“Mistah Cheerman,” he said, “fu’ myse’f, I ain’t no speakah.  I ain’t nevah been riz up dat way.  I has plowed an’ I has sowed, an’ latah on I has laid cyahpets, an’ I has whitewashed.  But, ladies an’ gent’men, I is a man, an’ as a man I want to speak to you ter-night.  We is lak a flock o’ sheep, an’ in de las’ week de wolf has come among ouah midst.  On evah side we has hyeahd de shephe’d dogs a-ba’kin’ a-wa’nin’ unto us.  But, my f’en’s, de cotton o’ p’ospe’ity has been stuck in ouah eahs.  Fu’ thirty yeahs er mo’, ef I do not disremember, we has walked de streets an’ de by-ways o’ dis country an’ called ouahse’ves f’eemen.  Away back yander, in de days of old, lak de chillen of Is’ul in Egypt, a deliv’ah came unto us, an Ab’aham Lincoln a-lifted de yoke f’om ouah shouldahs.”  The audience waked up and began swaying, and there was moaning heard from both Amen corners.

“But, my f’en’s, I want to ax you, who was behind Ab’aham Lincoln?  Who was it helt up dat man’s han’s when dey sent bayonets an’ buttons to enfo’ce his word—­umph?  I want to—­to know who was behin’ him?  Wasn’ it de ’Publican pa’ty?” There were cries of “Yes, yes! dat’s so!” One old sister rose and waved her sunbonnet.

“An’ now I want to know in dis hyeah day o’ comin’ up ef we a-gwineter ‘sert de ol’ flag which waved ovah Lincoln, waved ovah Gin’r’l Butler, an’ led us up straight to f’eedom?  Ladies an’ gent’men, an’ my f’en’s, I know dar have been suttain meetin’s held lately in dis pa’t o’ de town.  I know dar have been suttain cannerdates which have come down hyeah an’ brung us de mixed wine o’ Babylon.  I know dar have been dem o’ ouah own people who have drunk an’ become drunk—­ah!  But I want to know, an’ I want to ax you ter-night as my f’en’s an’ my brothahs, is we all a-gwineter do it—­huh?  Is we all a-gwineter drink o’ dat wine?  Is we all a-gwineter reel down de perlitical street, a-staggerin’ to an’ fro?—­hum!”

Cries of “No!  No!  No!” shook the whole church.

“Gent’men an’ ladies,” said the old man, lowering his voice, “de pa’able has been ‘peated, an’ some o’ us—­I ain’t mentionin’ no names, an’ I ain’t a-blamin’ no chu’ch—­but I say dar is some o’ us dat has sol’ dere buthrights fu’ a pot o’ cabbage.”

What more Deacon Swift said is hardly worth the telling, for the whole church was in confusion and little more was heard.  But he carried everything with him, and Lane’s work seemed all undone.  On a back seat of the church Tom Swift, the son of the presiding officer, sat and smiled at his father unmoved, because he had gone as far as the sixth grade in school, and thought he knew more.

As the reporters say, the meeting came to a close amid great enthusiasm.