"I did not mean to sing that hymn, I only meant my eyes were dim."
The simple people, still supposing the hymn to be continued, again poured forth volumes of sound.
In vain the preacher gesticulated, stamped, and threatened. So varied usually were the performances, this was thought to be but part of the programme. When the music hushed again the preacher cried:
"The devil must be in you all, that is no hymn to sing at all!"
Were those black people wilfully stupid? By no means. They did not know but they were doing as they had always done. The hymn-book was Greek to them, words were words; therefore they took up Uncle Mat's last words as innocently as if they had been
| "On Jordan's stormy banks I stand, |
| And cast a wishful eye." |
Uncle Mat's patience gave out completely; he hurled his book at the musical leader's head:
"Dere, now see if ye can stop yer 'fernal noise. What bizness yer sing dat? Dats nothin' for to sing. You don't know nothin'. You biggest heap o' wooly heads I eber did see. Was der eber such a pack o' ignerant-ramuses eber in dis world afore? I answer 'firmatively—no! What's de use o' temptin' to preach to sich people? Dey wouldn't know if one was to rise from de dead. Not know de diff'rence 'tween psalm tunes an nuffin else! Dis people be dismissed."
The latter sentence was pronounced most disdainfully. The chorister, with head unbroken, and temper unruffled, arose and begged they might all be forgiven their heedlessness; it would be so great a disappointment to have the meeting broken up so prematurely, it would give them great pleasure if Uncle Mat would be so kind as to dispense with singing and proceed to prayers and exhortations. One or two other prominent members followed in much the same strain, flattering the indignant preacher by making special reference to his eloquence and popularity.
This had the desired effect. Uncle Mat became mollified, and wiping the angry perspiration from his brow, he embarked upon his longest prayer—during which our China and many others fell fast asleep.