“Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sittin’ on de tree ob life,
Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sittin’ on de tree ob life;
Roll, Jordan, roll.
Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sitiin’ on de tree ob life;
Roll, Jordan, roll;
Gen-e-ul Sa-a-axby a sittin’ on de tree ob life;
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, roll,
Ro-o-oll, Jordan, ro-o-oll!”
The patriarchal old African, swaying on his cane before the congregation, threw the whole power of his lungs into the harsh tones with which the concluding “ro-o-o-oll” was given, and then followed the great feat of the African reception to the visitors. Wherever we had been, the negroes seemed to know something of Mr. Chase. Their ideas were very vague, but they thought that, in some way, he was a great, large friend of theirs, who had done something or another for them, what, they scarcely knew, and was to be held beside “Linkum” in their esteem. So now, with a droll look of intelligence toward the crowd, and particularly toward a group of open-faced, enthusiastic young fellows, who seemed to be the main dependence for promptly supplying the volume of sound, the antique leader struck out in harsher tones, and more indescribably bewildering difficulties of pronunciation than ever: