The American Missionary | Page 7

a college for their sons. Some of the old

slaves who helped to put up the building lived to see freedom, to see
the building come into the hands of the American Missionary
Association, and to see their own children study and graduate in it.

MEETINGS AMONG THE HILLS AND AT A CONVICT CAMP.
BY REV. H. E. PARTRIDGE.
Perhaps nowhere is a religious meeting made more of than in the hill
country of the South. There are reasons and reasons for the fact. Take a
real, genuine Methodist or Baptist matron, or brother, of fifty, and they
love Christ and His cause, and do not fail to associate their love for
Him and the work with the gathering in His name. If it be possible, they
will be in attendance when "the parson" comes round. The girls love to
go; some because they, too, are learning to love the service of the
Master, some because they have no other so good opportunity to see
and be seen, and others because everybody else goes. Where the girls
and young ladies are sure to be, there the boys and young men are apt
to be; and so it comes that when the meeting, especially the "big
meeting," is to be held, the people throng. And if you want to see a
genuine democracy, untainted by any kind of aristocracy, you could not
find it better illustrated than among the hills, at meeting time, in some
log "church-house." No Sir Wonderful to claim best pew, no usher to
give you the place he chooses. You come with your wife and, following
the custom, she goes to the left, you to the right. I will not describe the
service. The singing varies from a wonderful chorus of praise that lacks
nothing in volume in one neighborhood, to the nasal-twanged hymn
which some incompetent leader sings almost alone in some other
community. The old songs predominate, but any brisk moving song of
work of praise or progress easily becomes a favorite, when once it has
been sung long enough so that the words and movement are mastered
by a few.
You will not be long in any big meeting or revival service before you
will hear:

"Mother has a home, sweet home, Mother has a home, sweet home,
Mother has a home, sweet home. Lord, I want to join the angels;
beautiful home."
This is varied. Now it is Brother, Father, Preacher, or Sister who has a
home.
You may not know the tune or words, but it will not be long before you
are singing with the rest, if you are a participator or worshiper, and not
that horrid and heartless thing, a critical looker-on.
You know of the hand-shaking? If a sinner seeks to enter the Christian
life, he comes, on invitation of the minister, to shake hands at the close
of, or during, the service. And often service closes with an
all-round-hand-shake. There is a song started, like "Say, Brother, will
you meet me?" or some simple devotional hymn, and all rise and shake
hands all around, singing or praying, or speaking gently one to another.
Ah! many a feud has sunk forever, many an unpleasantness has been
forgotten, many a half-ripe quarrel has been strangled, and many a
friendship has been strengthened and ripened in these services of
emotion and love, those hand-shakings of the Mountaineers. The
blessings of the peacemakers should be his who first introduced the
service.
Among other invitation hymns I have heard, I remember vividly:
"Sinner, you are welcome, Yes, Yes, welcome To the dying lamb."
This, too, is varied. "Seeker," "Brother," "Sister," and "Everybody's
welcome" being sung.
I could tell of parts I do not like, of excitements the reverse of helpful
to my devotional feelings, and of loudness mistaken for piety or zeal,
but so could others criticise the services at Dr. Cuyler's or Dr. Storrs's
church. I prefer to speak of the really good.
May I tell you of a unique service? It was at the Convict Camp, near

Baker's X Roads, in Cumberland County, Tenn.
No need to ring the bell--the congregation are assembled, and armed
guards are standing by lest someone should escape. Still a bell was
tapped. Silence at once.
"Boys," I said, "when I was here before you kindly asked me to come
and speak to you again. I am here. Before I speak I want to have you
sing. Will you sing?" A moment's pause, and in the rich tones which
the colored people so often have, there rang out from scores of throats,
one of those weird songs of the race. It was of chariots and heaven, of
songs and praises, and of Jesus the King. I cannot reproduce or describe
it. I prayed for a blessing on our