’A man stands har and quotes Scriptur agin his feller-man, and forgets thet ’God made of one blood all nations thet dwell on the face of the ‘arth.’  A man stands har and calls his brother a thief, and his mother a harlot, and axes us to go his doctrines!  I don’t mean his brother in the Scriptur’ sense, nor his mother in a fig’rative sense, but I mean the brother of his own blood, and the mother that bore him; for HE, gentlemen, (and he pointed his finger directly at the recent speaker, while his words came slow and heavy with intense scorn,) HE is a Yankee!  And now, I say, gentlemen, d—­n sech doctrins; d—­n sech principles; and d—­n the man thet’s got a soul so black as to utter ’em!’

A breathless silence fell on the assemblage, as the person alluded to sprang to his feet, his face on fire, and his voice thick and broken with intense rage, and yelled out:  ’Andy Jones, by ——­, you shall answer for this!’

‘Sartin’, said Andy, coolly inserting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat; ’eny whar 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 han’t jest ready, s’pose you set down and har me tell ’bout your relation:  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’—­’Shet 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 seed the inside of a book, the old darkey said to me one day—­he was old then, and thet was thirty years ago—­wal, he said to me:  ’Andy, chile, ye orter larn to read—­’twould be ob use to ye when you’re 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.’  I reckon I went.  He hadn’t nothin’ but a Bible and Watts’ Hymns; yet we used to stay thar all the long winter evenings, and by the light of the fire—­we war both so durned pore we couldn’t raise a candle atween us—­wal, by the light of the fire he larned me, and ’fore long I could spell right smart.