"About the time I became of age I returned to Virginia for the purpose of looking after and settling my father's estate. Three years thereafter I received a letter from my only sister, informing me that she was going to be married, and pressing me in the most urgent manner to return to Scotland to be present at her marriage, and to attend to the drawing of the marriage contract. The letter gave me a good deal of trouble, as it did not suit me to leave Virginia at that time. I went to bed one night, thinking much on this subject, but soon fell asleep, and dreamed that I landed in Greenock in the night-time, and pushed for home, thinking I would take my aunt and sister by surprise."When I arrived at the door, I found all still and quiet, and the out-door locked. I thought, however, that I had in my pocket my check-key, with which I quietly opened the door and groped my way into the sitting-room, but, finding no one there, I concluded they had gone to bed. I then went upstairs to their bedroom, and found that unoccupied. I then concluded they had taken possession of my bedroom in my absence, but, not finding them there, became very uneasy about them. Then it struck me they might be in the guest's chamber, a room downstairs kept exclusively for company. Upon going there I found the door partially open; I saw my aunt removing the burning coals from the top of the grate preparatory to going to bed. My sister was sitting up in bed, and as I entered the room she fixed her eyes upon me, but did not seem to recognize me. I approached toward her, and, in the effort to make myself known, awoke and found it all a dream. At breakfast next morning I felt wearied and sick, and could not eat, and told the family of my (dream) journey overnight."I immediately commenced preparing,and in a very short time returned to Scotland. I saw my sister married, and she and her husband set off on their 'marriage jaunt.' About a month thereafter they returned, and at dinner I commenced telling them of my dream; but, observing they had quit eating and were staring at me, I laughed, and asked what was the matter, whereupon my brother-in-law very seriously asked me to go on. When I finished, they asked me if I remembered the exact time of my dream. I told them it distressed and impressed me so strongly that I noted it down at the time. I pulled out my pocketbook and showed them the date, '14th day of May,' written in pencil. They all rose from the table and took me into the bedroom and showed me, written with pencil on the white mantelpiece, '14th of May.'"I asked them what that meant, and was informed that on that very night—andthe only nightthey ever occupied that room during my absence—my aunt was taking the coals off of the fire, when my sister screamed out: 'Brother has come!'"My aunt scolded her, and said she was dreaming; but she said she had not been tosleep, was sitting up in bed, andsaw meenter the room, and run out when she screamed. So confident was she that she had seen me, and that I had gone off and hidden, that the whole house was thoroughly searched for me, and as soon as day dawned a messenger was sent to inquire if any vessel had arrived from America, or if I had been seen by any of my friends."
"About the time I became of age I returned to Virginia for the purpose of looking after and settling my father's estate. Three years thereafter I received a letter from my only sister, informing me that she was going to be married, and pressing me in the most urgent manner to return to Scotland to be present at her marriage, and to attend to the drawing of the marriage contract. The letter gave me a good deal of trouble, as it did not suit me to leave Virginia at that time. I went to bed one night, thinking much on this subject, but soon fell asleep, and dreamed that I landed in Greenock in the night-time, and pushed for home, thinking I would take my aunt and sister by surprise.
"When I arrived at the door, I found all still and quiet, and the out-door locked. I thought, however, that I had in my pocket my check-key, with which I quietly opened the door and groped my way into the sitting-room, but, finding no one there, I concluded they had gone to bed. I then went upstairs to their bedroom, and found that unoccupied. I then concluded they had taken possession of my bedroom in my absence, but, not finding them there, became very uneasy about them. Then it struck me they might be in the guest's chamber, a room downstairs kept exclusively for company. Upon going there I found the door partially open; I saw my aunt removing the burning coals from the top of the grate preparatory to going to bed. My sister was sitting up in bed, and as I entered the room she fixed her eyes upon me, but did not seem to recognize me. I approached toward her, and, in the effort to make myself known, awoke and found it all a dream. At breakfast next morning I felt wearied and sick, and could not eat, and told the family of my (dream) journey overnight.
"I immediately commenced preparing,and in a very short time returned to Scotland. I saw my sister married, and she and her husband set off on their 'marriage jaunt.' About a month thereafter they returned, and at dinner I commenced telling them of my dream; but, observing they had quit eating and were staring at me, I laughed, and asked what was the matter, whereupon my brother-in-law very seriously asked me to go on. When I finished, they asked me if I remembered the exact time of my dream. I told them it distressed and impressed me so strongly that I noted it down at the time. I pulled out my pocketbook and showed them the date, '14th day of May,' written in pencil. They all rose from the table and took me into the bedroom and showed me, written with pencil on the white mantelpiece, '14th of May.'
"I asked them what that meant, and was informed that on that very night—andthe only nightthey ever occupied that room during my absence—my aunt was taking the coals off of the fire, when my sister screamed out: 'Brother has come!'
"My aunt scolded her, and said she was dreaming; but she said she had not been tosleep, was sitting up in bed, andsaw meenter the room, and run out when she screamed. So confident was she that she had seen me, and that I had gone off and hidden, that the whole house was thoroughly searched for me, and as soon as day dawned a messenger was sent to inquire if any vessel had arrived from America, or if I had been seen by any of my friends."
No one who visited Otterburn can forget the smiling faces of the negro servants about the house, who received the guests with as true cordiality as did their mistress, expressing their pleasure by widespread mouths showing white teeth (very white by contrast with their jet-black skin), and when the guests were going away always insisted on their remaining longer.
One of these negro women was not only an efficient servant, but a valuable friend to her mistress.
In the absence of her master and mistress she kept the keys, often entertaining their friends, who, in passing from distant plantations, were accustomed to stop, and who received from her a cordial welcome, findingon the table as many delicacies as if the family had been at home.
No more sincere attachment could have existed than that between this lady and her servant. At last, when the latter was seized with a contagious fever which ended her life, she could not have had a more faithful friend and nurse than was her mistress.
The same fever attacked all the negroes on the plantation, and none can describe the anxiety, care, and distress of their owners, who watched by their beds day and night, administering medicine and relieving the sick and dying.
Among other early recollections is a visit with my mother to the plantation of a favorite cousin, not far from Richmond, and one of the handsomest seats on the James River. This residence—Howard's Neck[15]—was a favorite resort for people from Richmond and the adjacent counties, and, like many others on the river, always full of guests; a round of visiting and dinner parties being kept up from one house to another, so that the ladies presiding over these establishments had no time to attend to domestic duties, which were left to their housekeepers while they were employed entertaining visitors.
The negroes on these estates appeared lively and happy—that is, if singing and laughing indicate happiness; for they went to their work in the fields singing, and returned in the evening singing, after whichthey often spent the whole night visiting from one plantation to another, or dancing until day to the music of the banjo or "fiddle." These dances were wild and boisterous, their evolutions being like those of the savage dances described by travelers in Africa. Although the most perfect timists, their music, with its wild, melancholy cadence, half savage, half civilized, cannot be imitated or described. Many a midnight were we wakened by their wild choruses, sung as they returned from a frolic or "corn-shucking," sounding at first like some hideous, savage yell, but dying away on the air, echoing a cadence melancholy and indescribable, with a peculiar pathos, and yet without melody or sweetness.
Corn-shuckings were occasions of great hilarity and good eating. The negroes from various plantations assembled at night around a huge pile of corn. Selecting one of their number—usually the most original and amusing, and possessed of the loudest voice—they called him "captain." The captain seated himself on top of the pile—a large lightwood torch burning in front of him, and, while he shucked, improvisedwords and music to a wild "recitative," the chorus of which was caught up by the army of shuckers around. The glare of the torches on the black faces, with the wild music and impromptu words, made a scene curious even to us who were so accustomed to it.
After the corn was shucked they assembled around a table laden with roasted pigs, mutton, beef, hams, cakes, pies, coffee, and other substantials—many participating in the supper who had not in the work. The laughing and merriment continued until one or two o'clock in the morning.
On these James River plantations distinguished foreigners were often entertained, who, visiting Richmond, desired to see something of Virginia country life. Mr. Thackeray was once a guest at one of these places, but Dickens never visited them. Could he have passed a month at any one of the homes I have described, he would, I am sure, have written something more flattering of Americans and American life than is found in "Martin Chuzzlewit" and "American Notes." However, with these we shouldnot quarrel, as some of the sketches, especially the one on "tobacco-chewers," we can recognize.
Every nation has a right to its prejudices—certainly the English people have such a right as regards America, this country appearing to the English eye like a huge mushroom, the growth of a night, and unsubstantial. But it is surely wrong to censure a whole nation—as some have done the Southern people—for the faults of a few. Although the right of a nation to its prejudices be admitted, no one has a right, without thorough examination and acquaintance with the subject, to publish as facts the exaggerated accounts of another nation, put forth by its enemies. The world in this way receives very erroneous impressions.
For instance, we have no right to suppose the Germans a cruel race because of the following paragraph clipped from a recent newspaper:
"The cruelty of German officers is a matter of notoriety, but an officer in an artillery regiment has lately gone beyond precedent in ingenuity of cruelty. Some ofhis men being insubordinate, he punished them by means of a 'spurring process,' which consisted in jabbing spurs persistently and brutally into their legs. By this process his men were so severely injured that they had to go to the hospital."
Neither have we a right to pronounce all Pennsylvanians cruel to their "helps," as they call them, because a Pennsylvania lady told me "the only way she could manage her help"—a white girl fourteen years old—"was by holding her head under the pump and pumping water upon it until she lost her breath,"—a process I could not have conceived, and which filled me with horror.
But sorrow and oppression, we suppose, may be found in some form in every clime, and in every phase of existence some hearts are "weary and heavy laden." Even Dickens, whose mind naturally sought and fed upon the comic, saw wrong and oppression in the "humane institutions" of his own land!
And Macaulay gives a painful picture of Mme. D'Arblay's life as waiting-maid to Queen Charlotte—from which we are not toinfer, however, that all queens are cruel to their waiting-maids.
Mme. D'Arblay—whose maiden name was Frances Burney—was the first female novelist in England who deserved and received the applause of her countrymen. The most eminent men of London paid homage to her genius. Johnson, Burke, Windham, Gibbon, Reynolds, Sheridan, were her friends and ardent eulogists. In the midst of her literary fame, surrounded by congenial friends, herself a star in this select and brilliant coterie, she was offered the place of waiting-maid in the palace. She accepted the position, and bade farewell to all congenial friends and pursuits. "And now began," says Macaulay, "a slavery of five years—of five years taken from the best part of her life, and wasted in menial drudgery. The history of an ordinary day was this: Miss Burney had to rise and dress herself early, that she might be ready to answer the royal bell, which rang at half after seven. Till about eight she attended in the queen's dressing-room, and had the honor of lacing her august mistress's stays, and of putting on the hoop, gown, and neck-handkerchief.The morning was chiefly spent in rummaging drawers and laying fine clothes in their proper places. Then the queen was to be powdered and dressed for the day. Twice a week her Majesty's hair had to be curled and craped; and this operation added a full hour to the business of the toilet. It was generally three before Miss Burney was at liberty. At five she had to attend her colleague, Mme. Schwellenberg, a hateful old toadeater, as illiterate as a chambermaid, proud, rude, peevish, unable to bear solitude, unable to conduct herself with common decency in society. With this delightful associate Frances Burney had to dine and pass the evening. The pair generally remained together from five to eleven, and often had no other company the whole time. Between eleven and twelve the bell rang again. Miss Burney had to pass a half hour undressing the queen, and was then at liberty to retire.
"Now and then, indeed, events occurred which disturbed the wretched monotony of Frances Burney's life. The court moved from Kew to Windsor, and from Windsor back to Kew.
"A more important occurrence was the king's visit to Oxford. Then Miss Burney had the honor of entering Oxford in the last of a long string of carriages, which formed the royal procession, of walking after the queen all day through refectories and chapels, and of standing half dead with fatigue and hunger, while her august mistress was seated at an excellent cold collation. At Magdalen College Frances was left for a moment in a parlor, where she sank down on a chair. A good-natured equerry saw that she was exhausted, and shared with her some apricots and bread, which he had wisely put in his pockets. At that moment the door opened, the queen entered, the wearied attendants sprang up, the bread and fruit were hastily concealed.
"After this the king became very ill, and during more than two years after his recovery Frances dragged on a miserable existence at the palace. Mme. Schwellenberg became more and more insolent and intolerable, and now the health of poor Frances began to give way: and all who saw her pale face, her emaciated figure, and her feeble walk predicted that her sufferings would soon be over.
"The queen seems to have been utterly regardless of thecomfort, thehealth, thelife, of her attendants. Weak, feverish, hardly able to stand, Frances had still to rise before seven, in order to dress the sweet queen, and sit up till midnight, in order to undress the sweet queen. The indisposition of the handmaid could not anddid not escape the notice ofher royal mistress. But theestablished doctrine of the court was that all sicknesswas to beconsidered as a pretense until it proved fatal. The only way in which the invalid could clear herself from the suspicion of malingering, as it is called in the army, was to go on lacing and unlacing,till she fell down dead at the royal feet."
Finally Miss Burney's father pays her a visit in this palace prison, when "she told him that she was miserable; that she was worn with attendance and want of sleep; that she had no comfort in life,—nothing to love, nothing to hope; that her family and friends were to her as though they were not, and were remembered by her as men remember the dead. From daybreak to midnight the same killing labor, the same recreation, more hateful than labor itself, followedeach other without variety, without any interval of liberty or repose."
Her father's veneration for royalty amounting to idolatry, he could not bear to remove her from the court—"and, between the dear father and the sweet queen, there seemed to be little doubt that some day or other Franceswould drop down a corpse. Six months had elapsed since the interview between the parent and the daughter. The resignation was not sent in. The sufferer grew worse and worse. She took bark, but it failed to produce a beneficial effect. She was stimulated with wine; she was soothed with opium, but in vain. Her breath began to fail. The whisper that she was in a decline spread through the court. The pains in her side became so severe that she was forced to crawl from the card-table of the old fury, Mme. Schwellenberg, to whom she was tethered, three or four times in an evening, for the purpose of taking hartshorn. Had she been a negro slave, a humane planter would have excused her from work. But her Majesty showed no mercy. Thrice a day the accursed bell still rang; the queen was still to be dressed forthe morning at seven, and to be dressed for the day at noon, and to be undressed at midnight."
At last Miss Burney's father was moved to compassion and allowed her to write a letter of resignation. "Still I could not," writes Miss Burney in her diary, "summon courage to present my memorial from seeing the queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while life remained, inevitably hers.
"At last, with a trembling hand, the paper was delivered. Then came the storm. Mme. Schwellenberg raved like a maniac. The resignation was not accepted. The father's fears were aroused, and he declared, in a letter meant to be shown to the queen, that his daughter must retire. The Schwellenberg raged like a wildcat. A scene almost horrible ensued.
"The queen then promised that, after the next birthday, Miss Burney should be set at liberty. But the promise was ill kept; and her Majesty showed displeasure at being reminded of it."
At length, however, the prison door wasopened, and Frances was free once more. Her health was restored by traveling, and she returned to London in health and spirits. Macaulay tells us that she went to visit the palace, "herold dungeon, and found her successor already far on the way to the grave, and kept to strict duty, from morning till midnight, with a sprained ankle and a nervous fever."
An ignorant and unlettered woman would doubtless not have found this life in the palace tedious, and our sympathy would not have been aroused for her; for as long as the earth lasts there must be human beings fitted for every station, and it is supposed, till the end of all things, there must be cooks, housemaids, and dining-room servants, which will make it never possible for the whole human family to stand entirely upon the same platform socially and intellectually. And Miss Burney's wretchedness, which calls forth our sympathy, was not because she had to perform the duties of waiting-maid, but because to a gifted and educated woman these duties were uncongenial; and congeniality meanshappiness; uncongeniality,unhappiness.
From the sorrows of Miss Burney in the palace—a striking contrast with the menials described in our own country homes—I will turn to another charming place on the James River—Powhatan Seat, a mile below Richmond, which had descended in the Mayo family two hundred years.
Here, it was said, the Indian chief Powhatan had lived, and here was shown the veritable stone supposed to have been the one upon which Captain Smith's head was laid, when the Indian princess Pocahontas rescued him.
This historic stone, near the parlor window, was only an ugly, dark, broad, flat stone, but imagination pictured ever around it the Indian group, Smith's head upon it, the infuriated chief with uplifted club in the act of dealing the death-blow, the grief and shriek of Pocahontas as she threw herself upon Smith, imploring her father tospare him,—a piercing cry to have penetrated the heart of the savage chief!
Looking out from the parlor window and imagining this savage scene, how strange a contrast met the eye within! Around the fireside assembled the loveliest family group, where kindness and affection beamed in every eye, and father, mother, brothers, and sisters were linked together by tenderest devotion and sympathy.
If natural scenery reflects itself upon the heart, no wonder a "holy calm" rested upon this family, for far down the river the prospect was peace and tranquillity; and many an evening in the summer-house on the river bank we drank in the beauty of soft blue skies, green isles, and white sails floating in the distance.
Many in Richmond remember the delightful weddings and parties at Powhatan Seat, where assembled theélitefrom Richmond, with an innumerable throng of cousins, aunts, and uncles from Orange and Culpeper counties.
On these occasions the house was illuminated by wax lights issuing from bouquets of magnolia leaves placed around thewalls near the ceiling, and looking prettier than any glass chandelier.
We, from a distance, generally stayed a week after the wedding, becoming, as it were, a part of the family circle; and the bride did not rush off on a tour as is the fashion nowadays, but remained quietly at home, enjoying the society of her family and friends.
One feature I have omitted in describing our weddings and parties—invariably a part of the picture—was the sea of black faces surrounding the doors and windows to look on the dancing, hear the music, and afterward get a good share of the supper.
Tourists often went to walk around the beautiful grounds at Powhatan—so neatly kept with sea-shells around the flowers, and pleasant seats under the lindens and magnolias—and to see the historic stone; but I often thought they knew not what was missed in not knowing, as we did, the lovely family within.
But, for us, those rare, beautiful days at Powhatan are gone forever; for since the war the property has passed into strangehands, and the family who once owned it will own it no more.
During the late war heavy guns were placed in the family burying-ground on this plantation—a point commanding the river; and here was interred the child of a distinguished general[16]in the Northern army—a Virginian, formerly in the United States army—who had married a member of the Powhatan family. He was expected to make an attack upon Richmond, and over his child's grave was placed a gun to fire upon him. Such are the unnatural incidents of civil war.
About two miles from Powhatan Seat was another beautiful old place—Mount Erin—the plantation formerly of a family all of whom, except two sisters, had died. The estate, becoming involved, had to be sold, which so grieved and distressed these sisters that they passed hours weeping if accidentally the name of their old home was mentioned in their presence.
Once when we were at Powhatan, and these ladies were among the guests, a member of the Powhatan family ordered the carriage, and took my sister and myself toMount Erin, telling us to keep it a secret when we returned, for "the sisters," said she, "would neither eat nor sleep if reminded of their old home."
A pleasant drive brought us to Mount Erin, and when we saw the box hedges, gravel walks, and linden trees we were no longer surprised at the grief of the sisters whose hearts entwined around their old home. The house was in charge of an old negro woman—the purchaser not having moved in—who showed us over the grounds; and every shrub and flower seemed to speak of days gone by. Even the ivy on the old bricks looked gloomy, as if mourning the light, mirth, and song departed from the house forever; and the walks gave back a deadened echo, as if they wished not to be disturbed by stranger tread. All seemed in a reverie, dreaming a long sweet dream of the past, and entering into the grief of the sisters, who lived afterward for many years in a pleasant home on a pleasant street in Richmond, with warm friends to serve them, yet their tears never ceased to flow at the mention of Mount Erin.
One more plantation picture, and enough will have been described to show the character of the homes and people on our plantations.
The last place visited by my sister and myself before the war of 1861 was Elkwood, a fine estate in Culpeper County, four miles from the railroad station, the residence of Richard Cunningham.
It was the last of June. The country was a scene of enchantment as the carriage rolled us through dark, cool forests, green meadows, fields of waving grain; out of the forests into acres of broad-leaved corn; across pebble-bottomed streams, and along the margin of the Rapidan, which flowed at the base of the hill leading up to the house.
The house was square and white, and the blinds green as the grass lawn and trees in the yard. Inside the house the polished "dry-rubbed" floors, clean and cool, refreshed one on entering like a glass of iced lemonade on a midsummer's day. The old-fashioned furniture against the walls looked as if it thought too much of itself to be set about promiscuously over the floor, like modern fauteuils and divans.
About everything was an air of dignity and repose corresponding with the manners and appearance of the proprietors, who were called "Uncle Dick" and "Aunt Jenny"—theain "Aunt" pronounced very broad.
Aunt Jenny and Uncle Dick had no children, but took care of numerous nieces and nephews, kept their house filled to overflowing with friends, relatives, and strangers, and were revered and beloved by all. They had no pleasure so great as taking care of other people. They lived for other people, and made everybody comfortable and happy around them. From the time Uncle Dick had prayers in the morning until family prayers at bedtime they were busy bestowing some kindness.
Uncle Dick's character and manners were of a type so high that one felt elevated in his presence; and a desire to reach his standard animated those who knew him. His precept and example were such that all who followed them might arrive at the highest perfection of Christian character.
Uncle Dick had requested Aunt Jenny, when they were married, forty years before,to have on his table every day dinner enough for six more persons than were already in the house, "in case," he said, "he should meet friends or acquaintances, while riding over his plantation or in the neighborhood, whom he wished to ask home with him to dinner." This having been always a rule, Aunt Jenny never sat at her table without dinner enough for six more,—and hers were no commonplace dinners; no hasty-puddings, no saleratus bread, no soda cakes, no frozen-starch ice-cream, no modern shorthand recipes, but genuine old Virginia cooking. And all who want to know what that was can find out all about it in Aunt Jenny's book of copied recipes—if it is extant—or in that of Mrs. Harrison, of Brandon. But as neither of these books may ever be known to the public, their "sum and substance" may be given in a few words:
"Have no shams. Procure an abundance of the freshest, richestrealcream, milk, eggs, butter, lard, best old Madeira wine, all the way from Madeira, and never use a particle of soda or saleratus about anything or under any pressure."
These were the ingredients Aunt Jennyused, for Uncle Dick had rare old wine in his cellar which he had brought from Europe thirty years before, and every day was a feast-day at Elkwood. And the wedding breakfasts Aunt Jenny used to get up when one of her nieces married at her house—as they sometimes did—were beyond description.
While at Elkwood, observing every day that the carriage went to the depot empty and returned empty, we inquired the reason, and were informed that Uncle Dick, ever since the cars had been passing near his plantation, ordered his coachman to have the carriage every day at the station, "in case some of his friends might be on the train, and might like to stop and see him"!
Another hospitable rule in Uncle Dick's house was that company must never be kept waiting in his parlor, and so anxious was his young niece to meet his approbation in this as in every particular that she had a habit of dressing herself carefully, arranging her hair beautifully—it was in the days, too, when smooth hair was fashionable—before lying down for the afternoon siesta,"in case," she said, "someone might call, and Uncle Dick had a horror of visitors waiting." This process of reposing in a fresh muslin dress and fashionably arranged hair required a particular and uncomfortable position, which she seemed not to mind, but dozed in the most precise manner without rumpling her hair or her dress.
Elkwood was a favorite place of resort for Episcopal ministers, whom Aunt Jenny and Uncle Dick loved to entertain. And here we met the Rev. Philip Slaughter, the learned divine, eloquent preacher, and charming companion. He had just returned from a visit to England, where he had been entertained in palaces. Telling us the incidents of his visit, "I was much embarrassed at first," said he, "at the thought of attending a dinner-party given in a palace to me, a simple Virginian, but, on being announced at the drawing-room door and entering the company, I felt at once at ease, for they were all ladies and gentlemen, such as I had known at home—polite, pleasant, and without pretense."
This gentleman's conversational powers were not only bright and delightful, but alsothe means of turning many to righteousness—for religion was one of his chief themes.
A proof of his genius and eloquence was given in the beautiful poem recited—without ever having been written—at the centennial anniversary of old Christ Church in Alexandria. This was the church in which General Washington and his family had worshiped, and around it clustered many memories. Mr. Slaughter, with several others, had been invited to make an address on the occasion, and one night, while thinking about it, an exquisite poem passed through his mind, picturing scene after scene in the old church—General Washington, with his head bowed in silent prayer; infants at the baptismal font; young men and maidens in bridal array at the altar; and funeral trains passing through the open gate.
On the night of the celebration, when his turn came, finding the hour too late and the audience too sleepy for his prose address, he suddenly determined to "dash off" the poem, every word of which came back to him, although he had never written it. The audience roused up electrified, and, as the recitation proceeded, their enthusiasmreached the highest pitch. Never had there been such a sensation in the old church before. And, next morning, the house at which he was stopping was besieged by reporters begging "copies" and offering good prices, but the poem remains unwritten to this day.
Elkwood, like many other old homes, was burned by the Northern army in 1862, and not a tree or flower remains to mark the spot that for so many years was the abode of hospitality and good cheer.
In connection with Culpeper County, it is due here to state that it excelled all others in ancient and dilapidated buggies and carriages, seeming to be a regular infirmary for all the disabled vehicles of the Old Dominion. Here their age and infirmities received every care and consideration, being propped up, tied up, and bandaged up in every conceivable manner; and, strangest of all, rarely depositing their occupants in the road, which was prevented by cautious old gentlemen riding alongside, who, watching for and discovering the weakest points, stopped and securely tied up fractured parts with bits of twine, rope, or chain alwayscarried in buggy-or carriage-boxes for that purpose. These surgical operations, although not ornamental, strengthened and sustained these venerable vehicles, and produced a miraculous longevity.
Many more sketches might be given of pleasant country homes—themes worthy a better pen than mine; for Brandon, Westover, Shirley, Carter Hall, Lauderdale, Vaucluse, and others, linger in the memory of hundreds who once knew and loved them—especially Vaucluse, which, although far removed from railroads, stage-coaches, and public conveyances, was overflowing with company throughout the year. For the Vaucluse girls were so bright, so fascinating, and so bewitchingly pretty, that they attracted a concourse of visitors, and were sure to be belles wherever they went.
And many remember the owner of Vaucluse, Mr. Blair Dabney, that pure-hearted Christian and cultivated gentleman who, late in life, devoted himself to the Episcopal ministry, and labored faithfully in the Master's cause, preaching in country churches, "without money and without price." Surely his reward is in heaven.
Besides these well-ordered establishments, there were some others owned by inactive men, who smoked their pipes, read their books, left everything very much to the management of their negroes, and seemed content to let things tumble down around them.
One of these places we used to call "Topsy-Turvy Castle," and another "Haphazard."
At such places the negro quarters—instead of being neat rows of white cabins in the rear of the house, as on other plantations—occupied a conspicuous place near the front, and consisted of a solid, long, ugly brick structure, with swarms of negroes around the windows and doors, appearing to have nothing in the world to do and never to have done anything.
Everything had a "shackling," lazy appearance. The master was always, it appeared to us, reading a newspaper in the front porch, and never observing anything that was going on. The house was so full of idle negroes standing about the halls and stairways that one could scarcely make one's way up or down stairs. Everything neededrepair, from the bed upon which you slept to the family coach which took you to church.
Few of the chairs had all their rounds and legs, and, when completely disabled, were sent to the garret, where they accumulated in great numbers, and remained until pressing necessity induced the master to raise his eyes from his paper long enough to order "Dick" to "take the four-horse wagon and carry the chairs to be mended."
A multitude of kinsfolk and acquaintance usually congregated here. And at one place, in order to accommodate so many, there were four beds in a chamber. These high bedsteads presented a remarkable appearance,—the head of one going into the side of another, the foot of one into the head of another, and so on, looking as if they had never been "placed," but as if their curious juxtaposition had been the result of an earthquake.
One of these houses is said to have been greatly improved in appearance during the war by the passage of a cannon-ball through the upper story, where a window had been needed for many years.
But the owners of these places were so genuinely good, one could not complain of them, even for such carelessness. For everybody was welcome to everything. You might stop the plows if you wanted a horse, or take the carriage and drive for a week's journey, and, in short, impose upon these good people in every conceivable way.
Yet, in spite of this topsy-turvy management—a strange fact connected with such places—they invariably had good light-bread, good mutton, and the usual abundance on their tables.
We suppose it must have been a recollection of such plantations which induced the negro to exclaim, on hearing another sing "Ole Virginny Nubber Tire": "Umph! ole Virginny nubber tire, kase she nubber done nuthin' fur to furtigue herself!"
Confining these reminiscences strictly to plantation life, no mention has been made of the families we knew and visited in some of our cities, whose kindness to their slaves was unmistakable, and who, owning only a small number, could better afford to indulge them.
At one of these houses this indulgence was such that the white family were very much under the control of their servants.
The owner of this house, Charles Mosby, an eminent lawyer, was a man of taste and learning, whose legal ability attracted many admirers, and whose refinement, culture, and generous nature won enthusiastic friends.
Although considered the owner of his house, it was a mistake, if ownership means the right to govern one's own property; for beyond his law-papers, library, and the privilege of paying all the bills, this gentleman had no "rights" there whatever, hishouse, kitchen, and premises being under the entire command of "Aunt Fanny," the cook, a huge mulatto woman, whose word was law, and whose voice thundered abuse if any dared to disobey her.
The master, mistress, family, and visitors all stood in awe of Aunt Fanny, and yet could not do without her, for she made unapproachable light-bread and conducted the affairs of the place with distinguished ability.
Her own house was in the yard, and had been built especially for her convenience. Her furniture was polished mahogany, and she kept most delicious preserves, pickles, and sweetmeats of her own manufacture, with which to regale her friends and favorites. As we came under that head, we were often treated when we went in to see her after her day's work was over, or on Sundays.
Although she "raved and stormed" considerably—which she told us she was "obliged to do, honey, to keep things straight"—she had the tenderest regard for her master and mistress, and often said: "If it warn't forme, they'd have nuthin'in the world, and things here would go to destruction."
So Aunt Fanny "kept up this family," as she said, for many years, and many amusing incidents might be related of her.
On one occasion her master, after a long and exciting political contest, was elected to the legislature. Before all the precincts had been heard from, believing himself defeated, he retired to rest, and, being naturally feeble, was quite worn out. But at midnight a great cry arose at his gate, where a multitude assembled, screaming and hurrahing. At first he was uncertain whether they were friends to congratulate him on his victory or the opposite party to hang him, as they had threatened, for voting an appropriation to the Danville Railroad. It soon appeared they had come to congratulate him, when great excitement prevailed, loud cheers, and cries for a speech. The doors were opened and the crowd rushed in. The hero soon appeared and delivered one of his graceful and satisfactory speeches.
Still the crowd remained cheering and storming about the house, until Aunt Fanny, who had made her appearance infull dress, considering the excitement had been kept up long enough, and that the master's health was too delicate for any further demonstration, determined to disperse them. Rising to her full height, waving her hand, and speaking majestically, she said: "Gentlemen, Mars' Charles is a feeble pusson, an' it's time for him to take his res'. He's been kep' 'wake long enough now, an' it's time for me to close up dese doors!"
With this the crowd dispersed, and Aunt Fanny remained mistress of the situation, declaring that if she "hadn't come forward an' 'spersed dat crowd, Mars' Charles would have been a dead man befo' mornin'."
Spersed dat crowd"AUNT FANNY 'SPERSED DAT CROWD'."—Page 161.
"AUNT FANNY 'SPERSED DAT CROWD'."—Page 161.
"AUNT FANNY 'SPERSED DAT CROWD'."—Page 161.
Aunt Fanny kept herself liberally supplied with pocket-money, one of her chief sources of revenue being soap, which she made in large quantities and sold at high prices; especially what she called her "butter soap," which was in great demand, and which was made from all the butter which she did not consider fresh enough for the delicate appetites of her mistress and master. She appropriated one of the largest basement rooms, had it shelved, and filled itwith soap. In order to carry on business so extensively, huge logs were kept blazing on the kitchen hearth under the soap-pot day and night. During the war, wood becoming scarce and expensive, "Mars' Charles" found that it drained his purse to keep the kitchen fire supplied.
Thinking the matter over one day in his library, and concluding it would greatly lessen his expenses if Aunt Fanny could be prevailed upon to discontinue her soap trade, he sent for her, and said very mildly:
"Fanny, I have a proposition to make you."
"What is it, Mars' Charles?"
"Well, Fanny, as my expenses are very heavy now, if you will give up your soap-boiling for this year, I will agree to pay you fifty dollars."
With arms akimbo, and looking at him with astonishment but with firmness in her eye, she replied: "Couldn't possibly do it, Mars' Charles; becausesoap, sir,soap's my main-tain-ance!"
With this she strode majestically out of the room. "Mars' Charles" said no more, but continued paying fabulous sums forwood, while Aunt Fanny continued boiling her soap.
This woman not only ordered but kept all the family supplies, her mistress having no disposition to keep the keys or in any way interfere with her.
But at last her giant strength gave way, and she sickened and died. Having no children, she left her property to one of her fellow-servants.
Several days before her death we were sitting with her mistress and master in a room overlooking her house. Her room was crowded with negroes who had come to perform their religious rites around the deathbed. Joining hands, they performed a savage dance, shouting wildly around her bed. This was horrible to hear and see, especially as in this family every effort had been made to instruct their negro dependents in the truths of religion; and one member of the family, who spent the greater part of her life in prayer, had for years prayed for Aunt Fanny and tried to instruct her in the true faith. But although an intelligent woman, she seemed to cling to the superstitions of her race.
After the savage dance and rites were over, and while we sat talking about it, a gentleman—the friend and minister of the family—came in. We described to him what we had just witnessed, and he deplored it bitterly with us, saying he had read and prayed with Aunt Fanny and tried to make her see the truth in Jesus. He then marked some passages in the Bible, and asked me to go and read them to her. I went, and said to her: "Aunt Fanny, here are some verses Mr. Mitchell has marked for me to read to you, and he hopes you will pray to the Saviour as he taught you." Then said I: "We are afraid the noise and dancing have made you worse."
Speaking feebly, she replied: "Honey, dat kind o' 'ligion suit us black folks better 'en yo' kind. What suit Mars' Charles' mind karn't suit mine."
And thus died the most intelligent of her race—one who had been surrounded by pious persons who had been praying for her and endeavoring to instruct her. She had also enjoyed through life not only the comforts but many of the luxuries of earth, and when she died her mistress and master lost a sincere friend.
This chapter will show how "Virginia beat biscuit" procured for a man a home and friends in Paris.
One morning in the spring of 185—, a singular-looking man presented himself at our house. He was short of stature, and enveloped in furs, although the weather was not cold. Everything about him which could be gold, was gold, and so we called him "the gold-tipped man." He called for my mother, and when she went into the parlor, he said to her:
"Madam, I have been stopping several weeks at the hotel in the town of L., where I met a boy—Robert—who tells me he belongs to you. As I want such a servant, and he is anxious to travel, I come, at his request, to ask if you will let me buy him and take him to Europe. I will pay any price."
"I could not think of it," she replied."I have determined never to sell one of my servants."
"But," continued the man, "he is anxious to go, and has sent me to beg you."
"It is impossible," said she, "for he is a great favorite with us, and the only child his mother has."
Finding her determined, the man took his leave, and went back to the town, twenty-five miles off; but returned next day accompanied by Robert, who entreated his mother and mistress to let him go.
Said my mother to him: "Would you leave your mother and go with a stranger to a foreign land?"
"Yes, madam. I love my mother, an' you an' all de fambly—you always been so good to me—but I want travel, an' dis gent'man say he give me plenty o' money an' treat me good, too."
Still she refused. But the boy's mother, finally yielding to his entreaty, consented, and persuaded her mistress, saying: "If he is willing to leave me, and so anxious to go, I will give him up."
Knowing how distressed we all would be at parting with him, he went off withoutcoming to say "good-by," and wrote his mother from New York what day he would sail with his new master for Europe.
At first his mother received from him presents and letters, telling her he was very much delighted, and "had as much money as he knew what to do with." But after a few months he ceased to write, and we could hear nothing from him.
At length, when eighteen months had elapsed, we were one day astonished to see him return home, dressed in the best Parisian style. We were rejoiced to see him again, and his own joy at getting back cannot be described. He ran over the yard and house, examining everything, and said: "Mistess, I aint see no place pretty as yours, an' no lady look to me like you in all de finest places I bin see in Europ', an' no water tas'e good like de water in our ole well. An' I dream 'bout you all, an' 'bout ev'y ole chur an' table in dis house, an' wonder ef uvver I'd see 'um ag'in."
He then gave us a sketch of his life since the "gold-tipped man" had become his master. Arrived in Paris, his master and himself took lodgings, and a teacher wasemployed to come every day and instruct Robert in French. His master kept him well supplied with money, never giving him less than fifty dollars at a time. His duties were light, and he had ample time to study and amuse himself.
After enjoying such elegant ease for eight or nine months he awoke one morning and found himself deserted and penniless! His master had absconded in the night, leaving no vestige of himself except a gold dressing-case and a few toilet articles of gold, which were seized by the proprietor of the hotel in payment of his bill.
Poor Robert, without money and without a friend in this great city, knew not where to turn. In vain he wished himself back in his old home.
"If I could only find some Virginian to whom I could appeal," said he to himself. And suddenly it occurred to him that the American Minister, Mr. Mason, was a Virginian. When he remembered this, his heart was cheered, and he lost no time in finding Mr. Mason's house.
Presenting himself before the American Minister, he related his story, which was notat first believed. "For," said Mr. Mason, "there are so many impostors in Paris it is impossible to believe you."
Robert protested he had been a slave in Virginia, had been deserted by his owner in Paris, and begged Mr. Mason to keep him at his house, and take care of him.
Then Mr. M. asked many questions about people and places in Virginia, all of which were accurately answered. Finally he said: "I knew well the Virginia gentleman who was, you say, your master. What was the color of his hair?" This was also satisfactorily answered, and Robert began to hope he was believed, when Mr. Mason continued:
"Now, there is one thing which, if you can do, will convince me you came from Virginia. Go in my kitchen and make me some old Virginia beat biscuit, and I will believe everything you have said!"
"I think I kin, sir," said Robert, and, going into the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.
This was a desperate moment, for he had never made a biscuit in his life, although he had often watched the proceeding as"Black Mammy," the cook at home, used to beat, roll, and manipulate the dough on her biscuit-box.
"If I only could make them look like hers!" thought he, as he beat, and rolled, and worked, and finally stuck the dough all over with a fork. Then, cutting them out and putting them to bake, he watched them with nervous anxiety until they resembled those he had often placed on the table at home.
Astonished and delighted with his success, he carried them to the American Minister, who exclaimed: "Now Iknowyou came from old Virginia!"
Robert was immediately installed in Mr. John Y. Mason's house, where he remained a faithful attendant until Mr. Mason's death, when he returned with the family to America.
Arriving at New York, he thought it impossible to get along by himself, and determined to find his master. For this purpose he employed a policeman, and together they succeeded in recovering "the lost master,"—this being a singular instance of a "slave in pursuit of his fugitive master."
The "gold-tipped man" expressed much pleasure at his servant's fidelity, and, handing him a large sum of money, desired him to return to Paris, pay his bill, bring back his gold dressing-box and toilet articles, and, as a reward for his fidelity, take as much money as he wished and travel over the Continent.
Robert obeyed these commands, returned to Paris, paid the bills, traveled over the chief places in Europe, and then came again to New York. Here he was appalled to learn that his master had been arrested for forgery, and imprisoned in Philadelphia. It was ascertained that the forger was an Englishman and connected with an underground forging establishment in Paris. Finding himself about to be detected in Paris, he fled to New York, and, other forgeries having been discovered in Philadelphia, he had been arrested.
Robert lost no time in reporting himself at the prison, and was grieved to find his master in such a place.
Determined to do what he could to relieve the man who had been a good friend to him, he went to a Philadelphia lawyer, andsaid to him: "Sir, the man who is in prison bought me in Virginia, and has been a kind master to me; I have no money, but if you will do your best to have him acquitted, I will return to the South, sell myself, and send you the money."
"It is a bargain," replied the lawyer. "Send me the money, and I will save your master from the penitentiary."
Robert returned to Baltimore, sold himself to a Jew in that city, and sent the money to the lawyer in Philadelphia. After this he was bought by a distinguished Southern Senator—afterward a general in the Southern army[17]—with whom he remained, and to whom he rendered valuable services during the war.
Other instances were known of negroes who preferred being sold into slavery rather than take care of themselves. There were some in our immediate neighborhood who, finding themselves emancipated by their master's will, begged the owners of neighboring plantations to buy them, saying they preferred having "white people to take careof them." On the Wheatly plantation, not far from us, there is still living an old negro who sold himself in this way, and cannot be persuadednowto accept his freedom. After the war, when all the negroes were freed by the Federal government, and our people were too much impoverished longer to clothe and feed them, this old man refused to leave the plantation, but clung to his cabin, although his wife and family moved off and begged him to accompany them.
"No," said he, "I nuvver will leave dis plantation, an' go off to starve wid free niggers."
Not even when his wife was very sick and dying could he be persuaded to go off and stay one night with her. He had long been too old to work, but his former owners indulged him by giving him his cabin, and taking care of him through all the poverty which has fallen upon our land since the war.
Many of us remember this old man, Harrison Mitchell, who was an unusual character, high-toned and reliable. His father was an Indian and his mother a negress. He resembledthe Indian, with straight black hair, brown skin, and high cheek-bones. His great pride was that he had "cum out de Patrick Henry estate an use to run a freight boat wid flour down de Jeemes Ruver fum Lynchbu'g to Richmon' long fo' dar was a sign o' town at Lynch's Ferry." But his great and consuming theme, especially after the war, was the impossibility of the negroes taking care of themselves "bedout no white man," and nothing ever reconciled him to his own freedom. Taking his seat in our back porch, where my mother usually entertained him, we would assemble to hear him talk. I would ask: "Well, Uncle Harrison, what do you think of freedom now after ten years?"
"Lord, mistess, what I t'ink o' freedom? Why, mistess, dese niggers is no mo' kakalate to take kur o' deyselves dan 'possum. An' I tells 'em so. Kase what is a nigger bedout white man? He aint nuthin', an' he aint gwine be nuthin' no ways dey fix it. An' dey aint gwine stay free, kase de Lord nuvver 'tends 'um to be nuthin' bedout white folks. Kase ev'ybody know nigger aint got no hade. I nuvver want no nigger be takin' kuro' me. I looks to my white folks to take kur o' me. I 'lonks to Mars' Robert an' aint gwine lef his plantation tell I die. What right Yankees got settin' me free, an' den karn't take kur o' me? No! niggers is niggers, an' gwine be niggers, an' white folks got to take kur on 'em tell end o' screeation. An' der Lord gwine put ev'y single one on 'em back in slavery jes' as sure as you born."
True to his word, old Harrison refused to wear an article of clothing "ef de white folks didn't give it to him." And his daughter, wishing to give him a blanket, asked her former young mistress to let him think it was fromher, or he would not take it.
At last "Mars' Robert" was on his deathbed. Old Harrison went in to see him for the last time.
"Mars' Robert," said he, "I got one reques' to make fo' you die."
"What is it?" asked his master.
"Mars' Robert, I want to be buried right outside de gate o' de garden lot where you an' Miss Lucy is buried, so I kin see you fus' on de mornin' o' de resurrection."
"Harrison, you shall be buriedinsidethelot with us," replied "Mars' Robert" distinctly, and a lady who heard it told me she never saw such radiant happiness as the old man's face expressed when these words fell on his ear.
O bright-winged peace! long didst thou rest o'er the homes of old Virginia; while cheerful wood fires blazed on hearth-stones in parlor and cabin, reflecting contented faces with hearts full of peace and good will toward men! No thought entered there of harm to others; no fear of evil to ourselves. Whatsoever things were honest, whatsoever things were pure, whatsoever things were gentle, whatsoever things were of good report, we were accustomed to hear around these parlor firesides; and often would our grandmothers say:
"Children, ours is a blessed country! There never will be another war! The Indians have long ago been driven out, and it has been nearly a hundred years since the English yoke was broken!"
The history of our country, to our minds, was contained in two pictures on the walls of our house: "The Last Battle with theIndians," and "The Surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown."
No enemies within or without our borders, and peace established among us forever! Such was our belief. And we wondered that men should get together and talk their dry politics, seeing that General Washington and Thomas Jefferson—two of our Virginia plantation men—had established a government to last as long as the earth, and which could not be improved. Yet theywouldtalk, these politicians, around our parlor fire, where often our patience was exhausted hearing discussions, in which we could not take interest, about the Protective Tariff, the Bankrupt Law, the Distribution of Public Lands, the Resolutions of '98, the Missouri Compromise, and the Monroe Doctrine. These topics seemed to afford them intense pleasure and satisfaction, for, as the "sparks fly upward," the thoughts of men turn to politics.
In 1859 we had a visit from two old friends of our family—a distinguished Southern Senator and the Secretary of War[18]—both accustomed to swaying multitudesby the power of their eloquence—which lost none of its force and charm in our little home circle. We listened with admiration as they discussed the political issues of the day—no longer a subject uninteresting or unintelligible to us, for every word was of vital importance. Their theme was,The best means of protecting our plantation homes and firesides. Even the smallest children now comprehended the greatest politicians.
Now came the full flow and tide of Southern eloquence—real soul-inspiring eloquence.
Many possessing this gift were in the habit of visiting us at that time; and all dwelt upon one theme—the secession of Virginia—with glowing words from hearts full of enthusiasm; all agreeing it was better for States, as well as individuals, to separate rather than quarrel or fight.
But there was one[19]—our oldest and best friend—who differed from these gentlemen; and his eloquence was gentle and effective. Unlike his friends, whose words, earnest and electric, overwhelmed all around, this gentleman'spower was in his composure of manner without vehemence. His words were well selected without seeming to have been studied; each sentence was short, but contained a gem, like a solitaire diamond.
For several months this gentleman remained untouched by the fiery eloquence of his friends, like the Hebrew children in the burning furnace. Nothing affected him until one day the President of the United States demanded by telegraph fifty thousand Virginians to join an army against South Carolina. And then this gentleman felt convinced it was not the duty of Virginians to join an army against their friends.
About this time we had some very interesting letters from the Hon. Edward Everett—who had been for several years a friend and agreeable correspondent—giving us his views on the subject, and very soon after this all communication between the North and South ceased, except through the blockade, for four long years.
And then came the long dark days—the days when the sun seemed to shine no more; when the eyes of wives, mothers, andsisters were heavy with weeping; when men sat up late in the night studying military tactics; when grief-burdened hearts turned to God in prayer.
The intellectual gladiators who had discoursed eloquently of war around our fireside buckled their armor on and went forth to battle.
Band after band of brave-hearted, bright-faced youths from Southern plantation homes came to bleed and die on Virginia soil; and for four long years old Virginia was one great camping-ground, hospital, and battlefield. The roar of cannon and the clash of arms resounded over the land. The groans of the wounded and dying went up from hillside and valley. The hearts of women and children were sad and careworn. But God, to whom we prayed, protected us in our plantation homes, where no white men or even boys remained, all having gone into the army. Only the negro slaves stayed with us, and these were encouraged by our enemies to rise and slay us; but God in his mercy willed otherwise. Although advised to burn our property and incited by the enemy to destroy their formerowners, these negro slaves remained faithful, manifesting kindness, and in many instances protecting the white families and plantations during their masters' absence.
Oh! the long terrible nights passed by these helpless women and children, the enemy encamped around them, the clash of swords heard against the doors and windows, the report of guns on the air which might be sending death to their loved ones!
But why try to describe the horrors of such nights? Who that has not experienced them can know how we felt? Who can imagine the heartsickness when, stealing to an upper window at midnight, we watched the fierce flames rising from some neighboring home, expecting our own to be destroyed by the enemy before daylight in the same way?
Such pictures, dark and fearful, were the only ones familiar to us in old Virginia those four dreadful years.
At last the end came—the end which seemed to us saddest of all. But God knoweth best. Though "through fiery trials" he had caused us to pass, he had not forsaken us. For was not his mercy signally shownin the failure of the enemy to incite our negro slaves to insurrection during the war? Through his mercy those who were expected to become our enemies remained our friends. And in our own home, surrounded by the enemy those terrible nights, our only guard was a faithful negro servant who slept in the house, and went out every hour to see if we were in immediate danger; while his mother—the kind old nurse—sat all night in a rocking-chair in our room, ready to help us. Had we not, then, amid all our sorrows, much to be thankful for?
Among such scenes one of the last pictures photographed on my memory was that of a negro boy who was very ill with typhoid fever in a cabin not far off, and who became greatly alarmed when a brisk firing, across our house, commenced between the contending armies. His first impulse—as it always had been in trouble—was to fly to his mistress for protection, and, jumping from his bed, his head bandaged with a white cloth, and looking like one just from the grave, he passed through the firing as fast as he could, screaming: "O mistess, take kur o' me! Put me in yo' closet, and hideme from de Yankees!" He fell at the door exhausted. My mother had him brought in, and a bed was made for him in the library. She nursed him carefully, but he died in a day or two from fright and exhaustion.
Soon after this came the surrender at Appomattox, and negro slavery ended forever.
All was ruin around us,—tobacco factories burned down, sugar and cotton plantations destroyed. The negroes fled from these desolated places, crowded together in wretched shanties on the outskirts of towns and villages, and found themselves, for the first time in their lives, without enough to eat, and with no class of people particularly interested about their food, health, or comfort. Rations were furnished them a short time by the United States government, with promises of money and land which were never fulfilled. Impoverished by the war, it was a relief to us no longer to have the responsibility of supporting them. This would, indeed, have been impossible in our starving condition.
Years have passed, and the old homes have been long deserted where the scenes I haveattempted to describe were enacted. The heads of the families lie buried in the old graveyards, while their descendants are scattered from the Atlantic to the Pacific, always holding sacred in memory the dear old homes in Virginia.
The descendants of the negroes here portrayed,—where are they? It would take a long chapter, indeed, to tell of them. Many are crowded on the outskirts of the towns and villages North and South, in wretched thriftlessness and squalor, yet content and without ambition to alter their condition.
On the other hand, a good proportion of the race seek to improve their opportunities in schools and colleges, provided partly by the aid of Northern friends, but principally from taxes paid by their former owners in spite of the impoverished condition of the South.
Many have acquired independent homes, with the laudable purpose of becoming useful and respected citizens. The majority, however, are best pleased with itineracy.
It is needless to say that those of the latter class can never become desirable domestics in a well-ordered, cleanly house.And those whose youth has been passed in schoolrooms, with no training in the habits of refined life, have not acquired sufficient education to avail much in the line of letters. Thus the problem of their race remains unsolved, even by those who know it most intimately.
In the matter of classical education the question occurs: Will the literature of the one race meet the requirements of the other, or the heroes and heroines of one be acceptable to the other? Has not God given each country its distinct race and literature? The history of every country occupied by antagonistic races has been that the stronger has dominated or exterminated the other.
Thinking of the superficial education at some of our schools, I am reminded of a colored boy's subject for a composition.
Not long since a "colored scholar," seventeen years old, with very fair intelligence, who had never missed a day at the public school, was asked by a white gentleman who was much interested in the boy, and who often took the trouble to explain to him words in common use, the meaning of which the boy was wholly ignorant,—
"Peter, what lessons have you to-night?"
"Well, sir, I got a composition to write to-night."
"A composition? What's your subject?"
"Dey tell me, sir, to write a composition on de administration o' Mr. Pierce."
"Administration of Mr. Pierce!" exclaimed the gentleman, himself an eminent journalist and statesman." And what could you know about the administration of Mr. Pierce? Did you ever hear of Mr. Pierce?"
"No, sir, I nuvver has."
The tie which once bound the two races together is broken forever, and entire separation in churches and schools prevents mutual interest or intercourse.
Our church schools are doing much to elevate and improve the negroes, and we have to thank many kind, warm friends in the North for timely aid in missionary boxes, books, and Bibles to carry on the colored Sunday-school work in which many Southern people are deeply interested, without the means of conducting them as they wish.
The negroes still have a strange belief in what they call "tricking," and often themost intelligent, when sick, will say they have been "tricked," for which they have a regular treatment and "trick doctors" among themselves. This "tricking" we cannot explain, and only know that when one negro became angry with another he would bury in front of his enemy's cabin door a bottle filled with pieces of snakes, spiders, bits of tadpole, and other curious substances; and the party expecting to be "tricked" would hang up an old horseshoe outside of his door to ward off the "evil spirits."
Since alienated from their former owners they are, as a general thing, more idle and improvident; and, unfortunately, the tendency of their political teaching has been to make them antagonistic to the better class of white people, which renders it difficult for them to be properly instructed. That such animosity should exist toward those who could best understand and help them is to be deplored. For the true negro character cannot be fully comprehended or described but by those who, like ourselves, have always lived with them.
At present their lives are devoted to a religious excitement which demoralizesthem, there seeming to be no connection between their religion and morals. In one of their Sabbath schools is a teacher who, although often arrested for stealing, continues to hold a high position in the church.