I was
somewhat surprised on seeing this aged African silently meditating among
the vestiges of the dead, and accordingly roused him from his reverie.
He started at first, but his confidence was soon gained. There is a
spring in the bosom of every Christian, which throws a joy into his
heart whenever he meets a fellow-christian during his pilgrimage here
below. I found the old negro to be an eminent Christian, and we were
soon acquainted. I inquired what motive induced him, at that hour of the
day, to visit these tombs. Instead of answering my question directly he
gave me the following account of himself, in broken language:--
About sixty years ago, this negro was living under his paternal roof in
Africa. He was the son of a chief of a small tribe, the pride of his
parents, and the delight of his countrymen; none could more dexterously
throw the dart; none more skilfully guide the fragile canoe over the
bosom of the deep. He was not far from twenty years of age, when, on a
fair summer's morn, he went in his little canoe to spend the day in
fishing. About noon he paddled his bark to the shore, and, under the
shade of a beautiful palmetto-tree, he reclined till the heat of
noon-day should be passed. He was young, healthy, and active; he knew
none whom he dreaded; he was a stranger to fear, and he dreamed only of
security, as he slept under the shade of his own native tree.
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