wrong, I know, to work on Sunday or go to market; but will not God call
the Buckra men to answer for this on the great day of judgment--since they
will give the slaves no other day?

[Footnote 10: A dog is the 72nd part of a dollar.]

While we were at Date Hill Christmas came; and the slave woman who had the
care of the place (which then belonged to Mr. Roberts the marshal), asked
me to go with her to her husband's house, to a Methodist meeting for
prayer, at a plantation called Winthorps. I went; and they were the first
prayers I ever understood. One woman prayed; and then they all sung a
hymn; then there was another prayer and another hymn; and then they all
spoke by turns of their own griefs as sinners. The husband of the woman I
went with was a black driver. His name was Henry. He confessed that he had
treated the slaves very cruelly; but said that he was compelled to obey
the orders of his master. He prayed them all to forgive him, and he prayed
that God would forgive him. He said it was a horrid thing for a ranger[11]
to have sometimes to beat his own wife or sister; but he must do so if
ordered by his master.

[Footnote 11: The head negro of an estate--a person who has the chief
superintendence under the manager.]

I felt sorry for my sins also. I cried the whole night, but I was too much
ashamed to speak. I prayed God to forgive me. This meeting had a great
impression on my mind, and led my spirit to the Moravian church; so that
when I got back to town, I went and prayed to have my name put down in the
Missionaries' book; and I followed the church earnestly every opportunity.
I did not then tell my mistress about it; for I knew that she would not
give me leave to go. But I felt I _must_ go. Whenever I carried the