CHAPTER XII.

BIBLE SMITH.

As I alighted from the cars at Murfreesboro, the inevitable official again confronted me.

"Can I get a conveyance to Head-quarters ?" I asked him. "Yes, there's an omnibus here. But the General's not in town. He's at the front."

"And where can I find lodgings for a few days?"

"Don't know.

place."

There's not a hotel or lodging-house in the

A town of eight thousand people with not a single inn! Surely this was the miracle of the nineteenth century.

After a short search I found the omnibus-a cast-off Northern coach, with a Yankee Jehu.

"My friend," I said to him, "will you take me where I can sleep to-night?"

"Yes: I'll take you to jail. It's the only house here that takes in strangers."

I was about asking him to drive me to Head-quarters, in the hope that my letters, even in the General's absence, might secure me a night's lodging, when a heavy hand was laid on my shoulder, and a strangely familiar voice-a face we may forget, but a voice that has once given us pleasure, lingers in the memory forever-accosted me, as follows:

"I know'd it wus ye. I know'd ye the minnit I sot eyes on ye." Turning on the speaker, I saw a spare, squarely-built, loosejointed man, above six feet high, with a strongly marked face, a long, grizzly beard, and silvery black hair hanging loosely over his shoulders like a woman's. He wore an officer's undress coat, and the boots of the cavalry service, but the rest of his costume was of the common "butternut" homespun. Taking his extended hand, and trying hard to recall his features, I said to him:

"I know your voice, but your face I don't remember."

"Doan't remember me! me, Bible-Bible Smith! Why I'd a know'd ye ef yer face hed been blacker'n yer Whig principles."

We had not met in many years, but the name brought him to my remembrance. Again grasping his hand, and shaking it, this time, with a right good will, I exclaimed:

"I'm delighted to see you, Bible; and to see you here-true to the old flag."

"Ye mought hev know'd thet. I know'd ye war right, ef ye war a Whig. But ye wants ter git under kiver. I knows a old 'ooman yere she's secesh way up ter the yeres, an' her fixins hain't nothin' loike whot ye gits in York, but I reckon ef I ax her, she'll take ye in."

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"Any place will do till the General returns-I have letters to him."

The omnibus man went in quest of my trunk, and in a short time, accompanied by my new-found friend, I was on my way to the house of the Secession lady. Before going thither I will make the reader somewhat acquainted with my companion, in the hope that what I shall say of him may lead the public

to think better of the whole edition of Southern "Bibles," who, though badly "bound," and sadly deficient in the way of "lettering” and “embellishment," have about as much homely truth and genuine worth as the more gilded things found in higher latitudes.

Late in November, 1850, as I was journeying on horseback from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to Louisville, Kentucky, I was overtaken by a storm, just at night-fall, and forced to ask shelter at a small farm-house near the little town of Richmond, in Bedford County, Tennessee. The house stood in a small clearing, a short distance from the highway, and was one story high, of hewn logs nicely chinked and whitewashed, with a projecting roof, a broad, open piazza, and an enormous brick chimney-stack protruding at either gable. As I rode up to it, the farmer came out to meet me. He was dressed in homespun, and had a wiry, athletic frame, a dark, sun-browned complexion, an open, manly face, and a frank, cordial manner that won my confidence in a moment. With thirteen years less of life and a century less of hardship, he was the same man who met me at the Murfreesboro railway station. He bade me "good evenin'" as I approached him, and returning his salutation, I asked him for shelter for myself and horse.

"Sartin, Stranger," he replied; "I nuver turned away one o' God's images yit, ef they wus a Yankee-an' some o' them is drefful pore likenesses, ye mought bet a pile on thet."

Why do you think I am a Yankee?" I asked, smiling.

"I sees it all over ye. But, come, alight; ye's welcome ter all I hes, an' ef ye kin spin a yarn, or tell a lie, ony bigger'n I kin, I'll 'low a Yankee ar smarter'n a Tennesseean-an' I nuver know'd one as war yit."

Dismounting, I requested him to give my horse some oats, remarking that I made free with him, because I expected to pay for what I had.

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"Pay!" he exclaimed; "Nuver ye tork uv pay, Stranger, 'tween two sich men as ye an' me is, or ye'll make me fight another duel. It's agin my principles, but I fit one onst, an' it mought be ye wouldn't loike ter hev me fit another."

Not with me, I assure you. I'd take free quarters with you for a month rather than fight a duel."

"Yer a sensible man; fur I shud, fur shore, sarve ye jest as I done Clingman-thet famous North Car❜lina chap. P'raps ye nuver yered how I fit him?"

"No, I never did," I replied.

“Wall, I'll tell ye on it. But yere, Jake" (to a stout, cheerful negro, who just then appeared at the corner of the house), "Yere, Jake, tuck the gen'leman's nag, rub him down, an' guv him some oats, an' mind, doan't ye guv no parson's measure wuth the oats."

"Nuver you f'ar, Massa. Jake'll gub it ter 'im chock-heapin'-loike you gub's eberyting, Massa," rejoined the negro, bounding nimbly into the saddle, and riding off to the barnyard.

The farmer then turned and led the way into the house. At the door of the sitting-room we were met by his wife-a comely, dark-eyed woman of about thirty, neatly clad in a calico gown, with shoes and stockings (a rarity in that region) on her feet, and a spotless lace cap perching cosily on the back of her head.

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'Sally," said my host, as we entered the room, "yere'r a stranger, so, tuck him in; guv him fritters an' apple-jack fur

supper, fur he'm a Yankee, an' thar's no tellin' but ye mought save the kentry ef ye made him fall in love wuth ye."

The good woman laughed, gave me a cordial greeting, asked me to a seat by the fire, and went about preparing supper. As I seated myself with her husband, by the broad hearth-stone, I glanced around the apartment. It occupied one-half of the building, and had a most cosey and comfortable appearance. On the floor was a tidy rag carpet, and the plastered walls were covered with a modest paper, and ornamented with a half dozen neatly-framed engravings. A gilded looking-glass, festooned with sprigs of evergreen, hung between the front windows, and opposite to it stood a huge piece of mahogany, half a side-board, half a bureau, which in its day had graced some statelier mansion. A dozen rustic arm-chairs, covered with untanned deerskin, a small stand in the corner, piled high with such books as the Bible, The "Pilgrim's Progress," and "Doddridge's Expositor," and a large pine table, on which my hostess was arranging the tea-things, completed the furniture of the room. A little boy of five and little girl of seven were helping the good wife set the tea-table, and through an open door at the rear, I saw an older child, with her mother's dark-brown hair and her father's expressive features, busily frying the fritters over the kitchen fire.

After asking me where I "come from," where I "mought be a moseyin' ter," and other similar questions, my host said:

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'So, ye nuver yered how I fit Clingman-thet big Whig chap over thar ter North Carlina?"

"No," I replied, "I never did, but I would like to, for I know Clingman, and am a Whig myself."

"Ye is! Wall, I'd nuver a thort it ter luck at ye; an' it do