A FLORIDA SHRINE. 197 
crop just out of the ground—and a bit ot 
wood on the right, and a swamp with a splen- 
did display of white water-lilies on the left, 
and had begun to ascend the gentle slope, 
I met a man of considerably more than 
seventy-four years. 
“Can you tell me just where the Murat 
place is?” I inquired. 
He grinned broadly, and thought he could. 
He was one of the old Murat servants, as 
his father had been before him. “I was 
borned on to him,” he said, speaking of the 
Prince. Murat was “a gentleman, sah.” 
That was a statement which it seemed im- 
possible for him to repeat often enough. 
He spoke from a slave’s point of view. Mu- 
rat was a good master. The old man had 
heard him say that he kept servants “ for 
the like of the thing.” He didn’t abuse 
them. He “never was for barbarizing a 
poor colored person at all.” Whipping? 
Oh, yes. “He didn’t miss your fault. No, 
sah, he didn’t miss your fault.” But his 
servants never were “ironed.” He “didn’t 
believe in barbarousment.”’ 
The old man was thankful to be free ; but 
to his mind emancipation had not made 
