The bells of thirty
churches were calling the people to the different places of
worship. Crowds were seen wending their way to the houses of God;
one followed by a negro boy carrying his master's Bible; another
followed by her maid-servant holding the mistress' fan; a third
supporting an umbrella over his master's head to shield him from
the burning sun. Baptists immersed, Presbyterians sprinkled,
Methodists shouted, and Episcopalians read their prayers, while
ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all.
The chiming of the bells seemed to mock the sighs and deep groans
of the forty human beings then incarcerated in the slave-pen.
These imprisoned children of God were many of them Methodists,
some Baptists, and others claiming to believe in the faith of the
Presbyterians and Episcopalians.
0h, with what anxiety did these creatures await the close of that
Sabbath, and the dawn of another day, that should deliver them
from those dismal and close cells. Slowly the day passed away, and
once more the evening breeze found its way through the barred
windows of the prison that contained these injured sons and
daughters of America. The clock on the calaboose had just struck
nine on Monday morning, when hundreds of persons were seen
threading the gates and doors of the negro-pen. It was the same
gang that had the day previous been stepping to the tune and
keeping time with the musical church bells. Their Bibles were not
with them, their prayer-books were left at home, and even their
long and solemn faces had been laid aside for the week.
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