UNCLE ABRAHAM’S SERMON THE SEANCE

By John Marshall Kelly Author of “The Resurrection,” “The Tempered Wind,” “The Christmas Tree,” etc.

I’se be’n heahin’ some quare talk erbout yoah doin’s dis pas’ week an’ some yuther times, my heahers. I’se be’n telled erbout some uv dem sayoncies you niggahs hev be’n holdin’, same’s lak dey do up tuh Kunnel Simpson’s house, an’ dat dar triflin’ yalleh house gal uv his’n an’ dat mottled yahd boy be’n lahnin’ you, my belubbed flock, de wiles uv de debbil an’ claimin’ dey’s meejums an’ claihvoyans, an’ hev be’n holpin’ you-alls talk wif spookses an’ hobgoblins an’ onfamiliar sperits.

Now, my chillen, bein’ as I is yoah pasture an’ is set oveh you tuh gyahd yoah morils an’ luk afteh yoah etehnal welfaih, as I hev be’n put heah tuh guide yoah tottehin’ feets in de paf uv de wuhld, I’se boun’ tuh wahn you-alls dat all sich things am onrighteous an’ sinful an’ am tuh be ’voided an’ kep out uv de way uv, an’ dat you am temptin’ fate er de debbil in all sich puhfo’mances.

You-alls ought tuh know, my brudderns an’ sisterns, dat dere ain’ no comin’ back f’om de sperit wuhld, an’ dat any ’tempt tuh prove dat dey is am a vexation uv sperit, an’s gwine bring its own results. I wan’ you-alls tuh ’membeh dis tex’, an’ ’membeh hit well, dat w’en Divehs went tuh hell an’ raised up he eyes in tohment an’ seed Lazarus in ol’ Fatheh Ab’aham’s buzzum, he axed tuh hev him sont foh er speshil wahnin’ tuh he brothehs on yea’th, tuh tell ’em tuh gib all dey money tuh de Chu’ch an’ de poah, an’ tuh git some sores foh de dogs tuh lick an’ go beggin’ an’ eat crum’s wif de pupses so’s dey could be in glory bimeby.

Well, now, you ’membeh dat, an’ you ’membeh lakwise dat he wuz tol’ dere wuz fixed er unpassable gulf ’twixt an’ between an’ dat no one could cross hit, an’ de people would’n’ heed no wahnin’ ef dey did hev one; he say’d hit did’n’ mek no diff’unce ef dey wuz tuh sen’ er dead man tuh come back, dey would’n’ keer, ’cause Lazarus he done riz once, jis’ tuh try ’em, an’ dat afteh he be’n dead foah days.

Now, you-alls ’membehs all dis, my onrighteous travelehs tuh de bah uv Gawd, an’ ’membehs dat ef sperits could er come back dat ol’ money grubbeh Divehs would er come back an’ tol’ de little Divehs, an’ ol’ Mizziz Divehs an’ de whole Divehs fambly, ’bout de trubble he wuz hevin’ down dere an’ tuh wahn dem an’ caution dem ’bout de way dey handled de propehty w’at dey wuz spendin’ so free.

Lazarus he hed no call tuh come back, kaze he’d done shed he sores an’ wuz in good comp’ny at las’, an’ ’sides afteh de sperimen’ he made onc’t dey ain’ neveh gwine let no man come back tuh wahn de people. Lazarus he could’n’ an’ would’n’, an’ Divehs he could’n’ an’ did’n’, an’ dat’s de way wid all de res’.

Now, den, w’at’s all dis I heahs ’bout dem triflin’ niggahs callin’ up ol’ Job Mixon an’ hevin’ him tell de folkses w’at dey done es little chillen, an’ tellin’ dem w’at dey done es grown folkses, an’ doin’ uv hit in sich er foolish way? Who eveh knowed ol’ Job tuh do sich foolishness ez bumpin’ er table, hey?

Jis’ ’magine ol’ Job, w’at wuz hung foh muhdeh an’ w’at hed be’n a thief all he life, gwine erbout dis wuhld es er spook, follehin’ afteh dem puny little house sehvants, rappin’ on tables an’ bumpin’ de floor w’en dey say so!

“Dat you, Unc’ Job? Ef so, please knock.”

Table raps; he mean yes.

“Is you happy oveh theah, Unc’ Job? Rap onc’t ef you is, an’ twic’t ef you ain’.”

Den dey git two raps, strong an’ hahd, ’cause nobody’s fool ’nough tuh ’spect ol’ Job bein’ wheah he happy less’n he could steal er kill.

Den some trim’lin’, puny little niggah w’at won’ pass de graveyahd at night, he say: “Ax him ’bout my mammy; wheah she?” an’ den dat fool meejum go th’oo some jinnyfluxins, one rap A, two rap B, three rap C, an’ spell out er whole lot en passel uv trash w’at nobody kin dispute, an’ den dey say de sperit done answeh!

Yas, I know he tol’ erbout things some uv you-alls done, an’ w’at you thought nobody knowed, an’ you say dat proof ernough. Proof ernough! You need no proof! You guv hit yoah own se’f.

“Mist’ Job, you knows uv anything we-alls done w’at nobody else knows in dis wuhld?”

Do he know anything you-alls done? He doan’ need know; you-alls knows yoah-selves, an’ yoah feah meks yoah heaht palpehtate so foh feah dat somebody’ll know, an’ yoah body ’gins tuh quake an’ shake so dat you-all jis’ nachelly meks de little raps in yo’ agertations an’ yoah shivehin’ nervousness jis’ raps “One rap A, two rap B, three rap C,” an’ spells out de deeds you’ve done foh dat meejum in yoah feah.

You does hit yoahself, you frazzled idjits! You tells uv yoah own sin! You sits dere quakin’ in yoah shoes or wif yoah bare toes rattlin’ on de boahds, wif de trimble in you answehin’ evehy call uv dat finicky dun gal, “One rap A, two rap B, three rap C.”

Job, he mighty fine man tuh be ahbitratin’ uv you-alls fate; mighty fine man, an’ one w’at ought tuh mek betteh folkses outen you.

He wa’nt no good man on yearth; he wa’nt good foh nuffin in dis life—but he’s er mighty good wahnin’ dead, an’ I hope he stay a good wahnin’, an’ stay dead. De Lawd knows He need him foh a wahnin’. He ought tuh git some good outer Job, kaze He sho’ got none heah, foh uv all de liverashous coons w’at eveh lived he wuz de liverashousest an’ de leas’ account an’ de hahdest tuh kill.

He wuz a scand’lous niggah, Job wuz, an’ no respecteh uv pussons, an’ no regahdeh uv uthority; he didn’ keer no moah foh er man’s ufficial puhsition ner his sperityil capacity ’n nothin’.

Why, I ’membehs jis es if hit war yistiddy, how he hed de affront’ry tuh offeh me a drink uv whisky onc’t! Me, his pasture, an’ de watcheh oveh his soul. I rebuked him, my heahehs, an’ rebuked him seveahly, an’ he neveh insulted me dat way erg’in. Yas, suh! I gib him a lesson he neveh fohgot, foh I tuk de whole quaht an’ didn’t gib him er drop uv hit an’ he didn’t hev no moah.

Heah, oveh theah! You needn’ snicker! I knows w’at tuh do in er ’mehgency, an’ I won’ tek no levity ner laughin’ at my sperityil methods, an’ I’d do any uv you-alls de same way; yas, I would, ’n you knows hit!

Job hed de ’dacity tuh ’vite me tuh he house tuh er tuhkey dinneh onc’t, too. Tuhkey, w’en he neveh raised a tuhkey ’cept offen some w’ite man’s roost, ner hed nothin’ but w’at he stole. Dat sho’ wuz er fine tuhkey, an’ I gib Job er nuther lesson an’ showed him dat stolen goods profiteth little.

Dat tuhkey wuz er big gobbleh, an’ dere wuz nobody but me an’ Job dere, an’ I seasoned dat buhd wif de good wine w’at Job hed stole, an’ admonishuns tuh be good an’ wahnin’s f’om de wrath tuh come. Hit wuz er hahd pull, but I finished dat tuhkey in spite uv Job’s hints dat he ’spected hit tuh las’ him er week. Hit sho’ly would hev tasted good if hit hadn’t b’en stoled an’ I hed tuh drink up de wine w’at he hed ’prop’iated f’om somewhere, but de sauce uv a deed well did an’ a sinneh rebuked, almos’ made hit relish, an’ I held out tuh de end.

Now I’s told you-alls ’bout dis tuh show you how tuh meet de tempteh, an’ if Job wuz er comin’ back heah in de sperit an’ you-alls treated him severe he’d go back tuh de place wheah de Lawd put him, an’ let you-alls alone.

Think uv ol’ Job Mixon as er angel uv light, ol’ thief Job sent back heah tuh talk tuh you folkses an’ tell you w’at you-alls done did an w’at you gwine tuh do! Yas, I sees hit, I sees hit! Ol’ Job, w’at man hed tuh keep in jail mos’ uv de time, an’ w’at wuz a debbil in de flesh. De Lawd tried tuh kill him time Kunnel Simpson shot him in he henhouse; an’ tuk ’nutheh tuhn at him de time he got dat whisky. De Lawd knowed he wuzn’t fit foh dis wuhld w’en He made dat wild mule w’at Job stole fall on him an’ den tromp on him, an’ if hit hed be’n anybody but Job, he’d hev died.

A angel uv light, an’ foh fohty yeahs de Lawd tried tuh git him erway f’om you chillen, tuh gib you-all a chanst foh glohy! An’ he’d ’a be’n alive now if hit hadn’t be’n foh shootin’ at a w’ite man an’ hangin’ three days ’foah anybody foun’ him. Yas suh, no ord’nary hangin’ would hev killed dat niggah, an’ de Lawd knowed w’at He ’bout keepin’ any uv us f’om findin’ him afteh he wuz hung.

Claihvoyins! Meejums! Sayoncies! Sperits an’ table rappin’s, an’ “One rap A, two rap B, an’ three rap C!” Sperityilizzum, an’ nex’ thing Christian Science an’ some uv you advanced niggahs will be goin’ ’round heah wid yoah jaw tied up, groanin’ wid de toofache an’ sayin’ dey ain’ no sich thing es pain; some uv you-alls wid razur blades in yoah annatohmmy a-gnawin’ at yoah vitals, sayin’ hit am ’maginary; dat de will rules an you kain’t hurt de flesh!

Listen tuh me, you niggahs! Heah yoah pasture! Keep ’way f’om sich contrapshuns uv de debbil! Sen’ ol’ Job back tuh hell wheah he belong an’ keep ’way f’om de w’ite folkses’ fads! Go on wid yoah conjurin’, if you mus’ hev er rickreation, an’ weah yoah graveyahd rabbit feets, an’ yoah little bags uv niggah wool; but keep ’way f’om sperityilizzum an’ Christian Science an’ all dere attendant evils; eschew, as de poet say, dey alluremen’s, ’less some uv yoah wives an sistehs an’ daughters tuhn out er Mizziz Eddy an’ tries teh lead you in pashtuhs new er indulges in holy ghos’ chillen—dey’s nuff not ’counted foh ’thout that.

Go on, my people an’ be yoahselves, an’ hev pains an’ ha’nts, an’ leave de painless dentistry uv life an’ de ’lightened sperits tuh a w’ite an’ idle an’ moah civilized people; ’membeh dat you hev er neveh-dyin’ soul teh save, an’ beah in min’, night an’ day, de feelin’ uv de song we is now gwine teh sing: