We pass the dilapidated gate, and reach it by a narrow passage through the garden, on each side of which is a piece of antique statuary, broken and defaced. Entering the lower veranda, we pace the quadrangle, viewing innumerable cuttings and carvings upon the posts: they are initials and full names, cut to please the vanity of those anxious to leave the Marston family a memento. Again we arrive at the back of the mansion where the quadrangle opens a courtyard filled with broken vines, blackened cedars, and venerable-looking leaks;-they were once much valued by the ancient and very respectable Marston family. A few yards from the left wing of the mansion are the "yard houses"-little, comely cabins, about twelve feet by twenty, and proportionately high. One is the kitchen: it has a dingy look, the smoke issuing from its chinks regardless of the chimney; while from its door, sable denizens, ragged and greasy, and straining their curious faces, issue forth. The polished black cook, with her ample figure, is foaming with excitement, lest the feast she is preparing for master's guests may fail to sustain her celebrity. Conspicuous among these cabins are two presenting a much neater appearance: they are brightly whitewashed, and the little windows are decorated with flowering plants. Within them there is an air of simple neatness and freshness we have seldom seen surpassed; the meagre furniture seems to have been arranged by some careful hand, and presents an air of cheerfulness in strange contrast with the dingy cabins around. In each there is a neatly arranged bed, spread over with a white cover, and by its side a piece of soft carpet. It is from these we shall draw forth the principal characters of our story. Upon a brick foundation, about twenty rods from the right wing of the mansion, stands a wood cottage, occupied by the overseer. Mr. John Ryan not being blessed with family, when Marston is not honoured with company takes his meals at the mansion. In the distance, to the left, is seen a long line of humble huts, standing upon piles, and occupied by promiscuous negro families:--we say promiscuous, for the marriage-tie is of little value to the master, nor does it give forth specific claim to parentage. The sable occupants are beings of uncertainty; their toil is for a life-time-a weary waste of hope and disappointment. Yes! their dreary life is a heritage, the conditions of which no man would share willingly. Victors of husbandry, they share not of the spoils; nor is the sweat of their brows repaid with justice.