For a long time I had heard it but rarely; the feeling of dislike at its frequent repetition had worn off, and it again possessed not only its original interest, but was thick clustering with pleasant memories of home, and many of the happiest scenes of my life. I was at length in the interior of a distant Southern State, an invalid, alone, and doubtful of the future. Sabbath came, and with kind, new-found friends, I rode through the pines over a sandy road to a plain, unpainted church, standing in the midst of a piny wood, and bearing the name "Mount Zion." In the rear of this building, comfortably seated and sheltered, a large congregation of slaves was assembled, who were listening to the instructions of an earnest and faithful minister of the gospel. He had just finished reading a hymn as I reached the place, and an old negro slave rose to lead the singing. The lines were given out one by one, and as every voice in that large company seemed to join in the song, never did "Ortonville" sound more sweetly than as it then broke unexpectedly upon my ear. With their rich, melodious voices, and the enthusiasm peculiar to the African, they seemed to pour out all their souls, and, as they sang through the hymn, and those familiar sounds resounded through the grove, the effect upon my feelings can be more easily imagined than described. During my stay in this neighborhood, a slave died upon one of the plantations, and I was told that I would have an opportunity of witnessing one of their favorite funerals. In those portions of the South where the plantations were largest, and the slaves the most numerous, they were very fond of burying their dead at night, and as near midnight as possible. In case of a funeral, they assembled in large numbers from adjoining plantations, provided with pine-knots, and pieces of fat pine called light-wood, which when ignited made a blaze compared with which our city torchlight processions are most sorry affairs. When all was in readiness, they lighted these torches, formed into a procession, and marched slowly to the distant grave, singing the most solemn music. Sometimes they sang hymns they had committed to memory, but oftener those more tender and plaintive, composed by themselves, that have since been introduced to the people of the North, and of Europe, as plantation melodies. I have never yet seen any statement of the manner in which these melodies, that have moved and melted the hearts of millions on both sides of the Atlantic, were composed. I have been familiar with the secret of their birth and power since my first acquaintance with, and religious labors among, the slaves in 1843. It is preëminently true of these plantation melodies that they were "born, not made." I have been present at the birth of a great many of them--many that I think more tender and pathetic than those that have been given to the world by the various jubilee-singers. [Illustration: An old-time midnight slave funeral.]