His father, meanwhile, had turned down a barrel, and was seated on it.  Every attitude, every motion of his body, told that his soul, forgetful of earth and earthly things, had withdrawn to the regions of sound.  He kicked his slippers off keeping time, and his head dodged about with every turn of the quick tune.  A stranger, not understanding the state of mind into which a negro gets after playing “The devil among the tailors,” would have supposed he was afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance.  The mistake would soon have been perceived, for two of the boys having tired themselves out with manoeuvres of every kind, were obliged to sit down to get some breath, and Bacchus fell into a sentimental mood, after a little tuning up.

It was uncertain in what strain he would finally go off.  First came a bar that sounded like Auld Lang Syne, then a note or two of Days of Absence, then a turn of a Methodist hymn, at last he went decidedly into “Nelly was a lady.”  The tune of this William had learned from Alice singing it to the piano.  He begged her to teach him the words.  She did so, telling him of the chorus part, in which many were to unite.  Bacchus prepared an accompaniment; a number of them sang it together.  William sang the solos.  He had a remarkably good voice and fine taste; he therefore did justice to the sweet song.  When the full but subdued chorus burst upon the ear, every heart felt the power of the simple strain; the master with his educated mind and cultivated taste, and the slave with the complete power of enjoyment with which the Creator has endowed him.

Hardly had the cadence of the last note died away, when “Shout, shout, the devil’s about,” was heard from a stentorian voice.  Above the peals of laughter with which the words were received, rose Jake’s voice, “Come on, ole fiddler, play somefin a nigger kin kick up his heels to; what’s de use of singing after dat fashion; dis aint no meetin.”

“What’ll you have, Jake?” said Bacchus.

“What’ll I have?  Why, I never dances to but one tune,” and Jake started the first line of “Oh, plantation gals, can’t you look at a body,” while Bacchus was giving a prelude of scrapes and twangs.  Jake made a circle of somersets, and come down on his head, with his heels in the air, going through flourishes that would have astonished an uninitiated observer.  As it was, Jake’s audience were in a high condition of enjoyment.  They were in a constant state of expectation as to where he would turn up, or what would be the nature of the next caper.  Now, he cut the pigeon-wing for a length of time that made the spectators hold their breath; then he would, so to speak, stand on his hands, and with his feet give a push to the barrel where Uncle Bacchus was sitting, and nearly roll the old man underneath.  One moment he is dancing with every limb, making the most curious contortions of his face, rolling out his tongue, turning his eyes wrong side out.  Suddenly, he stretches himself on the grass, snoring to a degree that might be heard at almost any distance.  Starting up, he snaps his fingers, twirls round, first on one foot, and then on the other, till feeling the time approaching when he must give up, he strikes up again: