“Now, I’ve said ernuff; day’s no use fur ter keep er talkin’, an’ all you backslidin’ chu’ch membahs, tremblin’ sinners, an’ weepin’ monahs, come up hyear dis ebenin’, an’ try ter git erroun’ dem s’ords an’ dem famines.  Now my skyearts is clar, caze I done ’liver de message.  I done tol’ yer whar hit come fum.  I tol’ yer ’twas in de Book, ’boutn middle-ways twix’ een an’ een; an’ wedder David writ it or Sam’l writ it, or Gen’sis writ it or Paul writ it, or Phesians writ it or Loshuns writ it, dat ain’t nudder hyear nor dar; dat don’t make no diffunce; some on ’em writ it, caze hit’s sholy in de Book, fur de oberseer’s wife she read hit ter me outn dar; an’ I tuck ’tickler notice, too, so’s I could tell yer right whar ter fin’ it.  An’, bredren, I’m er tellin’ yer de truf dis ebenin’; hit’s jes ‘bout de middle twix’ een an’ een.  Hit’s dar, sho’s yer born, an’ dar aint no way fur ter ‘sputin’ it, nor ter git roun’ it, ‘septin’ fur ter tu’n fum yer wickedness.  An’ now, Brudder Gabe, raise er chune; an’ sing hit lively, bredren; an’ wile dey’s singin’ hit, I want yer ter come up hyear an’ fill deze monahs’ benches plum full.  Bredren, I want monahs ‘pun top er monahs dis ebenin’.  Brethren I want ’em in crowds.  I want ’em in droves.  I want ’em laid ’pun top er one ernudder, bredren, tell yer can’t see de bottumus’ monahs.  I want ’em piled up hyear dis ebenin’.  I want ’em packed down, mun, an’ den tromped on, ter make room fur de nex’ load.  Oh, my bredren, come! fur ’dey young men shall die by de s’ord, an’ dey sons an’ dey daughters by de famine.’”

The scene that followed baffles all description.  Uncle Gabe struck up—­

  “Oh, lebe de woods uv damnation;
   Come out in de fields uv salvation;
   Fur de Lord’s gwine ter bu’n up creation,
   Wen de day uv jedgment come. 
  “Oh, sinners, yer may stan’ dar er laffin’,
   Wile de res’ uv us er quaffin’
   Uv de streams wich de win’s is er waffin’
   Right fresh fum de heb’nly sho’. 
  “But, min’, der’s er day is er comin’,
   Wen yer’ll hyear a mighty pow’ful hummin’;
   Wen dem angels is er blowin’ an’ er drummin’,
   In de awful jedgment day. 
  “Oh, monahs, you may stan’ dar er weepin’,
   Fur de brooms uv de Lord is er sweepin’,
   An’ all de trash dey’s er heapin’
   Outside er de golden gate. 
  “So, sinners, yer’d better be er tu’nin’,
   Er climin’ an’ er scramblin’ an’ er runnin’,
   Fur ter ‘scape dat drefful burnin’
   In de awful jedgment day.”

And while the hymn was being sung, Uncle Daniel had his wish of “monahs ’pun top er monahs,” for the benches and aisles immediately around the altar were soon crowded with the weeping negroes.  Some were crying, some shouting Glory! some praying aloud, some exhorting the sinners, some comforting the mourners, some shrieking and screaming, and, above all the din and confusion, Uncle Daniel could be heard halloing, at the top of his voice, “Dem s’ords