raising his mug, which he had slyly filled again, he drained it

to the bottom.

"Shut up, Jule, you don't know any thing about such big gentlemen," exclaimed the Captain.

"I don't know ruffin 'bout any gemmen whot chaws 'backer," rejoined the darky-who seemed to be a privileged character -" but I knows lots o' cap'ns whot does it, and does it so bad dat I'se afeared dey'll neber git ober it, neber."

66

told

Captain," exclaimed the Parson, laughing heartily, “I've Jule is too smart for you. But come, old fellow, hurry up that dinner-I'm as hungry as a bear."

you

The negro slowly picked himself up and waddled out of the

tent.

"That darky is no fool," I remarked, when he had gone.

"No, he is as smart as any white man I ever knew. He's of good stock. Though dwarfed and misshapen, he has every mark of good blood about him," replied the Chaplain.

"What do you mean by 'good blood?' he's as black as midnight."

"I mean he has a fine physical organization-as fine as a white man's. The souls of all men, I take it, are essentially alike. Men differ only in organization. On a fine organization the spirit acts more perfectly than on a coarse one. No player can get as good music from a poor piano as from a good one. This accounts for the inequality of mental development we see among men and races of men, and the same difference that exists among the white races, exists among the black. Jule is one of the superior grade."

"I never heard that theory stated before," I replied; “but I have observed that the negro with cucumber-shaped shin, bab

oon head and face, stooping shoulder and long heel, is inferior -greatly so-to the one (however black he may be) of erect and well-formed body, straight shin, and finely developed brain. I have known many of these last that I have thought equal in mental and moral power to the better class of white men."

'Equal in mental and superior in moral power," said the Parson. "It is useless for us to deny it; the better races of negroes are more receptive of good influences, more familiar with the inmost experiences of faith, and hope, and trust; more suitably organized to be the temples of the Holy Spirit than our own race. They live close to God, are truly His children; their whole souls go out to Him in prayer and worship, and some of them carry a halo always about them, as if they daily saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at His right hand.""

"Yes, but is not some of this religious exaltation owing to their condition? They cling to Christ because he is their all --they have literally nothing else."

"No, I think not. It is the result of organization. Day and Martin will, without doubt, be at a premium on the 'other side of Jordan.' If St. Peter ever lets me in, I reckon it will be because I shall hold on mighty hard to the coat-tail of some old black saint, like Julius here. Eh, Jule?"

"I reckons not, Massa Parson," replied the negro, who had re-entered, and was loading the small table with eatables. "I reckons you kin git in fru dat ar gate wid you' own legs and de grace ob God. But ef you can't-ef ole Peter make any 'jection-Jule 'll take you up ahind; you kin git up dur (touching the huge hump on his back) an' ride slap inter glory like's ef you wus drivin' you' own six hoss kerridge-you kin, Massa Parson-you may 'pend on dat.”

ner.

A laugh followed, and in the midst of it we sat down to dinIt consisted of boiled ham, salt pork, corn bread, buttermilk, and strawberries, and on such fare, seasoned as it was with hunger, exercise, and pleasant conversation, I made a most hearty meal.

"You belabored nigger worshippers, in your sermon," I said to the parson after a time; "but it strikes me you're something of one yourself."

"Not a bit of one," he replied; "I can see his good qualities, but I give the negro precious little love or worship; the poor white man has all my sympathy, and he needs it more than the black."

"I know he is lower in intellect and morals than the negro." "Far lower. The slaveocrats have enslaved his mind as they have the other's body. His degradation is almost past belief. The other day, I was strolling out a little way beyond our lines, and came upon a young woman sitting in the doorway of a mean hovel. She was as beautiful as Eve before she fell—as beautiful as I imagine the angels are who bear parted souls to Heaven. She had long, auburn hair, which fell over her neck like a veil of golden gauze, soft, liquid brown eyes, and features that sculptors chisel for the world to look at. Raphael had a dim vision of such a face, and made it immortal in the Madonna. She sat with her bare legs braced against the door-jamb, and a little higher than her head; and the coarse cottonade gown she wore disclosed the handsomest foot, ankle, and--shall I say it. Captain ?" and he paused abruptly, and turned to that gentleman.

"Oh, yes; say it; never mind me," rejoined the Captain, with mock gravity.

"Well then, the handsomest foot, ankle and knee, that can be found in Tennessee."

"The Parson's a judge of beauty, Sir," said the Captain. "In women and horses he's a perfect connoisseur. He adores a handsome form, but a pretty leg enraptures him."

"And why shouldn't it? Woman is the most beautiful thing in creation, and a pretty leg is a womanly feature-but we'll not discuss that. As I approached this half-clad beauty she took an old tobacco pipe, blacker than the ace of spades, from her mouth, and said to me: Stranger, howdy'ge? Ye haint got no 'backer 'bout ye, hes ye?'

"I pleasantly told her I did not use tobacco, when she put one of her pretty feet to the ground (there was no floor to the cabin), and yelled out: Then gwo to,' the hot place the Captain occasionally alludes to we haint no use for no sich old saints as ye is, round yere!' I travelled off at double-quick, I assure you, but I cursed in my heart the men and the system that had reduced so lovely a specimen of my race and blood to such degradation."

"But they are not all so degraded," said the Captain. "When I was a prisoner last fall, I saw a good deal of them, and one of them aided me to escape. He fought like a hero at Stone River, and is now by far the best man in my company." "Come, Captain; tell our friend your adventures with Tom in Secessia," said the Parson.

The Captain assented, and his story will be found in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VII.

THE CAPTAIN'S STORY.

"IT is not much of a story," said the captain, drawing his chair away from the table and lighting a huge cigar; "and, besides, I haven't the parson's handy way of dressing up a common incident so as to make it fit for good society; but such as it is, it is true."

66

"But, Captain, as it's Sunday," said the preacher, smiling, suppose you leave out some of your favorite ornamental phrases; truth unadorned, you know, is adorned the most."

"Yes; but if you strip it stark naked you shock modest people. Why, Sir, if I used as many oaths in my talk as the parson does in his sermons, I should expect the earth to open and swallow me, as in ancient times it did that old secessionist, Korah."

“Come, come, you'll make your story like the parsonage my folks in Illinois built for me—all porch and front-door. Get into it, and be brief; for life is short-and I want Mr. hear some of Jule's psalm-singing before he goes."

to

The captain handed me a cigar, took a long whiff from his own, and without noticing the preacher's remark, began his story:

"It was after the great foot-race between Bragg and Buell, when old Slow-coach' won the stakes-two States and-a