manifest
in the persistent exemplification of every Christian virtue. Had they
enjoyed these inestimable advantages, the Blacks--depend upon it--would
have denied themselves so barbarous a luxury, and set a more Christian
example to the unchristian Whites then dwelling in the Paradise. The
glory of such a manifestation was reserved to the nineteenth century,
when the lovers of the great brotherhood of man should discover and
proclaim to the listening earth the latent saint inherent in the nature
of ebony, from Ham, the favorite son of Noah, down to Uncle Tom, the
best man that ever lived.

In the corn-field, barefooted and shirt-sleeved, Burl was like the
patient, plodding, slow-paced ox; but let the alarm-cry of "Indians!
Indians!" ring along the border, and in a trice, with moccasins on feet,
war-cap on head, rifle on shoulder, tomahawk and limiting-knife in belt,
he was out upon the war-path--a roaring lion, thirsting for scalps and
glory. Indeed, so famous did he in time become for his martial exploits
as to win for himself among Whites a distinguished title of "The
Fighting Nigger;" while among the Reds, by whom he was regarded as a
sort of Okeeheedee--half man and half devil--he grew to be known as "The
Big Black Brave of the Bushy Head." When out on his "Injun" hunts, the
Fighting Nigger usually chose to be alone. His instinct told him--and
that monitor rarely spoke to Big Black Burl in vain--that he must not
presume too far upon that fellowship into which, in virtue of his great
achievements, the White hunters had condescended to admit him; lest
familiarity, which breeds contempt, might incur him the risk of being
snubbed, or thrust out altogether as an impertinent intruder, who had
forgotten where he stood in the social scale. Whereas, by the general
observance of this prudent policy, not only should he win additional
commendations from his White superiors for additional deservings, but
secure to himself the undivided honor of the scalps--the trophies of
victory--taken by his own hand in battle. For, colored though he was,
with a nose inclining neither to the Roman nor Grecian, our hero showed
that he cherished a genuine, therefore jealous, love of glory. In this
respect, we may liken the Fighting Nigger to such godlike specimens of
our race as Alexander the Great; to Napoleon the Great; or, perhaps more
fitly still, to Mumbo Jumbo the Great, the far-famed giant-king of
Congo.

But if there was one thing in