His figure was of medium height and very corpulent. His features were regular and handsome, his eyes were soft brown, almost black, and his hair was slightly gray. The expression of his countenance was so full of goodness and sympathy that a stranger meeting him in the road might have been convinced at a glance of his kindness and generosity. He was never very particular about his dress, yet never appeared shabby. Although a graduate in law at the university, an ample fortune made it unnecessary for him to practice his profession. Still his taste for literature made him a constant reader, and his conversation was instructive and agreeable. His house was old and rambling, and--I was going to say his servants kept the keys, but I remember there were _no keys_ about the establishment. Even the front door had no lock upon it. Everybody retired at night in perfect confidence, however, that everything was secure enough, and it seemed not important to lock the doors. The negro servants who managed the house were very efficient, excelling especially in the culinary department, and serving up dinners which were marvels. The superabundance on the place enabled them not only to furnish their master's table with the choicest meats, vegetables, cakes, pastries, etc., but also to supply themselves bountifully, and to spread in their own cabins sumptuous feasts, and wedding and party suppers rich enough for a queen. To this their master did not object, for he told them "if they would supply his table always with an abundance of the best bread, meats, cream, and butter, he cared not what became of the rest." Upon this principle the plantation was conducted. The well-filled barns, the stores of bacon, lard, flour, etc., literally belonged to the negroes, who allowed their master a certain share! Doubtless they entertained the sentiment of a negro boy who, on being reproved by his master for having stolen and eaten a turkey, replied: "Well, massa, you see, you got less turkey, but you got dat much more niggah!" While we were once visiting at this plantation, the master of the house described to us a dairy just completed on a new plan, which for some weeks had been such a hobby with him that he had actually purchased a lock for it, saying he would keep the key himself--which he never did--and have the fresh mutton always put there. "Come," said he, as he finished describing it, "let us go down and look at it. Bring me the key," he said to a small African, who soon brought it, and we proceeded to the dairy. Turning the key in the door, the old gentleman said: "Now see what a fine piece of mutton I have here!" But on entering and looking around, no mutton was to be seen, and instead thereof were buckets of custard, cream, and blanc-mange. The old gentleman, greatly disconcerted, called to one of the servants: "Florinda! Where is my mutton that I had put here this morning?" [Illustration: "WHERE IS MY MUTTON?"--_Page 98._]