Chattanooga, Thursday, June 15. Breakfast passed as usual. Charlie Pickard and myself procured a blackberry pass, and armed each with a tin pail, set out while it was yet cool, and we walked fast. We followed the old Georgia Railroad out into Chickamauga Valley, passed the vineyard which we tugged through on the 25th of November, 1863, under the rebel fire. The scene looked very natural, but the houses used as hospitals close by are burnt down, fences repaired and crops growing, Here we conversed with a negro, once a slave but now a free man. When “Massa run, aha,” he staid behind, and has forty acres of good corn planted and cultivated by himself for his own benefit. We saw many others industriously engaged for the welfare of self and family. What better proof need we have than this that the negro will support himself.
Here we found plenty of berries, but not many of them ripe yet, so we marched on, struck Chickamauga Creek, followed it about half a mile to the ferry, when cries and shrieks fell upon our ears, evidently a woman in great agony. Our minds were readily carried back to the time when such cries were often extorted from the poor slaves by the cruel hand of the master. And could it be possible that such a scene was being enacted in this valley now under the very eye of the power that had abolished it? It seemed incredible, yet we feared it, and we hastily turned our steps in the direction of the sound. As we approached, it still became more hideous and different voices could be discerned. Up high on the hill we at last discovered the place whence the noise proceeded, from a rough log negro hut. Passing a neat white house about fifty rods below the shanty, we were informed of the cause by a woman unconcernedly smoking her pipe. She “reckoned they were shouting up there”. A little suspecting the cause, yet we were bent on investigation. We met a young woman on the way with long, flowing disheveled hair, looking very much excited.
Charley asked “What’s the row up there?”
“An old ‘oman ‘fessed ‘ligion this morn’ “.
Now we are at the door, and such a sight I never saw before. Here two large negro women and two young white girls, 16 and 17 years old about, from all appearances raving maniacs, still screeching, yelling, jumping, hugging, dancing, crying, shaking, hands, and uttering incoherent sentences, foaming at the mouth with perspiration rolling down their cheeks in streams. No cessation, but each making as much noise as though a dagger were at their hearts. The spell appeared to be partially broken by one of the girls seeing us. She stopped, looked at us with a mesmeric glare for a few minutes, then shrunk a corner, where she remained quietly until her sister (I suppose) returned to her from covering the negro woman, and commenced violent demonstrations, such as bumping her head against the wall, etc. until both soon moved.
We looked on thus for over half an hour. I was filled with amazement and sometimes provoked to laughter. I had heard of such excitement in revival meetings where enthusiastic preachers and brethren were at work, working up the imagination of the victim. But to find it in such a sequestered place with but four solitary women was such as I never dreamt of. The superstitious character and education of the negro caused me to wonder less at them than the white girls, which looked awful. But when I remembered the unconcern of the people in the white house, I concluded it was nothing strange after all for these ignorant people (for I consider it nothing but ignorance of the true standard of the human soul).
A revival is going on there, it seems, and the old woman said God had been allowing her to go on in her “devilment” for a long time, but this morning ”Jesus stood right squar’ in her way and she found him right in the chair,” and then again she started. The girls I suppose came to see her and were taken with the influence. I felt it my duty to do what I could to restore these poor creatures to their senses, and believe if I had entered the room and spoken firmly to them in earnest, the spell would be broken and the excitement quieted.
But modesty prevented me from making the experiment, and we went on in quest of berries. Found plenty of beautiful ones in a field adjoining, and we soon filled our pails and started for camp in another direction. The shouting which we heard a mile away at first, still continued while we were within hearing. Reached camp before 2 P. M. tired and very warm, having walked at least fourteen miles, well pleased with our success at berrying. Told our story of the revivalists in camp, which caused much amusement. I shall always consider it as one of the greatest psychological phenomena.
