To speak plainly, he must
content himself with the purchase of such infirmity as can be picked
up here and there about the country.
A fire of pine knots blazes in the centre of a mound, and over it
hangs an iron kettle, on a straddle, filled with corn-grits. Around
this, and anxiously watching its boiling, are the lean figures of
negroes, with haggard and sickly faces, telling but too forcibly the
tale of their troubles. They watch and watch, mutter in grumbling
accents, stir the homony, and sit down again. Two large mule carts
stand in the shade of a pine tree, a few yards from the fire. A few
paces further on are the mules tethered, quietly grazing; while,
seated on a whiskey-keg, is the Elder, book in hand, giving out the
hymn to some ten or a dozen infirm negroes seated round him on the
ground. They have enjoyed much consolation by listening with
wondrous astonishment to the Elder's exhortations, and are now ready
to join their musical jargon to the words of a Watts's hymn.
On arriving opposite the spot, our good lady requests Bradshaw to
stop; which done, the Elder recognises her, and suddenly adjourning
his spiritual exercises, advances to meet her, his emotions
expanding with enthusiastic joy. In his eagerness, with outstretched
hand, he comes sailing along, trips his toe in a vine, and plunges
head foremost into a broad ditch that separates the road from the
rising ground.
The accident is very unfortunate at this moment; the Elder's
enthusiasm is somewhat cooled, nevertheless; but, as there is seldom
a large loss without a small gain, he finds himself strangely
bespattered from head to foot with the ingredients of a quagmire.
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