“My dear breethering, the Lord raised up his servant, Moses, that he should fetch his people Isrel up outen that wicked land—ah. Then Moses, he went out from the face of the Lord, and departed hence unto the courts of the old tyranickle king—ah. An’ what sez you, Moses? Ah, sez he, Moses sez, sez he to that wicked old Faro: Thus sez the Lord God of hosts, sez he: Let my Isrel go—ah. An’ what sez the ole, hard-hearted king—ah? Ah! sez Faro, sez he, who is the Lord God of hosts, sez he, that I should obey his voice—ah? An’ now what sez you, Moses—ah. Ah, Moses sez, sez he: Thus saith the Lord God of Isrel, let my people go, that they mought worship me, sez the Lord, in the wilderness—ah. But—ah! my beloved breethering an’ my harden’, impenitent frien’s—ah, did the ole, hard-hearted king harken to the words of Moses, and let my people go—ah? Nary time.”
This last remark, made in an ordinary, conversational tone of voice, was so sudden and unexpected that the change, the transition from the singing state was electrical.
“An’ then, my beloved breethering an’ sistering, what next—ah? What sez you, Moses, to Faro—that contrary ole king—ah? Ah, Moses sez to Faro, sez he, Moses sez, sez he: Thus seth the Lord God of Isrel: Let my people go, sez the Lord, leest I come, sez he, and smite you with a cuss—ah! An’ what sez Faro, the ole tyranickle king—ah? Ah, sez he, sez ole Faro, Let their tasks be doubled, and leest they mought grumble, sez he, those bricks shall be made without straw—ah! [Vox naturale.] Made ’em pluck up grass an’ stubble outen the fields, breethering, to mix with their mud. Mity hard on the pore critters; warn’t it, Brother Flood Gate?” [The individual thus interrogated replied, “Jess so;” and “ole Louder” moved along.]
“An’ what next—ah? Did the ole king let my people Isrel go—ah? No, my dear breethering, he retched out his pizen hand, and he hilt ’em fash—ah. Then the Lord was wroth with that wicked ole king—ah. An’ the Lord, he sed to Moses, sez he: Moses, stretch forth now thy rod over the rivers an’ the ponds of this wicked land—ah; an’ behold, sez he, when thou stretch out thy rod, sez the Lord, all the waters shall be turned into blood—ah! Then Moses, he tuck his rod, an’ he done as the Lord God of Isrel had commanded his servant Moses to do—ah. An’ what then, say you, my breethering—ah? Why, lo an’ behold! the rivers of that wicked land was all turned into blood—ah; an’ all the fish an’ all the frogs in them streams an’ waters died a—h!”
“Yes!” said the speaker, lowering his voice to a natural tone, and glancing out of the open window at the dry and dusty road, for we were at the time suffering from a protracted drouth: “An’ I believe the frogs will all die now, unless we get some rain purty soon. What do you think about it, Brother Waters?” [This interrogatory was addressed to a fine, portly-looking old man in the congregation. Brother W. nodded assent, and old Louder resumed the thread of his discourse.] “Ah, my beloved breethering, that was a hard time on old Faro an’ his wicked crowd—ah. For the waters was loathsome to the people, an’ it smelt so bad none of ’em cood drink it; an’ what next—ah? Did the ole king obey the voice of the Lord, and let my people Isrel go—ah? Ah, no, my breethering, not by a long sight—ah. For he hilt out agin the Lord, and obeyed not his voice—ah. Then the Lord sent a gang of bull-frogs into that wicked land—ah. An’ they went hoppin’ an’ lopin’ about all over the country, into the vittles, an’ everywhere else—ah. My breethering, the old Louder thinks that was a des’prit time—ah. But all woodent do—ah. Ole Faro was as stubborn as one of Louder’s mules—ah, an’ he woodent let the chosen seed go up outen the land of bondage—ah. Then the Lord sent a mighty hail, an’, arter that, his devourin’ locuses—ah! An’ they et up blamed nigh everything on the face of the eth—ah.”
REV. MR. WILSON AND HIS CAPTURED SLAVE.—[Page 83].
“Let not yore harts be trubbled, for the truth is mitay and must prevale—ah. Brother Creek, you don’t seem to be doin’ much of ennything, suppose you raise a tune!”
This remark was addressed to a tall, lank, hollow-jawed old man, in the congregation, with a great shock of “grizzled gray” hair.
“Wait a minit, Brother Louder, till I git on my glasses!” was the reply of Brother Creek, who proceeded to draw from his pocket an oblong tin case, which opened and shut with a tremendous snap, from which he drew a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles. These he carefully “dusted” with his handkerchief, and then turned to the hymn which the preacher had selected and read out to the congregation. After considerable deliberation, and some clearing of the throat, hawking, spitting, etc., and other preliminaries, Brother Creek, in a quavering, split sort of voice, opened out on the tune.