The other guest had taken his leave some time before, but not till he had given me a cordial invitation to return by the way I came, and spend a day or two with him, at his plantation on the river, some twenty miles below.

The sky was lowery, and the sandy road heavy with the recent rain, when we started. The gloomy weather seemed to have infected the driver as well as myself. He had lost the mirthfulness and loquacity of the previous day, and we rode on for a full hour in silence. Tiring at last of my own thoughts, I said to him: "Scip, what is the matter with you?

what makes you so gloomy?"

"Nuffin, ma.s.sa; I war only tinkin'," he abstractedly replied.

"And what are you thinking about?"

"I's wond'rin', ma.s.sa, if de LORD mean de darkies in dose words of HIS dat Ma.s.sa B---- read dis mornin'."

"What words do you mean?

"Dese, ma.s.sa: 'O dou 'fflicted! tossed wid de tempest, and habin no comfort, behold, I will make you hous'n ob de fair colors, and lay dar foundations wid safomires. All dy chil'ren shill be taught ob de LORD, and great shill be dar peace. In de right shill dey be 'stablished; dey shill hab no fear, no terror; it shan't come nigh 'em, and who come against dem shill fall. Behold! I hab make de blacksmif dat blow de coals, and make de weapons; and I hab make de waster dat shill destroy de oppressors.'"

If he had repeated one of Webster's orations I could not have been more astonished. I did not remember the exact words of the pa.s.sage, but I knew he had caught its spirit. Was this his recollection of the reading heard in the morning? or had he previously committed it to memory? These questions I asked myself; but, restraining my curiosity, I answered: "Undoubtedly they are meant for both the black and the white."

"Do dey mean, ma.s.sa, dat we shall be like de wite folks--wid our own hous'n, our chil'ren taught in de schools, and wid weapons to strike back when dey strike us?"

"No, Scipio, they don't mean that. They refer princ.i.p.ally to spiritual matters. They were a promise to _all the world_ that when the SAVIOUR came, all, even the greatly oppressed and afflicted, should hear the great truths of the BIBLE about G.o.d, REDEMPTION, and the FUTURE."

"But de SAVIOUR hab come, ma.s.sa; and dose tings an't taught to de black chil'ren. We hab no peace, no rights; nuffin but fear, 'pression, and terror."

"That is true, Scipio. The LORD takes HIS own time, but HIS time will _surely_ come."

"De LORD bless you, ma.s.sa, for saying dat; and de LORD bless you for telling dat big Cunnel, dat if dey gwo to war de brack man will be FREE!"

"Did you hear what we said?" I inquired, greatly surprised, for I remembered remarking, during the interview of the previous evening, that our host carefully kept the doors closed.

"Ebery word, ma.s.sa."

"But how _could_ you hear? The doors and windows were shut. Where were you?"

"On de piazzer; and when I seed fru de winder dat de ladies war gwine, I know'd you'd talk 'bout politics and de darkies--gemmen allers do. So I opened de winder bery softly--you didn't har 'cause it rained and blowed bery hard, and made a mighty noise. Den I stuffed my coat in de crack, so de wind could'nt blow in and lef you know I was dar, but I lef a hole big 'nough to har. My ear froze to dat hole, ma.s.sa, bery tight, I 'sh.o.r.e you."

"But you must have got very wet and very cold."

"Wet, ma.s.sa! wetter dan a 'gator dat's been in de riber all de week, but I didn't keer for de rain or de cold. What I hard made me warm all de way fru."

To my mind there was a rough picture of true heroism in that poor darky standing for hours in his shirt-sleeves, in the cold, stormy night, the lightning playing about him, and the rain drenching him to the skin--that he might hear something he thought would benefit his down-trodden race.

I noticed his clothing though bearing evident marks of a drenching, was then dry, and I inquired: "How did you dry your clothes?"

"I staid wid some ob de cullud folks, and arter you gwoes up stars, I went to dar cabin, and dey gabe me some dry cloes. We made up a big fire, and hung mine up to dry, and de ole man and woman and me sot up all night and talked ober what you and de oder gemmen said."

"Will not those folks tell what you did, and thus get you into trouble?"

"Tell! LORD bless you, ma.s.sa, _de bracks am all freemasons_; dat ar ole man and woman wud die 'fore dey'd tell."

"But are not Captain B---'s negroes contented?" I asked; "they seem to be well treated."

"Oh! yas, dey am. All de brack folks 'bout har want de Captin to buy 'em. He bery nice man--one ob de LORD'S own people. He better man dan David, 'cause David did wrong, and I don't b'lieve de Captin eber did."

"I should think he was a very good man," I replied.

"Bery good man, ma.s.sa, but de white folks don't like him, 'cause dey say he treats him darkies so well, all dairn am uncontented."

"Tell me, Scipio," I resumed after a while, "how it is you can repeat that pa.s.sage from Isaiah so well?"

"Why, bless you, ma.s.sa, I know Aziar and Job and de Psalms 'most all by heart. Good many years ago, when I lib'd in Charles'on, the gub'ness learned me to read, and I hab read dat BOOK fru good many times."

"Have you read any others?" I asked.

"None but dat and Doctor Watts. I hab _dem_, but wite folks wont sell books to de bracks, and I wont steal 'em. I read de papers sometimes."

I opened my portmanteau, that lay on the floor of the wagon, and handed him a copy of Whittier's poems. It happened to be the only book, excepting the BIBLE, that I had with me.

"Read that, Scipio," I said. "It is a book of poetry, but written by a good man at the North, who greatly pities the slave."

He took the book, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks, as he said: "Tank you, ma.s.sa, tank you. n.o.body war neber so good to me afore."

During our conversation, the sky, which had looked threatening all the morning, began to let fall the big drops of rain; and before we reached Conwayboro, it poured down much after the fashion of the previous night.

It being cruelty to both man and beast to remain out in such a deluge, we pulled up at the village hotel (kept, like the one at Georgetown, by a lady), and determined to remain overnight, unless the rain should abate in time to allow us to reach our destination before dark.

Dinner being ready soon after our arrival (the people of Conwayboro, like the "common folks" that Davy Crockett told about, dine at twelve), I sat down to it, first hanging my outer garments, which were somewhat wet, before the fire in the sitting-room. The house seemed to be a sort of public boarding-house, as well as hotel, for quite a number of persons, evidently town's-people were at the dinner-table. My appearance attracted some attention, though not more, I thought, than would be naturally excited in so quiet a place by the arrival of a stranger; but "as n.o.body said nothing to me, I said nothing to n.o.body."

Dinner over, I adjourned to the "sitting-room," and seating myself by the fire, watched the drying of my "outer habiliments." While thus engaged, the door opened, and three men--whom I should have taken for South Carolina gentlemen, had not a further acquaintance convinced me to the contrary--entered the room. Walking directly up to where I was sitting, the foremost one accosted me something after this manner:

"I see you are from the North, sir."

Taken a little aback by the abruptness of the "salute," but guessing his object, I answered: "No, sir; I am from the South."

"From what part of the South?"

"I left Georgetown yesterday, and Charleston two days before that," I replied, endeavoring to seem entirely oblivious to his meaning.

"We don't want to know whar you war yesterday; we want to know whar you _belong_," he said, with a little impatience.

"Oh! that's it. Well, sir, I belong _here_ just at present, or rather I shall, when I have paid the landlady for my dinner."

Annoyed by my coolness, and getting somewhat excited, he replied quickly: "You mustn't trifle with us, sir. We know you. You're from the North. We've seen it on your valise, and we can't allow a man who carries the New York _Independent_ to travel in South Carolina."

The scoundrels had either broken into my portmanteau, or else a copy of that paper had dropped from it on to the floor of the wagon when I gave the book to Scipio. At any rate, they had seen it, and it was evident "Brother Beecher" was getting me into a sc.r.a.pe. I felt indignant at the impudence of the fellow, but determined to keep cool, and, a little sarcastically, replied to the latter part of his remark:

"That's a pity, sir. South Carolina will lose by it."

"This game wont work, sir. We don't want such people as you har, and the sooner you make tracks the better."

"I intend to leave, sir, as soon as the rain is over, and shall travel thirty miles on your sandy roads to-day, if you don't coax me to stay here by your hospitality," I quietly replied.