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Those desiring to accept Christ were admitted for baptism. Baptism: On baptismal day, the candidates attired in white robes which they had made, marched down to the river where they were immersed by the minister. Slaves from neighboring plantations would come to witness this sacred ceremony. Mack Mullen recalls that many times his "marster" on going to view a baptism took him along in his buggy.
I leaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silent but interested spectator. “Did you know Donald Mullen, a brother to the famous gunsmith? Tell me, did you know him? I have come all the way—” I stopped in wonder.
He rapped on the stalk of mullen with a stick, peering into the dusty little cavern of silk near the top of it. "Sure enough! Here is where she lived; for the house is empty, and there's living prey in the snares." "What a weird old thing!" said Polly. "Can you tell us more about her?" "Well, every summer," said Trove, "a great city grows up in the field.
"Send Bartholomew Mullen here." He spoke with a decision that made me think the business was done. I had never happened, it is true, to hear of Bartholomew Mullen in the department of motive power; but the impression the name gave me was of a monstrous fellow, big as Neighbor, or old man Sankey, or Dad Hamilton. "I'll put Bartholomew ahead of it," said Neighbor tightly.
These are the real Tammany, the men after the boss's own heart. For every one whose vote he buys, there are two of these who give him theirs for nothing. We shall get rid of him when these withdraw their support, when they become citizens of the Patrick Mullen stamp, as faithful at the polling place as he was at the forge; not before. There is as much work for reform at the top as at the bottom.
"Well, if he was after the stones he may have followed us to Lahore and you to the Museum, when you came to take a rubbing of the lettering," said Tom. "There must be a clue to something written on them, if any one took all the trouble to come so far for them," suggested Mark Mullen.
A last summer's mullen stock, beating incessantly in the wind, seemed the only thing alive on all that vast outbulging of the earth. The stunted brush stiffly carded the breeze that blew so persistently. From rock to rock the gray old miner's gaze went wandering.
Bartholomew shut off with an under cut that brought us up stuttering, and nailed her feet with the air right where she stood. We had left the track and plowed a hundred feet across the yards and jumped on to another track. It is the only time I ever heard of its happening anywhere, but I was on the engine with Bartholomew Mullen when it was done.
If that is not slavery, what is it? But now let us come to Boston. To begin with, I. S. Mullen, State Inspector of factories and workshops, testified, before the committee on public health, of the Massachusetts Legislature, on the 30th of last March, that he had found two places in Boston as bad as anything he had seen in New York.
That time of probation, which has been, I hope, equally trying to us both, has ended to-day." "But I don't think I really love you, Mr. Mullen." "I trust your eyes rather than your words and your eyes have told me, all unconsciously to yourself, your secret." "Well, I do love your sermons, but " "My sermons are myself. There is nothing in my life, I trust, that belies my preaching."
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