University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Bronson, no unusual occurrence, happened to be at
Mr. Elwood's on this evening when our party from
Holly called. While they were at tea, the voices of the
huskers, gathering from all quarters singing and giving
a loud halloo as they came, sounded widely through
the valley. In a short time nearly a hundred negroes,
with a few whites, had met by the corn-crib, which
stood some distance from the house, where the corn
had been thrown from the carts in a continuous line.
This was equally divided, and several rails were laid
between the two rows of corn, to mark the division
and prevent foul play. After these preliminaries, and
after taking all round several drams of whisky from
a tin cup, into which the liquid was poured from a
large earthen jug of which one of Mr. Elwood's trusty
servants had the charge, the huskers divided themselves
into two parties, and set to work joyously, the
contest being which party should finish their pile first.
While they worked, some negro or other, reputed a
good singer, sung a sort of song, with a chorus, in
which all joined. Their united voices swelled wide
and far through the valley. A poetic mind hearing
them at a distance might almost have supposed that
the Indians still held possession of the land, and were
preparing, by a war-dance in the deep woods, for some
fearful excursion, or were shouting their exultations
round some victim at the stake. This harmless amusement
of the humble negro has no such terrors;
and here these joyous, good-natured beings, making
a pleasure of a labour, after performing their allotted
day's work, were gathered, and accomplishing, in a

frolic, what, to the unaided hands of the farm, would
have been the task of days. On this occasion Pompey
was not a little chagrined, by the fact that Nat Ramsay,
the negro whom he had pronounced a mere scraper
to Bobby, was requested to sing. Not having the
affected diffidence of the connoisseurs of the art in the
refined circles of humanity, Nat instantly complied.
He sang a song of which the following verses are a
literal specimen. The four first lines of each verse
he rolled out with a stentorian voice in solo, while all
combined the power of their lungs to give effect to
the chorus. Our readers have all heard the celebrated
Rice, the Jim Crow of two hemispheres, sing
similar songs. Could Nat have heard him, he would
not have been as vain of his powers as he was to-night.
He certainly, if at all an envious individual,
would have hung his harp on the willow. The following
is the specimen:

When the moon had entirely cleared the tree tops
the party at the house walked forth to observe for
awhile the care-defying huskers. Pinckney, who appeared
to be struck with the womanly shrinking and

sensitiveness of Miss Grattan offered her his arm, and
exerted all his powers of address to interest her.
Fanny took the arm of Colonel Bentley. Mr. Bronson,
somewhat in the dumps at the attention shown
by Pinckney to Miss Grattan, made at first an attempt
to keep by her side, but in a few moments he fell back
and joined Mr Elwood and Sidney Fitzhurst, who
brought up the rear.

“Do you feel very romantic to night, Miss Fitzhurst?”
asked Mr. Pinckney, turning towards Fanny,
who was a few steps behind Miss Grattan and himself.

“You proclaim yourself such a skeptic about love
and romance, and all such things, sir,” rejoined
Fanny, “that you act upon me as the disenchanter of
such dreams. I declare your conversation for this last
week has been that of a staid old bachelor of fifty
or seventy, rather than that of a travelled gentleman
who I hope still holds himself young.”

“Young in years, I hope, Miss Fitzhurst, but still
old enough to believe that your true love is a dream,
which like all other dreams must be interpreted adversely.”

“Ah, is that it? I thought it was only an old woman's
privilege to interpret dreams?”

“Precisely so, Miss Fitzhurst; and a young woman's
fate to find that all her golden ones lead to such
an issue. The misfortune is though, Miss Fitzhurst,
that she does not find it out until she herself is qualified
to become an interpreter; and then to all the
youthful of her sex her fate is that of Cassandra.”

“Sir,” rejoined Fanny, laughingly, “then were I
to prophesy that Mr. Pinckney would one day become
a gallant gentleman, and a believer in love, would mine
be like all other prophesies?”

“I fear so, Miss Fitzhurst; a prophet is not without
honor save in his own country. Could they see

the prophetess in that far land I've left, I have no
doubt, however, that then they would believe the prophecy.”

“Thank you, sir; Iowe you one,” replied Fanny, and
she made some remark to Colonel Bentley, which
Pinckney did not overhear.

“Do you know, Miss Grattan,” said Pinckney to
the lady by his side, in a low voice, “that our fascinating
friend behind us spoke of you so highly, as we
rode here, that if she were of my sex I should say
most decidedly that she had fallen in love with you.”

“Did she?” replied Miss Grattan tremulously, and
with a blush that might have been detected by the
moonbeam. “Indeed I know no one whose good opinion
I would rather have. But,” rejoined she, with
confusion, “you are jesting with me.”

“Jesting with you! You do me great injustice. I
suppose you have plenty of time to grow romantic
here. And really, notwithstanding Miss Fitzhurst's
allegations against me, I should be surprised if you
did not. What a beautiful sweep those hills have!
And look at the graceful windings of that silvery
stream, stealing away like a great and happy life to be
lost in the great ocean. Yes! you might fall in love
here; have some one who should be

“Ah!” exclaimed Fanny Fitzhurst, who had overheard
the latter part of this remark, “remember, Mr.
Pinckney, that you are quoting from a dream—a
most powerful poet's dream.”

“Yes, Miss Fitzhurst, you have me fairly; for that
dream tells of two beings, the life of one of whom
ended in madness, and both in misery. Remember
that dream was `shaped out like a reality, and from
a reality. It was a foregone conclusion.”

Here the party had approached so near the huskers
as to be seen distinctly by them. This was apparent
from the increased and ambitious alacrity
with which they worked, and the evident effect which
they tried to throw into their song. When Nat, the
singer, saw them coming he did not join the chorus of
the last verse, but paused longer than usual before he
commenced again. He was taxing his powers to
produce something extemporaneous in honor of the
ladies. His gifts as an improvisatore were proven by
the following verse, which he gave forth in his best
manner:

“There's poetry and romance for you, Miss Fanny
Fitzhurst,” said Pinckney, with a hearty laugh.

“In intention, at least, Mr Howard Pinckney,” rejoined
Fanny, “and that, when it is good, makes the
humblest offering praiseworthy.”

“True, true; and truth in this instance is poetry's
handmaid. We have the authority of the poets of all
time for comparing the ladies eyes to stars. They
are not only brilliant, like the stars, but like them they
control our destiny.

At the foot of an oak, near the west end of the
corn heap, not at all satisfied, so far, with the
events of the evening, sat Pompey. He had mingled
with the huskers but for a short time after Nat
commenced his song; when, complaining that he
could not keep time with such a grunter as the
singer, he withdrew from among them. He sat

wrapped in an old coat with his back against the
tree to keep the cold off, and with his feet and
part of his person entirely covered with corn husks.
His wool was amplified into the dimensions of an
ancient wig, and his hat was cocked a little on one
side, on the top of it, as much from an air of self-importance,
as for the purpose of hearing the conversation
of his companion. Bobby had his hands
thrust into the pockets of his pantaloons, which
were made of the stuff called corduroy, and considerably
worn. The collar of his jacket was
turned up, and the brim of his hat turned down so
as to meet it, and keep him, as he said, as snug as
a possum in a gum tree.

It was not at all cool to any one who was exercising
the least; but after walking and husking a
short time the worthies paused from their labours
and sat down, when feeling slightly chilled they
had resorted to the mode of keeping themselves
comfortable which we have described. At Bobby's
feet, by way of a footstove, Towzer, his dog, was
crouching. Every now and then, when the huskers
sang remarkably loud, Towzer would lift his
head lazily from his master's feet, glance carelessly
around, and nestle in the corn husks again. Occasionally
Bobby would pat him on the head, when he
would wag his tail, and gather himself up closer
to his master's person.

“Ah,” exclaimed Bobby, “look out in the moonlight,
Pompey, there's Miss Fanny—I forgot cousin
Peggy told me to ask Miss Fanny if she would
want her at the big house to-morrow.”

“There's time enough,” said Pompey. “Master
Bobby, aint that Colonel Bentley there?”

“Yes,” said Bobby, “I believe it is.”

At this point Nat Ramsay rolled forth his compliment

to the ladies. Pompey jerked his hat over his
eyes as he heard it, and exclaimed:—

“Mister Bobby, now just listen to that nigger—
he's in liquor now, he's in liquor—'nebriated, an' he
thinks he's taking the shine off of everything. To
give you a hidear, Mister Bobby, of what a fool nigger
that Nat is, I'll tell you. You diskiver and observe
that one day I driv my young Mistress, Miss
Fanny, over to Miss Bentleys, and I was a setting
on my coach box a thinking a great many things. I
can think my hardest on a coach box. In the midst
of it here comes Nat Ramsey, black as the driven
charcoal, toting his big foot right by Miss Bentley's
door, between me and the coach and the
house.”

“But I tell you, Pompey,” observed Bobby, “Nat
can't help it if he has such a leg. It aint his fault—
he cut it with an axe last winter, and now its all out of
shape.”

“Its hard drink, Mister Bobby, its hard drink—he
gets 'nebriated. Well, as I was telling you, there
he comes, black as the driven charcoal, right between
me and the house, and sure enough he stops. You
know he's a Guinny nigger—he was caught on the
Gold Coast when a boy, running wild as a baboon,
and brought to this country to be sold as a slave, and
civilized. For my part, I was born in my master's
family; and so was my mother and father before me.
Well, Nat did'nt know that I knowed whar he come
from, and so we got to talking 'bout the difference
between a coloured man and a nigger; and I
'lightened him on the subject. I told him what are a
fact, that a nigger is a black man what comes from
over the waters, an' that a coloured man may be a
mulatto or a darkey, but if he is born in this country
he can't no how be a nigger. Now aint that plain?
I was born in a free country, for I heard Master Sidney

say this was a free country in a speacharification, last
fourth o' July. I 's a American coloured person.
Nat, being that he's born in Guinney, is a African
nigger. Nat was hit all aback, I tell you. He tried
to laugh, an' chawed and hawed right out. Colonel
Bentley was a standing all this time right by the side,
neither of us observed or diskivered him, till he stepped
right out and laughed, so I thought Nat would
ha' turned white with shame.”

“What did Colonel Bentley say?” asked Bobby.

“When he had done a laughing at Nat, he put his
hand in his pocket and give me a half-dollar. He said
I was a magician in argufication.”

“Did'nt he give Nat any thing?” asked Bobby,
archly.

“Yes,” replied Pompey, “he give him a half-dollar
too, for sticking up for his country—a pretty
country to stick up for—that's what the Colonel said
he give it for; but sticking up for one's country, Mr.
Bobby, aint argufication.”

“Indeed, Pompey,” said Bobby, “I must leave you,
I'll be back again; but I must go up to the house and
ask Miss Fanny if she will want Cousin Peggy.”

“Mister Bobby, before you go, just oblige old Pompey
so much as to get him a drink of the whisky.
As I have not been husking much, Sambo might want
to say no to me; an' I don't want to object myself
to insults from any African nigger.”

“Yes, I'll get it for you,” replied Bobby. “Keep
Towzer there—Towzer! stay back, sir.” The dog
which had arisen now lay down again; and Pompey,
as Bobby went to obtain the liquor, said, patting the
dog:

“Keep still, Towzer; I like you, old pup—I like Mister
Bobby, too—he good to Pompey, accommodating
—Pompey good to him. I should ha' catched a awful
scorching in the woods thare from that varmint

Thompson, if it had'nt been for Mister Bobby. He
would ha' shot him to a certainty, if he had put the
weight of that stick on Pompey. I never could diskiver
or observe how any one so small as Mister
Bobby could have so much spunk in him. Ah! there
comes Master Bobby; hang that horse, I wish he had
been racing in Nat Ramsey's country afore he had
throwed Mister Bobby.”

“Here, Pompey,” said Bobby, advancing to the negro,
and handing him a tin cup, “here's the stuff.”

“Won't you take some first, Mr. Bobby?”

“No, Pompey, Cousin Peggy will find it out if I do,
and Granny will talk all day about it—I can't, neither;
I'm weakly, and can't stand it. Come, Towzer.”

And Bobby whistled to his dog, stood for a moment
listening to the song of the huskers, and then hastened
to the house after the party, to deliver the message of
his Cousin Peggy.