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 propsective 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.