An astonished Negro.
Dr. Robertson, of Charleston, S. C., who attended the writer in 1852, with the yellow fever, was as competent, benevolent, and faithful a physician as I ever had the pleasure of meeting. His services were in great demand during the raging of the “yellow Jack,” and on one occasion he was absent from his house and office two whole days and a night. His family became alarmed, and a faithful old negro was sent in search of his master. It was no uncommon occurrence to see a black man traversing the streets, ringing a bell, and crying a “lost child;” but to see a slave searching for his lost master, was almost a phenomenon.
“LOST MARSER! LOST MARSER!”
It was quite dark, and the old negro was shuffling along King Street, crying, “Masser Rob’son lost, Masser Rob’son lost,” when suddenly he was brought to a halt, and silenced by some one saying,—
“What’s that you are crying, Neb?” His name was Nebuchadnezzar.
“O, de Lord! if Masser Dr. Rob’son hain’t been an’ loss hisself!”
“You old fool, Neb, I am your master—Dr. Robertson. Don’t you know me now?” exclaimed a familiar voice.
Sure enough, it was the doctor, returning from his numerous visits, tired and dust-covered.
The whole thing solemnly impressed the old darky, who, a day or two later, was met by a ranting Methodist, vulgarly termed a “carpet-bagger,” who, in a solemn voice, said,—