University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE WORSHIPPERS.

The camp-meeting is one leading feature in the American
development of religion, peculiarly suited to the wide extent
of country, and to the primitive habits which generally accompany
a sparse population. Undoubtedly its general
effects have been salutary. Its evils have been only those
incident to any large gatherings, in which the whole population
of a country are brought promiscuously together.
As in many other large assemblies of worship, there are
those who go for all sorts of reasons; some from curiosity,
some from love of excitement, some to turn a penny in a
small way of trade, some to scoff, and a few to pray. And,
so long as the heavenly way remains straight and narrow,
so long the sincere and humble worshippers will ever be
the minority in all assemblies. We can give no better idea
of the difference of motive which impelled the various worshippers,
than by taking our readers from scene to scene, on
the morning when different attendants of the meeting were
making preparations to start.

Between the grounds of Mr. John Gordon and the plantation
of Canema stood a log cabin, which was the trading
establishment of Abijah Skinflint. The establishment was
a nuisance in the eyes of the neighboring planters, from the
general apprehension entertained that Abijah drove a brisk
underhand trade with the negroes, and that the various articles
which he disposed for sale were many of them surreptitiously
conveyed to him in nightly instalments from off
their own plantations. But of this nothing could be proved.

Abijah was a shrewd fellow, long, dry, lean, leathery,
with a sharp nose, sharp, little gray eyes, a sharp chin, and
fingers as long as bird's-claws. His skin was so dry that
one would have expected that his cheeks would crackle
whenever he smiled, or spoke; and he rolled in them a
never-failing quid of tobacco.

Abijah was one of those over-shrewd Yankees, who leave
their country for their country's good, and who exhibit,
wherever they settle, such a caricature of the thrifty virtue
of their native land as to justify the aversion which the
native-born Southerner entertains for the Yankee. Abijah
drank his own whiskey, — prudently, however, — or, as he
said, “never so as not to know what he was about.”

He had taken a wife from the daughters of the land; who
also drank whiskey, but less prudently than her husband,
so that sometimes she did not know what she was about.
Sons and daughters were born unto this promising couple,
white-headed, forward, dirty, and ill-mannered. But, amid
all domestic and social trials, Abijah maintained a constant
and steady devotion to the main chance — the acquisition
of money. For money he would do anything; for money
he would have sold his wife, his children, even his own
soul, if he had happened to have one. But that article,
had it ever existed, was now so small and dry, that one
might have fancied it to rattle in his lean frame like a shrivelled
pea in a last year's peascod. Abijah was going to the
camp-meeting for two reasons. One, of course, was to make
money; and the other was to know whether his favorite
preacher, Elder Stringfellow, handled the doctrine of election
according to his views; for Abijah had a turn for theology,
and could number off the five points of Calvinism on
his five long fingers, with unfailing accuracy.

It is stated in the Scriptures that the devils believe and
tremble. The principal difference between their belief and
Abijah's was, that he believed and did not tremble. Truths
awful enough to have shaken the earth, and veiled the sun,

he could finger over with as much unconcern as a practised
anatomist the dry bones of a skeleton.

“You, Sam!” said Abijah to his only negro helot,
“you mind, you steady that ar bar'l, so that it don't roll
out, and pour a pailful of water in at the bung. It won't
do to give it to 'em too strong. Miss Skinflint, you make
haste! If you don't, I shan't wait for you; 'cause, whatever
the rest may do, it 's important I should be on the ground
early. Many a dollar lost for not being in time, in this
world. Hurry, woman!”

“I am ready, but Polly an't!” said Mrs. Skinflint.
“She 's busy a plastering down her hair.”

“Can't wait for her!” said Abijah, as he sallied out of
the house to get into the wagon, which stood before the door,
into which he had packed a copious supply of hams, eggs,
dressed chickens, corn-meal, and green summer vegetables,
to say nothing of the barrel of whiskey aforesaid.

“I say, Dad, you stop!” called Polly, from the window.
“If you don't, I 'll make work for you 'fore you come home;
you see if I don't! Durned if I won't!”

“Come along, then, can't you? Next time we go anywhere,
I 'll shut you up over night to begin to dress!”

Polly hastily squeezed her fat form into a red calico dress,
and, seizing a gay summer shawl, with her bonnet in her
hand, rushed to the wagon and mounted, the hooks of her
dress successively exploding, and flying off, as she stooped
to get in.

“Durned if I knows what to do!” said she; “this yer
old durned gear coat 's all off my back!”

“Gals is always fools!” said Abijah, consolingly.

“Stick in a pin, Polly,” said her mother, in an easy, sing-song
drawl.

“Durn you, old woman, every hook is off!” said the
promising young lady.

“Stick in more pins, then,” said the mamma; and the
vehicle of Abijah passed onward

On the verge of the swamp, a little beyond Tiff's cabin,
lived Ben Dakin.

Ben was a mighty hunter; he had the best pack of dogs
within thirty miles round; and his advertisements, still to
be seen standing in the papers of his native state, detailed
with great accuracy the precise terms on which he would
hunt down and capture any man, woman, or child, escaping
from service and labor in that country. Our readers
must not necessarily suppose Ben to have been a monster
for all this, when they recollect that, within a few years,
both the great political parties of our Union solemnly
pledged themselves, as far as in them lay, to accept a similar
vocation; and, as many of them were in good and
regular standing in churches, and had ministers to preach
sermons to the same effect, we trust they 'll entertain no
unreasonable prejudice against Ben on this account.

In fact, Ben was a tall, broad-shouldered, bluff, hearty-looking
fellow, who would do a kind turn for a neighbor
with as much good-will as anybody; and, except that he
now and then took a little too much whiskey, as he himself
admitted, he considered himself quite as promising a
candidate for the kingdom as any of the company who were
going up to camp-meeting. Had any one ventured to
remonstrate with Ben against the nature of his profession,
he would probably have defended it by pretty much the
same arguments by which modern theologians defend the
institution of which it is a branch.

Ben was just one of those jovial fellows who never could
bear to be left behind in anything that was going on in the
community, and was always one of the foremost in a camp-meeting.
He had a big, loud voice, and could roll out the
chorus of hymns with astonishing effect. He was generally
converted at every gathering of this kind; though, through
the melancholy proclivity to whiskey, before alluded to, he
usually fell from grace before the year was out. Like many
other big and hearty men, he had a little, pale, withered,
moonshiny wisp of a wife, who hung on his elbow much

like an empty work-bag; and Ben, to do him justice, was
kind to the wilted little mortal, as if he almost suspected
that he had absorbed her vitality into his own exuberant
growth. She was greatly given to eating clay, cleaning
her teeth with snuff, and singing Methodist hymns, and had
a very sincere concern for Ben's salvation. The little
woman sat resignedly on the morning we speak of, while a
long-limbed, broad-shouldered child, of two years, with bristly
white hair, was pulling her by her ears and hair, and otherwise
maltreating her, to make her get up to give him a
piece of bread and molasses; and she, without seeming to
attend to the child, was giving earnest heed to her husband.

“There 's a despit press of business now!” said Ben.
“There 's James's niggers, and Smith's Polly, and we ought
to be on the trail, right away!”

“O, Ben, you ought to 'tend to your salvation afore
anything else!” said his wife.

“That 's true enough!” said Ben; “meetings don't come
every day.”

“But what are we to do with dis yer 'un?” pointing to
the door of an inner room.

“Dis yer 'un” was no other than a negro-woman, named
Nance, who had been brought in by the dogs, the day
before.

“Laws!” said his wife, “we can set her something to
eat, and leave the dogs in front of the door. She can't get
out.”

Ben threw open the door, and displayed to view a low
kind of hutch, without any other light than that between
the crevices of the logs. On the floor, which was of hard-trodden
earth, sat a sinewy, lean negro-woman, drawing
up her knees with her long arms, and resting her chin upon
them.

“Hollo, Nance, how are you?” said Ben, rather cheerily.

“Por'ly, mas'r,” said the other, in a sullen tone.

“Nance, you think your old man will whale you, when
he gets you?” said Ben.

“I reckons he will,” said Nance; “he allers does.”

“Well, Nance, the old woman and I want to go to a
camp-meeting; and I 'll just tell you what it is, — you stay
here quiet, while we are gone, and I 'll make the old fellow
promise not to wallop you. I would n't mind taking off
something of the price — that 's fair, an't it?”

“Yes, mas'r!” said the woman, in the same subdued
tone.

“Does your foot hurt you much?” said Ben.

“Yes, mas'r!” said the woman.

“Let me look at it,” said Ben.

The woman put out one foot, which had been loosely
bound up in old rags, now saturated in blood.

“I declar, if that ar dog an't a pealer!” said Ben.
“Nance, you ought ter have stood still; then he would n't
have hurt you so.”

“Lord, he hurt me so I could n't stand still!” said the
woman. “It an't natur to stand still with a critter's teeth
in yer foot.”

“Well, I don't know as it is,” said Ben, good-naturedly.
“Here, Miss Dakin, you bind up this here gal's foot. Stop
your noise, sir-ee!” he added, to the young aspirant for
bread and molasses, who, having despatched one piece, was
clamoring vigorously for another.

“I 'll tell you what!” said Ben, to his wife, “I am going
to talk to that ar old Elder Settle. I runs more niggers for
him than any man in the county, and I know there 's some
reason for it. Niggers don't run into swamps when they 's
treated well. Folks that professes religion, I think, ought n't
to starve their niggers, no way!”

Soon the vehicle of Ben was also on the road. He gathered
up the reins vigorously, threw back his head to get
the full benefit of his lungs, and commenced a vehement
camp-meeting melody, to the tune of

A hymn, by the by, which was one of Ben's particular
favorites.

We come next to Tiff's cottage, of which the inmates
were astir, in the coolness of the morning, bright and early.
Tiff's wagon was a singular composite article, principally
of his own construction. The body of it consisted of a
long packing-box. The wheels were all odd ones, that
had been brought home at different times by Cripps. The
shafts were hickory-poles, thinned at one end, and fastened
to the wagon by nails. Some barrel-hoops bent over the
top, covered by coarse white cotton cloth, formed the curtains,
and a quantity of loose straw dispersed inside was
the only seat. The lean, one-eyed horse was secured to
this vehicle by a harness made of old ropes; but no millionnaire,
however, ever enjoyed his luxuriantly-cushioned coach
with half the relish with which Tiff enjoyed his equipage.
It was the work of his hands, the darling of his heart,
the delight of his eyes. To be sure, like other mortal
darlings, it was to be admitted that it had its weak points
and failings. The wheels would now and then come off, the
shafts get loose, or the harness break; but Tiff was always
prepared, and, on occasion of any such mishaps, would
jump out and attend to them with such cheerful alacrity,
that, if anything, he rather seemed to love it better for the
accident. There it stands now, before the enclosure of the
little cabin; and Tiff, and Fanny, and Teddy, with bustling
assiduity, are packing and arranging it. The gum-tree
cradle-trough took precedence of all other articles. Tiff,
by the private advice of Aunt Rose, had just added to this
an improvement, which placed it, in his view, tip-top among
cradles. He had nailed to one end of it a long splint of
elastic hickory, which drooped just over the baby's face.
From this was suspended a morsel of salt pork, which this
young scion of a noble race sucked with a considerate relish,
while his large, round eyes opened and shut with sleepy
satisfaction. This arrangement Rose had recommended, in
mysterious tones, as all powerful in making sucking babies

forget their mammies, whom otherwise they might pine for in
a manner prejudicial to their health.

Although the day was sultry, Tiff was arrayed in his
long-skirted white great-coat, as his nether garments were
in too dilapidated a state to consist with the honor of the
family. His white felt hat still bore the band of black
crape.

“It 's a 'mazin' good day, bless de Lord!” said Tiff.
“'Pears like dese yer birds would split der troats, praising
de Lord! It 's a mighty good zample to us, any way.
You see, Miss Fanny, you never see birds put out, nor
snarly like, rain or shine. Dey 's allers a praising de Lord.
Lord, it seems as if critters is better dan we be!” And,
as Tiff spoke, he shouldered into the wagon a mighty bag
of corn; but, failing in what he meant to do, the bag slid
over the side, and tumbled back into the road. Being
somewhat of the oldest, the fall burst it asunder, and the
corn rolled into the sand, with that provoking alacrity which
things always have when they go the wrong way. Fanny
and Teddy both uttered an exclamation of lamentation; but
Tiff held on to his sides and laughed till the tears rolled
down his cheeks.

“He! he! he! ho! ho! ho! Why, dat ar is de last
bag we 's got, and dar 's all de corn a running out in de
sand! Ho! ho! ho! Lord, it 's so curus!”

“Why, what are you going to do?” said Fanny.

“O, bress you, Miss Fanny,” said Tiff, “I 's bound to do
something, any how. 'Clare for it, now, if I han't got a
box!” And Tiff soon returned with the article in question,
which proved too large for the wagon. The corn, however,
was emptied into it pro tem., and Tiff, producing his darning-needle
and thimble, sat down seriously to the task of stitching
up the hole.

“De Lord's things an't never in a hurry,” said Tiff.
“Corn and 'tatoes will have der time, and why should n't
I? Dar,” he said, after having mended the bag and replaced
the corn, “dat ar 's better now nor 't was before.”

Besides his own store of provisions, Tiff prudently laid
into his wagon enough of garden stuff to turn a penny for
Miss Fanny and the children, on the camp-ground. His
commissariat department, in fact, might have provoked appetite,
even among the fastidious. There were dressed
chickens and rabbits, the coon aforesaid, bundles of savory
herbs, crisp, dewy lettuce, bunches of onions, radishes,
and green peas.

“Tell ye what, chil'en,” said Tiff, “we 'll live like
princes! And, you mind, order me round well. Let folks
har ye; 'cause what 's de use of having a nigger, and nobody
knowing it?”

And, everything being arranged, Tiff got in, and jogged
comfortably along. At the turn of the cross-road, Tiff,
looking a little behind, saw, on the other road, the Gordon
carriage coming, driven by Old Hundred, arrayed in his
very best ruffled shirt, white gloves, and gold hat-band.

If ever Tiff came near having a pang in his heart, it was
at that moment; but he retreated stoutly upon the idea that,
however appearances might be against them, his family was
no less ancient and honorable for that; and, therefore, putting
on all his dignity, he gave his beast an extra cut, as
who should say, “I don't care.”

But, as ill-luck would have it, the horse, at this instant,
giving a jerk, wrenched out the nails that fastened the shaft
on one side, and it fell, trailing dishonored on the ground.
The rope harness pulled all awry, and just at this moment
the Gordon carriage swept up.

“'Fore I 'd drive sich old trash!” said Old Hundred,
scornfully; “pulls all to pieces every step! If dat ar an't
a poor white folksy 'stablishment, I never seed one!”

“What 's the matter?” said Nina, putting her head out.
“O, Tiff! good-morning, my good fellow. Can we help
you, there? John, get down and help him.”

“Please, Miss Nina, de hosses is so full o' tickle, dis yer
mornin', I could n't let go, no ways!” said Old Hundred.

“O, laws bless you, Miss Nina,” said Tiff, restored to his

usual spirits, “'t an't nothin'. Broke in a strordinary
good place dis yer time. I ken hammer it up in a minute.”

And Tiff was as good as his word; for a round stone and
big nail made all straight.

“Pray,” said Nina, “how are little Miss Fanny, and the
children?”

Miss Fanny! If Nina had heaped Tiff with presents, she
could not have conferred the inexpressible obligation conveyed
in these words. He bowed low to the ground, with
the weight of satisfaction, and answered that “Miss Fanny
and the chil'en were well.”

“There,” said Nina, “John, you may drive on. Do you
know, friends, I 've set Tiff up for six weeks, by one word?
Just saying Miss Fanny has done more for him than if I 'd
sent him six bushels of potatoes.” * * * *

We have yet to take our readers to one more scene
before we finish the review of those who were going to the
camp-meeting. The reader must follow us far beyond the
abodes of man, into the recesses of that wild desolation
known as the “Dismal Swamp.” We pass over vast tracts
where the forest seems growing out of the water. Cypress,
red cedar, sweet gum, tulip, poplar, beech, and holly,
form a goodly fellowship, waving their rustling boughs
above. The trees shoot up in vast columns, fifty, seventy-five,
and a hundred feet in height; and below are clusters
of evergreen gall-bushes, with their thick and glossy
foliage, mingled in with swamp honeysuckles, grape-vines,
twining brier, and laurels, and other shrubs, forming an
impenetrable thicket. The creeping plants sometimes climb
seventy or eighty feet up the largest tree, and hang in heavy
festoons from their branches. It would seem impossible
that human foot could penetrate the wild, impervious jungle;
but we must take our readers through it, to a cleared spot,
where trunks of fallen trees, long decayed, have formed an
island of vegetable mould, which the art of some human
hand has extended and improved. The clearing is some
sixty yards long by thirty broad, and is surrounded with a

natural rampart, which might well bid defiance to man or
beast. Huge trees have been felled, with all their branches
lying thickly one over another, in a circuit around; and
nature, seconding the efforts of the fugitives who sought
refuge here, has interlaced the frame-work thus made with
thorny cat-briers, cables of grape-vine, and thickets of
Virginia creeper, which, running wild in their exuberance,
climb on to the neighboring trees, and, swinging down,
again lose themselves in the mazes from which they spring,
so as often to form a verdurous wall fifty feet in height.
In some places the laurel, with its glossy green leaves, and
its masses of pink-tipped snowy blossoms, presents to the
eye, rank above rank, a wilderness of beauty. The pendants
of the yellow jessamine swing to and fro in the air like
censers, casting forth clouds of perfume. A thousand
twining vines, with flowers of untold name, perhaps unknown
as yet to the botanist, help to fill up the mosaic.
The leafy ramparts sweep round on all the sides of the clearing,
for the utmost care has been taken to make it impenetrable;
and, in that region of heat and moisture, nature, in
the course of a few weeks, admirably seconds every human
effort. The only egress from it is a winding path cut
through with a hatchet, which can be entered by only one
person at a time; and the water which surrounds this
island entirely cuts off the trail from the scent of dogs. It
is to be remarked that the climate, in the interior of the
swamp, is far from being unhealthy. Lumber-men, who
spend great portions of the year in it, cutting shingles and
staves, testify to the general salubrity of the air and water.
The opinion prevails among them that the quantity of pine
and other resinous trees that grow there, impart a balsamic
property to the water, and impregnate the air with a healthy
resinous fragrance, which causes it to be an exception to the
usual rule of the unhealthiness of swampy land. The soil also,
when drained sufficiently for purposes of culture, is profusely
fertile. Two small cabins stood around the border of the
clearing, but the centre was occupied with patches of corn
and sweet potatoes, planted there to secure as much as possible
the advantage of sun and air.

At the time we take our readers there, the afternoon sun
of a sultry June day is casting its long shadows over the
place, and a whole choir of birds is echoing in the branches.
On the ground, in front of one of the cabins, lies a negro-man,
covered with blood; two women, with some little
children, are grouped beside him; and a wild figure,
whom we at once recognize as Dred, is kneeling by him,
busy in efforts to stanch a desperate wound in the neck.
In vain! The red blood spurts out at every pulsation of
the heart, with a fearful regularity, telling too plainly that
it is a great life-artery which has been laid open. The
negro-woman, kneeling on the other side, is anxiously holding
some bandages, which she has stripped from a portion
of her raiment.

“O, put these on, quick — do!”

“It 's no use,” said Dred; “he is going!”

“O, do! — don't, don't let him go! Can't you save him?”
said the woman, in tones of agony.

The wounded man's eyes opened, and first fixed themselves,
with a vacant stare, on the blue sky above; then,
turning on the woman, he seemed to try to speak. He had
had a strong arm; he tries to raise it, but the blood wells
up with the effort, the eye glazes, the large frame shivers
for a few moments, and then all is still. The blood stops
flowing now, for the heart has stopped beating, and an immortal
soul has gone back to Him who gave it.

The man was a fugitive from a neighboring plantation —
a simple-hearted, honest fellow, who had fled, with his wife
and children, to save her from the licentious persecution of
the overseer. Dred had received and sheltered him; had
built him a cabin, and protected him for months.

A provision of the Revised Statutes of North Carolina
enacts that slaves thus secreted in the swamps, not returning
within a given time, shall be considered outlawed; and
that “it shall be lawful for any person or persons whatsoever

to kill and destroy such slaves, by such ways and
means as they shall think fit, without any accusation or
impeachment of crime for the same.” It also provides that,
when any slave shall be killed in consequence of such outlawry,
the value of such slave shall be ascertained by a jury,
and the owner entitled to receive two thirds of the valuation
from the sheriff of the county wherein the slave was
killed.

In olden times, the statute provided that the proclamation
of outlawry should be published on a Sabbath day, at
the door of any church or chapel, or place where divine
service should be performed, immediately after divine service,
by the parish clerk or reader.

In the spirit of this permission, a party of negro-hunters,
with dogs and guns, had chased this man, who, on this day,
had unfortunately ventured out of his concealment.

He succeeded in outrunning all but one dog, which sprang
up, and, fastening his fangs in his throat, laid him prostrate
within a few paces of his retreat. Dred came up in time to
kill the dog, but the wound, as appeared, had proved a
mortal one.

As soon as the wife perceived that her husband was really
dead, she broke into a loud wail.

“O, dear, he 's gone! and 't was all for me he did it!
O, he was so good, such a good man! O, do tell me, is he
dead, is he?”

Dred lifted the yet warm hand in his a moment, and then
dropped it heavily.

“Dead!” he said, in a deep undertone of suppressed
emotion. Suddenly kneeling down beside him, he lifted
his hands, and broke forth with wild vehemence:

“O, Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth, show thyself!
Lift up thyself, thou Judge of the earth, render a
reward to the proud! Doubtless thou art our Father, though
Abraham be ignorant of us, and Israel acknowledge us not.
Thou, O Lord, art our Father, our Redeemer; thy ways are
everlasting; — where is thy zeal and thy strength, and the

sounding of thy bowels towards us? Are they restrained?”
Then, tossing his hands to heaven, with a yet wilder gesture,
he almost screamed, “O, Lord! O, Lord! how long? O,
that thou wouldst rend the heavens and come down! O, let
the sighings of the prisoner come before thee! Our bones
are scattered at the grave's mouth, as when one cutteth and
cleaveth wood! We are given as sheep to the slaughter!
We are killed all the day long! O, Lord, avenge us of
our adversaries!”

These words were spoken with a vehement earnestness
of gesture and voice, that hushed the lamentation of the
mourners. Rising up from his knees, he stood a moment
looking down at the lifeless form before him. “See here,”
he said, “what harm had this man done? Was he not
peaceable? Did he not live here in quietness, tilling the
ground in the sweat of his brow? Why have they sent the
hunters upon him? Because he wanted to raise his corn
for himself, and not for another. Because he wanted his
wife for himself, and not for another. Was not the world
wide enough? Is n't there room enough under the sky?
Because this man wished to eat the fruit of his own labor,
the decree went forth against him, even the curse of Cain,
so that whosoever findeth him shall kill him. Will not
the Lord be avenged on such a people as this? To-night
they will hold their solemn assembly, and blow the trumpet
in their new moon, and the prophets will prophesy falsely,
and the priests will speak wickedly concerning oppression.
The word of the Lord saith unto me, `Go unto this people,
and break before them the staff beauty and the staff
bands, and be a sign unto this people of the terror of the
Lord. Behold, saith the Lord, therefore have I raised thee
up and led thee through the wilderness, through the desolate
places of the land not sown.'”

As Dred spoke, his great black eye seemed to enlarge
itself and roll with a glassy fulness, like that of a sleep-walker
in a somnambulic dream. His wife, seeing him prepare
to depart, threw herself upon him.

“O, don't, don't leave us! You 'll be killed, some of these
times, just as they killed him!”

“Woman! the burden of the Lord is upon me. The word
of the Lord is as a fire shut up in my bones. The Lord
saith unto me, `Go show unto this people their iniquity,
and be a sign unto this evil nation!'”

Breaking away from his wife, he precipitated himself
through an opening into the thicket, and was gone.