University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
PRANKS.

The dinner hour arrived, and found our company
in the tone of spirits indicated by the recitals in the
last chapter.

Bel's thoughts bounded along in a current of uncontrolled
gaiety, and it seemed as if Hazard had
set himself particularly to the task of provoking her
into this animated humour, by a series of assaults
which put upon her the necessity of reply. Without
wearing the semblance of flattery, this device had
all its effects, since it served to display the vivacity
and good nature of the lady, and to present her to
the company in the most playful and agreeable positions.
It was, however, utterly destitute of that
show of reverence which all women are pleased to
exact, even for their foibles, and, therefore, bore the
aspect of favours impoliticly conferred. Bel might
even have found a pretext to be offended with Hazard,
but for the manifest good feeling towards her
which shone out above all his raillery.

Catharine, at times, showed even a prudish reserve,
and, in consequence, neither Ned nor Harvey
Riggs ever ventured upon a jest with her. Indeed,

it is observable of Harvey, that, under the externals
of a volatile flow of spirits, he conceals a careful
policy to give a complimentary complexion to whatever
falls from him. Prudence sustained her part in
the sportiveness of the day, and was alternately sentimental
and mettlesome, thoughtless or grave, as the
occasion served.

As the evening advanced, the tide of frolic feeling
ran higher, and it was at last resolved to despatch
a messenger to the Brakes, to say that the
party would remain at Swallow Barn all night.
After tea the ladies made a concert around the old
harpsichord. Then some lively airs were played,
and at length, by a universal vote, my cousin Lucretia
was seated at the instrument, and all the rest of
the company, except Frank Meriwether, were on
the floor, dancing reels and cotillions. The children
grouped about the corners of the room in an ecstasy
of delight. Mistress Barbara, who had stolen quietly
into the apartment, relaxed her features into a
wormwood smile, and shook her head at Harvey
Riggs's drolleries; and the domestics of the family
gathered about the doorway, or peeped in at the
open windows.

From a breeze, the pervading mirth rose into a
gale. The gentlemen romped, and the ladies, in defiance
of the established discipline, encouraged the
merriment by unconstrained laughter. Now and
then, indeed, Catharine bridled up, and resisted the
torrent of rebellious spirits by a statelier pace; but

Bel gave way to it, like a true child of nature, and
permitted her swift flowing blood to have its full
sway.

In the midst of this confused and mingled scene,
Lucy and Victorine appeared like children, in the
graceful playfulness of their age; springing about
with the easy motions and delighted looks of young
novices, to whom the world is a sunny picture of
pleasure and harmony.

Exhausted, at length, we took our seats, and gradually
subsided into that lower and more equable
temper which is apt to follow violent excitements.
Harvey Riggs and Ned Hazard were observed to
withdraw from the parlour, and it was sometime
before they reappeared. In their absence they had
been making preparation for a melodrama, which
was now announced by Rip. The subject of this
new prank was “The Babes in the wood.” Rip and
one of the little girls were to enact the babes; and
accordingly, in due time, two candles were set upon
the floor to represent the stage lights; the company
were arranged in front;—the children were laid out,
and ordered to keep their eyes shut; a piece of baize
covered them, instead of leaves, and Rip raised his
head, for an instant, to inform the audience that
there was to be a great storm. Suddenly a servant
came in and blew out the candles,—all except the
two on the floor. This was followed by a tremendous
racket in the hall, that was principally occasioned
by the violent slamming of doors, which was
designed to imitate thunder;—then came a flash of

lightning that made our audience start;—it was
produced by firing gunpowder outside of the room;
and to give a perfect verisimilitude to the storm, a
most dismal hissing and pattering of rain assailed
every ear. This was, undoubtedly, the liveliest part
of the drama. It continued with unabated violence
for some moments, producing equal amazement and
diversion in the region of, what may be called, the
boxes,—but finally became rather oppressive by
a volume of pungent vapour that diffused itself
through the apartment, with a strange savour, that
set us all to coughing. Surrounded by this pother
of the elements, Ned and Harvey entered, each with
a huge sabre,—their faces smutted with cork, and
their figures disguised in old uniform coats, oddly
disproportioned to their persons. Here they strutted
about, making tragic gestures, and spouting fierce
blank verse. The rain, at intervals, sank upon the
ear, as if dwindling into a gentle mist, and anon
rose with redoubled fury and increasing pungency,
up to its former violence. The play, however, was
interrupted by an incident which I must not omit.
The rain had, for the last time, fallen into a mere
drizzle, and, at the very moment when the tempest
ought to have howled its loudest, it dropped into perfect
silence. “More rain!” cried Ned: “Give us
more rain.”

Instead of rain, a giggle came from the hall, from
the midst of which Carey's voice was heard, saying,

“Master Ned, it's no use; the frying pan's got
cold; it wont make no more noise.”

Shouts of uproar followed this disclosure, which
was made with a laughable sobriety on the part of
the old negro. Ned had given private instructions
to Carey to heat that implement of the kitchen, and
to bring it near the parlour door, where it was his
cue to fry a slice of fat bacon, until the storm was
over, the effects of which we had already felt. The
confusion of this announcement from Carey put an
end to the tragedy, and the company, as it was now
late, separated for the night, in the best humour with
each other.

The withdrawal of the larger portion of the family
to their chambers, left us in a different mood.
The night was calm and clear, and our late boisterous
occupations inclined us to contemplate the present
repose of nature. We sauntered a short distance
from the house. The moon had risen, and was
flinging a wizard glare over the tree-tops. A heavy
dew had fallen upon the grass, and imparted an
eager chilliness to the atmosphere. The grove resounded
with those solemn invocations which are
poured forth by the countless insects of the night,
that keep their vigils through the livelong hours of
darkness,—shrill, piercing and melancholy. The
house dogs howled at the moon, and rushed at intervals
tumultuously forward upon some fancied disturber;
for the dog is imaginative, and is often
alarmed with the phantoms of his own thoughts. A
distant cock, the lord of some cabin hen-roost, was
heard, with a clear and trumpet-like cadence, breaking
the deep stillness of this midnight time, like a

faithful warder on the battlements telling the hour
to the sleepers. Every thing around us was in
striking contrast with the scenes in which we had
just been engaged. We grew tranquil and communicative;
and thoughtless of the late hour—or rather
alive to its voluptuous charm—we completed our
short circuit, and had gathered again into the porch,
where we lay scattered about upon the benches, or
seated on the door-sill. Here, whilst we smoked
segars, and rambled over the idle topics that played
in our thoughts, Harvey Riggs engaged himself in
preparing a sleeping draught of that seductive cordial
which common fame has celebrated as the native
glory of Virginia. It is a vulgar error, Harvey
contends, to appropriate the mint sling to the morning.
“It is,” he remarked with solemn emphasis,
“the homologous peculiar of the night,—the rectifier
of the fancy,—the parent of pleasant dreams,—the
handmaid of digestion,—and the lullaby of the brain:
in its nature essentially anti-roral; friendly to peristaltics
and vermiculars; and, in its influence upon
the body, jocund and sedative.” I have recorded
Harvey's express words, because in this matter I
conceive him to be high authority.

Upon this subject Harvey is eloquent, and whilst
we sat listening to his learned discriminations in the
various processes of this manufacture, our attention
was suddenly drawn to another quarter by the notes
of a banjoe, played by Carey in the court-yard. He
was called up to the door, and, to gratify my curiosity
to hear his music, he consented to serenade the

ladies under their windows. Carey is a minstrel of
some repute, and, like the ancient jongeleurs, he
sings the inspirations of his own muse, weaving into
song the past or present annals of the family. He is
considered as a seer amongst the negroes on the
estate, and is always heard with reverence. The
importance this gives him, renders the old man not a
little proud of his minstrelsy. It required, therefore,
but little encouragement to set him off; so, after
taking a convenient stand, and running his fingers
over his rude instrument by way of prelude, he signified
his obedience to our orders.

The scene was really picturesque. Carey was
old, and the infirmities of age were conspicuous upon
his person; his head was hoary, and now borrowed
an additional silver tint from the moonbeam that
lighted up his figure. Our eager group, that stood
watching him from the midst of the rose bushes in
which we were partly embowered; the silent hour,
interrupted only by the murmur of the occasional
breeze; the bevy of idle dogs that lay scattered over
the ground; the mistiness of the distant landscape;
and the venerable mass of building, with its alternate
faces of light and shade, formed a combination of
images and circumstances that gave a rich impression
to our feelings.

Carey, for a moment, tuned his instrument with
the airs of a professor, smiled, and looking round to
Hazard, asked, in a half whisper, “what shall I play,
Master Ned?”

“What you like best, Carey. Give us something
that you can recommend.”

“Well,” said Carey, striking off a few notes, “I'll
try this:”

And in this strain, clothed in his own dialect, he proceeded
to rehearse, in a doggerel ballad, sung with a
chant by no means inharmonious, the expected arrival
of Swansdown at the Brakes, and the probable
events of his visit, which, he insinuated, would be
troublesome to Ned Hazard, and would, as the song
went,

“Can't you give us something better than that?”
interrupted Ned.

“Ah! that makes you very sore there, master
Ned Hazard,” said the old negro, putting his hand
on Ned's breast.

“Tut!” replied Ned, “you croak like a frog to-night;
sing something worth hearing.”

“Give us `Sugar in a Gourd,' or `Jim Crow,”' cried
out Ralph Tracy, “none of your d—d cantabiles.”

“I'll sing you my dream, master Ned,” said Carey,

“but the young mistresses would rather hear
about their sparks than any thing else. It's so all
the world over.”

Here Carey struck up another air, in the same off-hand
manner, the purport of which was, that, as
he lay sleeping in his cabin, a beautiful lady appeared
to him, and told him that he must instruct his
young master, when he went a-wooing, that there
were three things for him to learn: he must never
believe his mistress to be light of heart because she
laughed; nor that she was offended because she
looked angry; nor that she would not marry him
because she had given one refusal.

“Carey sings like a discreet augur,” said Harvey
Riggs, “and has almost as delicate a note as the carpenter's
tool of that name, when it dives into the
mystery of a white-oak log. Now, old gentleman,
you have done your duty, so creep to your kennel;
and here's something to cross your palm with.”

“God bless you, master Harvey, and young masters
all!” cried the old groom, as he retired with a
repetition of many formal bows.

We withdrew to our rooms, where, some time after
we were in bed, we could hear the negroes dancing
jigs to Carey's banjoe in the court-yard. In the
midst of these noises I sank to sleep,—thus terminating
a day that had been marked by a succession of
simple pastimes richly characteristic of country life.