Then preaching begins. The young minister preaches a sermon first, and he is followed by the old minister, who preaches another sermon from the same text. Mourners are then called for, the doors are opened to receive members, and other necessary business transacted, after which the benediction is pronounced.
It is then about three P.M. Instead of going home, the members all remain, move the benches aside, and prepare for “King David’s Dance” and the “Holy March.” The first consists in forming a circle—or “ringing up,” as they term it—joining hands, and jumping up and down, keeping time to the tune of some lively “spiritual song.” This performance is carried on for some time, and then they march the “Holy March.”
This is done by forming in single file, each one placing his hand on the other one’s shoulder, and marching around and around, going through a number of bodily contortions, better seen than described. They march and dance alternately until about sundown, when, completely exhausted, they go home.
During these exercises they shout and scream vehemently. The above is a true statement of the manner in which the colored people here, of the Baptist connection, worship. The so-called “King David’s Dance” would remind one more of the war-dance of some savage tribe. Several other churches in the neighboring settlements carry on these performances.—The Southern Sentinel.
NEGRO RELIGION.
Negro religion is as varied as the character and grade of its professors: some as dignified as African princes, others as wild as children playing at church. And yet, who shall say that either extreme is the more acceptable to Him who looks through outward demonstrations at the hearts of worshippers? One of their own utterances perhaps best expresses the idea:
“We has our own ways ob doin’ things; white folks don’t allus understand us, but de Lord seems to get along with us putty well, an’ dat’s all we need care fur.”
White folks do not understand, and certainly cannot but be amused at seeing an old black woman, whose gray wool is bound up in a brilliant turban, moving in slow, undulating waves of a mystic dance up and down the church aisles, and round its altar, as she chants forth her testimony to “de leadin’s of de Lord all dese eighty years”; but they can quite appreciate the reverence which sends every one to his knees at the words, “Let us pray,” and sometimes wish that the custom might prove possible of transplantation. Quaint and racy words sometimes come from these colored preachers. “Ta’n’t no use dodgin’,” said one the other day; “yer may poke yer head dis way and stick yer feet dat way, but yer can’t go round yer grave; yer may shut yer eyes and make b’lieve yer don’t see it, but ye’s got to tumble inter it, after all. Dere it is, right in yer path. Is yer all ready?”