For a time the discussion waxed quite animated, but finally it died away, and the new minister came up for scrutiny in turn. On this subject Aunt Chloe spoke authoritatively, laying down the law to her gaping listeners. It is well known that illiterate negroes are somewhat peculiar in their religious notions. The imagination has a powerful influence over them, and they are exceedingly susceptible to nervous excitements, as any one, who has ever been at a camp-meeting, must have observed. Frequently, indeed, they seem to actually realize mere dreams. Hence it is a common thing to hear them tell, with the greatest gravity, stories of personal interviews with the Arch Enemy. Sometimes, however, these are not delusions, but deliberate romances, invented to increase the importance of the narrator.
“It did dis chile good,” said Aunt Chloe, “to hear dat preacher dis morning. I bless my hebbenly master dat dar are left some who speak de plain trufe. It ‘most made me feel as I did when I fast got religion. Ah! dat was a happy time. It was long ago, Pomp, before you was born, at a woods meeting over by Waldo. ‘Peared as if I was light as a bird, and could fly right up to hebben. I nebber saw de stars shine as dey did dat night, when I walked home; and nebber ‘spect to till I get over Jordan, and into de New Jerusalem—dat is if de ole debbil, dat roarin’ lion, who goes about seekin’ whom he may devour, don’t git dis chile yet.”
Pomp, at this mention of the ubiquitous character of the enemy, mindful, perhaps, of some late improper acts, looked fearfully over his shoulder, as if expecting to see him lurking in the dark shadows at the further end of the kitchen; for it was now after sunset, and the only light in the room was that of the smouldering fire.
“Ah! dat debbil,” groaned Pomp’s sire, rolling up the whites of his eyes. “We must watch and pray, Aunt Chloe, or he’ll git de best of us in spite of all. He ‘most had dis chile once. He was near to me, ‘deed he was, as Pomp dis minnit.”
Pomp started as if he had been shot, and began to edge away from his parent, at this renewed assault upon his nerves.
“You don’t say dat?” cried Aunt Chloe, lifting up both hands. “You’re makin’ fun.”
“’Deed I isn’t, aunty. I seed de debbil, dat ole dragon, only dis last spring, sure sartin.”
“How?” and Aunt Chloe, stuffing more tobacco into her pipe, began to smoke anew, looking the speaker eagerly in the face.
“I was out in de cornfield, one day, hoein’,” said he, “when, stoppin’ to rest a minnit, and looking up, I saw dat of a sudden de woods at de odder end had clean gone away, and de field had stretched hisself away out,” and he extended his arm as he spoke, with the palm of the hand inclined downwards, “just so, slopin’ like, as de roof of a barn does, yer know, only it went slopin’ down, down, till it cum to de end of de world. But it didn’t ‘pear to be de end of de world eider. For over again de field dar was a hill, which sloped up ‘most as high on de odder side,” all this time going through an active pantomine, “and between de two, and kind o’ under de one I was on, was de bottomless pit, ‘deed dere was, wid de brimstone flames and smoke a-shootin’ up, ebbery now and den, like fire out of de stack of Waldo furnace. And standin’ dar between de two hills,” continued the narrator, leaning forward, “and right ober dis pit, I saw de debbil hisself, ‘deed I did, aunty. He had great horns on his head, and eyes like red-hot iron, and held a big pitchfork in his hand, and ‘peared to be a watchin’ me, as near as I could tell, for you see de smoke kept rollin’ up and hidin’ him ‘bout half de time. ‘Oh! Lor’ Amighty!’ I said, ‘dis chile done for now; de debbil will hab him, and no mistake.’ Wid dat, of a sudden, my knees guv way, I fell, and as I fell I begun a slidin’ down de hill. De debbil he saw me a-comin’, and made a grab at me wid his pitchfork; but he couldn’t reach me yet. I tried to cotch hold of somethin’ to stop me, but de field ‘peared to be nuffin but loose sand, widout a cornstalk left, or a blackberry bush, or even a root. De debbil he now made anoder grab at me, but he wasn’t near enough yet. By dis time de sand of de field began to slide, like shelled corn pourin’ out of a half-bushel, slippin’, slippin’, and de debbil reachin’, reachin’, to get my poor ole soul. By’m bye, I saw dat de next time he would fotch me sure. I was away down, yer see, just at de bottom of de hill, and could hear de roarin’ of de flames, and Dives a lookin’ up and cryin’ for a drop of water. De debbil he kind of braced hisself, seein’ me so close, and lifted his pitchfork to hab it ready; and I went slidin’, slidin’, and de hill wid me, faster dan a streak of lightnin’, right down—”
“Datll do,” cried Aunt Chloe, rising authoritatively. “Lord a massy, how you can lie, ole nig.” And as she spoke, the expression of her countenance, which had been one of incredulity almost from the first, settled into disgust.