The conversation had rambled on for a full half hour, the old negress meanwhile puffing steadily away, and giving no heed to it; when suddenly her pipe dropped from her mouth, her eyes closed, her bent figure became erect, and a quick, convulsive shiver passed over her. Thinking she was about to fall in a fit, I exclaimed: 'Joe! See! your mother!' 'Neber mind, sar,' he quietly replied; 'it'm nuffin'. Only de power am on her.' A few more convulsive spasms succeeded, when the old woman's face assumed a settled expression; and swaying her body back and forth with a slow, steady motion, she commenced humming a low chant. Gradually it grew louder, till it broke into a strange, wild song, filling the room, and coming back in short, broken echoes from the adjoining apartments. Struck with astonishment, I was about to speak, when Joe, laying his hand on my arm, said: 'Hush, sar! It am de song ob de kidnap slave!' It was sung in the African tongue, but I thought I heard, as it rose and fell in a wild, irregular cadence, the thrilling story of the stolen black; his smothered cries, and fevered moans in the slaver's hold; the shriek of the wind, and the sullen sound of the surging waves as they broke against the accursed ship; and, then--as the old negress rose and poured forth quick, broken volumes of song--the loud mirth of the drunken crew, mingling with what seemed dying groans, and the heavy splash of falling bodies striking the sea. As she concluded, with a firm, stately step--showing none of her previous decrepitude--she approached me: Seeing that I regarded her movements with a look of startled interest, Joe said: 'Leff har do what she likes, sar. She hab suffin' to say to you.' Taking a small bag[1] from her bosom, and placing it in the open front of my waistcoat, she reached out her long, skinny arm, and placing her skeleton hand on the top of my head, chanted a low song. The words were mostly English, and the few I caught were something as follows: 'Oh, bress de swanga buckra man; Bress wife an' chile ob buckra man.' Bress all dat b'long to buckra man; Barimo[2] bress de buckra man; De good Lord bress de buckra man; Bress, bress de swanga buckra man.' As she finished the invocation, she took both my hands in hers, and leaning forward, and muttering a few low words, seemed trying to read the story imprinted on my palms. Her eyes were closed, and thinking she might be troubled to see me without the use of those organs, I looked inquiringly at her son. 'She don't need eyes, sar,' said Joe, answering my thought; 'she'll tell all 'bout you widout dem.' As he said this, she dropped one of my hands, and raising her right arm, made several passes over my head, then resting her hand again upon it, she began chanting another low song: 'What der yer see, mudder?' asked Joe, leaning forward, with a look of intense interest on his face.