University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CAMP-MEETING.

The place selected for the camp-meeting was in one of
the most picturesque portions of the neighborhood. It was
a small, partially-cleared spot, in the midst of a dense forest,
which stretched away in every direction, in cool, green
aisles of checkered light and shade.

In the central clearing, a sort of rude amphitheatre of
seats was formed of rough-pine slabs. Around on the edges
of the forest the tents of the various worshippers were
pitched; for the spending of three or four days and nights
upon the ground is deemed an essential part of the service.
The same clear stream which wound round the dwelling of
Tiff prattled its way, with a modest gurgle, through this
forest, and furnished the assembly with water.

The Gordons, having come merely for the purposes of
curiosity, and having a residence in the neighborhood, did
not provide themselves with a tent. The servants, however,
were less easily satisfied. Aunt Rose shook her head, and
declared, oracularly, that “De blessing was sure to come
down in de night, and dem dat wanted to get a part of it
would have to be dar!”

Consequently, Nina was beset to allow her people to have
a tent, in which they were to take turns in staying all night,
as candidates for the blessing. In compliance with that law
of good-humored indulgence which had been the traditionary
usage of her family, Nina acceded; and the Gordon tent
spread its snowy sails, to the rejoicing of their hearts. Aunt
Rose predominated about the door, alternately slapping the

children and joining the chorus of hymns which she heard
from every part of the camp-ground. On the outskirts
were various rude booths, in which whiskey and water, and
sundry articles of provision, and fodder for horses, were dispensed
for a consideration. Abijah Skinflint here figured
among the money-changers, while his wife and daughter
were gossiping through the tents of the women. In front
of the seats, under a dense cluster of pines, was the preachers'
stand: a rude stage of rough boards, with a railing
around it, and a desk of small slabs, supporting a Bible
and a hymn-book.

The preachers were already assembling; and no small curiosity
was expressed with regard to them by the people, who
were walking up and down among the tents. Nina, leaning
on the arm of Clayton, walked about the area with the rest.
Anne Clayton leaned on the arm of Uncle John. Aunt
Nesbit and Aunt Maria came behind. To Nina the
scene was quite new, for a long residence in the Northern
States had placed her out of the way of such things;
and her shrewd insight into character, and her love of
drollery, found an abundant satisfaction in the various
little points and oddities of the scene. They walked to the
Gordon tent, in which a preliminary meeting was already in
full course. A circle of men and women, interspersed with
children, were sitting, with their eyes shut, and their heads
thrown back, singing at the top of their voices. Occasionally,
one or other would vary the exercises by clapping of
hands, jumping up straight into the air, falling flat on the
ground, screaming, dancing, and laughing.

“O, set me up on a rock!” screamed one.

“I 's sot up!” screamed another.

“Glory!” cried the third, and a tempest of “amens”
poured in between.

“I 's got a sperience!” cried one, and forthwith began
piping it out in a high key, while others kept on singing.

“I 's got a sperience!” shouted Tomtit, whom Aunt
Rose, with maternal care, had taken with her.

“No, you an't, neither! Sit down!” said Aunt Rose,
kneading him down as if he had been a batch of biscuits,
and going on at the same time with her hymn.

“I 's on the Rock of Ages!” screamed a neighbor.

“I want to get on a rock edgeways!” screamed Tomtit,
struggling desperately with Aunt Rose's great fat hands.

“Mind yourself! — I 'll crack you over!” said Aunt Rose.
And Tomtit, still continuing rebellious, was cracked over
accordingly, with such force as to send him head-foremost
on the straw at the bottom of the tent; an indignity which
he resented with loud howls of impotent wrath, which,
however, made no impression in the general whirlwind of
screaming, shouting, and praying.

Nina and Uncle John stood at the tent-door laughing
heartily. Clayton looked on with his usual thoughtful gravity
of aspect. Anne turned her head away with an air of
disgust.

“Why don't you laugh?” said Nina, looking round at
her.

“It does n't make me feel like it,” said Anne. “It
makes me feel melancholy.”

“Why so?”

“Because religion is a sacred thing with me, and I don't
like to see it travestied,” said she.

“O,” said Nina, “I don't respect religion any the less
for a good laugh at its oddities. I believe I was born without
any organ of reverence, and so don't feel the incongruity
of the thing as you do. The distance between laughing and
praying is n't so very wide in my mind as it is in some
people's.”

“We must have charity,” said Clayton, “for every religious
manifestation. Barbarous and half-civilized people
always find the necessity for outward and bodily demonstration
in worship; I suppose because the nervous excitement
wakes up and animates their spiritual natures, and gets
them into a receptive state, just as you have to shake up
sleeping persons and shout in their ears to put them in a

condition to understand you. I have known real conversions
to take place under just these excitements.”

“But,” said Anne, “I think we might teach them to be
decent. These things ought not to be allowed!”

“I believe,” said Clayton, “intolerance is a rooted vice
in our nature. The world is as full of different minds and
bodies as the woods are of leaves, and each one has its
own habit of growth. And yet our first impulse is to forbid
everything that would not be proper for us. No, let the
African scream, dance, and shout, and fall in trances. It
suits his tropical lineage and blood, as much as our thoughtful
inward ways do us.”

“I wonder who that is!” said Nina, as a general movement
on the ground proclaimed the arrival of some one who
appeared to be exciting general interest. The stranger was
an unusually tall, portly man, apparently somewhat past the
middle of life, whose erect carriage, full figure, and red
cheeks, and a certain dashing frankness of manner, might
have indicated him as belonging rather to the military than
the clerical profession. He carried a rifle on his shoulder,
which he set down carefully against the corner of the preachers'
stand, and went around shaking hands among the company
with a free and jovial air that might almost be described
by the term rollicking.

“Why,” said Uncle John, “that 's father Bonnie! How
are you, my fine fellow?”

“What! you, Mr. Gordon? — How do you do?” said
father Bonnie, grasping his hand in his, and shaking it
heartily. “Why, they tell me,” he said, looking at him
with a jovial smile, “that you have fallen from grace!”

“Even so!” said Uncle John. “I am a sad dog, I dare
say.”

“O, I tell you what,” said father Bonnie, “but it takes
a strong hook and a long line to pull in you rich sinners!
Your money-bags and your niggers hang round you like
mill-stones! You are too tough for the Gospel! Ah!”
said he, shaking his fist at him, playfully, “but I 'm going

to come down upon you, to-day, with the law, I can tell
you! You want the thunders of Sinai! You must have a
dose of the law!”

“Well,” said Uncle John, “thunder away! I suppose
we need it, all of us. But, now, father Bonnie, you ministers
are always preaching to us poor dogs on the evils of
riches; but, somehow, I don't see any of you that are much
afraid of owning horses, or niggers, or any other good thing
that you can get your hands on. Now, I hear that you 've
got a pretty snug little place, and a likely drove to work it.
You 'll have to look out for your own soul, father Bonnie!”

A general laugh echoed this retort; for father Bonnie had
the reputation of being a shrewder hand at a bargain, and
of having more expertness in swapping a horse or trading a
negro, than any other man for six counties round.

“He 's into you, now, old man!” said several of the
bystanders, laughingly.

“O, as to that,” said father Bonnie, laughing, also, “I
go in with Paul, — they that preach the Gospel must live of
the Gospel. Now, Paul was a man that stood up for his
rights to live as other folks do. `Is n't it right,' says he,
`that those that plant a vineyard should first eat of the fruit?
Have n't we power to lead about a sister, a wife?' says he.
And if Paul had lived in our time he would have said a
drove of niggers, too! No danger about us ministers being
hurt by riches, while you laymen are so slow about supporting
the Gospel!”

At the elbow of father Bonnie stood a brother minister,
who was in many respects his contrast. He was tall, thin,
and stooping, with earnest black eyes, and a serene sweetness
of expression. A thread-bare suit of rusty black,
evidently carefully worn, showed the poverty of his worldly
estate. He carried in his hand a small portmanteau, probably
containing a change of linen, his Bible, and a few
sermons. Father Dickson was a man extensively known
through all that region. He was one of those men among
the ministers of America, who keep alive our faith in Christianity,

and renew on earth the portrait of the old apostle:
“In journeyings often, in weariness and painfulness, in
watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often,
in cold and nakedness. Besides those things that are without,
that which cometh upon them daily, the care of all
the churches. Who is weak, and they are not weak? who
is offended, and they burn not?”

Every one in the state knew and respected father Dickson;
and, like the generality of the world, people were
very well pleased, and thought it extremely proper and
meritorious for him to bear weariness and painfulness, hunger
and cold, in their spiritual service, leaving to them the
right of attending or not attending to him, according to
their own convenience. Father Dickson was one of those
who had never yielded to the common customs and habits
of the country in regard to the holding of slaves. A few,
who had been left him by a relation, he had at great trouble
and expense transported to a free state, and settled there
comfortably. The world need not trouble itself with seeking
to know or reward such men; for the world cannot
know and has no power to reward them. Their citizenship
is in heaven, and all that can be given them in this life is
like a morsel which a peasant gives in his cottage to him
who to-morrow will reign over a kingdom.

He had stood listening to the conversation thus far with the
grave yet indulgent air with which he generally listened to
the sallies of his ministerial brothers. Father Bonnie, though
not as much respected or confided in as father Dickson, had,
from the frankness of his manners, and a certain rude but
effective style of eloquence, a more general and apparent popularity.
He produced more sensation on the camp-ground;
could sing louder and longer, and would often rise into
flights of eloquence both original and impressive. Many
were offended by the freedom of his manner out of the pulpit;
and the stricter sort were known to have said of him,
“that when out he never ought to be in, and when in

never out.” As the laugh that rose at his last sally died
away, he turned to father Dickson, and said:

“What do you think?”

“I don't think,” said father Dickson, mildly, “that you
would ever have found Paul leading a drove of negroes.”

“Why not, as well as Abraham, the father of the faithful?
Did n't he have three hundred trained servants?”

“Servants, perhaps; but not slaves!” said father Dickson,
“for they all bore arms. For my part, I think that the
buying, selling, and trading, of human beings for purposes
of gain, is a sin in the sight of God.”

“Well, now, father Dickson, I would n't have thought
you had read your Bible to so little purpose as that! I
would n't believe it! What do you say to Moses?”

“He led out a whole army of fugitive slaves through the
Red Sea,” said father Dickson.

“Well, I tell you, now,” said father Bonnie, “if the buying,
selling, or holding, of a slave for the sake of gain, is, as
you say, a sin, then three fourths of all the Episcopalians,
Methodists, Baptists, and Presbyterians, in the slave states
of the Union, are of the devil!”

“I think it is a sin, notwithstanding,” said father Dickson,
quietly.

“Well, but does n't Moses say expressly, `Ye shall buy
of the heathen round about you'?”

“There 's into him!” said a Georgia trader, who, having
camped with a coffle of negroes in the neighborhood, had
come up to camp-meeting.

“All those things,” said father Dickson, “belong to the
old covenant, which Paul says was annulled for the weakness
and unprofitableness thereof, and have nothing to do
with us, who have risen with Christ. We have got past
Mount Sinai and the wilderness, and have come unto Mount
Zion; and ought to seek the things that are above, where
Christ sitteth.”

“I say, brother,” said another of the ministers, tapping
him on the shoulder, “it 's time for the preaching to begin.

You can finish your discussion some other time. Come,
father Bonnie, come forward, here, and strike up the hymn.”

Father Bonnie accordingly stepped to the front of the
stand, and with him another minister, of equal height and
breadth of frame, and, standing with their hats on, they
uplifted, in stentorian voices, the following hymn:

As the sound of the hymn rolled through the aisles and
arches of the wood, the heads of different groups, who had
been engaged in conversation, were observed turning toward
the stand, and voices from every part of the camp-ground
took up the air, as, suiting the action to the words, they
began flowing to the place of preaching. The hymn went
on, keeping up the same martial images:

As the throng pressed up, and came crowding from the
distant aisles of the wood, the singers seemed to exert
themselves to throw a wilder vehemence into the song,
stretching out their arms and beckoning eagerly. They
went on singing:

There is always something awful in the voice of the multitude.
It would seem as if the breath that a crowd
breathed out together, in moments of enthusiasm, carried
with it a portion of the dread and mystery of their own immortal
natures. The whole area before the pulpit, and in
the distant aisles of the forest, became one vast, surging sea
of sound, as negroes and whites, slaves and freemen, saints
and sinners, slave-holders, slave-hunters, slave-traders, ministers,
elders, and laymen, alike joined in the pulses of that
mighty song. A flood of electrical excitement seemed to
rise with it, as, with a voice of many waters, the rude chant
went on:

Our friend, Ben Dakin, pressed to the stand, and, with
tears streaming down his cheeks, exceeded all others in the
energy of his vociferations. Ben had just come from almost
a fight with another slave-hunter, who had boasted a better-trained
pack of dogs than his own; and had broken away to
hurry to the camp-ground, with the assurance that he 'd
“give him fits when the preachin' was over;” and now he
stood there, tears rolling down his cheeks, singing with the
heartiest earnestness and devotion. What shall we make
of it? Poor heathen Ben! is it any more out of the way
for him to think of being a Christian in this manner, than
for some of his more decent brethren, who take Sunday

passage for eternity in the cushioned New York or Boston
pews, and solemnly drowse through very sleepy tunes, under
a dim, hazy impression that they are going to heaven?
Of the two, we think Ben's chance is the best; for, in some
blind way, he does think himself a sinner, and in need of
something he calls salvation; and, doubtless, while the tears
stream down his face, the poor fellow makes a new resolve
against the whiskey-bottle, while his more respectable sleepy
brethren never think of making one against the cotton-bale.

Then there was his rival, also, Jim Stokes, — a surly, foulmouthed,
swearing fellow, — he joins in the chorus of the
hymn, and feels a troublous, vague yearning, deep down
within him, which makes him for the moment doubt whether
he had better knock down Ben at the end of the meeting.

As to Harry, who stood also among the crowd, the words
and tune recalled but too vividly the incidents of his morning's
interview with Dred, and with it the tumultuous boiling
of his bitter controversy with the laws of the society in
which he found himself. In hours of such high excitement,
a man seems to have an intuitive perception of the whole
extent and strength of what is within himself; and, if there
be anything unnatural or false in his position, he realizes it
with double intensity.

Mr. John Gordon, likewise, gave himself up, without resistance,
to be swayed by the feeling of the hour. He sung
with enthusiasm, and wished he was a soldier of somebody,
going somewhere, or a martyr shouting victory in
the fire; and if the conflict described had been with any
other foe than his own laziness and self-indulgence — had
there been any outward, tangible enemy, at the moment —
he would doubtless have enlisted, without loss of time.

When the hymn was finished, however, there was a general
wiping of eyes, and they all sat down to listen to the
sermon. Father Bonnie led off in an animated strain. His
discourse was like the tropical swamp, bursting out with a
lush abundance of every kind of growth — grave, gay, grotesque,
solemn, fanciful, and even coarse caricature, provoking

the broadest laughter. The audience were swayed
by him like trees before the wind. There were not wanting
touches of rude pathos, as well as earnest appeals. The
meeting was a union one of Presbyterians and Methodists, in
which the ministers of both denominations took equal part;
and it was an understood agreement among them, of course,
that they were not to venture upon polemic ground, or attack
each other's peculiarities of doctrine. But Abijah's favorite
preacher could not get through a sermon without some quite
pointed exposition of scripture bearing on his favorite doctrine
of election, which caused the next minister to run a
vehement tilt on the correlative doctrines of free grace,
with a eulogy on John Wesley. The auditors, meanwhile,
according to their respective sentiments, encouraged each
preacher with a cry of “Amen!” “Glory be to God!”
“Go on, brother!” and other similar exclamations.

About noon the services terminated, pro tem., and the
audience dispersed themselves to their respective tents
through the grove, where there was an abundance of chatting,
visiting, eating, and drinking, as if the vehement denunciations
and passionate appeals of the morning had been
things of another state of existence. Uncle John, in the
most cheery possible frame of mind, escorted his party into
the woods, and assisted them in unpacking a hamper containing
wine, cold fowls, cakes, pies, and other delicacies
which Aunt Katy had packed for the occasion.

Old Tiff had set up his tent in a snug little nook on the
banks of the stream, where he informed passers by that it
was his young mas'r and missis's establishment, and that he,
Tiff, had come to wait on them. With a good-natured view
of doing him a pleasure, Nina selected a spot for their
nooning at no great distance, and spoke in the most gracious
and encouraging manner to them, from time to time.

“See, now, can't you, how real quality behaves demselves!”
he said, grimly, to Old Hundred, who came up
bringing the carriage-cushions for the party to sit down
upon. “Real quality sees into things! I tell ye what,

blood sees into blood. Miss Nina sees dese yer chil'en an't
de common sort — dat 's what she does!”

“Umph!” said Old Hundred, “such a muss as ye keep
up about yer chil'en! Tell you what, dey an't no better
dan oder white trash!”

“Now, you talk dat ar way, I 'll knock you down!” said
Old Tiff, who, though a peaceable and law-abiding creature,
in general, was driven, in desperation, to the last resort of
force.

“John, what are you saying to Tiff?” said Nina, who
had overheard some of the last words. “Go back to your
own tent, and don't you trouble him! I have taken him
under my protection.”

The party enjoyed their dinner with infinite relish, and
Nina amused herself in watching Tiff's cooking preparations.
Before departing to the preaching-ground, he had
arranged a slow fire, on which a savory stew had been all
the morning simmering, and which, on the taking off of the
pot-lid, diffused an agreeable odor through the place.

“I say, Tiff, how delightfully that smells!” said Nina,
getting up, and looking into the pot. “Would n't Miss
Fanny be so kind as to favor us with a taste of it?”

Fanny, to whom Tiff punctiliously referred the question,
gave a bashful consent. But who shall describe the pride
and glory that swelled the heart of Tiff as he saw a bowl
of his stew smoking among the Gordon viands, praised and
patronized by the party? And, when Nina placed on their
simple board — literally a board, and nothing more — a
small loaf of frosted cake, in exchange, it certainly required
all the grace of the morning exercises to keep Tiff within
due bounds of humility. He really seemed to dilate with
satisfaction.

“Tiff, how did you like the sermon?” said Nina.

“Dey 's pretty far, Miss Nina. Der 's a good deal o'
quality preaching.”

“What do you mean by quality preaching, Tiff?”

“Why, dat ar kind dat 's good for quality — full of long

words, you know. I spects it 's very good; but poor nigger
like me can't see his way through it. You see, Miss
Nina, what I 's studdin' on, lately, is, how to get dese yer
chil'en to Canaan; and I hars fus with one ear, and den with
t' oder, but 'pears like an't clar 'bout it, yet. Dere 's a heap
about mose everything else, and it 's all very good; but
'pears like I an't clar, arter all, about dat ar. Dey says,
`Come to Christ;' and I says, `Whar is he, any how?' Bress
you, I want to come! Dey talks 'bout going in de gate,
and knocking at de do', and 'bout marching on de road, and
'bout fighting and being soldiers of de cross; and de Lord
knows, now, I 'd be glad to get de chil'en through any gate;
and I could take 'em on my back and travel all day, if dere
was any road; and if dere was a do', bless me, if dey
would n't hear Old Tiff a rapping! I spects de Lord would
have fur to open it — would so. But, arter all, when de
preaching is done, dere don't 'pear to be nothing to it.
Dere an't no gate, dere an't no do', nor no way; and dere
an't no fighting, 'cept when Ben Dakin and Jim Stokes get
jawing about der dogs; and everybody comes back eating
der dinner quite comf'table, and 'pears like dere wan't no
such ting dey 's been preaching 'bout. Dat ar troubles me
— does so — 'cause I wants fur to get dese yer chil'en in
de kingdom, some way or oder. I did n't know but some
of de quality would know more 'bout it.”

“Hang me, if I have n't felt just so!” said Uncle John.
“When they were singing that hymn about enlisting and
being a soldier, if there had been any fighting doing anywhere,
I should have certainly gone right into it; and the
preaching always stirs me up terribly. But, then, as Tiff
says, after it 's all over, why, there 's dinner to be eaten,
and I can't see anything better than to eat it; and then,
by the time I have drank two or three glasses of wine, it 's
all gone. Now, that 's just the way with me!”

“Dey says,” said Tiff, “dat we must wait for de blessing
to come down upon us, and Aunt Rose says it 's dem dat
shouts dat gets de blessing; and I 's been shouting till I 's

most beat out, but I has n't got it. Den, one of dem said
none of dem could get it but de 'lect; but, den, t' oder one, he
seemed to tink different; and in de meeting dey tells about
de scales falling from der eyes, — and I wished dey fall from
mine — I do so! Perhaps, Miss Nina, now, you could tell
me someting.”

“O, don't ask me!” said Nina; “I don't know anything
about these things. I think I feel a little like Uncle John,”
she said, turning to Clayton. “There are two kinds of
sermons and hymns; one gets me to sleep, and the other
excites and stirs me up in a general kind of way; but they
don't either seem to do me real good.”

“For my part, I am such an enemy to stagnation,” said
Clayton, “that I think there is advantage in everything
that stirs up the soul, even though we see no immediate
results. I listen to music, see pictures, as far as I can,
uncritically. I say, `Here I am; see what you can do with
me.' So I present myself to almost all religious exercises.
It is the most mysterious part of our nature. I do not pretend
to understand it, therefore never criticize.”

“For my part,” said Anne, “there is so much in the
wild freedom of these meetings that shocks my taste and
sense of propriety, that I am annoyed more than I am benefited.”

“There spoke the true, well-trained conventionalist,” said
Clayton. “But look around you. See, in this wood,
among these flowers, and festoons of vine, and arches of
green, how many shocking, unsightly growths! You would
not have had all this underbrush, these dead limbs, these
briers running riot over trees, and sometimes choking and
killing them. You would have well-trimmed trees and velvet
turf. But I love briers, dead limbs, and all, for their
very savage freedom. Every once in a while you see in a
wood a jessamine, or a sweet-brier, or grape-vine, that
throws itself into a gracefulness of growth which a landscape
gardener would go down on his knees for, but cannot get.
Nature resolutely denies it to him. She says, `No! I keep

this for my own. You won't have my wildness — my freedom;
very well, then you shall not have the graces that
spring from it.' Just so it is with men. Unite any assembly
of common men in a great enthusiasm, — work them up
into an abandon, and let every one `let go,' and speak as
nature prompts, — and you will have brush, underwood,
briers, and all grotesque growths; but, now and then, some
thought or sentiment will be struck out with a freedom or
power such as you cannot get in any other way. You cultivated
people are much mistaken when you despise the
enthusiasms of the masses. There is more truth than you
think in the old `vox populi, vox Dei.'”

“What 's that?” said Nina.

“`The voice of the people is the voice of God.' There
is truth in it. I never repent my share in a popular excitement,
provided it be of the higher sentiments; and I do not
ask too strictly whether it has produced any tangible results.
I reverence the people, as I do the woods, for the wild,
grand freedom with which their humanity develops itself.”

“I 'm afraid, Nina,” said Aunt Nesbit, in a low tone, to
the latter, “I 'm afraid he is n't orthodox.”

“What makes you think so, aunt?”

“O, I don't know; his talk has n't the real sound.”

“You want something that ends in `ation,' don't you,
aunt? — justification, sanctification, or something of that
kind.”

Meanwhile, the department of Abijah Skinflint exhibited
a decided activity. This was a long, low booth, made of
poles, and roofed with newly-cut green boughs. Here the
whiskey-barrel was continually pouring forth its supplies to
customers who crowded around it. Abijah sat on the middle
of a sort of rude counter, dangling his legs, and chewing
a straw, while his negro was busy in helping his various
customers. Abijah, as we said, being a particularly high
Calvinist, was recreating himself by carrying on a discussion

with a fat, little, turnipy brother, of the Methodist persuasion.

“I say,” he said, “Stringfellow put it into you Methodists,
this morning! Hit the nail on the head, I thought!”

“Not a bit of it!” said the other, contemptuously.
“Why, elder Baskum chawed him up completely! There
wan't nothin' left of him!”

“Well,” said Abijah, “strange how folks will see things!
Why, it 's just as clar to me that all things is decreed!
Why, that ar nails everything up tight and handsome. It
gives a fellow a kind of comfort to think on it. Things is
just as they have got to be. All this free-grace stuff is
drefful loose talk. If things is been decreed 'fore the world
was made, well, there seems to be some sense in their coming
to pass. But, if everything kind of turns up whenever
folks think on 't, it 's a kind of shaky business.”

“I don't like this tying up things so tight,” said the
other, who evidently was one of the free, jovial order. “I
go in for the freedom of the will. Free Gospel, and free
grace.”

“For my part,” said Abijah, rather grimly, “if things
was managed my way, I should n't commune with nobody
that did n't believe in election, up to the hub.”

“You strong electioners think you 's among the elect!”
said one of the bystanders. “You would n't be so crank
about it, if you did n't! Now, see here: if everything is
decreed, how am I going to help myself?”

“That ar is none of my look-out,” said Abijah. “But
there 's a pint my mind rests upon — everything is fixed as
it can be, and it makes a man mighty easy.”

In another part of the camp-ground, Ben Dakin was siting
in his tent door, caressing one of his favorite dogs, and
partaking his noontide repast with his wife and child.

“I declar,” said Ben, wiping his mouth, “wife, I intend
to go into it, and sarve the Lord, now, full chisel! If I
catch the next lot of niggers, I intend to give half the

money towards keeping up preaching somewhere round
here. I 'm going to enlist, now, and be a soldier.”

“And,” said his wife, “Ben, just keep clear of Abijah
Skinflint's counter, won't you?”

“Well, I will, durned if I won't!” said Ben. “I 'll be
moderate. A fellow wants a glass or two, to strike up the
hymn on, you know; but I 'll be moderate.”

The Georgia trader, who had encamped in the neighborhood,
now came up.

“Do you believe, stranger,” said he, “one of them
durned niggers of mine broke loose and got in the swamps,
while I was at meeting this morning! Could n't you take
your dog, here, and give 'em a run? I just gave nine hundred
dollars for that fellow, cash down.”

“Ho! what you going to him for?” said Jim Stokes, a
short, pursy, vulgar-looking individual, dressed in a hunting-shirt
of blue Kentucky jean, who just then came up.
“Why, durn ye, his dogs an't no breed 't all! Mine 's the
true grit, I can tell you; they 's the true Florida blood-hounds!
I 's seen one of them ar dogs shake a nigger in his mouth
like he 'd been a sponge.”

Poor Ben's new-found religion could not withstand this
sudden attack of his spiritual enemy; and, rousing himself,
notwithstanding the appealing glances of his wife, he
stripped up his sleeves, and, squaring off, challenged his
rival to a fight.

A crowd gathered round, laughing and betting, and
cheering on the combatants with slang oaths and expressions,
such as we will not repeat, when the concourse was
routed by the approach of father Bonnie on the outside of
the ring.

“Look here, boys, what works of the devil have you got
round here? None of this on the camp-ground! This is the
Lord's ground, here; so shut up your swearing, and don't
fight.”

A confused murmur of voices now began to explain to
father Bonnie the cause of the trouble.

“Ho, ho!” said he, “let the nigger run; you can catch
him fast enough when the meetings are over. You come
here to 'tend to your salvation. Ah, don't you be swearing
and blustering round! Come, boys, join in a hymn with
me.” So saying, he struck up a well-known air:

in which one after another joined, and the rising tumult
was soon assuaged.

“I say,” said father Bonnie to the trader, in an under
tone, as he was walking away, “you got a good cook in
your lot, hey?

“Got a prime one,” said the trader; “an A number
one cook, and no mistake! Picked her up real cheap, and
I 'll let you have her for eight hundred dollars, being as you
are a minister.”

“You must think the Gospel a better trade than it is,”
said father Bonnie, “if you think a minister can afford to
pay at that figure!”

“Why,” said the trader, “you have n't seen her; it 's
dirt cheap for her, I can tell you! A sound, strong, hearty
woman; a prudent, careful housekeeper; a real pious Methodist,
a member of a class-meeting! Why, eight hundred
dollars an't anything! I ought to get a thousand for her;
but I don't hear preaching for nothing,— always think right
to make a discount to ministers!”

“Why could n't you bring her in?” said father Bonnie.
“Maybe I 'll give you seven hundred and fifty for her.”

“Could n't do that, no way!” said the trader. “Could n't,
indeed!”

“Well, after the meetings are over I 'll talk about it.”

“She 's got a child, four years old,” said the trader, with
a little cough; “healthy, likely child; I suppose I shall
want a hundred dollars for him!”

“O, that won't do!” said father Bonnie. “I don't want
any more children round my place than I 've got now!”

“But, I tell you,” said the trader, “it 's a likely boy.
Why, the keeping of him won't cost you anything, and before
you think of it you 'll have a thousand-dollar hand
grown on your own place.”

“Well,” said father Bonnie, “I 'll think of it!”

In the evening the scene on the camp-ground was still
more picturesque and impressive. Those who conduct
camp-meetings are generally men who, without much reasoning
upon the subject, fall into a sort of tact, in influencing
masses of mind, and pressing into the service all the great
life forces and influences of nature. A kind of rude poetry
pervades their minds. colors their dialect, and influences
their arrangements. The solemn and harmonious grandeur
of night, with all its mysterious power of exalting the passions
and intensifying the emotions, has ever been appreciated,
and used by them with even poetic skill. The day
had been a glorious one in June; the sky of that firm, clear
blue, the atmosphere of that crystalline clearness, which
often gives to the American landscape such a sharply-defined
outline, and to the human system such an intense
consciousness of life. The evening sun went down in a
broad sea of light, and even after it had sunk below the
purple horizon, flashed back a flood of tremulous rose-colored
radiance, which, taken up by a thousand filmy clouds,
made the whole sky above like a glowing tent of the most
ethereal brightness. The shadows of the forest aisles were
pierced by the rose-colored rays; and, as they gradually
faded, star after star twinkled out, and a broad moon,
ample and round, rose in the purple zone of the sky. When
she had risen above the horizon but a short space, her light
was so resplendent, and so profuse, that it was decided to
conduct the evening service by that alone; and when, at
the sound of the hymn, the assembly poured in and arranged
themselves before the preaching-stand, it is probable that
the rudest heart present was somewhat impressed with the
silent magnificence by which God was speaking to them
through his works. As the hymn closed, father Bonnie,

advancing to the front of the stage, lifted his hands, and
pointing to the purple sky, and in a deep and not unmelodious
voice, repeated the words of the Psalmist:

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament
showeth his handy-work; day unto day uttereth
speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge.”

“O, ye sinners!” he exclaimed, “look up at the moon,
there, walking in her brightness, and think over your oaths,
and your cursings, and your drinkings! Think over your
backbitings, and your cheatings! think over your quarrellings
and your fightings! How do they look to you now,
with that blessed moon shining down upon you? Don't
you see the beauty of our Lord God upon her? Don't you
see how the saints walk in white with the Lord, like her?
I dare say some of you, now, have had a pious mother, or a
pious wife, or a pious sister, that 's gone to glory; and there
they are walking with the Lord! — walking with the Lord,
through the sky, and looking down on you, sinners, just as
that moon looks down! And what does she see you doing,
your wife, or your mother, or sister, that 's in glory? Does
she see all your swearings, and your drinkings, and your
fightings, and your hankerings after money, and your horse-racings,
and your cock-fightings? O, sinners, but you are
a bad set! I tell you the Lord is looking now down on
you, out of that moon! He is looking down in mercy!
But, I tell you, he 'll look down quite another way, one of
these days! O, there 'll be a time of wrath, by and by, if
you don't repent! O, what a time there was at Sinai,
years ago, when the voice of the trumpet waxed louder
and louder, and the mountain was all of a smoke, and there
were thunderings and lightnings, and the Lord descended
on Sinai! That 's nothing to what you 'll see, by and by!
No more moon looking down on you! No more stars,
but the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the
elements shall melt with fervent heat! Ah! did you ever
see a fire in the woods? I have; and I 've seen the fire on
the prairies, and it rolled like a tempest, and men and horses,

and everything, had to run before it. I have seen it roaring
and crackling through the woods, and great trees shrivelled
in a minute like tinder! I have seen it flash over trees
seventy-five and a hundred feet high, and in a minute they 'd
be standing pillars of fire, and the heavens were all a blaze,
and the crackling and roaring was like the sea in a storm.
There 's a judgment-day for you! O, sinner, what will
become of you in that day? Never cry, Lord, Lord! Too
late — too late, man! You would n't take mercy when it
was offered, and now you shall have wrath! No place to
hide! The heavens and earth are passing away, and there
shall be no more sea! There 's no place for you now in
God's universe.”

By this time there were tumultuous responses from the
audience, of groans, cries, clapping of hands, and mingled
shouts of glory and amen!

The electric shout of the multitude acted on the preacher
again, as he went on, with a yet fiercer energy. “Now is
your time, sinners! Now is your time! Come unto the
altar, and God's people will pray for you! Now is the day
of grace! Come up! Come up, you that have got pious
fathers and mothers in glory! Come up, father! come up,
mother! come up, brother! Come, young man! we want you
to come! Ah, there 's a hardened sinner, off there! I see
his lofty looks! Come up, come up! Come up, you rich
sinners! You 'll be poor enough in the day of the Lord, I
can tell you! Come up, you young women! You daughters
of Jerusalem, with your tinkling ornaments! Come,
saints of the Lord, and labor with me in prayer. Strike up
a hymn, brethren, strike up the hymn!” And a thousand
voices commenced the hymn,

And, meanwhile, ministers and elders moved around the
throng, entreating and urging one and another to come and
kneel before the stand. Multitudes rushed forward, groans
and sobs were heard, as the speaker continued, with
redoubled vehemence.

“I don't care,” said Mr. John Gordon, “who sees me;
I 'm going up! I am a poor old sinner, and I ought to be
prayed for, if anybody.”

Nina shrank back, and clung to Clayton's arm. So vehement
was the surging feeling of the throng around her, that
she wept with a wild, tremulous excitement.

“Do take me out, — it 's dreadful!” she said.

Clayton passed his arm round her, and, opening a way
through the crowd, carried her out beyond the limits, where
they stood together alone, under the tree.

“I know I am not good as I ought to be,” she said,
“but I don't know how to be any better. Do you think it
would do me any good to go up there? Do you believe in
these things?”

“I sympathize with every effort that man makes to approach
his Maker,” said Clayton; “these ways do not suit
me, but I dare not judge them. I cannot despise them. I
must not make myself a rule for others.”

“But, don't you think,” said Nina, “that these things
do harm sometimes?”

“Alas, child, what form of religion does not? It is our
fatality that everything that does good must do harm. It 's
the condition of our poor, imperfect life here.”

“I do not like these terrible threats,” said Nina. “Can
fear of fire make me love? Besides, I have a kind of
courage in me that always rises up against a threat. It
is n't my nature to fear.”

“If we may judge our Father by his voice in nature,”
said Clayton, “he deems severity a necessary part of our
training. How inflexibly and terribly regular are all his
laws! Fire and hail, snow and vapor, stormy wind, fulfilling
his word — all these have a crushing regularity in their
movements, which show that he is to be feared as well as
loved.”

“But I want to be religious,” said Nina, “entirely apart

from such considerations. Not driven by fear, but drawn
by love. You can guide me about these things, for you
are religious.”

“I fear I should not be accepted as such in any church,”
said Clayton. “It is my misfortune that I cannot receive
any common form of faith, though I respect and sympathize
with all. Generally speaking, preaching only weakens my
faith; and I have to forget the sermon in order to recover
my faith. I do not believe — I know that our moral nature
needs a thorough regeneration; and I believe this must
come through Christ. This is all I am certain of.”

“I wish I were like Milly,” said Nina. “She is a Christian,
I know; but she has come to it by dreadful sorrows.
Sometimes I 'm afraid to ask my heavenly Father to make
me good, because I think it will come by dreadful trials, if
he does.”

“And I,” said Clayton, speaking with great earnestness,
“would be willing to suffer anything conceivable, if I could
only overcome all evil, and come up to my highest ideas of
good.” And, as he spoke, he turned his face up to the
moonlight with an earnest fervor of expression, that struck
Nina deeply.

“I almost shudder to hear you say so! You don't know
what it may bring on you!”

He looked at her with a beautiful smile, which was a
peculiar expression of his face in moments of high excitement.

“I say it again!” he said. “Whatever it involves, let
it come!”

The exercises of the evening went on with a succession
of addresses, varied by singing of hymns and prayers. In
the latter part of the time many declared themselves converts,
and were shouting loudly. Father Bonnie came forward.

“Brethren,” he shouted, “we are seeing a day from the

Lord! We 've got a glorious time! O, brethren, let us
sing glory to the Lord! The Lord is coming among us!”

The excitement now became general. There was a confused
sound of exhortation, prayers, and hymns, all mixed
together, from different parts of the ground. But, all of a
sudden, every one was startled by a sound which seemed to
come pealing down directly from the thick canopy of pines
over the heads of the ministers.

“Woe unto you that desire the day of the Lord! To
what end shall it be for you? The day of the Lord shall be
darkness, and not light! Blow ye the trumpet in Zion!
Sound an alarm in my holy mountain! Let all the inhabitants
of the land tremble! for the day of the Lord
cometh!”

There was deep, sonorous power in the voice that spoke,
and the words fell pealing down through the air like the
vibrations of some mighty bell. Men looked confusedly on
each other; but, in the universal license of the hour, the
obscurity of the night, and the multitude of the speakers,
no one knew exactly whence it came. After a moment's
pause, the singers were recommencing, when again the same
deep voice was heard.

“Take away from me the noise of thy songs, and the melody
of thy viols; for I will not hear them, saith the Lord. I
hate and despise your feast-days! I will not smell in your
solemn assemblies; for your hands are defiled with blood,
and your fingers are greedy for violence! Will ye kill, and
steal, and commit adultery, and swear falsely, and come and
stand before me, saith the Lord? Ye oppress the poor and
needy, and hunt the stranger; also in thy skirts is found
the blood of poor innocents! and yet ye say, Because I am
clean shall his anger pass from me! Hear this, ye that
swallow up the needy, and make the poor of the land to
fail, saying, When will the new moon be gone, that we may
sell corn? that we may buy the poor for silver, and the
needy for a pair of shoes? The Lord hath sworn, saying,
I will never forget their works. I will surely visit you!”

The audience, thus taken, in the obscurity of the evening,
by an unknown speaker, whose words seemed to fall apparently
from the clouds, in a voice of such strange and singular
quality, began to feel a creeping awe stealing over
them. The high state of electrical excitement under which
they had been going on, predisposed them to a sort of revulsion
of terror; and a vague, mysterious panic crept upon
them, as the boding, mournful voice continued to peal from
the trees.

“Hear, O ye rebellious people! The Lord is against this
nation! The Lord shall stretch out upon it the line of confusion,
and the stones of emptiness! For thou saidst, I will
ascend into the stars; I will be as God! But thou shalt be
cast out as an abominable branch, and the wild beasts shall
tread thee down! Howl, fir-tree, for thou art spoiled! Open
thy doors, O Lebanon, that the fire may devour thy cedars!
for the Lord cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants
of the land! The Lord shall utter his voice before
his army, for his camp is very great! Multitudes! multitudes!
in the valley of decision! For the day of the Lord
is near in the valley of decision! The sun and the moon
shall be dark, and the stars withdraw their shining; for the
Lord shall utter his voice from Jerusalem, and the heavens
and earth shall shake! In that day I will cause the sun to
go down at noon, and darken the whole earth! And I will
turn your feasts into mourning, and your songs into lamentation!
Woe to the bloody city! It is full of lies and robbery!
The noise of a whip! — the noise of the rattling of wheels!
— of the prancing horses, and the jumping chariot! The
horseman lifteth up the sword and glittering spear! and
there is a multitude of slain! There is no end of their
corpses! — They are stumbling upon the corpses! For,
Behold, I am against thee, saith the Lord, and I will make
thee utterly desolate!”

There was a fierce, wailing earnestness in the sound of
these dreadful words, as if they were uttered in a paroxysm
of affright and horror, by one who stood face to face with

some tremendous form. And, when the sound ceased, men
drew in their breath, and looked on each other, and the
crowd began slowly to disperse, whispering in low voices
to each other.

So extremely piercing and so wildly earnest had the
voice been, that it actually seemed, in the expressive words
of Scripture, to make every ear to tingle. And, as people
of rude and primitive habits are always predisposed to
superstition, there crept through the different groups wild
legends of prophets strangely commissioned to announce
coming misfortunes. Some spoke of the predictions of the
judgment-day; some talked of comets, and strange signs
that had preceded wars and pestilences. The ministers
wondered, and searched around the stand in vain. One
auditor alone could, had he desired it, make an explanation.
Harry, who stood near the stand, had recognized the voice.
But, though he searched, also, around, he could find no one.

He who spoke was one whose savage familiarity with
nature gave him the agility and stealthy adroitness of a
wild animal. And, during the stir and commotion of the
dispersing audience, he had silently made his way from tree
to tree, over the very heads of those who were yet wondering
at his strange, boding words, till at last he descended in
a distant part of the forest.

After the service, as father Dickson was preparing to retire
to his tent, a man pulled him by the sleeve. It was the
Georgia trader.

“We have had an awful time, to-night!” said he, looking
actually pale with terror. “Do you think the judgment-day
really is coming?”

“My friend,” said father Dickson, “it surely is! Every
step we take in life is leading us directly to the judgmentseat
of Christ!”

“Well,” said the trader, “but do you think that was
from the Lord, the last one that spoke? Durned if he
did n't say awful things! — 'nough to make the hair rise!
I tell you what, I 've often had doubts about my trade.

The ministers may prove it 's all right out of the Old Testament;
but I 'm durned if I think they know all the things
that we do! But, then, I an't so bad as some of 'em.
But, now, I 've got a gal out in my gang that 's dreadful
sick, and I partly promised her I 'd bring a minister to see
her.”

“I 'll go with you, friend,” said father Dickson; and
forthwith he began following the trader to the racks where
their horses were tied. Selecting, out of some hundred
who were tied there, their own beasts, the two midnight
travellers soon found themselves trotting along under the
shadow of the forest's boughs.

“My friend,” said father Dickson, “I feel bound in conscience
to tell you that I think your trade a ruinous one to
your soul. I hope you 'll lay to heart the solemn warning
you 've heard to-night. Why, your own sense can show
you that a trade can't be right that you 'd be afraid to be
found in if the great judgment-day were at hand.”

“Well, I rather spect you speak the truth; but, then,
what makes father Bonnie stand up for 't?”

“My friend, I must say that I think father Bonnie upholds
a soul-destroying error. I must say that, as conscience-bound.
I pray the Lord for him and you both. I put
it right to your conscience, my friend, whether you think
you could keep to your trade, and live a Christian life.”

“No; the fact is, it 's a d—d bad business, that 's just
where 't is. We an't fit to be trusted with such things that
come to us — gals and women. Well, I feel pretty bad, I
tell you, to-night; 'cause I know I have n't done right by
this yer gal. I ought fur to have let her alone; but, then,
the devil or something possessed me. And now she has got
a fever, and screeches awfully. I declar, some things she
says go right through me!”

Father Dickson groaned in spirit over this account, and
felt himself almost guilty for belonging ostensibly and outwardly
to a church which tolerated such evils. He rode
along by the side of his companion, breaking forth into occasional

ejaculations and snatches of hymns. After a ride of
about an hour, they arrived at the encampment. A large
fire had been made in a cleared spot, and smouldering fragments
and brands were lying among the white ashes. One
or two horses were tied to a neighboring tree, and wagons
were drawn up by them. Around the fire, in different groups,
lay about fifteen men and women, with heavy iron shackles
on their feet, asleep in the moonlight. At a little distance
from the group, and near to one of the wagons, a blanket
was spread down on the ground under a tree, on which lay a
young girl of seventeen, tossing and moaning in a disturbed
stupor. A respectable-looking mulatto-woman was sitting
beside her, with a gourd full of water, with which from time
to time she moistened her forehead. The woman rose as
the trader came up.

“Well, Nance, how does she do now?” said the trader.

“Mis'able enough!” said Nance. “She done been tossing,
a throwing round, and crying for her mammy, ever
since you went away!”

“Well, I 've brought the minister,” said he. “Try,
Nance, to wake her up; she 'll be glad to see him.”

The woman knelt down, and took the hand of the sleeper.
“Emily! Emily!” she said, “wake up!”

The girl threw herself over with a sudden, restless toss.
“O, how my head burns! — O, dear! — O, my mother!
Mother! — mother! — mother! — why don't you come to
me?”

Father Dickson approached and knelt the other side of
her. The mulatto-woman made another effort to bring her
to consciousness.

“Emily here 's the minister you was wanting so much!
Emily, wake up!”

The girl slowly opened her eyes — large, tremulous, dark
eyes. She drew her hand across them, as if to clear her
sight, and looked wistfully at the woman.

“Minister! — minister!” she said.

“Yes, minister! You said you wanted to see one.”

“O, yes, I did!” she said, heavily.

“My daughter!” said father Dickson, “you are very
sick!”

“Yes!” she said, “very! And I 'm glad of it! I 'm
going to die! — I 'm glad of that, too! That 's all I 've got
left to be glad of! But I wanted to ask you to write to my
mother. She is a free woman; she lives in New York. I
want you to give my love to her, and tell her not to worry
any more. Tell her I tried all I could to get to her; but
they took us, and mistress was so angry she sold me! I
forgive her, too. I don't bear her any malice, 'cause it 's
all over, now! She used to say I was a wild girl, and
laughed too loud. I shan't trouble any one that way any
more! So that 's no matter!”

The girl spoke these sentences at long intervals, occasionally
opening her eyes and closing them again in a
languid manner. Father Dickson, however, who had some
knowledge of medicine, placed his finger on her pulse,
which was rapidly sinking. It is the usual instinct, in all
such cases, to think of means of prolonging life. Father
Dickson rose, and said to the trader:

“Unless some stimulus be given her, she will be gone
very soon!”

The trader produced from his pocket a flask of brandy,
which he mixed with a little water in a cup, and placed it
in father Dickson's hand. He kneeled down again, and,
calling her by name, tried to make her take some.

“What is it?” said she, opening her wild, glittering
eyes.

“It 's something to make you feel better.”

“I don't want to feel better! I want to die!” she said,
throwing herself over. “What should I want to live for?”

What should she? The words struck father Dickson so
much that he sat for a while in silence. He meditated in
his mind how he could reach, with any words, that dying
ear, or enter with her into that land of trance and mist,
into whose cloudy circle the soul seemed already to have

passed. Guided by a subtle instinct, he seated himself by
the dying girl, and began singing, in a subdued, plaintive
air, the following well-known hymn:

The melody is one often sung among the negroes; and
one which, from its tenderness and pathos, is a favorite
among them. As oil will find its way into crevices where
water cannot penetrate, so song will find its way where
speech can no longer enter. The moon shone full on the
face of the dying girl, only interrupted by flickering shadows
of leaves; and, as father Dickson sung, he fancied he saw
a slight, tremulous movement of the face, as if the soul, so
worn and weary, were upborne on the tender pinions of the
song. He went on singing:

By the light of the moon, he saw a tear steal from under
the long lashes, and course slowly down her cheek. He
continued his song:

O, love of Christ! which no sin can weary, which no
lapse of time can change; from which tribulation, persecution,

and distress, cannot separate — all-redeeming, all-glorifying,
changing even death and despair to the gate of
heaven! Thou hast one more triumph here in the wilderness,
in the slave-coffle, and thou comest to bind up the
broken-hearted.

As the song ceased, she opened her eyes.

“Mother used to sing that!” she said.

“And can you believe in it, daughter?”

“Yes,” she said, “I see Him now! He loves me! Let
me go!”

There followed a few moments of those strugglings and
shiverings which are the birth-pangs of another life, and
Emily lay at rest.

Father Dickson, kneeling by her side, poured out the fulness
of his heart in an earnest prayer. Rising, he went up
to the trader, and, taking his hand, said to him,

“My friend, this may be the turning-point with your soul
for eternity. It has pleased the Lord to show you the evil
of your ways; and now my advice to you is, break off your
sins at once, and do works meet for repentance. Take off
the shackles of these poor creatures, and tell them they are
at liberty to go.”

“Why, bless your soul, sir, this yer lot 's worth ten
thousand dollars!” said the trader, who was not prepared
for so close a practical application.

Do not be too sure, friend, that the trader is peculiar in
this. The very same argument, though less frankly stated,
holds in the bonds of Satan many extremely well-bred, refined,
respectable men, who would gladly save their souls,
if they could afford the luxury.

“My friend,” said father Dickson, using the words of a
very close and uncompromising preacher of old, “what
shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and
lose his own soul?”

“I know that,” said the trader, doubtfully; “but it 's a
very hard case, this. I 'll think about it, though. But

there 's father Bonnie wants to buy Nance. It would be a
pity to disappoint him. But I 'll think it over.”

Father Dickson returned to the camp-ground between one
and two o'clock at night, and, putting away his horse, took
his way to the ministers' tent. Here he found father Bonnie
standing out in the moonlight. He had been asleep within
the tent; but it is to be confessed that the interior of a
crowded tent on a camp-ground is anything but favorable to
repose. He therefore came out into the fresh air, and was
there when father Dickson came back to enter the tent.

“Well, brother, where have you been so late?” said
father Bonnie.

“I have been looking for a few sheep in the wilderness,
whom everybody neglects,” said father Dickson. And then,
in a tone tremulous from agitation, he related to him the
scene he had just witnessed.

“Do you see,” he said, “brother, what iniquities you are
countenancing? Now, here, right next to our camp, a slave-coffle
encamped! Men and women, guilty of no crime,
driven in fetters through our land, shaming us in the sight
of every Christian nation! What horrible, abominable
iniquities are these poor traders tempted to commit! What
perfect hells are the great trading-houses, where men,
women, and children, are made merchandise of, and where
no light of the Gospel ever enters! And, when this poor
trader is convicted of sin, and wants to enter into the kingdom,
you stand there to apologize for his sins! Brother
Bonnie, I much fear you are the stumbling-block over which
souls will stumble into hell. I don't think you believe your
argument from the Old Testament, yourself. You must see
that it has no kind of relation to such kind of slavery as we
have in this country. There 's an awful scripture which
saith: `He feedeth on ashes; a deceived heart hath turned
him aside, so that he cannot deliver his soul, nor say, Is
there not a lie in my right hand?'”

The earnestness with which father Dickson spoke, combined
with the reverence commonly entertained for his

piety, gave great force to his words. The reader will not
therefore wonder to hear that father Bonnie, impulsive and
easily moved as he was, wept at the account, and was
moved by the exhortation. Nor will he be surprised to learn
that, two weeks after, father Bonnie drove a brisk bargain
with the same trader for three new hands.

The trader had discovered that the judgment-day was not
coming yet a while; and father Bonnie satisfied himself that
Noah, when he awoke from his wine, said, “Cursed be Canaan.”

We have one scene more to draw before we dismiss the
auditors of the camp-meeting.

At a late hour the Gordon carriage was winding its way
under the silent, checkered, woodland path. Harry, who
came slowly on a horse behind, felt a hand laid on his bridle.
With a sudden start, he stopped.

“O, Dred, is it you? How dared you — how could you
be so imprudent? How dared you come here, when you
know you risk your life?”

“Life!” said the other, “what is life?” He that loveth
his life shall lose it. Besides, the Lord said unto me, Go!
The Lord is with me as a mighty and terrible one! Harry,
did you mark those men? Hunters of men, their hands
red with the blood of the poor, all seeking unto the Lord!
Ministers who buy and sell us! Is this a people prepared
for the Lord? I left a man dead in the swamps, whom their
dogs have torn! His wife is a widow — his children, orphans!
They eat and wipe their mouth, and say, `What
have I done?' The temple of the Lord, the temple of the
Lord, are we!”

“I know it,” said Harry, gloomily.

“And you join yourself unto them?”

“Don't speak to me any more about that! I won't betray
you, but I won't consent to have blood shed. My
mistress is my sister.”

“O, yes, to be sure! They read Scripture, don't they?

Cast out the children of the bond-woman! That 's Scripture
for them!”

“Dred,” said Harry, “I love her better than I love myself.
I will fight for her to the last, but never against
her, nor hers!”

“And you will serve Tom Gordon?” said Dred.

“Never!” said Harry.

Dred stood still a moment. Through an opening among
the branches the moonbeams streamed down on his wild,
dark figure. Harry remarked his eye fixed before him on
vacancy, the pupil swelling out in glassy fulness, with a
fixed, somnambulic stare. After a moment, he spoke, in a
hollow, altered voice, like that of a sleep-walker:

“Then shall the silver cord be loosed, and the golden
bowl be broken. Yes, cover up the grave — cover it up!
Now, hurry! come to me, or he will take thy wife for a
prey!”

“Dred, what do you mean?” said Harry. “What 's the
matter?” He shook him by the shoulder.

Dred rubbed his eyes, and stared on Harry.

“I must go back,” he said, “to my den. `Foxes have
holes, the birds of the air have nests,' and in the habitation
of dragons the Lord hath opened a way for his outcasts!”

He plunged into the thickets, and was gone.