Onward the cars speed, with clanking music making din as they go.  One of the negroes will add something to change the monotony.  Fumbling beneath the seats for some minutes, he draws forth a little bag, carefully unties it, and presents his favourite violin.  Its appearance gladdens the hearts of his comrades, who welcome it with smiling faces and loud applause.  The instrument is of the most antique and original description.  It has only two strings; but Simon thinks wonders of it, and would not swap it for a world of modern fiddles, what don’t touch the heart with their music.  He can bring out tremendous wailings with these two strings; such as will set the whole plantation dancing.  He puts it through the process of tuning, adding all the scientific motions and twists of an Italian first-fiddling artiste.  Simon will moisten its ears by spitting on them, which he does, turning and twisting himself into the attitudes of a pompous maestro.  But now he has got it in what he considers the very nick of tune; it makes his face glow with satisfaction.  “Jest-lef’-’um cum, Simon;—­big and strong!” says Joe, beginning to keep time by slapping his hands on his knees.  And such a sawing, such a scraping, as he inflicts, never machine of its kind, ancient or modern, got before.  Simon and his companions are in ecstasies; but such cross-grained, such painful jingling of sounds!  Its charm is irresistible with the negro; he mustn’t lose a note of the tune; every creak is exhausted in a break-down dance, which the motion of the “Jim Crow” car makes more grotesque by every now and then jolting them into a huddle in one corner.

Mr. M’Fadden has been told that his property are having a lively time, and thinks he will leave his aristocratic friends, and go to see it; here he is followed by several young gentlemen, anxious to enjoy the hilarity of the scene.

“All my property,—­right prime, isn’t it?” says M’Fadden, exultingly, nudging one of the young men on the shoulder, as he, returning, enters the car.  The gentleman nods assent, sits down, and coolly lights his cigar.  “Good thing to have a fiddler on a plantation!  I’d rather have it than a preacher; keeps the boys together, and makes ’um a deal better contented,” he adds, beginning to exhale the fumes from his weed.

“Yes!-and ye sees, fellers, how I’ze bought a parson, too.  Can do the thing up brown now, boys, I reckon,” remarks the happy politician, slapping his professional gentleman on the knee, and laughing right heartily.

Turning to Harry with a firm look, he informs the gentlemen that “this critter’s kind o got the sulks, a’cos Romescos-he hates Romescos-has bought his wench and young ’uns.  Take that out on him, at my place,” he adds.

The dancing continues right merrily.  One of the young gentlemen would like to have the fiddler strike up “Down in Old Tennessee.”  The tune is sounded forth with all that warmth of feeling the negro only can add to the comical action of his body.