University of Virginia Library

LETTER XIV.

My wounded deer has quite recovered. You cannot
imagine my joy at this result. If it had died, I should
have carried the poor, affectionate, mild-eyed creature's
death upon my conscience to my last hour. It already
knows my voice, and suffered me to lead it by my saddlehorn
yesterday, from the major's to the Park; though,
to confess the truth, it came twice near bounding away
from me when it discovered a herd of deer, which, scared
at our approach, went scampering down the glades. But
a gentle word and a pat upon the neck re-assured and
quieted it. The worst part of bringing it over was to
keep two hounds, that always ride out with Isabel, from
tearing it in pieces. They could not comprehend the
mystery why man should one day hunt deer down and
slay them, and the next, pet and protect one. Brutes
are not very able logicians, and are beyond the comprehension
of mixed motives. No doubt a great deal of the
conduct of their intelligent masters puzzles them vastly.
Brutes follow instinct that never deviates from a straight
line, while intelligence is unconfined. Buck and Wolf
could not be reasoned with, so I used my whip smartly;
and, thus seconded, at length got my protegée safely
housed at home. What splendid orbs the mild creature
has for eyes! Their expression is soft and pleading, with
a slight glitter of timidity. I have seen a beautiful

woman who had just such eyes as my deer has. To
keep my treasure from the dogs, I have shut it up in the
paddock for poultry, which has a high fence around it,
I have had to whip the hounds half a score of times to
teach them not to stick their black noses through the
palings and yelp at it, half terrifying it to death.

By the way, talking of hounds, I was awakened this
morning at sunrise by a great uproar in the kennel, where
at least twenty hounds are kept. Every dog was in full
howl, and such a noise! It was not the clear, heart-stirring
bay they utter when they are in chase, but a
melancholy, cross, snappish wailing and howling, as if
some hitherto unheard of tribulation had befallen them
generally and individually. The whole house was roused.
The colonel first reached the scene of the canine turmoil,
and, upon inquiring, ascertained from a black woman,
that they were “mad because she baked their corn-bread
for dem.”

It appeared that old, purblind mam' Daphny, who
does nothing but cook for the hounds, was sick in bed
“with the rheumatics,” and delegated her duties to
another for the day. The hounds, whose alimentary
tastes, as well as olfactory nerves, are keenly sensitive,
had detected the new and less skillful hand “at the bellows,”
and so bellowed forth, in the fashion I have
described, their grief and rage at this innovation upon
established usages. They left the corn-bread untouched,
and would not eat until old aunt Daphny—good-hearted
Congoese—crawled out of bed, and made up a “batch”
which was no sooner placed before the epicurean quadrupeds,
than they devoured it greedily. It takes as much

good bread to keep these hounds as it does a dozen negroes.
They, the dogs, are dainty wretches.

I was witness, yesterday afternoon, to a scene that
afforded me infinite amusement. The negroes had presents
all round at Christmas and Newyear's; but, on
Washington's birth-day, old George, a favorite and venerable
slave, whose father once belonged to Washington,
argued that he ought to have a special present! The
colonel therefore sent into Nashville and bought him a
new violin. A more acceptable gift could hardly have
been made to him, as he has a fine ear for music, and is
the Orpheus and “Ole Bull” of the plantation. It has
been his custom of evenings, after the day's work is over,
to seat himself upon a bench beneath a large elm that
grows in the centre of the African village or Quartier.
Here, at the sound of his fiddle, would gather the whole
ebon population to dance. At such times he gives regular
lessons to the young negroes in dancing to the
banjo, and teaches their juvenile voices the classic airs
of Mondango and Guinea; hereditary tunes, that have
been brought from Africa, and which are now spread over
the land to such words as “Juliana Johnson, don't you
cry,” “Old Dan Tucker,” “Long Time Ago,” &c.

We had just risen from the tea-table, last evening,
when old George made his appearance at the steps of
the gallery, and, baring his bald head, he bowed with a
politeness that Lord Chesterfield would have envied, and
made us this speech:

“Young Missises and Massa colonel; old George
take de liberty to 'vite you to come to de dance out
door by de ol' elm. Massa hab giv' me new fiddle,

and I takes pleasure to giv' de white folks a consart, and
show de young ladieses how my scholars dance.”

We accepted George's polite invitation, and as the
moon was full we went over to the village. We were
guided to the tree by the bright light shed from half a
dozen pine torches, held in the hands of as many African
animated statues, whom George had conspicuously
stationed to throw light upon the scene.

As I approached the spot, I was struck with its novelty,
for I have not yet been long enough here to become
familiar with all plantation customs. I have told
you that the negro village of the estate is picturesquely
disposed on the borders of a pretty mere, a few hundred
yards from the house. We crossed the water, by a
wicker bridge, and had most of the dwellings of the
slaves in full view, occupying two streets and three sides
of a square. The lights of pine-wood flung a red and
wild glare upon their fronts, and upon the lake, and
upon a group of more than a hundred Africans of both
sexes, who were assembled about the tree. It revealed,
also, here and there an old man or woman, helpless
through age, seated in their hut-doors, in order to enjoy
as much of what was going on as they could.

We already found the dignified George seated upon
his bench, fiddle in hand. On his right stood a short,
fat negro, holding a banjo, and on his left was another
slave, with eyes like the bottoms of China cups, holding
two hollow sticks in his hand. Behind George was a
toothless negress, having before her a section of a hollow
tree, shaped like a drum, with a dried deer-skin
drawn tightly over it; in her shining fist she grasped a
sort of mallet. Chairs, assiduously provided, were placed

for us, and the buzzing of pleasure, occasioned among
the numerous company of Ham's posterity, having subsided,
at a majestic wave of George's fiddle-bow, the
concert began! The first tune was a solo, and new to
me, and so beautiful and simple that I made old George
play it for me to-day in the house, and I copied the
music as he did so. He says his father taught it to him.
Certainly the negroes have striking native airs, characterized
by delightful surprises and touching simplicity.
Their chief peculiarity is cheerfulness.

George having first played a soft strain, the banjo
struck in a second; then came the hollow sticks, like castanets,
but five times as large, hollow, and more musical;
and, lastly, the old negress thumped in a base on her
hollow drum. The perfect time, the sweet harmony, the
novelty of the strange sounds, the singular combination
enchanted me. I must confess that I never heard true
music before; but then I should acknowledge I have not
heard any operatic music in an opera-house. But do
not smile if I say that I believe George and his three
aiders and abettors would be listened to with pleasurable
surprise, if they should play as I heard them play,
by a Walnut street audience. Real African concert-singers
are not, however, in fashion. White men blacked
are only comme il faut. Is it not odd that a city audience
will listen to imitation negroes, and yet despise a
concerto composed of the Simon pures? After George
had played several pieces, one of which was “Lucy
Long,” as I had never heard it before, and had received
our praises, he said, always speaking with the dignity
of an oracle:

“Now, if massa and de young ladieses please, we

hab de small-fry show demselve! Come, tand out here,
you litty niggers! Show de white folk how you dance
de corn dance!”

Thereupon a score of little darkies, from five years
of age to a dozen years, girls and boys together, sprang
from the crowd, and placed themselves in the space in
front of us. Half of them were demi-clad, those that
had shirts not being troubled with any superfluous apparel,
and those that had trousers being shirtless; in a
word, not a black skin was covered with but one species
of garment, and this was generally a very short and very
dirty, coarse camisa.

“Now make de dirt fly!” shouted George, as he struck
up a brisk air alone—banjo, hollow sticks, and drum being
silent.

The younglings obeyed the command to the letter.
They danced like mad! The short-skirt flaps flew up
and down, the black legs were as thickly mixed up as
those of a centipede waltzing; woolly heads, white eyes,
glittering teeth, yells and whoops, yah-yahs, and wou-wous,
all united, created a scene that my shocked pen
refuses to describe. The little negroes did full credit to
old George's skill, and he evidently felt it. He sawed
away desperately till the sweat rained from his furrowed
brow. He writhed, and rose, and bent over, and stood
up, and did every thing but lie down, playing all the
while without cessation, and in a sort of rapturous ecstasy.
Banjo caught the inspiration, and hollow sticks
started after, while drum pounded away like young thunder,
yelling a chant all the while, that, had her grandmother
sung it to Mungo Park, would have driven him
from the shelter of her hut to the less horrible howls

of the desert. The little Africans danced harder and
harder. Their parents caught the spirit of the moment,
and this one, dashing his old cap down, sprang into the
arena, and that one, uttering a whoop, followed, till full
fifty were engaged at once. I never enjoyed any thing
so much! I could fancy myself witnessing some heathen
incantation dance in the groves of Africa! The
moonlight shining through the trees, the red glare of the
torches upon them, their wild movements, their strange
and not unmusical cries, as they kept time with their
voices to their quick tramping feet, their dark forms,
their contortions, and perfect abandon, constituted a
tout ensemble that must be witnessed to be appreciated.

Suddenly, in the height of their diversion, the plantation
bell began to strike eight o'clock. When the first
stroke was heard from the turret of the overseer's house,
there was a burst of mingled surprise and regret. They
shouted to each other to “do their best;” and between
the first and eighth stroke, take my word for it,
Mr.—, more dancing was done, and harder, and
faster, and noisier, than was over done before in so small
a limitation of time. It seemed they were all determined
to heap as much pleasure into this fleeting space as it
could contain. With the last stroke, every man, woman,
and youngling, uttered a yell, gave a final leap into the
air, and with the dying vibration of the bell's sound, all
was quiet. George even was arrested with his bow in
the air, in an attitude of expiring delight, as if

“Good night, boys,” said the colonel, in the cordial
frank way he has when he speaks to his people; “you

have enjoyed yourselves, and so have we. George, your
pupils, young and old, do you credit.”

“Tankee, Massa Colonel; I know'd you'd be berry much
gratify. I hope de young ladieses is ekally charmed.”

“We are charmed, George,” I answered; at which he
made me a superb bow, when we took our departure.
The slaves also retired each to his own cabin, the torches
were extinguished, and before we reached the house,
stillness reigned in the green moonlit square of the African
quarter.

“Now let us have some of your music, Bel,” said her
father, as we entered the dining-room, which was richly
lighted with a solar sphere of ground glass. As my
eyes fell upon the superb furniture, the gorgeous carpet,
the luxurious drapery of the windows, and the golden
harp and rosewood piano, and the peerless beauty of the
young girl seated at the costly instrument, I could not
help contrasting the refined character of the whole ensemble
with that we had just borne a part in. It appeared
like a transition from one world to another!
Isabel's voice is surpassingly rich in compass and sweetness.
She sings much like Biscaccianti, and warbles in
her throat in the same dulcet, dove-like manner. She
can soar too, to the same lark-like notes, taking the soul
far up on the wing of her song, to the very skies, till it
melts into heaven. Don't think me extravagant, but
music ever needs adequate language to describe its effects.
Types, transpose them into any shape of words, fail to
express the impression music makes upon the soul.

While I was looking at the African dance, and listened
to their voices, which went to the tune of the dance in a
continuous chant, I was led to the reflection that the

dance, even in our assemblies, is a barbaric relic, and
that civilization in retaining, has only rejected the vocal
feature which characterizes it among all barbarous people.
We dance mutely; Indians and Africans singingly.
Who shall judge between us?

Since I wrote the above, I have seen the gentleman
who rode the bull six miles on a steeple chase, half
across the country! He called to see the colonel on some
business, and was presented to us. He is a young man,
resolute, and rather dissipated looking; and I discerned
the butt of a small pistol sticking out of his pocket, which
did not prepossess me favorably, for it strikes me that
a brave man will not go armed day-by-day. Carrying
weapons is a sign either of a quarrelsome temper, or a
cowardly heart! After our visitor left, the colonel told us
that three years ago he laid a wager that he would ride a
famous fierce bull twice around a pasture. The bet was
taken, and the young man managed to get astride the
bull with only a stout whip in his hand. The bull, as
might be expected, at being thus taken “a-back,”
plunged, roared, pawed, and set off at full speed. At
the first dash he broke through the fence, and laid his
mad course straight across the country. The young
man, putting his whip in his teeth, and grasping a horn
in each hand, held on for his life. Unable to guide the
enraged brute, unable to check him, and fearing to throw
himself off, he committed himself to the creature's will,
which led him two leagues to the Cumberland, into which,
sans peur, the bull plunged headlong, and so gave his
involuntary rider liberty. It is needless to say he won
“the stakes.”

Can you tell me, Mr.—, if General Morris has

lately published any new pieces? Next to Tom Moore's,
his songs are admired in the West. If the gallant general
should come out here, he would have a pretty fair
notion of what post mortem fame is; for the appreciation
which an author receives in a strange land, as I have
said, is equal to the voice of posterity.