The sun had set, and I began to be anxious to find a place of rest for the night, after a day’s ride under a sultry sun.  I was travelling in South Carolina, and was now not far from a branch of the Cooper river.  The country here is a dead level, and its surface is covered with thinly scattered pines.  I came to an old church—­it stood solitary; not a house in sight:  it was built of wood, and much decayed.  The breezes of evening were gently sighing through the tops of the long-leaved pines which stood near; while still nearer stood several large live-oaks, which spread out their aged arms, as if to shelter what was sacred.  On their limbs hung, in graceful folds, the long grey moss, as if a mantle of mourning, waving over a few decayed tombs at the east side of the church.  These oaks give the place a very sombre and awful appearance; they seemed to stand as silent mourners over the dust of generations that had sunk into the grave, and waiting in solemn expectation that others would soon come and lie beneath their shade in the long sleep of death.  The time of day, and the sacredness of the spot, were so congenial to my own feelings, that I involuntarily stopped my horse.

My curiosity was now excited by seeing a very aged negro standing and gazing steadily on a small decaying tomb.  He seemed to be intent, and did not observe me; his woolly locks were whitened by age; his countenance was manly, though it bore the marks of sorrow; he was leaning on his smooth-worn staff, the companion of many years.  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.  Thus, while our sky is encircled with the bow of happiness,