The few words of blessing were soon said; and then came a rush to the stand, “to speak to Massa Richard.” Men and women pressed forward indiscriminately; the good Doctor, in a moment, found both his hands busy, and stood, like a patriarchal shepherd, amid his flock. They pushed up against him, kissed his hands, passed their fingers over his hair, crowded about, eager to get a word of recognition. “Sure, you ’member me, Massa Rich’d; I’m Tom.” “Laws, Massa Rich’d, I mind ye when ye’s a little ’un.” “Don’t ye mind, Massa Rich’d, when I used to gwine out gunnin’ wid ye?” “How’s ye been dis long time?” “’Pears like we’s never gwine to see ’ou any more; but, bress de Lord, you’m cum.” “Oh, we’s gittin’ on cumf’able like; but ain’t ’ou gwine to cum back and preach to us sometimes?” So the string of interrogatories and salutations stretched out. “I haven’t liked him much,” said an officer of our cutter, standing near, whose rough-and-ready oaths had sometimes provoked the rebuke of the Dominie, “but I take back every harsh thought. I’d give all I’m worth, or ever hope to be worth, in the world, to be loved by as many people as love him.” * * * * * Leaving the crowd still thronging about the Doctor, we drove out beyond the church half a mile, to a village of cabins, which the negroes have christened “Saxtonville.” It contains a single street, but that is a mile and a-half long. Each house is surrounded by its little plat of potatoes and corn. Back of the house, stretching off to the timber in the distance, is the narrow little parallelogram of land, called the plantation, averaging from thirty to forty acres, planted in cotton, and, in nearly every case, in the highest possible state of cultivation. Poultry swarmed about the cabins, but no swine were to be seen, and no fences were needed to divide one plantation from another. Returning, we found the roads alive again with the gaily-dressed groups of freedmen, going home from the “meetin’,” and full of animated talk about the great things they had seen and heard. There was constantly the most deferential courtesy. The old women seemed delighted if they could secure a recognition, and not a man of the hundreds on the road passed without lifting, or, at least, touching, his hat. Whenever we approached a gate some negro near us would run ahead to open it; but there was no servility in the air with which he did it. He seemed rather, in bearing and attitude, to say, “I’m a man, and just as good before the law as you are; but I respect you, because you are all friends of ours, and because you know more than I do.” These people can never be made slaves again. They have tasted too long of freedom to submit to be driven. But, perhaps, their danger is in a not very dissimilar direction. They are grateful and confiding; and they _may_ prove easily led.