In their religious gatherings the best singer among them was always the leader of the meeting. They usually commenced their services by singing some hymn that they had committed to memory; but the leader always gave out this hymn, one line at a time, in a sing-song tone, much like a chant, and then the audience sang the line he had given out, and so went through the hymn. As the meeting progressed, and their feelings became deeper and deeper, and the excitement rose higher and higher, they at length reached a state of tender or rapturous feeling to which no hymn with which they were familiar gave expression. At this point the leader sang from his heart, or, as musicians say, improvised, both the words and music of a single line. The audience then sang that line with him, as they had sung all the preceding hymns. He then improvised another line, and another, and they sang each one after him, until he had improvised one of those plantation melodies, which, as they gave expression to the glowing hearts of those who first sang them, so, when they have been repeated, they have touched the universal heart. When thus "born," no such words or music were ever forgotten by the leader. It was sung over and over again at succeeding meetings, until some other melody was in like manner improvised, to meet another and perhaps a higher state of religious enthusiasm. In my visits to hundreds of different plantations and congregations, I have heard a great variety of these plantation melodies. Many of them, that were inexpressibly tender and beautiful, were never heard beyond the immediate neighborhood in which they were first sung, and will never be reproduced, unless it be among the songs of the redeemed in heaven. But to return to this midnight funeral. The appearance of such a procession, winding through the fields and woods, as revealed by their flaming torches, marching slowly to the sound of their wild music, was weird and imposing in the highest degree. This procession was to pass immediately by our door, but, in order to get a fuller view, a small company of us went out a short distance to meet them. We saw them and heard their music in the distance, as they came down a gentle descent, crossed over a small stream, and then marched on some time in silence. As they came near where we stood, we heard their leader announce in the sing-song, chanting style I have already described, the words-- "When I can read my title clear;" and that long procession, with their flaming fat-pine torches, marched by us with slow and solemn tread, singing that beautiful hymn to the tune of "Ortonville." We followed to the place of burial, listened to their songs and addresses at the grave, and witnessed all the ceremonies to the close. From first to last the scene was impressive beyond description.