“D. HUNTER,
“Major-Gen. Commanding.”
Reports from all parts of the South gave corroborative evidence of the deep religious zeal with which the blacks entered the army. Every thing was done for “God and liberty.”
Col. T. W. Higginson, in “The Atlantic Monthly,” gives the following prayer, which he heard from one of his contraband soldiers:—
Let me so lib dat when I-die I shall hab manners; dat I shall know what to say when I see my heabenly Lord.
“‘Let me lib wid de musket in one hand, an’ de Bible in de oder—dat if I die at de muzzle of de musket, die in de water, die on de land, I may know I hab de bressed Jesus in my hand, an’ hab no fear.
“‘I hab lef my wife in de land o’ bondage; my little ones dey say eb’ry night, “Whar is my fader?” But when I die, when de bressed mornin’ rises, when I shall stan’ in de glory, wid one foot on de water an’ one foot on de land, den, O Lord! I shall see my wife an’ my little chil’en once more.’”
“These sentences I noted down, as best I could, beside the glimmering camp-fire last night. The same person was the hero of a singular little contre-temps at a funeral in the afternoon. It was our first funeral. The man had died in hospital, and we had chosen a picturesque burial place above the river, near the old church, and beside a little nameless cemetery, used by generations of slaves. It was a regular military funeral, the coffin being draped with the American flag, the escort marching behind, and three volleys fired over the grave. During the services, there was singing, the chaplain deaconing out the hymn in their favorite way. This ended, he announced his text: ‘This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and delivered him out of all his trouble.’ Instantly, to my great amazement, the cracked voice of the chorister was uplifted, intoning the text, as if it were the first verse of another hymn. So calmly was it done, so imperturbable were all the black countenances that I half began to conjecture that the chaplain himself intended it for a hymn, though I could imagine no prospective rhyme for trouble, unless it were approximated by debbil; which is, indeed, a favorite reference, both with the men and with his reverence. But the chaplain, peacefully awaiting, gently repeated his text after the chant, and to my great relief the old chorister waived all further recitative, and let the funeral discourse proceed.
“Their memories are a vast bewildered chaos of Jewish history and biography; and most of the great events of the past, down to the period of the American Revolution, they instinctively attribute to Moses. There is a fine bold confidence in all their citations, however, and the record never loses piquancy in their hands, though strict accuracy may suffer. Thus one of my captains, last Sunday, heard a colored exhorter at Beaufort proclaim, ‘Paul may plant, and may polish wid water, but it won’t do,’ in which the sainted Apollos would hardly have recognized himself.
“A correspondent of the Burlington “Free Press” gives an account of a Freedmen’s meeting at Belle Plain, Va. “Some of the negro prayers and exhortations were very simple and touching. One said in his prayer, ‘O Lord! we’s glad for de hour when our sins nailed us to de foot of de cross, and de bressed Lord Jesus put his soft arm around us, and tole us dat we’s his chilien: we’s glad we’s sinners, so dat we can be saved by his grace.’ Another thus earnestly prayed for the army of freedom: