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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1855], Ellie, or, The human comedy. With illustrations after designs by Strother. (A. Morris, Richmond) [word count] [eaf506T].

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CHAPTER XIX. THE HYMN.

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“Ah, Ellie! my good little Ellie! always glad to see
me,” said Sansoucy, entering, “and Doctor Fossyl! How
do you do, Doctor? and you, Joe, and Charley?”

Having distributed which comprehensive salute, Mr.
Sansoucy sat down.

“I do well,” growled Doctor Fossyl.

“That is an agreeable circumstance,” said Sansoucy.
“How's the patient?”

“Getting better.”

“He'll soon be out?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.”

“And I don't care!”

“Oh, you don't care for anything, my dear Doctor,
you're a philosopher.”

“And, therefore, you despise me.”

“No, I'm nearly one myself.”

“A pretty philosopher!”

“Who don't believe in the lights of the Eighteenth Century,
you would add. Well, Doctor, don't let us resume
that subject—you are right, however, I don't!”

And Mr. Sansoucy smiled.

“Here is a little philosopher, who strikes me as superior
to D'Alembert, Voltaire, Diderot, and the whole
crowd.”

“Who are you talking about?”

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“Ellie.”

“That child?”

“Yes.”

“A philosopher, forsooth—of the Sansoucy school,
doubtless!”

“Why, Doctor, what a biting wit you have, this morning!
No, Ellie is not of the without-care school—she is
rather of the earnest persuasion.”

And Mr. Sansoucy applauded his jest with favorable
laughter. There was, as we have said, about this gentleman,
a good humor that was better than wit; and certainly
no wit, however fiery and brilliant, ever produced
the cheerful influence which his good nature did. Even
Doctor Fossyl seemed to feel that, judging by its fruits,
his own philosophy of life was narrower and less true
than this opposed to it—but like all men convinced
against their will, he refused indignantly to be persuaded.

“Yes,” he said: “you've got a very enthusiastic follower
in this young miss, who, it seems, is the paragon
of perfection and human goodness. I wish you joy, and
advise you to train her up in the way she should go, and
bestow your lordship's hand upon the maiden.”

“My hand!”

“Yes, marry her!”

The idea seemed to tickle Mr. Sansoucy very much,
and he laughed heartily. Then apparently reflecting that
this exhibition of merriment might be misconstrued by
his opponent, he said:

“Faith! Doctor, I really do not think your advice so
bad, after all.”

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“You acknowledge then—?”

“That I love Ellie? Yes, my dear Doctor. Don't I,
Ellie?”

And Mr. Sansoucy smoothed the child's hair with a
kind hand, and smiled.

“Indeed, sir, I love you for all your goodness,” Ellie
said, simply.

“Mighty pretty!” sneered Doctor Fossyl; “coo-coo!
coo-coo! two doves! Come, let me see how people
make love!”

Sansoucy smiled, and said:

“I really can't oblige you, Doctor—the affection Ellie
and myself feel for each other is already made, though
not perhaps in the mould you think. I'm afraid that
Ellie scarcely stood a fair chance there!”

And Mr. Sansoucy again laughed, but this time with
something like a sigh. Ellie caught the imperceptible
sound, and looked up into the kind face.

“See here, Doctor,” said Sansoucy; “here is the
proof of Ellie's regard. She heard me groan, just now,
and it troubles her.”

“Nonsense!” muttered Doctor Fossyl: “really the
greatest trifler I have ever known, and seems to be proud
of it! Well, sir,” he said aloud: “am I to go on visiting
here?”

“Go on?”

“Yes, I say go on.”

“Why, certainly—until Joe is well.”

“You pay?”

Sansoucy laughed, and said:

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“I pay.”

“Very good,” replied Doctor Fossyl, rising. “I'll
come again to-morrow, and prescribe—this patient may
have a month before him yet.”

“So long!”

“Yes—what are you surprised at?”

“Why, at the failure of the great Doctor Fossyl in—”

“Raising a man instantaneously from a fever, you
would say, I suppose. Well, sir, be surprised. I have
no time to talk. I have a hundred visits to pay before
the opera.”

And Doctor Fossyl rose.

As he did so, the loud resounding hymn from Aunt
Phillis' cellar, commenced again, and the walls fairly
shook with it.

“Who is singing, Ellie?” said Mr. Sansoucy; “I
heard something as I came in—what is it?”

“Aunt Phillis has a prayer-meeting, sir,” Ellie said.

“Oh!” said Sansoucy: “the old woman down there!”

“The old hypocritical hag down there!” growled Doctor
Fossyl.

“Hush, Doctor, let us listen to the incantation ceremony,”
said Sausoucy: “listen!”

And the company were silent.

The hymn, which had paused in its flow for a time as
though to gather strength for a more resounding burst,
now soared aloft, and made the windows shake with its
full flood of strange and touching harmony. It was one
of those rude devotional lyrics which seem to have had
their birth and cradle in the great pine forests, among

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simple people—often among negroes—though this was
not of the latter description. A fit accompaniment to its
wild and triumphant cadences would have been the solemn
murmur of those haughty tufts which throw their shadows
on the homely meeting houses buried in the forests, and
surrounded by the simplicity of nature.

As it rose now, it seemed to speak of the country, of
the solemn depths of ancient woods, and its rudeness
made the general effect more striking.

The disconnected words which reached the ears of the
silent auditors, were something like this:

“O! what ship is this that will take us all home
O! glory, halleluia!
O! what ship is this that will take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
'Tis the old ship of Zion—halleluia!
'Tis the old ship of Zion—halleluia!
“Do you think she will be able for to take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
Do you think she will be able for to take us all home?
O! glory, halleluia!
O yes! she will be able—halleluia!
O yes! she will be able—halleluia!
“She has landed many thousands, and she'll land as many more!
O! glory, halleluia!
She has landed many thousands, and she'll land as many more!
O! glory, halleluia!
She will land them over Jordan—halleluia!
She will land them over Jordan—halleluia!
Come along! come along!—and let's go home
O! glory, halleluia!
Come along! come along!—and let's go home!
O! glory, halleluia!
Our home it is in heaven—halleluia!
Our home it is in heaven—halleluia!

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The mournful melody of the negro manner of singing,
gaye a strange effect to this hymn, and when it paused,
there was silence in the chamber of Joe Lacklitter. Before
the cynical physician could utter any of his usual
commentaries, however, the voices commenced again;
and again the solemn hymn resounded. This time it was
one, the burden of which, constantly repeated was:

“Come to Jesus, just now!”

and this was sung with the same deep devotion which
had characterized the former. It had its effect even upon
the physician, and when it ceased, he stood for some
moments without speaking, with a strange impression in
his deep-set eyes.

“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose I have remained
long enough listening to this: I have something else to
attend to.”

“A moment,” said Sansoucy, “tell me first, my dear
Doctor, whether you don't think those rude people down
there happier than you and me?”

“I think nothing!” said Doctor Fossyl, with a sharp
look, “good morning, sir!”

And he went out.

“There goes a man who has fed on food which poisons
us,” murmured Sansoucy, “what a pity!”

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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1855], Ellie, or, The human comedy. With illustrations after designs by Strother. (A. Morris, Richmond) [word count] [eaf506T].