Seeing how much we are struck by those peculiarly sweet negro voices, Mr. Mayo courteously desires a select number to gather at one end of the extensive room, and sing for our special benefit. Chairs are brought, an impromptu auditorium formed, the dusky troop assemble, and a tall, coal-black negro, with white gleaming teeth and shining eyes, steps forward, strikes the first note, and leads his fellows through the musical maze. They wander away from the fields of their own quaint melodies, and, I presume in deference to our presence, start at a run into the realms of religious poetry, and sing some of their stirring revivalist hymns, characteristic of their race and reflecting their tone of mind.
Before we leave, however, they descend from their heights, and ring out some catching popular airs, winding up with an old favourite, “The Suwanee River.” After a most pleasant hour we take our leave, and carry with us an impression we shall not easily forget. Down on the main street we pass the “old stone house,” the most ancient building in the city. Tradition connects it with the names of Washington, Lafayette, and many other celebrities of bygone days; there are several other roomy old-fashioned houses scattered about the city, more interesting from their historical association than their architectural beauty. Progressing still downwards, we cross the bridge which connects Richmond with the suburb of Manchester, a dreary-looking, scattered town on the opposite bank of the river. We stand for many minutes on the centre of the bridge, and gaze round in simple awe and admiration. The river, no longer a tranquil stream, boils and bubbles in whirling eddies beneath our feet, rushing in roaring rapids on its tempestuous way, leaping in white foam flecks over the rough boulders, and hissing round the base of the beautiful islands which rise from its stormy breast--not bald or barren islands, but covered with a rich growth of variegated shrubs and trees, which spread their green branches, like blessing hands, over the face of the stormy waters. It is a wonderfully fine view, full of suggestive poetry and romance, and for many moments holds us spell-bound; this rich woodland, growing out of the depths of the turbulent water in serene loveliness, contrasting with the white gnashing teeth of the foaming wave-crests below. On our left rises the city of Richmond, seated like a queen upon her throne, clasped by her girdle of green, and living waters flowing at her feet. On our right stands the homely city of Manchester, a foil to the grace and loveliness of the fair city on the opposite shore; before us lie the ancient hunting grounds of Powhatan; around us the land-locked waters rush foaming and roaring on, winding through banks of glorious green till they fall into the quiet far-off bay and there find peace, like unquiet spirits sinking to eternal rest. Low-lying upon the shore close by are the Tredegar Iron Works, belching forth flames and smoke, flinging their lurid light in the face of the summer sun.
