BY L. MARIA CHILD.

In 1812 there was war between the United States and Great Britain; and many people thought it likely that a portion of the British army would land in some part of the Southern States and proclaim freedom to the slaves. The more intelligent portion of the slaves were aware of this, and narrowly watched the signs of the times.

Mr. Duncan, of South Carolina, was an easy sort of master, generally thought by his neighbors to be too indulgent to his slaves. One evening, during the year I have mentioned, he received many requests for passes to go to a great Methodist meeting, and in every instance complied with the request. After a while, he rang the bell for a glass of water, but no servant appeared. He rang a second time, but waited in vain for the sound of coming footsteps. Thinking over the passes he had given, he remembered that all the house-servants had gone to Methodist meeting. Then it occurred to him that Methodist meetings had lately been more frequent than usual. He was in the habit of saying that his slaves were perfectly contented, and would not take their freedom if he offered it to them; nevertheless the frequency of Methodist meetings made him a little uneasy, and brought to mind a report he had heard, that the British were somewhere off the coast and about to land.

The next morning, he took a ride on horseback, and in a careless way asked the slaves on several plantations where was the Methodist meeting last night. Some said it was in one place, and some in another,—a circumstance which made him think still more about the report that the British were going to land. He bought a black mask for his face, and a suit of negro clothes, and waited for another Methodist meeting. In a few days his servants again asked for passes, and he gave them. When the last one had gone, he put on his disguise and followed them over field and meadow, through woods and swamps. The number of dark figures steering toward the same point continually increased. If any spoke to him as they passed, he made a very short answer, in the words and tones common among slaves. At last they arrived at an island in the swamp, surrounded by a belt of deep water, and hidden by forest-trees matted together by a luxuriant entanglement of vines. A large tree had been felled for a bridge, and over this dusky forms were swarming as thickly as ants into a new-made nest. After passing through a rough and difficult path, they came out into a large level space, surrounded by majestic trees, whose boughs interlaced, and formed a roof high overhead, from which hung down long streamers of Spanish moss. Under this canopy were assembled hundreds of black men and women. Some were sitting silent and thoughtful, some eagerly talking together, and some singing and shouting. The blaze of pine torches threw a strong light on some, and made others look like great black shadows.

Mr. Duncan felt a little disturbed by the strange, impressive scene, and was more than half disposed to wish himself at home. For some time he could make nothing out of the confused buzz of voices and chanting of hymns. But after a while a tall man mounted a stump and requested silence. "I suppose most all of ye know," said he, "that at our last meeting we concluded to go to the British, if we could get a chance; but we didn't all agree what to do about our masters. Some said we couldn't keep our freedom without we killed the whites, but others didn't like the thoughts of that. We've met again to-night to talk about it. An' now, boys, if the British land here in Caroliny, what shall we do about our masters?"

As he sat down, a tall, fierce-looking mulatto sprang upon the stump, at one leap, and exclaimed: "Scourge them, as they have scourged us. Shoot them, as they have shot us. Who talks of mercy to our masters?"

"I do," said an aged black man, who rose up tottering, as he leaned both hands on a wooden staff,—"I do; because the blessed Jesus always talked of mercy. They shot my bright boy Joe, an' sold my pretty little Sally; but, thanks to the blessed Jesus! I feel it in my poor old heart to forgive 'em. I've been member of a Methodist church these thirty years, an' I've heard many preachers, white and black; an' they all tell me Jesus said, Do good to them that do evil to you, an' pray for them that spite you. Now I say, Let us love our enemies; let us pray for 'em; an' when our masters flog us, let us sing,—

When the tremulous chant ceased, a loud altercation arose. Some cried out for the blood of the whites, while others maintained that the old man's doctrine was right. Louder and louder grew the sound of their excited voices, and the disguised slaveholder hid himself away deeper among the shadows. In the midst of the confusion, a young man of graceful figure sprang on the stump, and, throwing off a coarse cotton frock, showed his back and shoulders deeply gashed by a whip and oozing with blood. He made no speech, but turned round and round slowly, while his comrades held up their torches to show his wounds. He stopped suddenly, and said, with stern brevity, "Blood for blood."

"Would you murder 'em all?" inquired a timid voice. "Dey don't all cruelize us."

"Dar's Massa Campbell," pleaded another. "He neber hab his boys flogged. You wouldn't murder him, would you?"

"No, no," shouted several voices; "we wouldn't murder him."

"I wouldn't murder my master," said one of Mr. Duncan's slaves. "I don't want to work for him for nothin'; I'se done got tired o' that; but he sha'n't be killed, if I can help it; for he's a good master."

"Call him a good master if ye like," said the youth with the bleeding shoulders. "If the white men don't cut up the backs that bear their burdens, if they don't shoot the limbs that make 'em rich, some are fools enough to call 'em good masters. What right have they to sleep in soft beds, while we, who do all the work, lie on the hard floor? Why should I go in coarse rags, to clothe my master in broadcloth and fine linen, when he knows, and I know, that we are sons of the same father? Ye may get on your knees to be flogged, if ye like; but I'm not the boy to do it." His high, bold forehead and flashing eye indicated an intellect too active, and a spirit too fiery, for Slavery. The listeners were spell-bound by his superior bearing, and for a while he seemed likely to carry the whole meeting in favor of revenge. But the aged black, leaning on his wooden staff, made use of every pause to repeat the words, "Jesus told us to return good for evil"; and his gentle counsel found response in many hearts.

A short man, with roguish eyes and a laughing mouth, rose up and looked round him with an expression of drollery that made everybody begin to feel good-natured. After rubbing his head a little, he said: "I don't know how to talk like Bob, 'cause I neber had no chance. But I'se thought a heap. Many a time I'se axed myself how de white man always git he foot on de black man. Sometimes I tink one ting, and sometimes I tink anoder ting; and dey all git jumbled up in my head, jest like seed in de cotton. At last I finds out how de white man always git he foot on de black man." He took from his old torn hat a bit of crumpled newspaper, and smoothing it out, pointed at it, while he exclaimed: "Dat's de way dey do it! Dey got de knowledge; and dey don't let poor nigger hab de knowledge. May be de British lan', and may be de British no lan'. But I tell ye, boys, de white man can't keep he foot on de black man, ef de black man git de knowledge. I'se gwine to tell ye how I got de knowledge. I sot my mind on larning to read; but my ole boss he's de most begrudgfullest massa, an' I knows he wouldn't let me larn. So when I sees leetle massa wid he book, I ax him, 'What you call dat?' He tell me dat's A. So I take ole newspaper, an' ax missis, 'May I hab dis to rub de boots?' She say yes. Den, when I find A, I looks at him till I knows him bery well. Den I ax leetle massa, 'What you call dat?' He say dat's B. I looks at him till I knows him bery well. Den I find C A T, an' I ax leetle massa what dat spell; an' he tell me cat. Den, after a great long time, I read de newspaper. An' dar I find out dat de British gwine to lan'. I tells all de boys; and dey say mus' hab Methodist meetin'. An' what you tink dis nigger did todder day? You know Jim, Massa Gubernor's boy? Wal, I wants mighty bad to tell Jim dat de British gwine to lan'; but he lib ten mile off, and ole boss nebber let me go. Wal, Massa Gubernor come to massa's, an' I bring he hoss to de gate. I makes bow, and says, 'How Jim do, Massa Gubernor?' He tells me Jim bery well. Den I tells him Jim and I was leetle boy togeder, an' I wants to sen' Jim someting. He tells me Jim hab 'nuff ob eberyting. I says, 'O yes, Massa Gubernor, I knows you good massa, and Jim hab eberyting he want. But Jim an' I was leetle boy togeder, and I wants to sen' Jim some backy.' Massa Gubernor laugh an' say, 'Bery well, Jack.' So I gibs him de backy in de bery bit ob newspaper dat tell de British gwine to lan'. I marks it wid brack coal, so Jim be sure to see it. An' Massa Gubernor hisself carry it! Massa Gubernor hisself carry it! I has to laugh ebery time I tinks on't."

He clapped his hands, shuffled with his feet, and ended by rolling heels over head, with peals of laughter. The multitude joined loudly in his merriment, and it took some time to restore order. There was a good deal of speaking afterward, and some of it was violent. A large majority were in favor of being merciful to the masters; but all, without exception, agreed to join the British if they landed.

With thankfulness to Heaven, Mr. Duncan again found himself in the open field, alone with the stars. Their glorious beauty seemed to him clothed in new and awful power. Groups of shrubbery took startling forms, and the sound of the wind among the trees was like the unsheathing of swords. He never forgot the lesson of that night. In his heart he could not blame his bondmen for seeking their liberty, and he felt grateful for the merciful disposition they had manifested toward their oppressors; for alone that night, in the solemn presence of the stars, his conscience told him that Slavery was oppression, however mild the humanity of the master might make it. He did not emancipate his slaves; for he had not sufficient courage to come out against the community in which he lived. He felt it a duty to warn his neighbors of impending danger; but he could not bring himself to reveal the secret of the meeting in the swamp, which he knew would cause the death of many helpless creatures, whose only crime was that of wishing to be free. After a painful conflict in his mind, he contented himself with advising the magistrates not to allow any meetings of the colored people for religious purposes until the war was over.

I have called him Mr. Duncan, but I have in fact forgotten his name. Years after he witnessed the meeting in the swamp, he gave an account of it to a gentleman in Boston, and I have stated the substance of it as it was told to me.