The slaves generally compose their own songs and hymns; and they do not trouble their heads much about the measure.  They often sing the following verses: 

   Old Satan is one busy ole man;
   He rolls dem blocks all in my way;
   But Jesus is my bosom friend;
   He rolls dem blocks away.

   If I had died when I was young,
   Den how my stam’ring tongue would have sung;
   But I am ole, and now I stand
   A narrow chance for to tread dat heavenly land.

I well remember one occasion when I attended a Methodist class meeting.  I went with a burdened spirit, and happened to sit next a poor, bereaved mother, whose heart was still heavier than mine.  The class leader was the town constable—­a man who bought and sold slaves, who whipped his brethren and sisters of the church at the public whipping post, in jail or out of jail.  He was ready to perform that Christian office any where for fifty cents.  This white-faced, black-hearted brother came near us, and said to the stricken woman, “Sister, can’t you tell us how the Lord deals with your soul?  Do you love him as you did formerly?”

She rose to her feet, and said, in piteous tones, “My Lord and Master, help me!  My load is more than I can bear.  God has hid himself from me, and I am left in darkness and misery.”  Then, striking her breast, she continued, “I can’t tell you what is in here!  They’ve got all my children.  Last week they took the last one.  God only knows where they’ve sold her.  They let me have her sixteen years, and then—­O!  O!  Pray for her brothers and sisters!  I’ve got nothing to live for now.  God make my time short!”

She sat down, quivering in every limb.  I saw that constable class leader become crimson in the face with suppressed laughter, while he held up his handkerchief, that those who were weeping for the poor woman’s calamity might not see his merriment.  Then, with assumed gravity, he said to the bereaved mother, “Sister, pray to the Lord that every dispensation of his divine will may be sanctified to the good of your poor needy soul!”

The congregation struck up a hymn, and sung as though they were as free as the birds that warbled round us,—­

   Ole Satan thought he had a mighty aim;
   He missed my soul, and caught my sins. 
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

   He took my sins upon his back;
   Went muttering and grumbling down to hell. 
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

   Ole Satan’s church is here below. 
   Up to God’s free church I hope to go. 
   Cry Amen, cry Amen, cry Amen to God!

Precious are such moments to the poor slaves.  If you were to hear them at such times, you might think they were happy.  But can that hour of singing and shouting sustain them through the dreary week, toiling without wages, under constant dread of the lash?