somewhere in some tent, not an officer's,--a drum throbs far away in
another,--wild kildeer-plover flit and wail above us, like the
haunting souls of dead slave-masters,--and from a neighboring
cook-fire comes the monotonous sound of that strange festival, half
pow-wow, half prayer-meeting, which they know only as a "shout." These
fires are usually enclosed in a little booth, made neatly of
palm-leaves and covered in at top, a regular native African hut, in
short, such as is pictured in books, and such as I once got up from
dried palm-leaves for a fair at home. This hut is now crammed with
men, singing at the top of their voices, in one of their quaint,
monotonous, endless, negro-Methodist chants, with obscure syllables
recurring constantly, and slight variations interwoven, all
accompanied with a regular drumming of the feet and clapping of the
hands, like castanets. Then the excitement spreads: inside and outside
the enclosure men begin to quiver and dance, others join, a circle
forms, winding monotonously round some one in the centre; some "heel
and toe" tumultuously, others merely tremble and stagger on, others
stoop and rise, others whirl, others caper sideways, all keep steadily
circling like dervishes; spectators applaud special strokes of skill;
my approach only enlivens the scene; the circle enlarges, louder grows
the singing, rousing shouts of encouragement come in, half
bacchanalian, half devout, "Wake 'em, brudder!" "Stan' up to 'em,
brudder!"--and still the ceaseless drumming and clapping, in perfect
cadence, goes steadily on. Suddenly there comes a sort of snap, and
the spell breaks, amid general sighing and laughter. And this not
rarely and occasionally, but night after night, while in other parts
of the camp the soberest prayers and exhortations are proceeding
sedately.

A simple and lovable people, whose graces seem to come by nature, and