"Go down in de Lonesome Valley," etc.
They repeat their hymns several times, and while singing keep perfect
time with their hands and feet.
On our way homeward we noticed that a few of the trees were beginning to
turn, but we looked in vain for the glowing autumnal hues of our
Northern forests. Some brilliant scarlet berries--the cassena--were
growing along the roadside, and on every hand we saw the live-oak with
its moss-drapery. The palmettos disappointed me; stiff and ungraceful,
they have a bristling, defiant look, suggestive of Rebels starting up
and defying everybody. The land is low and level,--not the slightest
approach to a hill, not a rock, nor even a stone to be seen. It would
have a desolate look, were it not for the trees, and the hanging moss
and numberless vines which festoon them. These vines overrun the hedges,
form graceful arches between the trees, encircle their trunks, and
sometimes climb to the topmost branches. In February they begin to
bloom, and then throughout the spring and summer we have a succession of
beautiful flowers. First comes the yellow jessamine, with its perfect,
gold-colored, and deliciously fragrant blossoms. It lights up the
hedges, and completely canopies some of the trees. Of all the
wild-flowers this seems to me the most beautiful and fragrant. Then we
have the snow-white, but scentless Cherokee rose, with its lovely,
shining leaves. Later in the season come the brilliant trumpet-flower,
the passion-flower, and innumerable others.
The Sunday after our arrival we attended service at the Baptist Church.
The people came in slowly; for they have no way of knowing the hour,
except by the sun. By eleven they had all assembled, and the church was
well filled. They were neatly dressed in their Sunday-attire, the women,
mostly wearing clean, dark frocks, with white aprons and bright-colored
head-handkerchiefs. Some had attained to the dignity of straw hats with
gay feathers, but these were not nearly as becoming nor as picturesque
as the handkerchiefs. The day was warm, and the windows were thrown open
as if it were summer, although it was the second day of November. It was
very pleasant to listen to the beautiful hymns, and look from the crowd
of dark, earnest faces within, upon the grove of noble oaks without. The
people sang, "Roll, Jordan, roll," the grandest of all their hymns.
There is a great, rolling wave of sound through it all.
"Mr. Fuller settin' on de Tree ob Life,
Fur to hear de ven Jordan roll.
Oh, roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan! roll, Jordan roll!