"And with the same weapon?" inquired St. George.
We had a delightful addition to our society in Powhatan Starke, who came from the Eastern Shore, and spent a year first as a guest of the Southalls, and later of all of us. He seemed to have been created for the express purpose of making people happy. He would have us all convulsed with laughter while he held the woollen skeins for my aunt's knitting. He taught me on the piano waltzes not to be found in the books; and the polka, a new dance with picturesque figures just then introduced. He joined in and enhanced every scheme for pleasure, and would finally spend half the night serenading us. "The serenade," according to a recent definition, "is a cherished courtship custom of primitive societies." Courtship had nothing to do with it in 1847. It was only a delicate compliment to ladies who had entertained the serenaders. Four or five voices in unison would sing such songs as "Oft in the Stilly Night," "The Last Rose of Summer," "Eileen Aroon," "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton," and one voice render Rizzio's lovely song:—
"Queen of my soul whose starlit eyes
Are all the light I seek,
Whose voice in sweetest melodies
Can love or pardon speak;
I yield me to thy soft control
Mary—Mary—Queen of my soul!
(Chorus) Mary! Mary! Queen of my soul!"
With the first twang of the guitar strings we would slip from our beds, find our shawls and slippers, and creep downstairs. Crouched close to the door, we would listen for Vive l'amour, the song always concluding the serenade:—