A breathless silence fell on the assemblage, while the person alluded to sprang to his feet, his face on fire, and his voice thick and broken with intense rage, as he yelled out: "Andy Jones, by——, you shall answer for this!"
"Sartin," said Andy, coolly inserting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat; "enywhar you likes—har—now—ef 'greeable to you."
"I've no weapon here, sir, but I'll give you a chance mighty sudden," was the fierce reply.
"Suit yourself," said Andy, with perfect imperturbability; "but as you haint jest ready, s'pose you set down, and har me tell 'bout your relations: they're a right decent set—them as I knows—and I'll swar they're 'shamed of you."
A buzz went through the crowd, and a dozen voices called out: "Be civil, Andy"—"Let him blow"—"Shut up"—"Go in, Jones"—with other like elegant exclamations.
A few of his friends took the aggrieved gentleman aside, and, soon quieting him, restored order.
"Wal, gentlemen," resumed Andy, "all on you know whar I was raised—over thar in South Car'lina. I'm sorry to say it, but it's true. And you all know my father was a pore man, who couldn't give his boys no chance—and ef he could, thar warn't no schules in the district—so we couldn't hev got no book-larning ef we'd been a minded to. Wal, the next plantation to whar we lived was old Cunnel J——'s, the father of this cunnel. He was a d——d old nullifier, jest like his son—but not half so decent a man. Wal, on his plantation was an old nigger called Uncle Pomp, who'd sumhow larned to read. He was a mighty good nigger, and he'd hev been in heaven long afore now ef the Lord hadn't a had sum good use for him down har—but he'll be thar yet a d——d sight sooner than sum on us white folks—that's sartin. Wal, as I was saying, Pomp could read, and when I was 'bout sixteen, and had never seen the inside of a book, the old darky said to me one day—he was old then, and that was thirty years ago—wal, he said to me, 'Andy, chile, ye orter larn to read, 'twill be ob use to ye when you'se grow'd up, and it moight make you a good and 'spected man—now, come to ole Pomp's cabin, and he'll larn you, Andy, chile.' Wal, I reckon I went. He'd nothin' but a Bible and Watts' Hymns; but we used to stay thar all the long winter evenin's, and by the light o' the fire—we war both so darned pore we couldn't raise a candle atween us—wal, by the light o' the fire he larned me, and fore long I could spell right smart.
"Now, jest think on that, gentlemen. I, a white boy, and, 'cordin' to the Declaration of Independence, with jest as good blood in me as the old Cunnel had in him, bein' larned to read by an old slave, and that old slave a'most worked to death, and takin' his nights, when he orter hev been a restin' his old bones, to larn me! I'm d——d if he don't get to heaven for that one thing, if for nothin' else.
"Wal, you all know the rest—how, when I'd grow'd up, I settled har, in the old North State, and how the young Cunnel backed my paper, and set me a runnin' at turpentining. P'raps you don't think this has much to do with the Yankees, but it has a durned sight, as ye'll see rather sudden. Wal, arter a while, when I'd got a little forehanded, I begun shipping my truck to York and Bostin'; and at last my Yankee factor, he come out har, inter the back woods, to see me, and says he, 'Jones, come North and take a look at us.' I'd sort o' took to him. I'd lots o' dealin's with him afore ever I seed him, and I allers found him straight as a shingle. Wal, I went North, and he took me round, and showed me how the Yankees does things. Afore I know'd him, I allers thought—as p'raps most on you do—that the Yankees war a sort o' cross atween the devil and a Jew; but how do you s'pose I found 'em? I found that they sent the pore man's children to schule, free—and that the schule-houses war a d——d sight thicker than the bugs in Miles Privett's beds! and that's sayin' a heap, for ef eny on you kin sleep in his house, excep' he takes to the soft side of the floor, I'm d——d. Yas, the pore man's children are larned thar, free!—all on 'em—and they've jest so good a chance as the sons of the rich man! Now, arter that, do you think that I—as got all my schulein, from an old slave, by the light of a borrored pine-knot—der you think that I kin say any thing agin the Yankees? P'r'aps they do steal—though I doant know it—p'r'aps they do debauch thar wives and darters, and sell thar mothers' vartue for dollars—but, ef they do, I'm d——d if they doant send pore children to schule—and that's more'n we do—and let me tell you, until we do thet, we must expec' they'll be cuter and smarter nor we are.
"This gentleman, too, my friends, who's been a givin' sech a hard settin' down ter his own relation, arter they've broughten him up, and given him sech a schulein for nuthin', he says the Yankees want to interfere with our niggers. Now, thet haint so, and they couldn't ef they would, 'case it's agin the Constertution. And they stand on the Constertution a durned sight solider nor we do. Didn't thar big gun—Daniel Webster—didn't he make mince-meat of South Car'lina Hayne on thet ar' subjec'? But I tell you they haint a mind ter meddle with the niggers; they're a goin' to let us go ter h—l our own way, and we're goin' thar mighty fast, or I haint read the last census."