their
worship was animal, and almost profane. They sang incongruous mixtures
of hymns and field songs:--

"Oh! bruddern, watch an' pray, _watch_ an' pray!
De harvest am a ripenin' our Lord an' Marser say!
Oh! ho! yo! dat ole coon, de serpent, ho! oh!
Watch an' pray!"

I have heard them sing such medleys with tears in their eyes, apparently
fervid and rapt. A very gray old man would lead off, keeping time to the
words with his head and hands; the mass joining in at intervals, and
raising a screaming alleluja. Directly they would all rise, link hands,
and proceed to dance the accompaniment. The motion would be slow at
first, and the method of singing maintained; after a time they would
move more rapidly, shouting the lines together; and suddenly becoming
convulsed with strange excitement, they would toss up their arms, leap,
fall, groan, and, seemingly, lose consciousness. Their prayers were
earnest and vehement, but often degenerated to mere howls and noises.
Some of both sexes had grand voices, that rang like bugles, and the very
impropriety of their music made it fascinating. It used to seem to me
that any of the great composers might have borrowed advantageously some
of those original negro airs. In many cases, their owners came within
the lines, registered their allegiance, and recovered the negroes. These
were often veritable Shylocks, that claimed their pounds of flesh, with
unblushing reference to the law. The poor Africs went back cowed and
tearful, and it is probable that they were afterward sent to the far
South, that terrible _terra incognita_ to a border slave.

Among the houses to which I resorted was that of a Mr. Hill, one mile
from White House. He had a thousand acres of land and a valuable fishery
on the Pamunkey. The latter was worth, in good seasons, two thousand
dollars a year. He had fished and farmed with negroes; but these had
leagued to run away, and he sent them across the river to a second farm
that he owned in King William County. It was at Hill's house that the
widow Custis was visiting when young Washington reined at the gate, on
his road to Williamsburg. With reverent feelings I used to regard the
old place, and Hill frequently stole away from his formidable military
household, to talk with me on the front porch. Perhaps in the same
moonlights, with the river shimmering at their feet, and the grapevine
shadowing the creaky corners,--their voices soft