“Wal, Aunt Maria,” drawled the Bishop. “Whar did you come from? I declar' it looks like ole times to see you agin'.”
There is something peculiar in this, that those unlettered, having once associated closely with negroes, drop into their dialect when speaking to them. Perhaps it may be explained by some law of language—some rule of euphony, now unknown. The Bishop unconsciously did this; and, from dialect alone, one could not tell which was white and which was black.
Aunt Maria had always been very religious, and the Bishop arose and shook her hand gravely.
“Pow'ful glad to see you,” said the old woman.
“How's religion—Aunt Maria,” he asked.
“Mighty po'ly—mighty po'ly”—she sighed. “It looks lak the Cedars of Lebanon is dwarfed to the scrub pine. The old time religin' is passin' away, an' I'm all that's lef' of Zion.”
The Bishop smiled.
“Yes, you see befo' you all that's lef' of Zion. I'se been longin' to see you an' have a talk with you—thinkin' maybe you cud he'p me out. You kno' me and you is Hard-shells.”
The Bishop nodded.
“We 'blieves in repentince an' fallin' from grace, an' backslidin' an' all that,” she went on. “Well, they've lopped them good ole things off one by one an' they don't 'bleeve in nothin' now but jes' jin'in'. They think jes' jin'in' fixes 'em—that it gives 'em a free pass into the pearly gates. So of all ole Zion Church up at the hill, sah, they've jes' jined an' jined around, fust one church an' then another, till of all the ole Zion Church that me an' you loved so much, they ain't none lef' but Parson Shadrack, the preacher, sister Tilly, an' me—We wus Zion.”