“Brothahs an’ sistahs, I teks gret pleasuah in interducin’ to you Eldah Smith, of Dokeville, who will preach fu’ us at dis howah. I want to speak fu’ him yo’ pra’ful attention.” Sister Williams nodded her head in approval, even this much was good; but Brother Sneedon sighed aloud.
The Reverend Elias Smith arose and glanced over the congregation. He was young, well-appearing, and looked as though he might have been unmarried. He announced his text in a clear, resonant voice: “By deir fruits shell you know dem.”
The great change that gave to the blacks fairly trained ministers from the schools had not at this time succeeded their recently accomplished emancipation. And the sermon of Elder Smith was full of all the fervour, common-sense, and rude eloquence of the old plantation exhorter. He spoke to his hearers in the language that they understood, because he himself knew no other. He drew his symbols and illustrations from the things which he saw most commonly about him,—things which he and his congregation understood equally well. He spent no time in dallying about the edge of his subject, but plunged immediately into the middle of things, and soon had about him a shouting, hallooing throng of frantic people. Of course it was the Williams faction who shouted. The spiritual impulse did not seem to reach those who favoured Brother Sneedon’s candidate. They sat silent and undemonstrative. That earnest disciple himself still sat with his head bent upon his cane, and still at intervals sighed audibly. He had only raised his head once, and that was when some especially powerful period in the sermon had drawn from the partner of his joys and sorrows an appreciative “Oomph!” Then the look that he shot forth from his eyes, so full of injury, reproach, and menace, repressed her noble rage and settled her back into a quietude more consonant with her husband’s ideas.
Meanwhile, Sister Hannah Williams and her sylph-like daughters “Do” and “Ca’line” were in an excess of religious frenzy. Whenever any of the other women in the congregation seemed to be working their way too far forward, those enthusiastic sisters shouted their way directly across the approach to the pulpit, and held place there with such impressive and menacing demonstrativeness that all comers were warned back. There had been times when, actuated by great religious fervour, women had ascended the rostrum and embraced the minister. Rest assured, nothing of that kind happened in this case, though the preacher waxed more and more eloquent as he proceeded,—an eloquence more of tone, look, and gesture than of words. He played upon the emotions of his willing hearers, except those who had steeled themselves against his power, as a skilful musician upon the strings of his harp. At one time they were boisterously exultant, at another they were weeping and moaning, as if in the realisation of many sins. The minister himself lowered his voice to a soft rhythmical moan, almost a chant, as he said,—
“You go ’long by de road an’ you see an ol’ shabby tree a-standin’ in de o’chud. It ain’t ha’dly got a apple on it. Its leaves are put’ nigh all gone. You look at de branches, dey’s all rough an’ crookid. De tree’s all full of sticks an’ stones an’ wiah an’ ole tin cans. Hit’s all bruised up an’ hit’s a ha’d thing to look at altogether. You look at de tree an’ whut do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say de tree ain’t no ’count, fu’ ‘by deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, my frien’s, you wrong. Dat tree did ba’ good fruit, an’ by hits fruit was hit knowed. John tol’ Gawge an’ Gawge tol’ Sam, an’ evah one dat passed erlong de road had to have a shy at dat fruit. Dey be’n th’owin’ at dat tree evah sence hit begun to ba’ fruit, an’ dey’s ’bused hit so dat hit couldn’t grow straight to save hits life. Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah, all bent ovah yo’ staff an’ a-groanin’ wif yo’ burdens? Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah, dat yo’ steps are a-weary an’ you’s longin’ fu’ yo’ home? Have dey be’n th’owin’ stones an’ cans at you? Have dey be’n beatin’ you wif sticks? Have dey tangled you up in ol’ wiah twell you couldn’t move han’ ner foot? Have de way be’n all trouble? Have de sky be’n all cloud? Have de sun refused to shine an’ de day be’n all da’kness? Don’t git werry, be consoled. Whut de mattah! Why, I tell you you ba’in’ good fruit, an’ de debbil cain’t stan’ it—‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’
“You go ’long de road a little furder an’ you see a tree standin’ right by de fence. Standin’ right straight up in de air, evah limb straight out in hits place, all de leaves green an’ shinin’ an’ lovely. Not a stick ner a stone ner a can in sight. You look ’way up in de branches, an’ dey hangin’ full o’ fruit, big an’ roun’ an’ solid. You look at dis tree an’ whut now do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say dis is a good tree, fu’ ‘by deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, you wrong ag’in, my frien’s. De apples on dat tree are so sowah dat dey’d puckah up yo’ mouf wuss ’n a green pu’simmon, an’ evahbidy knows hit, by hits fruit is hit knowed. Dey don’t want none o’ dat fruit, an’ dey pass hit by an’ don’t bothah dey haids about it.
“Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl’ sailin’ on flowery beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you’s a-walkin’ in de sof’ pafs an’ a-dressin’ fine. Ain’t nobidy a-troublin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-backbitin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-castin’ yo’ name out as evil. You all right an’ movin’ smoov. But I want you to stop an’ ’zamine yo’se’ves. I want you to settle whut kin’ o’ fruit you ba’in’, whut kin’ o’ light you showin’ fo’f to de worl’. An’ I want you to stop an’ tu’n erroun’ when you fin’ out dat you ba’in’ bad fruit, an’ de debbil ain’t bothahed erbout you ’ca’se he knows you his’n anyhow. ‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’”
The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.
“Wha’ ’d you think o’ dat sermon?” asked Sister Williams of one of her good friends; and the good friend answered,—