Servants of all ages and colour, mammies and daddies, young ’uns and prime fellows,—­“wenches” that had just become hand-maids,—­brought up the train, dancing, singing, hopping, laughing, and sporting:  some discuss the looks of their young mistresses, others are criticising their dress.  Arrived at the landing, Daddy Bob and Harry, full of cares, are hurrying several prime fellows, giving orders to subordinate boatmen about getting the substantial on board,—­the baskets of champagne, the demijohns, the sparkling nectar.  The young beaux and belles, mingling with their dark sons and daughters of servitude, present a motley group indeed-a scene from which the different issues of southern life may be faithfully drawn.

A band of five musicians, engaged to enliven the sports of the day with their music, announce, “All on board!” and give the signal for starting by striking up “Life on the Ocean Wave.”  Away they speed, drawn by horses on the bank, amidst the waving of handkerchiefs, the soft notes of the music reverberating over the pine-clad hills.  Smoothly and gently, onward they speed upon the still bosom of the Ashly;-the deep, dark stream, its banks bedecked with blossoms and richest verdure, is indeed enough to excite the romantic of one’s nature.  Wild, yet serene with rural beauty, if ever sensations of love steal upon us, it is while mingling in the simple convivialities so expressive of southern life.  On, on, the barge moved, as lovers gathered together, the music dancing upon the waters.  Another party sing the waterman’s merry song, still another trail for lilies, and a third gather into the prow to test champagne and ice, or regale with choice Havannas.  Marston, and a few of the older members, seated at midships, discuss the all-absorbing question of State-rights; while the negroes are as merry as larks in May, their deep jargon sounding high above the clarion notes of the music.  Now it subsides into stillness, broken only by the splashing of an alligator, whose sports call forth a rapturous shout.

After some three hours’ sailing the barge nears a jut of rising ground on the left bank.  Close by it is a grove of noble old pines, in the centre of which stands a dilapidated brick building, deserted for some cause not set forth on the door:  it is a pretty, shaded retreat-a spot breathing of romance.  To the right are broad lagoons stretching far into the distance; their dark waters, beneath thick cypress, presenting the appearance of an inundated grove.  The cypress-trees hang their tufted tops over the water’s surface, opening an area beneath studded with their trunks, like rude columns supporting a panoply of foliage.