University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
SHADOWS OF THE PAST: SOMEWHAT GROTESQUE

The reader must have perceived from the foregoing sketch,
that “the races” in Virginia in the year 1765, did not materially
differ from those at the present day:—but we have
not quite finished our brief and hasty sketch, and he must suspend
his opinion.

Still we cannot enter into any thing like a full description
of the ceremonies which took up the remainder of the day:—
just as we have been unable to draw a full length portrait of
the fox-hunt—the festival at the hall—and further back, the
grand opening day of the house of Burgesses. As we have
said in former pages, this narrative is rather an account of
the fortunes of a certain set of personages, and the events
which directly affected them:—so the reader must be content
with a very brief and imperfect sketch of the amusements
which followed the triumph of Selim.

The race was gotten up by a number of subscribers, and
though a purse was not suspended from a pole for the
victorious jockey to take down, every other ceremony was
observed.

These ceremonies were characteristic of the times, and
an outline of them may amuse the reader.

First, a number of stalwart countrymen entered the ring
—the races between the remaining horses having been run
be it understood—and these hardy gentlemen are armed
with stout cudgels, which they brandish around their heads
in furious style, much after the manner of those gentlemen
who followed, and flourished the quarter-staff in honor of that
noble outlaw, Robin Hood.

The victor in the awful game is to have a hat worth
twenty shillings, and this hat, of the cocked species, with a
handsome feather, is suspended from a pliant pole above their
heads.

The signal is given, and the brave combatants close and
rain down a shower of blows, which rattle like hail, and cause
the crowd of spectators to utter shouts of delight. The

victor is no other than our old friend Townes, who says as
he perches the fine hat on his bushy locks:

“Well, I dusted 'em! Their jackets won't want a
brushin' soon agin!”

And he marches off amid great applause.

Next comes a wrestling match, and the prize of the victor
here is a pair of velvet buckles, which are exhibited to
all. The contestants enter the ring and tug and whirl, and
roll and fall. Is the gentleman who is declared victor, and
who bears away the buckles in triumph, called by the euphonious
name of Junks, or not? We cannot know certainly,
as his name is not announced: at least, he is an undeniable
water-dog, and will drink up his silver ornaments, we may
be sure.

Then comes a running match, the prize for which is a
pair of handsome shoes, with rosettes of ribbon; and running
being an amusement which may be indulged in without
fear of a cudgel blow or a fall, many enter the lists—among
the rest, Mr. Bill Lane, the artist. He has practised the
amusement when parson Tythetobacco was on his track,
rod in hand, and to such perfection that he now distances all
competitors, and bears off the shoes in triumph.

Another running match immediately. It is between
“twelve youths, twelve years old, to run one hundred and
twelve yards, for a hat worth twelve shillings.” The requisite
number of young gentlemen enter the lists and start off.
Sam Barkerville is declared victor, his powers of running
having been cultivated by humorous fleeing from his father,
the sheriff, who, by poetic license, has been the imaginary
holder of the legal writ of ca. sa. against Barkerville, jr.;
and the hat worth twelve shillings is handed to the young
gentleman, who cocks it over one eye, and marches off amid
applause.

Next the herald holds up a handsomely bound volume,
fluttering with ribbons and glowing with gilt, and proclaims
that the best singer among the divine sex will take the prize,
the said volume being a quire of ballads of the most approved
description, with the accompanying musical notes.

A dozen blushing maidens advance and alternately sing
such ballads as they fancy, in little fluttering voices, and
with downcast eyes. The last who performs upon the occasion

sings “The lass of Richmond hill,” and her song is
received with tumultuous applause. She is unanimously
declared victor, and the beautiful volume is duly presented
to Miss Donsy Smith, who receives it blushing, and retires
into the throng, who greet her with two distinct rounds of
applause, her bright, cheerful face having gained this young
lady a host of friends.

Then comes the great and paramount contest of fiddlers,
—many more in number than those who shared with “his
glass and his lass” the liking of “old King Cole, that jolly
old soul.” In other words, the fiddlers are more in number,
and they use instruments which range from those of backwoods
construction—emitting awful and terrible discord, like
veritable bulls of Bashan roaring, and pigs from the coast
of Guinea squeaking—to excellent ones, worn and discolored
by incessant use, and full of melodious power. The prize
for the best performer is a fine new instrument, direct from
London, and, in addition to this, the victor is to have the
privilege of presenting a pair of silk stockings to the “prettiest
country maiden on the ground.”

The fiddlers stand “all in a row,” and tune their instruments.
Then, at a given signal, they play, one after the
other, such pieces as they fancy, and exert their best powers
to win the fine instrument. They roar, they crash, they
storm, they pour a whirlwind of rapid, glittering notes upon
the air, deafening the ears and setting the crowd to dancing
almost; or else they link the sweetness and draw it out long
and slow, like golden ribbon, or a stream of moonlight—
sighing, crying, sobbing, laughing;—all this the violins do,
with extraordinary movement in the heads and arms of the
noble musicians. The air is filled with harmony, the crowd
applauds, the happy artists hold out their hands. Nineteen
hands are withdrawn abruptly; the twentieth receives the
prize, over which are hung the silk stockings.

Lanky is the victor. Lanky no longer in boots and
sword and cocked hat, it is true; but, at least, far more like
an elegant cavalier than usual. For a moment, Lanky
blushes,—scratches his head; then he twitches the string of
the violin, and starts with joy at its excellence. This gives
him courage: he places the silk stockings on the end of his
fiddle bow; they hang there with a truth of outline which

raises a shout in the crowd. Lanky steps forward, makes a
dive at a portion of the crowd, throwing his head at them,
—so to speak;—and lo! the silk stockings are seen to leave
the end of the bow, and elegantly repose in a straddling posture
around the neck of Miss Donsy Smith.

The crowd shout; the violins commence again; Jamaica
rum,—“to wet their windpipes,” says the chronicle,—is
handed round, and immediately the twenty fiddlers all in a
row begin to play furiously with the ardor of despair, such
a different tune! Pandemonium is broke loose—a shudder
runs through the crowd—they fly with their hands in their
ears, with shouts of laughter.

So far, we have followed the veracious chronicle, invention
having almost nothing to do with the scene we have
sketched; but there is one gentleman whose performances
on the occasion of the races we nowhere find any allusions
made to. We consider this unjust, and proceed briefly to
speak of him.

He is a colored gentleman; perhaps as much as three
fect and a half high. He wears a long coat, whose skirts
drag the ground; he sucks his thumb occasionally; he rejoices
in and is proud of the name of Crow, but prefers the
more modest and friendly appellation, “Jeames.” He has
suffered unmerited misfortunes lately, but, like a great man,
is not cast down, and has come to the races with the noble
intent to struggle against the effect of those misfortunes.
He has not betted largely, but no one has taken more interest
in the horses. He has criticised them; admired them;
openly and candidly extolled them,—acknowledged their
good points with simple frankness. He has lost his all—
three half-pence—upon Sir Archy, but is not cast down
thereat. He rises above his bad fortune, and preserves a
noble equanimity.

He provides himself with a dilapidated cornstalk, and
looks on while the cudgellers play. He flourishes the cornstalk
around his head gracefully, and when it hits one of the
dignified grooms, Mr. Crow does not disdain to take to flight
—averse as he is, from principle, to contention. When the
wrestlers commence, he takes his cornstalk in his arms and
struggles violently with it, and finally trips it up, and falls
triumphantly on it. When the running begins he drops his

cornstalk foe, and, tying his long skirts before him, takes to
running also, uttering enthusiastic “hooras!” He wins, in
his own opinion, and takes off his ragged straw hat, without
a rim, worn only on extraordinary occasions, and politely presents
it to himself, and places it proudly on his head again—
having fairly won it. When the maidens sing, he assumes a
modest and bashful air: but with the advent of the fiddlers,
his real representative powers begin to show themselves. He
resumes his cornstalk: he breaks it in two; he grasps the
shorter piece, and with his left hand inserts it under his chin.
He then screws up the broken end to tune it, flourishes in
his right hand the lengthier portion, and strikes the trembling
lyre. As the fiddlers proceed, he proceeds also—fast or
slow, enthusiastically with jerking head, shaking body, patting
foot: or sentimentally, with his chin up, his eyes fixed
upon the blue sky, with a die-away expression, his bow drawn
slowly and rapturously over its counterpart. He finishes
with the grand outburst of the twenty performers, and goes
into ecstasies: his rapture passes all bounds: he sways, he
shakes, he bows, he bends, he executes leaps, he turns somersets—still
playing. But comes the cruel fate—he is not appreciated:
he suffers from the effect of an uncultivated musical
taste in the million. Mr. Crow in his ecstasy rolls upon
a projecting boot—the boot rises up—Mr. Crow is hoisted—
he disappears like a black snowball swallowed up in nothingness.
He is gone—vanished—all the fiddles stop.

The day is wound up with a profuse banquet, at which
the subscribers, their wives and daughters, refresh themselves
with excellent roast beef and turkey, and a variety of wines.
Perhaps a picture of the graceful and imposing scene would
be worth drawing, but space fails us:—the eloquent discord
of the twenty violins still drives our senses mad. We leave
the dinner, therefore, to the reader's imagination: we leave
him to fancy the merry talk, the allusions to the races, the
congratulations offered Captain Waters, the praises of the
fresh little country beauty Donsy Smith, the toasting of Captain
John Smith, of old days, who landed yonder on the
river when he came here—that immortal soldier to whom a
monument should be erected, all declare—in whose honor a
“Jamestown Society” should be instituted, to meet yearly in
the month of May, and eat good dinners, fish and flesh and

fowl, in grand appreciation of his noble deeds. We leave all
this to the reader's imagination, and can only say that the
banquet, sub Jove, was a very merry and happy affair, and
that the birds were of the same opinion that evening, when
the brilliant party, having fled away, they picked up crumbs,
and twittered gayly.

And so the brilliant party fled away, as all bright things
fly far from us into the west, and dead days of the past.
Where are they now, those stalwart cavaliers and lovely
dames who filled that former time with so much light, and
merriment, and joyous laughter? Where are those good
coursers, Selim, Fair Anna and Sir Archy; where are black and
white, old and young, all the sporting men and women of the
swaying crowd? What do we care for them to-day? What
do we care if the laces are moth-eaten—the cocked hats
hung up in the halls of Lethe—the silk stockings laid away
in the drawer of oblivion? What does it concern us that
the lips no longer smile, the eyes no longer flash, the hands
no longer move, the faces no longer laugh? What do we
care for all those happy maiden faces—gallant inclinations—
graceful courtesies—every thing connected with the cavaliers
and dames of that old, brilliant, pompous, honest, worthy
race?

They have gone away to the other world; their lips are
dumb; their heads have bowed and their backs long bent,
and they have carried away their loads and themselves to the
happy or the miserable isles. We care so little for them,
that the poor chronicler who tries to make them speak again
to-day is scarcely heard: but still it is his province, he must
speak in spite of all.