The Northerner who traveled down South was astonished to find that the cities of the maps were villages, and the villages clusters of log huts. Fields covered with weeds, and moss-grown ruins, showed where flourishing farms once had been. He rode through vast forests and cypress swamps, where hundreds of mean whites lived like Red Indians, hunting and fishing for their daily bread, eating clay to keep themselves alive, prowling round plantations to obtain stolen food from the slaves. He saw plantations in which the labor was conducted with the terrible discipline of the prison and the hulks; and where as he galloped past the line of hoeing slaves, so close that he splashed them with mud, they hoed on, they toiled on, not daring to raise their eyes from the ground. From early dawn to dusky eve it was so with these poor wretches; no sound broke the silence of those fearful fields but the voice of the overseer and the cracking of the whip. And out, far away, in the lone Western lands, by the side of dark rivers, among trees from which drooped down the dull gray Spanish moss, the planters went forth to hunt; there were well- known coverts where they were sure to find; and as the traveler rode through the dismal swamp he might perhaps have the fortune to see the game: a black animal on two legs, running madly for its life, and behind it the sounding of a horn, and the voices of hounds in full cry -- a chase more infernal than that of the Wild Huntsman who sweeps through the forest with his spectral crew.
-- Winwood Reade, _The Martyrdom of Man_ (1872)

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Also: The Sound of His Horn