land and city property. "I have preferred," he wrote in his will, "as a revenue, the earth, as part of the solid globe. One thing is certain, it will not take wings and fly away as gold and silver and governmental bonds and stocks often do. It is the only thing in this world that approaches anything like permanency." He bequeathed it all to the two cities, Baltimore and New Orleans, for educational purposes, asking "as a small favour, that the little children shall sometimes come and plant a few flowers above my grave." It is a pathetic document, this long, rambling will, and in reading it one quivers involuntarily at the harsh, rude speeches that dogged the man's old age, and one shrinks away from the presentment by imagination of the long, lonely evenings that filled the thirty-five years of the solitary plantation home,—and one wishes—ah! how one wishes!—that the little children had not mocked and pointed at him, and that at least one in his life had proffered him the flowers he craved for his grave. "I feel bound to explain," he wrote; "having seen and felt that my conduct, views, and object in life were not understood by my fellow-men. I have much, very much to complain of the world, rich as well as poor; it has harassed me in a thousand different ways. . . . They said of me: 'He is rich, he is old, without wife or child, let us take from him what he has!' Infatuated men! They knew not that that was an attempt to take from themselves, for I have been labouring all my life, not for myself, but for them and their children."
The last clause reads: "The love of singing, given me in my youth, has been the delight and charm of my life throughout all its subsequent periods and trials. Still has its love and charm pervaded my existence and gilded
