"Sinner, you are welcome, Yes, Yes, welcome To the dying lamb." This, too, is varied. "Seeker," "Brother," "Sister," and "Everybody’s welcome" being sung. I could tell of parts I do not like, of excitements the reverse of helpful to my devotional feelings, and of loudness mistaken for piety or zeal, but so could others criticise the services at Dr. Cuyler’s or Dr. Storrs’s church. I prefer to speak of the really good. May I tell you of a unique service? It was at the Convict Camp, near Baker’s X Roads, in Cumberland County, Tenn. No need to ring the bell--the congregation are assembled, and armed guards are standing by lest someone should escape. Still a bell was tapped. Silence at once. "Boys," I said, "when I was here before you kindly asked me to come and speak to you again. I am here. Before I speak I want to have you sing. Will you sing?" A moment’s pause, and in the rich tones which the colored people so often have, there rang out from scores of throats, one of those weird songs of the race. It was of chariots and heaven, of songs and praises, and of Jesus the King. I cannot reproduce or describe it. I prayed for a blessing on our service, and several responded with apparently as fervent "Amen" as ever came from Camp Meeting or Altar service. Then I read passages, closing with a part of Romans 6: from the twenty-third verse. I spoke briefly of "The wages of sin, and of the gift of God." I almost fear I was harsh. Poor fellows--they were criminals, but who is not guilty, before God, of violations of Divine law? As I pleaded for the starting of a better life, as I spoke of their families, as I said "Some of you will be through with prison life soon," as I talked of honesty, sobriety, and purity, there were moist eyes. I asked for an expression at the close. All who will accept Jesus Christ, and from this very hour live for Him, and with the strength he gives try to forget the grievances you have thought to revenge; try to love and serve one another here, in Christ’s name, and others when released; strive to do your work faithfully; in short, try to do what you think Christ would want you to do--first, give me your hand, and then kneel with me in prayer. Through the chinks and crevices of the stockade a score of men thrust their hands, eager to respond to the invitation, and many knelt in prayer. How much was make-believe? How much was genuine? The Searcher of hearts alone knows. Sowing by all waters, I am willing to leave results with God. Another song, and then "Good-bye, boss!" "Good-bye, Captain!" "Come again, preacher!" The days were weeks, and then! Criminal carelessness, perhaps. A premature explosion of dynamite and powder combined on the railroad, and six of these men had been discharged. Dead! A rough grave beside the track, God knows the rest. They were convicts, they were blacks, but they were my brothers and yours, children of one Father.