For an hour or two we got above the sandy zone, and into the second, middle, or “wave” region of the State. The surface here was extremely undulating, gracefully swelling and dipping in bluffs and dells—the soil a mellow brown loam, with some indications of fertility, especially in the valleys. Yet most of the ground was occupied by pine woods (probably old-field pines, on exhausted cotton-fields). For a few miles, on a gently sloping surface of the same sort of soil, there were some enormously large cotton-fields.I saw women working again, in large gangs with men. Inone case they were distributing manure—ditch scrapings it appeared to be—and the mode of operation was this: the manure had been already carted into heaps upon the ground; a number of the women were carrying it in from the heap in baskets, on their heads, and one in her apron, and spreading it with their hands between the ridges on which the cotton grew last year; the rest followed with great, long-handled, heavy, clumsy hoes, and pulled down the ridges over the manure, and so made new ridges for the next planting. I asked a young planter who continued with me a good part of the day, why they did not use ploughs. He said this was rather rough land, and a plough wouldn’t work in it very well. It was light soil, and smooth enough for a parade ground. The fact is, in certain parts of South Carolina, a plough is yet an almost unknown instrument of tillage.About noon we turned east, on a track running direct to Charleston. Pine barrens continued alternating with swamp, with some cotton and corn fields on the edges of the latter. A few of the pines were “boxed” for turpentine; and I understood that one or two companies from North Carolina had been operating here for several years. Plantations were not very often seen along the road through the sand; but stations, at which cotton was stored and loading, were comparatively frequent.At one of the stations an empty car had been attached to the train; I had gone into it, and was standing at one end of it, when an elderly countryman with a young woman and three little children entered and took seats at the other. The old man took out a roll of deerskin, in which were bank-bills, and some small change.“How much did he say ’twould be?” he inquired.“Seventy cents.”“For both on us?”“For each on us.”“Both on us, I reckon.”“Reckon it’s each.”“I’ve got jess seventy-five cents in hard money.”“Give it to him, and tell him it’s all yer got; reckon he’ll let us go.”At this I moved, to attract their attention; the old man started, and looked towards me for a moment, and said no more. I soon afterwards walked out on the platform, passing him, and the conductor came in, and collected their fare; I then returned, and stood near them, looking out of the window of the door. The old man had a good-humoured, thin, withered, very brown face, and there was a speaking twinkle in his eye. He was dressed in clothes much of the Quaker cut—a broad-brimmed, low hat; white cotton shirt, open in front, and without cravat, showing his hairy breast; a long-skirted, snuff-coloured coat, of very coarse homespun; short trousers, of brown drilling; red woollen stockings, and heavy cow-hide shoes. He presently asked the time of day; I gave it to him, and we continued in conversation, as follows:—“Right cold weather.”“Yes.”“G’wine to Branchville?”“I am going beyond there—to Charleston.”“Ah—come from Hamburg this mornin’?”“No—from beyond there.”“Did ye?—where’d you come from?”“From Wilmington.”“How long yer ben comin’?”“I left Wilmington night before last, about ten o’clock. I have been ever since on the road.”“Reckon yer a night-bird.”“What?”“Reckon you are a night-bird—what we calls a night-hawk; keeps a goin’ at night, you know.”“Yes—I’ve been going most of two nights.”“Reckon so; kinder red your eyes is. Live in Charleston, do ye?”“No, I live in New York.”“New York—that’s a good ways, yet, ain’t it?”“Yes.”“Reckon yer arter a chicken, up here.”“No.”“Ah, ha—reckon ye are.”The young woman laughed, lifted her shoulder, and looked out of the window.“Reckon ye’ll get somebody’s chicken.”“I’m afraid not.”The young woman laughed again, and tossed her head.“Oh, reckon ye will—ah, ha! But yer mustn’t mind my fun.”“Not at all, not at all. Where didyoucome from?”“Up here to ——; g’wine hum; g’wine to stop down here, next deeper. How do you go, w’en you get to Charleston?”“I am going on to New Orleans.”“Is New York beyond New Orleans?”“Beyond New Orleans? Oh, no.”“In New Orleans, is’t?“What?”“New York is somewhere in New Orleans, ain’t it?”“No; it’s the other way—beyond Wilmington.”“Oh! Been pretty cold thar?”“Yes; there was a foot and a half of snow there, last week, I hear.”“Lord o’massy! why! have to feed all the cattle!—whew!—ha!—whew! don’t wonner ye com’ away.”“You are a farmer.”“Yes.”“Well, I am a farmer, too.”“Be ye—to New York?”“Yes; how much land have you got?”“A hundred and twenty-five acres; how much have you?”“Just about the same. What’s your land worth, here?”“Some on’t—what we call swamp-land—kinder low and wet like, you know—that’s worth five dollars an acre; and mainly it’s worth a dollar and a half or two dollars—that’s takin’ a common trac’ of upland. What’s yours worth?”“A hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars.”“What!”“A hundred and fifty to two hundred.”“Dollars?”“Yes.”“Not an acre?”“Yes.”“Good Lord! yer might as well buy niggers to onst. Do you work any niggers?”“No.”“May be they don’t have niggers—that is, slaves—to New York.”“No, we do not. It’s against the law.”“Yes, I heerd ’twas, some place. How do yer get yer work done?”“I hire white men—Irishmen generally.”“Do they work good?”“Yes, better than negroes, I think, and don’t cost nearly as much.”“What do yer have to give ’em?”“Eight or nine dollars a month, and board, for common hands, by the year.”“Hi, Lordy! and they work up right smart, do they? Why, yer can’t get any kind of a good nigger less’n twelve dollars a month.”“And board?”“And board em? yes; and clothe, and blank, and shoe ’em, too.”He owned no negroes himself and did not hire any. “They,” his family, “made their own crap.” They raised maize, and sweet potatoes, and cow-peas. He reckoned, in general, they made about three barrels of maize to the acre; sometimes, as much as five. He described to me, as a novelty, a plough, with “a sort of a wing, like, on one side,” that pushed off, and turned over a slice of the ground; from which it appeared that he had, until recently, never seen a mould-board; the common ploughs of this country being constructed on the same principles as those of the Chinese, and only rooting the ground, like a hog or a mole—not cleaving and turning. He had never heard of working a plough with more than one horse. He was frank and good-natured; embarrassed his daughter by coarse jokes about herself and her babies, and asked me if I would not go home with him, and, when I declined, pressed me to come and see them when I returned. That I might do so, he gave me directions how to get to his farm; observing that I must start pretty early in the day—because it would not be safe for a stranger to try to cross the swamp after dark. The moment the train began to check its speed, before stopping at the place at which he was to leave, he said to his daughter, “Come, gal! quick now; gather up yer young ones!” and stepped out, pulling her after him, on to the platform. As they walked off, I noticed that he strode ahead, like an Indian or a gipsy man, and she carriedin her arms two of the children and a bundle, while the third child held to her skirts.A party of fashionably-dressed people took the train for Charleston—two families, apparently, returning from a visit to their plantations. They came to the station in handsome coaches. Some minutes before the rest, there entered the car, in which I was then again alone, and reclining on a bench in the corner, an old nurse, with a baby, and two young negro women, having care of half a dozen children, mostly girls, from three to fifteen years of age. As they closed the door, the negro girls seemed to resume a conversation, or quarrel. Their language was loud and obscene, such as I never heard before from any but the most depraved and beastly women of the streets. Upon observing me, they dropped their voices, but not with any appearance of shame, and continued their altercation, until their mistresses entered. The white children, in the mean time, had listened, without any appearance of wonder or annoyance. The moment the ladies opened the door, they became silent.[29]
For an hour or two we got above the sandy zone, and into the second, middle, or “wave” region of the State. The surface here was extremely undulating, gracefully swelling and dipping in bluffs and dells—the soil a mellow brown loam, with some indications of fertility, especially in the valleys. Yet most of the ground was occupied by pine woods (probably old-field pines, on exhausted cotton-fields). For a few miles, on a gently sloping surface of the same sort of soil, there were some enormously large cotton-fields.
I saw women working again, in large gangs with men. Inone case they were distributing manure—ditch scrapings it appeared to be—and the mode of operation was this: the manure had been already carted into heaps upon the ground; a number of the women were carrying it in from the heap in baskets, on their heads, and one in her apron, and spreading it with their hands between the ridges on which the cotton grew last year; the rest followed with great, long-handled, heavy, clumsy hoes, and pulled down the ridges over the manure, and so made new ridges for the next planting. I asked a young planter who continued with me a good part of the day, why they did not use ploughs. He said this was rather rough land, and a plough wouldn’t work in it very well. It was light soil, and smooth enough for a parade ground. The fact is, in certain parts of South Carolina, a plough is yet an almost unknown instrument of tillage.
About noon we turned east, on a track running direct to Charleston. Pine barrens continued alternating with swamp, with some cotton and corn fields on the edges of the latter. A few of the pines were “boxed” for turpentine; and I understood that one or two companies from North Carolina had been operating here for several years. Plantations were not very often seen along the road through the sand; but stations, at which cotton was stored and loading, were comparatively frequent.
At one of the stations an empty car had been attached to the train; I had gone into it, and was standing at one end of it, when an elderly countryman with a young woman and three little children entered and took seats at the other. The old man took out a roll of deerskin, in which were bank-bills, and some small change.
“How much did he say ’twould be?” he inquired.
“Seventy cents.”
“For both on us?”
“For each on us.”
“Both on us, I reckon.”
“Reckon it’s each.”
“I’ve got jess seventy-five cents in hard money.”
“Give it to him, and tell him it’s all yer got; reckon he’ll let us go.”
At this I moved, to attract their attention; the old man started, and looked towards me for a moment, and said no more. I soon afterwards walked out on the platform, passing him, and the conductor came in, and collected their fare; I then returned, and stood near them, looking out of the window of the door. The old man had a good-humoured, thin, withered, very brown face, and there was a speaking twinkle in his eye. He was dressed in clothes much of the Quaker cut—a broad-brimmed, low hat; white cotton shirt, open in front, and without cravat, showing his hairy breast; a long-skirted, snuff-coloured coat, of very coarse homespun; short trousers, of brown drilling; red woollen stockings, and heavy cow-hide shoes. He presently asked the time of day; I gave it to him, and we continued in conversation, as follows:—
“Right cold weather.”
“Yes.”
“G’wine to Branchville?”
“I am going beyond there—to Charleston.”
“Ah—come from Hamburg this mornin’?”
“No—from beyond there.”
“Did ye?—where’d you come from?”
“From Wilmington.”
“How long yer ben comin’?”
“I left Wilmington night before last, about ten o’clock. I have been ever since on the road.”
“Reckon yer a night-bird.”
“What?”
“Reckon you are a night-bird—what we calls a night-hawk; keeps a goin’ at night, you know.”
“Yes—I’ve been going most of two nights.”
“Reckon so; kinder red your eyes is. Live in Charleston, do ye?”
“No, I live in New York.”
“New York—that’s a good ways, yet, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Reckon yer arter a chicken, up here.”
“No.”
“Ah, ha—reckon ye are.”
The young woman laughed, lifted her shoulder, and looked out of the window.
“Reckon ye’ll get somebody’s chicken.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The young woman laughed again, and tossed her head.
“Oh, reckon ye will—ah, ha! But yer mustn’t mind my fun.”
“Not at all, not at all. Where didyoucome from?”
“Up here to ——; g’wine hum; g’wine to stop down here, next deeper. How do you go, w’en you get to Charleston?”
“I am going on to New Orleans.”
“Is New York beyond New Orleans?”
“Beyond New Orleans? Oh, no.”
“In New Orleans, is’t?
“What?”
“New York is somewhere in New Orleans, ain’t it?”
“No; it’s the other way—beyond Wilmington.”
“Oh! Been pretty cold thar?”
“Yes; there was a foot and a half of snow there, last week, I hear.”
“Lord o’massy! why! have to feed all the cattle!—whew!—ha!—whew! don’t wonner ye com’ away.”
“You are a farmer.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I am a farmer, too.”
“Be ye—to New York?”
“Yes; how much land have you got?”
“A hundred and twenty-five acres; how much have you?”
“Just about the same. What’s your land worth, here?”
“Some on’t—what we call swamp-land—kinder low and wet like, you know—that’s worth five dollars an acre; and mainly it’s worth a dollar and a half or two dollars—that’s takin’ a common trac’ of upland. What’s yours worth?”
“A hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars.”
“What!”
“A hundred and fifty to two hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Not an acre?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord! yer might as well buy niggers to onst. Do you work any niggers?”
“No.”
“May be they don’t have niggers—that is, slaves—to New York.”
“No, we do not. It’s against the law.”
“Yes, I heerd ’twas, some place. How do yer get yer work done?”
“I hire white men—Irishmen generally.”
“Do they work good?”
“Yes, better than negroes, I think, and don’t cost nearly as much.”
“What do yer have to give ’em?”
“Eight or nine dollars a month, and board, for common hands, by the year.”
“Hi, Lordy! and they work up right smart, do they? Why, yer can’t get any kind of a good nigger less’n twelve dollars a month.”
“And board?”
“And board em? yes; and clothe, and blank, and shoe ’em, too.”
He owned no negroes himself and did not hire any. “They,” his family, “made their own crap.” They raised maize, and sweet potatoes, and cow-peas. He reckoned, in general, they made about three barrels of maize to the acre; sometimes, as much as five. He described to me, as a novelty, a plough, with “a sort of a wing, like, on one side,” that pushed off, and turned over a slice of the ground; from which it appeared that he had, until recently, never seen a mould-board; the common ploughs of this country being constructed on the same principles as those of the Chinese, and only rooting the ground, like a hog or a mole—not cleaving and turning. He had never heard of working a plough with more than one horse. He was frank and good-natured; embarrassed his daughter by coarse jokes about herself and her babies, and asked me if I would not go home with him, and, when I declined, pressed me to come and see them when I returned. That I might do so, he gave me directions how to get to his farm; observing that I must start pretty early in the day—because it would not be safe for a stranger to try to cross the swamp after dark. The moment the train began to check its speed, before stopping at the place at which he was to leave, he said to his daughter, “Come, gal! quick now; gather up yer young ones!” and stepped out, pulling her after him, on to the platform. As they walked off, I noticed that he strode ahead, like an Indian or a gipsy man, and she carriedin her arms two of the children and a bundle, while the third child held to her skirts.
A party of fashionably-dressed people took the train for Charleston—two families, apparently, returning from a visit to their plantations. They came to the station in handsome coaches. Some minutes before the rest, there entered the car, in which I was then again alone, and reclining on a bench in the corner, an old nurse, with a baby, and two young negro women, having care of half a dozen children, mostly girls, from three to fifteen years of age. As they closed the door, the negro girls seemed to resume a conversation, or quarrel. Their language was loud and obscene, such as I never heard before from any but the most depraved and beastly women of the streets. Upon observing me, they dropped their voices, but not with any appearance of shame, and continued their altercation, until their mistresses entered. The white children, in the mean time, had listened, without any appearance of wonder or annoyance. The moment the ladies opened the door, they became silent.[29]