“He who retreated struck up, in a clear, loud voice, one of those peculiar melodies in which vigor and spirit are blended with a wild, inexpressible mournfulness. The voice was one of a singular and indescribable quality of tone; it was heavy as the subbass of an organ, and of a velvety softness, and yet it seemed to pierce the air with a keen dividing force which is generally characteristic of voices of much less volume. The words were the commencement of a wild camp-meeting hymn, much in vogue in those parts:

                         “Brethren, don’t you hear the sound?
                         The martial trumpet now is blowing;
                         Men in order listing round,
                         And soldiers to the standard flowing.”

        There was a wild, exultant fulness of liberty that rolled in the note; and, to Harry’s excited ear, there seemed in it a fierce challenge of contempt to his imbecility, and his soul at that moment seemed to be rent asunder with a pang such as only those can know who have felt what it is to be a slave. There was an uprising within him, vague, tumultuous, overpowering; dim instincts, heroic aspirations; the will to do, the soul to dare; and then, in a moment, there followed the picture of all society leagued against him, the hopeless impossibility of any outlet to what was burning within him. The waters of a nature naturally noble, pent up, and without outlet, rolled back upon his heart with a suffocating force; and, in his hasty anguish, he cursed the day of his birth.”

                                   […And, again:]

        “Father Bonnie accordingly stepped to the front of the stand, and with him another minister, of equal height and breadth of frame, and, standing with their hats on, they uplifted, in stentorian voices, the following hymn:

                         “Brethren, don’t you hear the sound?
                         The martial trumpet now is blowing;
                         Men in order ‘listing round,
                         And soldiers to the standard flowing.”

        As the sound of the hymn rolled through the aisles and arches of the wood, the heads of different groups, who had been engaged in conversation, were observed turning toward the stand, and voices from every part of the camp-ground took up the air, as, suiting the action to the words, they began flowing to the place of preaching. The hymn went on, keeping up the same martial images:

                         “Bounty offered, life and peace;
                         To every soldier this is given,
                         When the toils of life shall cease,
                         A mansion bright, prepared in heaven.”

        As the throng pressed up, and came crowding from the distant aisles of the wood, the singers seemed to exert themselves to throw a wilder vehemence into the song, stretching out their arms and beckoning eagerly. They went on singing:

                         “You need not fear; the cause is good,
                         Let who will to the crown aspire:
                         In this cause the martyrs bled,
                         And shouted victory in the fire.

                         “In this cause let ‘s follow on,
                         And soon we ‘ll tell the pleasing story,
                         How by faith we won the crown,
                         And fought our way to life and glory.

                         “O, ye rebels, come and ‘list!
                         The officers are now recruiting:
                         Why will you in sin persist,
                         Or waste your time in vain disputing?

                         “All excuses now are vain;
                         For, if you do not sue for favor,
                         Down you ‘ll sink to endless pain,
                         And bear the wrath of God forever.”

        There is always something awful in the voice of the multitude. It would seem as if the breath that a crowd breathed out together, in moments of enthusiasm, carried with it a portion of the dread and mystery of their own immortal natures. The whole area before the pulpit, and in the distant aisles of the forest, became one vast, surging sea of sound, as negroes and whites, slaves and freemen, saints and sinners, slave-holders, slave-hunters, slave-traders, ministers, elders, and laymen, alike joined in the pulses of that mighty song. A flood of electrical excitement seemed to rise with it, as, with a voice of many waters, the rude chant went on:

                         “Hark! the victors singing loud!
                         Emanuel’s chariot-wheels are rumbling;
                         Mourners weeping through the crowd,
                         And Satan’s kingdom down is tumbling!”

        Our friend, Ben Dakin, pressed to the stand, and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, exceeded all others in the energy of his vociferations.”