Cruelty to negroes was not practised in our section. It is true there were some exceptional cases, and some individuals did not take the care of their servants at all times, that economy seemed to demand. Yet a certain degree of punishment was actually needed to insure respect to the master, and good government to the slave population. If a servant disobeyed orders, it was necessary that he should be flogged, to deter others from following the bad example. If a servant ran away, he must be caught and brought back, to let the others see that the same fate awaited them if they made similar attempts.

While the keeping of bloodhounds, for running down and catching negroes, was not common, yet a few were kept by Mr. Tabor, an inferior white man, near the Corners, who hired them out, or hunted the runaway, charging so much per day, or a round sum for the catch.

Jerome, a slave owned by the Rev. Mr. Wilson, when about to be punished by his master, ran away. Tabor and his dogs were sent for. The slave-catcher came, and at once set his dogs upon the trail. The parson and some of the neighbors went along for the fun that was in store.

These dogs will attack a negro, at their master’s bidding, and cling to him as a bull-dog will cling to a beast. Many are the speculations as to whether the negro will be secured alive or dead, when these dogs get on his track. However, on this occasion, there was not much danger of ill-treatment, for Mr. Wilson was a clergyman, and was of a humane turn, and bargained with Tabor not to injure the slave if he could help it.

The hunters had been in the wood a short time, ere they got on the track of two slaves, one of whom was Jerome. The negroes immediately bent their steps toward the swamp, with the hope that the dogs would, when put upon the scent, be unable to follow them through the water. Nearer and nearer the whimpering pack pressed on; their delusion began to dispel.

All at once the truth flashed upon the minds of the fugitives like a glare of light,—that it was Tabor with his dogs! They at last reached the river, and in the negroes plunged, followed by the catch-dog. Jerome was finally caught, and once more in the hands of his master; while the other man found a watery grave. They returned, and the preacher sent his slave to the city jail for safekeeping.

While the planters would employ Tabor, without hesitation, to hunt down their negroes, they would not receive him into their houses as a visitor any sooner than they would one of their own slaves. Tabor was, however, considered one of the better class of poor whites, a number of whom had a religious society in that neighborhood. The pastor of the poor whites was the Rev. Martin Louder, somewhat of a genius in his own way. The following sermon, preached by him, about the time of which I write, will well illustrate the character of the people for whom he labored.

More than two long, weary hours had now elapsed since the audience had been convened, and the people began to exhibit slight signs of fatigue. Some few scrapings and rasping of cowhide boots on the floor, an audible yawn or two, a little twisting and turning on the narrow, uncomfortable seats, while, in one or two instances, a somnolent soul or two snored outright. These palpable signs were not lost upon our old friend Louder. He cast an eye (emphatically, an eye) over the assemblage, and then—he spoke:—

“My dear breethering, and beloved sistering! You’ve ben a long time a settin’ on your seats. You’re tired, I know, an’ I don’t expect you want to hear the ole daddy preach. Ef you don’t want to hear the ole man, jist give him the least bit of a sign. Cough. Hold up your hand. Ennything, an’ Louder’ll sit rite down. He’ll dry up in a minit.”

At this juncture of affairs, Louder paused for a reply. He glanced furtively over the audience, in search of the individual who might be “tired of settin’ on his seat,” but no sign was made: no such malcontent came within the visual range.

“Go on, Brother Louder!” said a sonorous voice in the “amen corner” of the house. Thus encouraged, the speaker proceeded in his remarks:—

“Well, then, breethering, sense you say so, Louder’ll perceed; but he don’t intend to preach a reg’lar sermon, for it’s a gittin’ late, and our sect which hit don’t believe in eatin’ cold vittles on the Lord’s day. My breethering, ef the ole Louder gits outen the rite track, I want you to call him back. He don’t want to teach you any error. He don’t want’ to preach nuthin’ but what’s found between the leds of this blessed Book.”

“My dear breethering, the Lord raised up his servant, Moses, that he should fetch his people Isrel up outen that wicked land—ah. Then Moses, he went out from the face of the Lord, and departed hence unto the courts of the old tyranickle king—ah. An’ what sez you, Moses? Ah, sez he, Moses sez, sez he to that wicked old Faro: Thus sez the Lord God of hosts, sez he: Let my Isrel go—ah. An’ what sez the ole, hard-hearted king—ah? Ah! sez Faro, sez he, who is the Lord God of hosts, sez he, that I should obey his voice—ah? An’ now what sez you, Moses—ah. Ah, Moses sez, sez he: Thus saith the Lord God of Isrel, let my people go, that they mought worship me, sez the Lord, in the wilderness—ah. But—ah! my beloved breethering an’ my harden’, impenitent frien’s—ah, did the ole, hard-hearted king harken to the words of Moses, and let my people go—ah? Nary time.”

This last remark, made in an ordinary, conversational tone of voice, was so sudden and unexpected that the change, the transition from the singing state was electrical.

“An’ then, my beloved breethering an’ sistering, what next—ah? What sez you, Moses, to Faro—that contrary ole king—ah? Ah, Moses sez to Faro, sez he, Moses sez, sez he: Thus seth the Lord God of Isrel: Let my people go, sez the Lord, leest I come, sez he, and smite you with a cuss—ah! An’ what sez Faro, the ole tyranickle king—ah? Ah, sez he, sez ole Faro, Let their tasks be doubled, and leest they mought grumble, sez he, those bricks shall be made without straw—ah! [Vox naturale.] Made ’em pluck up grass an’ stubble outen the fields, breethering, to mix with their mud. Mity hard on the pore critters; warn’t it, Brother Flood Gate?” [The individual thus interrogated replied, “Jess so;” and “ole Louder” moved along.]

“An’ what next—ah? Did the ole king let my people Isrel go—ah? No, my dear breethering, he retched out his pizen hand, and he hilt ’em fash—ah. Then the Lord was wroth with that wicked ole king—ah. An’ the Lord, he sed to Moses, sez he: Moses, stretch forth now thy rod over the rivers an’ the ponds of this wicked land—ah; an’ behold, sez he, when thou stretch out thy rod, sez the Lord, all the waters shall be turned into blood—ah! Then Moses, he tuck his rod, an’ he done as the Lord God of Isrel had commanded his servant Moses to do—ah. An’ what then, say you, my breethering—ah? Why, lo an’ behold! the rivers of that wicked land was all turned into blood—ah; an’ all the fish an’ all the frogs in them streams an’ waters died a—h!”

“Yes!” said the speaker, lowering his voice to a natural tone, and glancing out of the open window at the dry and dusty road, for we were at the time suffering from a protracted drouth: “An’ I believe the frogs will all die now, unless we get some rain purty soon. What do you think about it, Brother Waters?” [This interrogatory was addressed to a fine, portly-looking old man in the congregation. Brother W. nodded assent, and old Louder resumed the thread of his discourse.] “Ah, my beloved breethering, that was a hard time on old Faro an’ his wicked crowd—ah. For the waters was loathsome to the people, an’ it smelt so bad none of ’em cood drink it; an’ what next—ah? Did the ole king obey the voice of the Lord, and let my people Isrel go—ah? Ah, no, my breethering, not by a long sight—ah. For he hilt out agin the Lord, and obeyed not his voice—ah. Then the Lord sent a gang of bull-frogs into that wicked land—ah. An’ they went hoppin’ an’ lopin’ about all over the country, into the vittles, an’ everywhere else—ah. My breethering, the old Louder thinks that was a des’prit time—ah. But all woodent do—ah. Ole Faro was as stubborn as one of Louder’s mules—ah, an’ he woodent let the chosen seed go up outen the land of bondage—ah. Then the Lord sent a mighty hail, an’, arter that, his devourin’ locuses—ah! An’ they et up blamed nigh everything on the face of the eth—ah.”

“Let not yore harts be trubbled, for the truth is mitay and must prevale—ah. Brother Creek, you don’t seem to be doin’ much of ennything, suppose you raise a tune!”

This remark was addressed to a tall, lank, hollow-jawed old man, in the congregation, with a great shock of “grizzled gray” hair.

“Wait a minit, Brother Louder, till I git on my glasses!” was the reply of Brother Creek, who proceeded to draw from his pocket an oblong tin case, which opened and shut with a tremendous snap, from which he drew a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles. These he carefully “dusted” with his handkerchief, and then turned to the hymn which the preacher had selected and read out to the congregation. After considerable deliberation, and some clearing of the throat, hawking, spitting, etc., and other preliminaries, Brother Creek, in a quavering, split sort of voice, opened out on the tune.

Louder seemed uneasy. It was evident that he feared a failure on the part of the worthy brother. At the end of the first line, he exclaimed:—

“’Pears to me, Brother Creek, you hain’t got the right miter.”

Brother Creek suspended operations a moment, and replied, “I am purty kerrect, ginerally, Brother Louder, an’ I’m confident she’ll come out all right!”

“Well,” said Louder, “we’ll try her agin,” and the choral strain, under the supervision of Brother Creek, was resumed in the following words:—

The singing, joined in by all present, brought the enthusiasm of the assembly up to white heat, and the shouting, with the loud “Amen,” “God save the sinner,” “Sing it, brother, sing it,” made the welkin ring.