Off-Hand Sketches | Page 4

echo of his own voice.
Never had the preacher delivered a discourse in which he felt so little
freedom. His words came back upon his ears with a kind of a dull
reverberation, as if the hearts of his hearers were of ice, instead of
flesh.
Before singing the last hymn, which Mr. Odell gave out at the
conclusion of the sermon, he announced that he would hold a
class-meeting. After he had finally pronounced the benediction, there
was a general movement towards the door; only seven remained, and
these were all female members, most of them pretty well advanced in
their life-journey. Mr. Martin was at the meeting, but ere the preacher
had descended the pulpit-stairs, he was out of the house and preparing
to leave for home.
"Where is the new preacher going?" asked a member, of Mr. Martin, as

he led out his horse.
"To sister Russell's, I presume."
"Sister Russell is not here."
"Isn't she?"
"No; she's sick."
"He stayed there last night, I suppose, and will go back after class."
Martin sprang upon his horse as he said this.
"We ought to be sure of it," remarked the other.
"I can't invite him home," said Martin. "If I do, I shall have him
through the whole year, and that is not convenient. The preachers have
always stayed at sister Russell's, and there is no reason why they
shouldn't continue to do so."
"I haven't a corner to put him in," remarked the other. "Besides, these
preachers are too nice for me."
"It's all right, no doubt," said Martin, as he balanced himself in his
saddle; "all right. He stayed at sister Russell's last evening, and will go
back and stay there until to-morrow morning. Get 'up, Tom!" And, with
this self-satisfying remark, the farmer rode away.
The man with whom he had been talking, was, like him, a member; and,
like him, had omitted to attend class, in order to shift off upon some
one else the burden of entertaining the new preacher; for whoever first
tendered him the hospitalities of his house and table would most
probably have to do it through the year. He, too, rode off, and left
others to see that the preacher was duly cared for. An icy coldness
pervaded the class-meeting.
Only four, out of the seven sisters, one of whom was an old black
woman, could muster up courage enough to tell, in answer to the
preacher's call, the "dealing of God" with their souls; and only two of
them could effect an utterance louder than a whisper. What they did say
had in it but little coherence, and Mr. Odell had to content himself with
an exhortation to each, of a general rather than a particular character.
When the hymn was sung at the close, only one thin voice joined in the
song of praise, and not a sob or sigh was heard in response to his prayer.
The class-paper showed the names of thirty members, but here were
only seven! This was rather discouraging for a commencement. Mr.
Odell hardly knew what course to take; whether to stir up with some
pretty sharp remarks the little company of believers who were present,

and thus seek to impress the whole through them; or to wait until he
came round again, and have a good chance at them from the pulpit. He
concluded in the end, that the last course might be the best one.
In calling over the names on the class-paper he found that sister Russell
was absent. On dismissing the meeting, all except the old black woman
retired. She lingered, however, to shake hands with the new preacher,
and to show him that, if she was old, her teeth were good, and her eyes
bright and lively.
On emerging into the open air, Odell saw the last of his flock slowly
retiring from the scene of worship. For two of the women, their
husbands had waited on the outside of the meeting-house, and they had
taken into their wagons two other women who lived near them. These
wagons were already in motion, when the preacher came out followed
by the old black woman, who it now appeared, had the key of the
meeting-house door, which she locked.
"Then you are the sexton, Aunty," remarked Odell, with a smile.
"Yes, massa, I keeps de key."
"Well, Nancy," said Odell, who had already made up his mind what he
would do, "I am going home to dinner with you."
"Me, massa!" Old Nancy looked as much surprised as a startled hare.
"Yes. You see they've all gone and left me, and I feel hungry. You'll
give me some of your dinner?"
"Yes, massa, please God! I'll give you all of it--but, it's only pork and
hominy."
"Very good; and