here was the Judge's eloquence? He could not find words to frame a
fitting reply to this ignorant black woman, whose emotion was so much
deeper than any fine phrases of his could reach, and whose simple faith
and gratitude overwhelmed him with the sudden conviction that he had
never yet said anything to the purpose, in all his rhetorical defences
of the down-trodden race. From that conviction came humility. Out of
humility rose inspiration. Two days later his eloquence found tongue;
and this was the occasion of it:--

The body of the old negro was to be buried. That he should be simply put
into the ground, and nothing said, any more than as if he were a brute
beast, did not seem befitting the obsequies of so old a man and so
faithful a Christian. The family had natural feelings on that subject.
They wanted to have a funeral sermon.

Now it so happened that there was to be another funeral in the village
about that time. The old minister, had he been living, might have
managed to attend both. But the young minister couldn't think of such a
thing. The loveliest flower of maidenhood in his parish had been cut
down. One of the first families had been bereaved. Day and night he must
ponder and scribble to prepare a suitable discourse. And then, having
exhausted spiritual grace in bedecking the tomb of the lovely, should
he,--good gracious! _could_ he descend from those heights of beauty and
purity to the grave of a superannuated negro? Could divine oratory so
descend?

"On that fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this _moor_"?

Ought the cup of consolation, which he extended to his best, his
worthiest friends and parishioners, to be passed in the same hour to
thick African lips?

Which questions were, of course, decided in the negative. There was
another minister in the village, but he was sick. What should be done?
To go wandering about the world in search of somebody to preach the
funeral sermon seemed a hard case,--as Mr. Williams remarked to the
Judge.

"Tell you what, Williams," said the Judge,--"don't give yourself any
more trouble on that account. I'm not a minister, nor half good enough
for one,"--he could afford to speak disparagingly of himself, the
beautiful, gracious gentleman!--"but if you can't do any better, I'll be
present and say a few words at the funeral."

"Thank you a thousand times!" said the grateful negro. "Couldn't be
nothin' better 'n that! We never expected no such honor; an'