in the possession of all those enjoyments
of which their state is susceptible. They thronged
about their master and mistress, begging to be
taken with them to “Old Kentuck,” where they
would cut down the big trees, plant corn, and kill
the Indians. The colonel was affected, and Mrs.
Dangerfield could not restrain her tears; but, it
being now evening, she directed the inspiring
banjo to be twanged by the minstrel of Powhatan,

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who, strange to say, was prophetically christened
by the name of Orpheus, or Apollo, for, beshrew
our memory, we have forgotten which. At that
irresistible signal, the light-hearted slaves, the very
prototypes of children in their joys, their sorrows,
their forgetfulness of the past, their indifference
to the future, listened, dried their tears, and soon
they were dancing “double trouble” and light Virginia
reels, with a triumphant, grotesque gesticulation,
a zest, an hilarity seasoned by such shouts
of laughter as only the echoes of the south repeat
to the listening landscapes far and wide. They
seemed to be happy, and we hope they were; for
it is little consolation to know, or to believe, that a
mode of existence of which millions of beings partake
is inevitably a state of wretchedness.

To the honour of Colonel Dangerfield it must
be recorded, that though Pompey the Little did
not win the race, he offered him his freedom on
this occasion.

“I cannot afford to give you money,” said he,
“but I can give you freedom.”

To the still greater honour of Pompey, he declined
the offer.

“Ony don't leave me behind, massa; dat all
nigger want.”

When the great Ducklegs heard this, he forgave
him the loss of the race, and pronounced
him decidedly “an honour to he family.”

“But what has become of Mr. Littlejohn all this
while?” the reader may peradventure inquire.

When the colonel apprized him of the transfer
of his property to Mactabb, and the intended emigration
to Kentucky, he exclaimed, with uncontrollable
emotion, “My G—d!” and burst into a
passion of tears.

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His benefactor, who had never suspected him
of so much feeling before, endeavoured to comfort
him, by suggesting a variety of topics of consolation.
But it was all in vain; he continued to
weep with a degree of convulsive agitation exceedingly
painful. The long winter, which had frozen
his feelings into ice, seemed to have broken up on
a sudden, and the pent-up waters flowed forth
scorning all restraint.

“Don't take on so, Ulysses,” said the colonel;
“I am not so poor but I can allow you something
to live on when I am gone. Mactabb will receive
you for a small allowance, and that I can spare
without difficulty.”

“May the thunder and lightning strike Mactabb
and all his race!” cried Littlejohn, suddenly
checking his emotion, or rather turning it into
another channel.

“Shame, Littlejohn, shame!—what has Mr.
Mactabb done that you should set the thunder and
lightning at him?”

“He's got Powhatan, d—n him!”

“Well, what of that? he came by it honestly.”

“I don't believe it. I don't believe it possible
for one man to get the estate of another honestly.
It stands to reason the Old Boy must help him,
more or less!”

The colonel could not forbear a smile at this theory
of Mr. Littlejohn.

“The Old Boy sometimes helps people to get rid
of an estate, I believe, as well as to get one. But
I'll tell you what, Ulysses, I intend to give you
Barebones. I can't bear to sell him.”

“Barebones, colonel!—I wouldn't have him if
he carried a packsaddle of guineas; he's just fit
to take a bag of corn to mill, and be hanged to
him! Blame me if I believe in his pedigree.”

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“You don't, Mr. Littlejohn? Let me tell you,
sir—confound me, sir!—let me tell you, Mr. Littlejohn,”—
and the colonel spoke between his shut
teeth,—“that if your pedigree were as undoubted
as that of Barebones, you might hold up your
head a little higher than you do. Look here, sir,”—
jerking out his pocket-book,—“look here, sir,”—
taking out a piece of smokedried paper,—“look
here, sir,”—unfolding it,—“dam, Kitty Fisher, sir;
grandam, Slow and Easy, sir; great-grandam,
Singed Cat; sir; great-great-grandam, Pettitoes,
sir; great-great-great-grandam—'sblood! Mr. Littlejohn,
I expect the next thing you do will be to
call me the son of a tinker!”

A moment after the hand of Mr. Littlejohn was
clasped in his own, for he remembered that Ulysses
was a dependant, and himself his benefactor.

“Well, well, colonel, I'm sure I didn't mean to
affront you; but that tobacco merchant has put
me so out that I hardly know what I say. I beg
your pardon for undervaluing poor Barebones.”

This was the first time he had ever begged the
colonel's pardon, and he did it now in compliment
to his misfortunes.

“Then you will take the horse?”

“No, you had better sell him; Allen of Claremont
told me the other day he would give a thousand
pounds for him.”

“I'd rather shoot him than sell him to Allen of
Claremont.”

“Well, then, colonel, do what you please with
him, but don't part with me. Take me with you,
and I'll work for you, fight for you, die for you,
or my name's not Littlejohn.”

“If I thought you would be comfortable in the
wilderness I should like to have you with me.”

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