Then, adjusting the great silver-rimmed spectacles and opening a ragged prayer-book (upside down), he proceeds to read over the hymn, the whole congregation listening with rapt attention.  As he utters the last word all rise together, the old women with closed eyes, heads on one side and hands crossed over their breasts, and he begins to “line out,” dividing the words rhythmically into spondaic measure, with the accent strongly on every second syllable and the falling inflection invariably on the last uttered: 

  When I’—­kin read’—­my ti’—­tul clear’—­
  To man’—­shuns in’—­de skies’.

Immediately the old mauma at the end of the front bench “sets de tchune,” a sad, quavering minor, and pitched so high that any attempt to follow it seems utterly hopeless.  But no:  the women all strike in on the same soaring key, while the men, by a skillful management of the falsetto, keep up with the screamiest flights.  As they wail out the last word, “skies,” the women all curtsey with a sharp jerk of the body and the men droop their heads upon their breasts—­a token that the strophe is ended; and the next two lines follow in the same manner.  Then follows the prayer, in which due remembrance is made of “ole maussa” and “nyoung missis an’ maussa,” and all their friends and visitors.  We are considerate enough to withdraw before the sermon, lest our presence should embarrass the preacher, but a little eavesdropping gives us an opportunity of hearing how practically he deals with “lyin’ an’ tiefin’, an’ onbehavin’ ’mongst de nyoung ’omans,” and how he holds up “de obeshay,” as Saint Paul did the magistrate, in terror to those who “play ’possum w’en de grass too t’ick,” or “stick t’orn in he finger so he can’t pick ’nuff cotton w’en de sun too hot.”  With our withdrawal is removed a restraint which has chilled the active devotion of the assembly, and soon the singing begins again, accompanied now, however, by the heavy tramp of feet and the clapping of hands keeping time to the sad, wailing minor which characterizes all their music.  The hymn, too, is no longer selected from the prayer-book, but from some unwritten collection better adapted to their ideas of “heart-religion”: 

  De angel cry out A-men,
    A-men!  A-men! 
  De angel cry out A-men! 
    I’se bound to de promis’ lan’!

  I da gwine up to hebbin in a long w’ite robe,
    Long w’ite robe! long w’ite robe! 
  My Sabiour tell me wear dat robe
    W’en I meet him in de promis’ lan’!

We’ve a great deal before us during the coming week, for we must give a day to the partridges (never called “quail” in the South), and we have a fox-hunt or two in the mornings, and that old buck to look after whose tracks I showed you in the road; besides the ducks and turkeys which are waiting to be shot, and all the Christmas frolicking, from which the ladies will not excuse us.  We will therefore take this quiet Sunday afternoon for a walk among the