ny one in Nashville as a "cunjerer,"
and the incident strikes me as very curious.

Apropos of marvels, many of the blacks can produce in their throats by
some strange process sounds, and even airs, resembling those of the
harmonicon, or musical box, one or the other or both. One evening in
Nashville, in a lonely place, I heard exquisite music, which I thought
must be that of a superior hand-organ from afar. But, to my amazement, I
could discover none; there were only two black boys in the street. Alexis
Paxton, the son of my host, explained to me that what I heard was
unquestionably music made by those ebony flutes of boys, and that there
were some wonderful performers in the city. I have listened to the same
music at a public exhibition. I greatly wonder that I have never heard
of this kind of music in Europe or the East. It is distinctly
_instrumental_, not vocal in its tones. It has the obvious
recommendation of economy, since by means of it a young lady could be
performer and pianoforte all in one, which was indeed the beginning of
the invention in Syrinx, who was made into a pan-pipe, which as a piano
became the great musical curse (according to Heine) of modern times, and
by which, as I conjecture, the fair Miss Reed or Syrinx revenges herself
on male humanity. By the way, the best singer of "_Che faro senza
Euridice_" whom I ever heard was a Miss Reed, a sister of Mrs. Paran
Stevens.

I had a very pleasant time with Paxton, and I know right well that I was
no burden on him, but a welcome friend. _Au reste_, there was plenty of
room in the house, and abundant army stores to be had for asking, and one
or two rare acquaintances. One of these was a Southern officer, now a
general, who had come over to our side and fought, as the saying was,
with a rope round his neck. He was terribly hated by the rebels, which
hate he returned with red-hot double compound interest--for a renegade is
worse than ten Turks. He was the very type of a grim, calm old Border
moss-trooper. He lived in his boots, and never had an ounce of luggage.
One evening General Whipple (always humane and cultivated, though as firm
as an iron bar) said to him before me, "I really don't know what to do
with many of my rebel prisoners. They dress themselves in Federal
uniforms for want of other clothes; they take them from the dead on the
battlefield, and try to pass themselves off for Federals. It is very
troublesome."

"No trouble to me