Transcriber's note:
Minor spelling inconsistencies, including hyphenated words, have been harmonized.
Any lacking page numbers are those given to pages where page numbers are not shown in the original text.

A GIRL'S LIFE
IN VIRGINIA
BEFORE THE WAR

"AN EVENING PARTY"—Page 115.

A GIRL'S LIFE
IN VIRGINIA
BEFORE THE WAR

BY
Letitia M. Burwell

WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE
ILLUSTRATIONS BY

William A. McCullough AND Jules Turcas

Second Edition

New York
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1895, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company.

DEDICATION.

Dedicated to my nieces, who will find in English and American publications such expressions applied to their ancestors as: "cruel slave-owners"; "inhuman wretches"; "southern taskmasters"; "dealers in human souls," etc. From these they will naturally recoil with horror. My own life would have been embittered had I believed myself to be descended from such monsters; and that those who come after us may know the truth, I wish to leave a record of plantation life as it was. The truth may thus be preserved among a few, and merited praise may be awarded to noble men and virtuous women who have passed away.

L. M. B.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

A GIRL'S LIFE IN VIRGINIA
BEFORE THE WAR

CHAPTER I.

That my birthplace should have been a Virginia plantation, my lot in life cast on a Virginia plantation, my ancestors, for nine generations, owners of Virginia plantations, remain facts mysterious and inexplicable but to Him who determined the bounds of our habitations, and said: "Be still, and know that I am God."

Confined exclusively to a Virginia plantation during my earliest childhood, I believed the world one vast plantation bounded by negro quarters. Rows of white cabins with gardens attached; negro men in the fields; negro women sewing, knitting, spinning, weaving, housekeeping in the cabins; with negro children dancing, romping, singing, jumping, playing around the doors,—these formed the only pictures familiar to my childhood.

The master's residence—as the negroes called it, "the great house"—occupied a central position and was handsome and attractive, the overseer's being a plainer house about a mile from this.

Each cabin had as much pine furniture as the occupants desired, pine and oak being abundant, and carpenters always at work for the comfort of the plantation.

Bread, meat, milk, vegetables, fruit, and fuel were as plentiful as water in the springs near the cabin doors.

Among the negroes—one hundred—on our plantation, many had been taught different trades; and there were blacksmiths, carpenters, masons, millers, shoemakers, weavers, spinners, all working for themselves. No article of their handicraft ever being sold from the place, their industry resulted in nothing beyond feeding and clothing themselves.

"CARPENTERS ALWAYS AT WORK FOR THE COMFORT OF THE PLANTATION"—Page 2.

My sister and myself, when very small children, were often carried to visit these cabins, on which occasions no young princesses could have received from admiring subjects more adulation. Presents were laid at our feet—not glittering gems, but eggs, chestnuts, popcorn, walnuts, melons, apples, sweet potatoes,—all their "cupboards" afforded,—with a generosity unbounded. This made us as happy as queens, and filled our hearts with kindness and gratitude to our dusky admirers.

Around the cabin doors the young negroes would quarrel as to who should be his or her mistress, some claiming me, and others my sister.

All were merry-hearted, and among them I never saw a discontented face. Their amusements were dancing to the music of the banjo, quilting-parties, opossum-hunting, and sometimes weddings and parties.

Many could read, and in almost every cabin was a Bible. In one was a prayer-book, kept by one of the men, a preacher, from which he read the marriage ceremony at the weddings. This man opened a night school—charging twenty-five cents a week—hoping to create some literary thirst in the rising generation, whose members, however, preferred their nightly frolics to the school, so it had few patrons.

Our house servants were numerous, polite, and well trained. My mother selected those most obliging in disposition and quickest at learning, who were brought to the house at ten or twelve years of age, and instructed in the branches of household employment.

These small servants were always dressed in the cleanest, whitest, long-sleeved aprons, with white or red turbans on their heads. No establishment being considered complete without a multiplicity of these, they might be seen constantly darting about on errands from the house to the kitchen and the cabins, upstairs and downstairs, being, indeed, omnipresent and indispensable.

It was the custom for a lady visitor to be accompanied to her room at night by one of these black, smiling "indispensables," who insisted so good-naturedly on performing all offices—combing her hair, pulling off her slippers, etc.—that one had not the heart to refuse, although it would have been sometimes more agreeable to be left alone.

"ACCOMPANIED BY ONE OF THESE SMILING 'INDISPENSABLES'"—Page 4.

The negroes were generally pleased at the appearance of visitors, from whom they were accustomed to receive some present on arriving or departing; the neglect of this rite being regarded as a breach of politeness.

The old negroes were quite patriarchal, loved to talk about "old times," and exacted great respect from the young negroes, and also from the younger members of the white family. We called the old men "Uncle," and the old women "Aunt,"—these being terms of respect.

The atmosphere of our own home was one of consideration and kindness. The mere recital of a tale of suffering would make my sister and myself weep with sorrow. And I believe the maltreatment of one of our servants—we had never heard the word "slave"—would have distressed us beyond endurance. We early learned that happiness consisted in dispensing it, and found no pleasure greater than saving our old dolls, toys, beads, bits of cake or candy, for the cabin children, whose delight at receiving them richly repaid us. If any of the older servants became displeased with us, we were miserable until we had restored the old smile by presenting some choice bit of sweetmeat to the offended one.

I remember that once, when my grandmother scolded nurse Kitty, saying: "Kitty, the butler tells me you disturb the breakfast cream every morning by dipping out milk to wash your face," I burst into tears, and thought it hard that, when there were so many cows, poor Kitty could not wash her face in milk. Kitty had been told that her dark skin would be improved by a milk bath, which she had not hesitated to dip every morning from the breakfast buckets.

At such establishments one easily acquired a habit of being waited upon, there being so many servants with so little to do. It was natural to ask for a drink of water when the water was right at hand, and to have things brought which you might easily have gotten yourself. But these domestics were so pleased at such errands, one felt no hesitation in requiring them. A young lady would ask black Nancy or Dolly to fan her, whereupon Nancy or Dolly would laugh good-naturedly, produce a large palm-leaf, and fall to fanning her young mistress vigorously, after which she would be rewarded with a bow of ribbon, some candy, or sweet cakes.

The negroes made pocket-money by selling their own vegetables, poultry, eggs, etc.,—produced at the master's expense, of course. I often saw my mother take out her purse and pay them liberally for fowls, eggs, melons, sweet potatoes, brooms, shuck mats, and split baskets. The men made small crops of tobacco or potatoes for themselves on any piece of ground they chose to select.

My mother and grandmother were almost always talking over the wants of the negroes,—what medicine should be sent, whom they should visit, who needed new shoes, clothes, or blankets,—the principal object of their lives seeming to be in providing these comforts. The carriage was often ordered for them to ride around to the cabins to distribute light-bread, tea, and other necessaries among the sick. And besides employing the best doctor, my grandmother always saw that they received the best nursing and attention.

In this little plantation world of ours was one being—and only one—who inspired awe in every heart, being a special terror to small children. This was the queen of the kitchen, Aunt Christian, who reigned supreme. She wore the whitest cotton cap with the broadest of ruffles; she was very black and very portly; and her scepter was a good-sized stick, kept to chastise small dogs and children who invaded her territory. Her character, however, having been long established, she had not often occasion to use this weapon, as these enemies kept out of her way.

Her pride was great, "for," said she, "aint I bin—long fo' dis yer little marster whar is was born—bakin' de bes' loaf bread, an' bes' beat biscuit and rice waffles, all de time in my ole marster time? An' I bin manage my own affa'rs, an' I gwine manage my own affa'rs long is I got breff. Kase I 'members 'way back yonder in my mammy time fo' de folks come fum de King's Mill plantation nigh Williamsbu'g. All our black folks done belonks to de Burl fambly uver sence dey come fum Afiky. My granmammy 'member dem times when black folks lan' here stark naked, an' white folks hab to show 'em how to war close. But we all done come fum all dat now, an' I gwine manage my own affa'rs."

She was generally left to manage her "own affa'rs," and, being a pattern of neatness and industry, her fame went abroad from Botetourt even unto the remotest ends of Mecklenburg County.

That this marvelous cooking was all the work of her own hands I am, in later years, inclined to doubt; as she kept several assistants—a boy to chop wood, beat biscuit, scour tables, lift off pots and ovens; one woman to make the pastry, and another to compound cakes and jellies. But her fame was great, her pride lofty, and I would not now pluck one laurel from her wreath.

This honest woman was appreciated by my mother, but we had no affinity for her in consequence of certain traditions on the plantation about her severity to children. Having no children of her own, a favorite orphan house-girl, whenever my mother went from home, was left to her care. This girl—now an elderly woman, and still our faithful and loved servant—says she remembers to this day her joy at my mother's return home, and her release from Aunt Christian. "I nuver will forgit," to use her own words, "how I use to watch for de carriage to bring miss home, an' how I watch up de road an' run clappin' my han's an' hollerin': 'Miss done come! an' I aint gwine stay wid Aunt Chrishun no longer!'"

"I USED TO WATCH FOR DE CARRIAGE"—Page 9.

Smiling faces always welcomed us home, as the carriage passed through the plantation, and on reaching the house we were received by the negroes about the yard with the liveliest demonstrations of pleasure.

CHAPTER II.

It was a long time before it dawned upon my mind that there were places and people different from these. The plantations we visited seemed exactly like ours. The same hospitality was everywhere; the same kindliness existed between the white family and the blacks.

Confined exclusively to plantation scenes, the most trifling incidents impressed themselves indelibly upon me.

One day, while my mother was in the yard attending to the planting of some shrubbery, we saw approaching an old, feeble negro man, leaning upon his stick. His clothes were nearly worn out, and he was haggard and thin.

"Good-day, mistess," said he.

"Who are you?" asked my mother.

"Mistess, you don't know John whar use to belonks to Mars Edwin Burl—Mars Edwin, yo' husban' uncle, whar die on de ocean crossin' to Europe for he health. An' 'fo' he start he make he will an' sot me free, an' gie me money an' lan' near Petersbu'g, an' good house, too. But, mistess, I marry one free mulatto 'oman, an' she ruin me; she one widow 'oman, an' she was'e all my money tell I aint got nothin', an' I don't want be free no mo'. Please, mistess, take me on yo' plantation, an' don't let me be free. I done walk hund'ed mile to git yer. You know Mars Edwin think Miss Betsy gwine marry him, so he lef' her his lan' an' black folks. But we niggers knowed she done promis' twelve mo' gen'men to marry 'em. But she take de propity an' put on long black veil make like she grievin', an' dat's how de folks all git scattered, an' I aint got nowhar to go 'ceptin' hit's yer."

"I DON'T WANT BE FREE NO MO."—Page 12.

I wondered what was meant by being "free," and supposed from his appearance it must be some very dreadful and unfortunate condition of humanity. My mother heard him very kindly, and directed him to the kitchen, where "Aunt Christian" would give him plenty to eat.

Although there were already many old negroes to be supported, who no longer considered themselves young enough to work, this old man was added to the number, and a cabin built for him. To the day of his death he expressed gratitude to my mother for taking care of him, and often entertained us with accounts of his "old marster times," which he said were the "grandes' of all."

By way of apology for certain knotty excrescences on his feet he used to say: "You see dese yer knots. Well, dey come fum my bein' a monsus proud young nigger, an' squeezin' my feet in de tightes' boots to drive my marster carriage 'bout Petersbu'g. I nuver was so happy as when I was drivin' my coach an' four, and crackin' de postilion over de head wid my whip."

These pleasant reminiscences were generally concluded with: "Ah! young misses, you'll, nuver see sich times. No more postilions! No more coach an' four! And niggers drives now widout white gloves. Ah! no, young misses, you'll nuver see nothin'! Nuver in your time."

With these melancholy predictions would he shake his head, and sigh that the days of glory had departed.

Each generation of blacks vied with the other in extolling the virtues of their particular mistress and master and "their times"; but, notwithstanding this mournful contrast between the past and present, their reminiscences had a certain charm. Often by their cabin firesides would we listen to the tales of the olden days about our forefathers, of whom they could tell much, having belonged to our family since the landing of the African fathers on the English slave ships, from which their ancestors had been bought by ours. Among these traditions none pleased us so much as that an unkind mistress or master had never been known among our ancestors, which we have always considered a cause for greater pride than the armorial bearings left on their tombstones.

We often listened with pleasure to the recollections of an old blind man—the former faithful attendant of our grandfather—whose mind was filled with vivid pictures of the past. He repeated verbatim conversations and speeches heard sixty years before—from Mr. Madison, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Clay, and other statesmen, his master's special friends.

"Yes," he used to say, "I stay wid your grandpa ten years in Congress, an' all de time he was secretary for President Jefferson. He nuver give me a cross word, an' I nuver saw your grandma de leas' out of temper nuther but once, an' dat was at a dinner party we give in Washington, when de French Minister said something disrespectful 'bout de United States."

Often did he tell us: "De greates' pleasure I 'spect in heaven is seein' my old marster." And sometimes: "I dreams 'bout my marster an' mistess when I'se asleep, an' talks wid 'em an' sees 'em so plain it makes me so happy I laughs out right loud."

This man was true and honest,—a good Christian. Important trusts had been confided to him. He frequently drove the carriage and horses to Washington and Baltimore,—a journey of two weeks,—and was sometimes sent to carry large sums of money to a distant county.

His wife, who had accompanied him in her youth to Washington, also entertained us with gossip about the people of that day, and could tell exactly the size and color of Mrs. Madison's slippers, how she was dressed on certain occasions, "what beautiful manners she had," how Mr. Jefferson received master and mistress when "we" drove up to Monticello, what room they occupied, etc.

Although my grandfather's death occurred thirty years before, the negroes still remembered it with sorrow; and one of them, speaking of it, said to me: "Ah, little mistess, 'twas a sorrowful day when de news come from Washington dat our good, kind marster was dead. A mighty wail went up from dis plantation, for we know'd we had los' our bes' friend."

The only negro on the place who did not evince an interest in the white family was a man ninety years old, who, forty years before, announced his intention of not working any longer,—although still strong and athletic,—because, he said, "the estate had done come down so he hadn't no heart to work no longer." He remembered, he said, "when thar was three an' four hund'ed black folks, but sence de British debt had to be paid over by his old marster, an' de Macklenbu'g estate had to be sold, he hadn't had no heart to do nothin' sence." And "he hadn't seen no real fine white folks—what he called real fine white folks—sence he come from Macklenbu'g." All his interest in life having expired with an anterior generation, we were in his eyes but a poor set, and he refused to have anything to do with us. Not being compelled to work, he passed his life principally in the woods, and wore a rabbit-skin cap and a leather apron. Having lost interest in and connection with the white family, he gradually relapsed into a state of barbarism, refusing toward the end of his life to sleep in his bed, preferring a hard bench in his cabin, upon which he died.

Another very old man remembered something of his father, who had come from Africa; and when we asked him to tell us what he remembered of his father's narrations, would say:

"My daddy tell we chillun how he mammy liv' in hole in de groun' in Afiky, an' when a Englishmun come to buy him, she sell him fur a string o' beads. An' 'twas monsus hard when he fus' come here to war close; ev'y chance he git he pull off he close an' go naked, kase folks don't war no close in he country. When daddy git mad wid we chillun, mammy hide us, kase he kill us. Sometime he say he gwine sing he country, an' den he dance an' jump an' howl tell he skeer we chillun to deaf."

They spoke always of their forefathers as the "outlandish people."

On some plantations it was a custom to buy the wife when a negro preferred to marry on another estate. And in this way we became possessed of a famous termagant, who had married our grandfather's gardener, quarreled him to death in one year, and survived to quarrel forty years longer with the other negroes. She allowed no children about her cabin—not even a cat or dog could live with her. She had been offered her freedom, but refused to accept it. Several times she had been given away—once to her son, a free man, and to others with whom she fancied she might live—but, like the bad penny, was always returned to us. She always returned in a cart, seated on top of her wooden chest and surrounded by her goods and chattels. She was dressed in a high hat with a long black plume standing straight up, gay cloth spencer, and short petticoat,—the costume of a hundred years ago. Although her return was a sore affliction to the plantation, my sister and myself found much amusement in witnessing it. The cold welcome she received seemed not to affect her spirits, but, re-establishing herself in her cabin, she quickly resumed the turbulent course of her career.

"SHE ALWAYS RETURNED IN A CART."—Page 18.

Finally one morning the news came that this woman, old Clara, was dead. Two women went to sweep her cabin and perform the last sad offices. They waited all day for the body to get cold. While sitting over the fire in the evening, one of them, happening to glance at a small mirror inserted in the wall near the bed, exclaimed: "Old Clara's laughing!" They went nearer, and there was a horrible grin on the face of the corpse! Old Clara sprang out of bed, exclaiming: "Git me some meat and bread. I'm most perish'd!"

"Ole 'oman, what you mean by foolin' us so?" asked the nurses.

"I jes' want see what you all gwine do wid my things when I was dade!" replied the old woman, whose "things" consisted of all sorts of old and curious spencers, hats, plumes, necklaces, caps, and dresses, collected during her various wanderings, and worn by a generation long past.

Among these old cabin legends we sometimes collected bits of romance, and were often told how, by the coquetry of a certain Richmond belle, we had lost a handsome fortune, which impressed me even then with the fatal consequences of coquetry.

This belle engaged herself to our great-uncle, a handsome and accomplished gentleman, who, to improve his health, went to Europe, but before embarking made his will, leaving her his estate and negroes. He died abroad, and the lady accepted his property, although she was known to have been engaged to twelve others at the same time! The story in Richmond ran that these twelve gentlemen—my grandfather among them—had a wine party, and toward the close of the evening some of them, becoming communicative, began taking each other out to tell a secret, when it was discovered they all had the same secret—each was engaged to Miss Betsy McC.... This lady's name is still seen on fly leaves of old books in our library,—books used during her reign by students at William and Mary College,—showing that the young gentlemen, even at that venerable institution, sometimes allowed their classic thoughts to wander.

CHAPTER III.

As soon as my sister and myself had learned to read and cipher, we were inspired with a desire to teach the negroes who were about the house and kitchen; and my father promised to reward my sister with a handsome guitar if she would teach two boys—designed for mechanics—arithmetic.

Our regular system was every night to place chairs around the dining-table, ring a bell, and open school, she presiding at one end of the table and I at the other, each propped up on books to give us the necessary height and dignity for teachers.

Our school proved successful. The boys learned arithmetic, and the guitar was awarded. All who tried learned to read, and from that day we have never ceased to teach all who desired to learn.

Thus my early life was passed amid scenes cheerful and agreeable, nor did anyone seem to have any care except my mother. Her cares and responsibilities were great, with one hundred people continually upon her mind, who were constantly appealing to her in every strait, real or imaginary. But it had pleased God to place her here, and nobly did she perform the duties of her station. She often told us of her distress on realizing for the first time the responsibilities devolving upon the mistress of a large plantation, and the nights of sorrow and tears these thoughts had given her.

On her arrival at the plantation after her marriage, the negroes received her with lively demonstrations of joy, clapping their hands and shouting: "Thank God, we got a mistess!" some of them throwing themselves on the ground at her feet in their enthusiasm.

The plantation had been without a master or mistress for twelve years, my father, the sole heir, having been away at school and college. During this time the silver had been left in the house, and the servants had kept and used it, but nothing had been stolen.

The books, too, had been undisturbed in the library, except a few volumes of the poets, which had been carried to adorn some of the cabin shelves.

It was known by the negroes that their old master's will set them free and gave them a large body of land in the event of my father's death; and some of his college friends suggested that he might be killed while passing his vacations on his estate. But this only amused him, for he knew too well in what affection he was held by his negroes, and how each vied with the other in showing him attention, often spreading a dinner for him at their cabins when he returned from hunting or fishing.

I think I have written enough to show the mutual affection existing between the white and black races, and the abundant provision generally made for the wants of those whom God had mysteriously placed under our care.

The existence of extreme want and poverty had never entered my mind until one day my mother showed us some pictures entitled "London Labor and London Poor," when we asked her if she believed there were such poor people in the world, and she replied: "Yes, children, there are many in this world who have nowhere to sleep and nothing to eat."

Still we could not realize what she said, for we had never seen a beggar. But from that time it began to dawn upon us that all the world was not a plantation, with more than enough on it for people to eat. And when we were old enough to read and to compare our surroundings with what we learned about other countries, we found that our laboring population was more bountifully supplied than that of any other land. We read about "myriads of poor, starving creatures, with pinched faces and tattered garments," in far-off cities and countries. We read of hundreds who, from destitution and wretchedness, committed suicide. We read these things, but could not fully sympathize with such want and suffering; for it is necessary to witness these in order to feel the fullest sympathy, and we had never seen anything of the kind on our own or our neighbors' plantations.

Our negroes' religious instruction, I found, had not been more neglected than among the lower classes in England, Ireland, France, and elsewhere. Every church—there was one of some denomination near every plantation—had special seats reserved for the negroes. The minister always addressed a portion of his sermon particularly to them, and held service for them exclusively on Sabbath afternoons. Besides, they had their own ministers among themselves, and held night prayer-meetings in their cabins whenever they chose.

Many prayers ascended from earnest hearts for their conversion, and I knew no home at which some effort was not made for their religious instruction.

One of our friends—a Presbyterian minister and earnest Christian—devoted the greater part of his time to teaching and preaching to them, and many pious ministers throughout the State bestowed upon them time and labor.

I once attended a gay party where the young lady of the house, the center of attraction, hearing that one of the negroes was suddenly very ill, excused herself from the company, carried her prayer-book to the cabin, and passed the night by the bedside of the sick man, reading and repeating verses to him. I have also had young lady friends who declined attending a wedding or party when a favorite servant was ill.

"READING AND REPEATING VERSES TO HIM."—Page 26.

On one occasion an English gentleman—a surgeon in the Royal Artillery—visiting at our house, accompanied us to a wedding, and, hearing that two young ladies had not attended on account of the illness of a negro servant, said to me: "This would not have occurred in England, and will scarcely be believed when I tell it on my return."

The same gentleman expressed astonishment at one of our neighbors sitting up all night to nurse one of his negroes who was ill. He was amused at the manner of our servants' identifying themselves with the master and his possessions, always speaking of "our horses," "our cows," "our crop," "our mill," "our blacksmith's shop," "our carriage," "our black folks," etc. He told us that he also observed a difference between our menials and those of his own country, in that, while here they were individualized, there they were known by the names of "Boots," "'Ostler," "Driver," "Footman," "Cook," "Waiter," "Scullion," etc. On our plantations the most insignificant stable-boy felt himself of some importance.

When I heard Mr. Dickens read scenes from "Nicholas Nickleby," the tone of voice in which he personated Smike sent a chill through me, for I had never before heard the human voice express such hopeless despair. Can there be in England, thought I, human beings afraid of the sound of their own voices?

There was a class of men in our State who made a business of buying negroes to sell again farther south. These we never met, and held in horror. But even they, when we reflect, could not have treated them with inhumanity; for what man would pay a thousand dollars for a piece of property, and fail to take the best possible care of it? The "traders" usually bought their negroes when an estate became involved, for the owners could not be induced to part with their negroes until the last extremity—when everything else had been seized by their creditors. Houses, lands,—everything went first before giving up the negroes; the owner preferring to impoverish himself in the effort to keep and provide for these,—which was unwise financially, and would not have been thought of by a mercenary people.

But it was hard to part with one's "own people," and to see them scattered. Still our debts had to be paid,—often security debts after the death of the owner, when all had to be sold. And who of us but can remember the tears of anguish caused by this, and scenes of sorrow to which we can never revert without the keenest grief? Yet, like all events in this checkered human life, even these sometimes turned out best for the negroes, when by this means they exchanged unpleasant for agreeable homes. Still it appeared to me a great evil, and often did I pray that God would make us a way of escape from it. But His ways are past finding out, and why He had been pleased to order it thus we shall never know.

Instances of harsh or cruel treatment were rare. I never heard of more than two or three individuals who were "hard" or unkind to their negroes, and these were ostracized from respectable society, their very names bringing reproach and blight upon their descendants.

We knew of but one instance of cruelty on our plantation, and that was when "Uncle Joe," the blacksmith, burned his nephew's face with a hot iron. The man carries the scar to this day, and in speaking of it always says: "Soon as my marster fin' out how Uncle Joe treated me, he wouldn't let me work no mo' in his shop."

CHAPTER IV.

The extent of these estates precluding the possibility of near neighbors, their isolation would have been intolerable but for the custom of visiting which prevailed among us. Many houses were filled with visitors the greater part of the year, and these usually remained two or three weeks. Visiting tours were made in our private carriages, each family making at least one such tour a year. Nor was it necessary to announce these visits by message or letter, each house being considered always ready, and "entertaining company" being the occupation of the people. Sometimes two or three carriages might be descried in the evening coming up to the door through the Lombardy poplar avenue,—the usual approach to many old houses; whereupon ensued a lively flutter among small servants, who, becoming generally excited, speedily got them into their clean aprons, and ran to open gates and to remove parcels from carriages. Lady visitors were always accompanied by colored maids, although sure of finding a superfluity of these at each establishment. The mistress of the house always received her guests in the front porch, with a sincere and cordial greeting.

These visiting friends at my own home made an impression upon me that no time can efface. I almost see them now, those dear, gentle faces, my mother's early friends, and those delightful old ladies, in close bordered tarlatan caps, who used to come to see my grandmother. These last would sit round the fire, knitting and talking over their early memories: how they remembered the red coats of the British; how they had seen the Richmond theater burn down, with some of their family burned in it; how they used to wear such beautiful turbans of crêpe lisse to the Cartersville balls, and how they used to dance the minuet. At mention of this my grandmother would lay off her spectacles, put aside her knitting, rise with dignity,—she was very tall,—and show us the step of the minuet, gliding slowly and majestically around the room. Then she would say: "Ah, children, you will never see anything as graceful as the minuet. Such jumping around as you see would not have been regarded as dignified in my day!"

"MY GRANDMOTHER WOULD SHOW US THE STEP OF THE MINUET."—Page 32.

My mother's friends belonged to a later generation, and were types of women whom to have known I shall ever regard as a blessing and privilege. They combined intelligence with exquisite refinement; and their annual visits gave my mother the greatest happiness, which we soon learned to share and appreciate.

As I look upon these ladies as models for our sex through all time, I enumerate some of their charms:

Entire absence of pretense made them always attractive. Having no "parlor" or "company" manners to assume, they preserved at all times a gentle, natural, easy demeanor and conversation. They had not dipped into the sciences, attempted by some of our sex at the present day; but the study of Latin and French, with general reading in their mother tongue, rendered them intelligent companions for cultivated men. They also possessed the rare gift of reading well aloud, and wrote letters unsurpassed in penmanship and style.

Italian and German professors being rare in that day, their musical acquirements did not extend beyond the simplest piano accompaniments to old English and Scotch airs, which they sang in a sweet, natural voice, and which so enchanted the beaux of their time that the latter never afterward became reconciled to any higher order of music.

These model women also managed their household affairs admirably, and were uniformly kind to, but never familiar with, their servants. They kept ever before them the Bible as their constant guide and rule in life, and were surely, as nearly as possible, holy in thought, word, and deed. I have looked in vain for such women in other lands, but have failed to find them.

Then there were old gentlemen visitors, beaux of my grandmother's day, still wearing queues, wide-ruffled bosoms, short breeches, and knee buckles. These pronounced the a very broad, sat a long time over their wine at dinner, and carried in their pockets gold or silver snuffboxes presented by some distinguished individual at some remote period.

"THERE WERE OLD GENTLEMEN VISITORS."—Page 34.

Our visiting acquaintance extended from Botetourt County to Richmond, and among them were jolly old Virginia gentlemen and precise old Virginia gentlemen; eccentric old Virginia gentlemen and prosy old Virginia gentlemen; courtly old Virginia gentlemen and plain-mannered old Virginia gentlemen; charming old Virginia gentlemen and uninteresting old Virginia gentlemen. Many of them had graduated years and years ago at William and Mary College.

Then we had another set, of a later day,—those who graduated in the first graduating class at the University of Virginia when that institution was first established. These happened—all that we knew—to have belonged to the same class, and often amused us, without intending it, by reverting to that fact in these words:

"That was a remarkable class! Every man in that class made his mark in law, letters, or politics! Let me see: There was Toombs. There was Charles Mosby. There was Alexander Stuart. There was Burwell. There was R. M. T. Hunter,"—and so on, calling each by name except himself, knowing that the others never failed to do that!

Edgar Poe and Alexander Stephens of Georgia were also at the university with these gentlemen.

Although presenting an infinite variety of mind, manner, and temperament, all the gentlemen who visited us, young and old, possessed in common certain characteristics, one of which was a deference to ladies which made us feel that we had been put in the world especially to be waited upon by them. Their standard for woman was high. They seemed to regard her as some rare and costly statue set in a niche to be admired and never taken down.

Another peculiarity they had in common was a habit—which seemed irresistible—of tracing people back to the remotest generation, and appearing inconsolable if ever they failed to find out the pedigree of any given individual for at least four generations. This, however, was an innocent pastime, from which they seemed to derive much pleasure and satisfaction, and which should not be regarded, even in this advanced age, as a serious fault.

Among our various visitors was a kinsman—of whom I often heard, but whom I do not recollect—a bachelor of eighty years, always accompanied by his negro servant as old as himself. Both had the same name, Louis, pronounced like the French, and this aged pair had been so long together they could not exist apart. Black Louis rarely left his master's side, assisting in the conversation if his master became perplexed or forgetful. When his master talked in the parlor, black Louis always planted his chair in the middle of the doorsill, every now and then correcting or reminding with: "Now, marster, dat warn't Colonel Taylor's horse dat won dat race dat day. You and me was dar." Or: "Now, marster, you done forgot all 'bout dat. Dat was in de year 1779, an' dis is de way it happened," etc., much to the amusement of the company assembled. All this was said, I am told, most respectfully, although the old negro in a manner possessed his master, having entire charge and command of him.

"NOW, MARSTER, YOU DONE FORGOT ALL 'BOUT DAT."—Page 37.

The negroes often felt great pride in "our white people," as they called their owners, and loved to brag about what "our white people" did and what "our white people" had.

On one occasion it became necessary for my sister and myself to ride a short distance in a public conveyance. A small colored boy, who helped in our dining room, had to get in the same stage. Two old gentlemen, strangers to us, sitting opposite, supposing we had fallen asleep when we closed our eyes to keep out the dust, commenced talking about us. Said one to the other: "Now, those children will spoil their Sunday bonnets." Whereupon our colored boy spoke up quickly: "Umph! you think dems my mistesses' Sunday bonnets? Umph! you jes' ought to see what dey got up dar on top de stage in dar bandbox!" At this we both laughed, for the boy had never seen our "Sunday bonnets," nor did he know that we possessed any.

CHAPTER V.

English books never fail to make honorable mention of a "roast of beef," "a leg of mutton," "a dish of potatoes," "a dish of tea," etc., while with us the abundance of such things gave them, we thought, not enough importance to be particularized. Still my reminiscences extend to these.

Every Virginia housewife knew how to compound all the various dishes in Mrs. Randolph's cookery book, and our tables were filled with every species of meat and vegetable to be found on a plantation, with every kind of cakes, jellies, and blanc-mange to be concocted out of eggs, butter, and cream, besides an endless catalogue of preserves, sweetmeats, pickles, and condiments. So that in the matter of good living, both as to abundance and the manner of serving, a Virginia plantation could not be excelled.

The first specialty being good loaf bread, there was always a hot loaf for breakfast, hot corn bread for dinner, and a hot loaf for supper. Every house was famed for its loaf bread, and said a gentleman once to me: "Although at each place it is superb, yet each loaf differs from another loaf, preserving distinct characteristics which would enable me to distinguish, instantly, should there be a convention of loaves, the Oaklands loaf from the Greenfield loaf, and the Avenel loaf from the Rustic Lodge loaf."

And apropos of this gentleman, who, it is needless to add, was a celebrated connoisseur in this matter of loaf bread, it was a noticeable fact with our cook that whenever he came to our house, the bread in trying to do its best always did its worst!

Speaking of bread, another gentleman expressed his belief that at the last great day it will be found that more housewives will be punished on account of light-bread than anything else; for he knew some who were never out of temper except when the light-bread failed!

Time would fail me to dwell, as I should, upon the incomparable rice waffles, and beat biscuit, and muffins, and laplands, and marguerites, and flannel cakes, and French rolls, and velvet rolls, and lady's fingers constantly brought by relays of small servants, during breakfast, hot and hotter from the kitchen. Then the tea-waiters handed at night, with the beef tongue, the sliced ham, the grated cheese, the cold turkey, the dried venison, the loaf bread buttered hot, the batter-cakes, the crackers, the quince marmalade, the wafers,—all pass in review before me.

The first time I ever heard of a manner of living different from this was when it became important for my mother to make a visit to a great-aunt in Baltimore, and she went for the first time out of her native State; as neither she nor her mother had ever been out of Virginia. My mother was accompanied by her maid, Kitty, on this expedition, and when they returned both had many astounding things to relate. My grandmother threw up her hands in amazement on hearing that some of the first ladies in the city, who visited old aunt, confined the conversation of a morning call to the subject of the faults of their hired servants. "Is it possible?" exclaimed the old lady. "I never considered it well bred to mention servants or their faults in company."

Indeed, in our part of the world, a mistress became offended if the faults of her servants were alluded to, just as persons become displeased when the faults of their children are discussed.

Maid Kitty's account of this visit I will give, as well as I can remember, in her own words, as she described it to her fellow-servants: "You nuver see sich a way fur people to live! Folks goes to bed in Baltimore 'thout a single moufful in de house to eat. An' dey can't get nothin' neither 'thout dey gits up soon in de mornin' an' goes to market after it deyselves. Rain, hail, or shine, dey got to go. 'Twouldn't suit our white folks to live dat way! An' I wouldn't live dar not for nothin' in dis worl'. In dat fine three-story house dar aint but bar' two servants, an' dey has to do all de work. 'Twouldn't suit me, an' I wouldn't live dar not for nothin' in dis whole creation. I would git dat lonesome I couldn't stan' it. Bar' two servants! an' dey calls deyselves rich, too! An' dey cooks in de cellar. I know mistess couldn't stan' dat—smellin' everyt'ing out de kitchen all over de house. Umph! dem folks don't know nothin' 'tall 'bout good livin', wid dar cold bread an' dar rusks!"

Maid Kitty spoke truly when she said she had never seen two women do all the housework. For at home often three women would clean up one chamber. One made the bed, while another swept the floor, and a third dusted and put the chairs straight. Labor was divided and subdivided; and I remember one woman whose sole employment seemed to be throwing open the blinds in the morning and rubbing the posts of my grandmother's high bedstead. This rubbing business was carried quite to excess. Every inch of mahogany was waxed and rubbed to the highest state of polish, as were also the floors, the brass fenders, irons, and candlesticks.

"THREE WOMEN WOULD CLEAN UP ONE CHAMBER"—Page 43.

When I reflect upon the degree of comfort arrived at in our homes, I think we should have felt grateful to our ancestors; for, as Quincy has written: "In whatever mode of existence man finds himself, be it savage or civilized, he perceives that he is indebted for the greater part of his possessions to events over which he had no control; to individuals whose names, perhaps, never reached his ear; to sacrifices which he never shared. How few of all these blessings do we owe to our own power or prudence! How few on which we cannot discern the impress of a long past generation!" So we were indebted for our agreeable surroundings to the heroism and sacrifices of past generations, which not to venerate and eulogize betrays the want of a truly noble soul. For what courage, what patience, what perseverance, what long suffering, what Christian forbearance, must it have cost our great-grandmothers to civilize, Christianize, and elevate the naked, savage Africans to the condition of good cooks and respectable maids! They—our great-grandmothers—did not enjoy the blessed privilege even of turning their servants off when inefficient or disagreeable, but had to keep them through life. The only thing was to bear and forbear, and

Be to their virtues very kind,

Be to their faults a little blind.

If in heaven there be one seat higher than another, it must be reserved for those true Southern matrons, who performed conscientiously their part assigned them by God—civilizing and instructing this race.

I have searched missionary records of all ages, but find no results in Africa or elsewhere at all comparing with the grand work accomplished for the African race in our Southern homes.

Closing the last chapter of "Explorations in the Dark Continent," the thought came to me that it would be well if our African friends in America would set apart another anniversary to celebrate "the landing of their fathers on the shores of America," when they were bought and domiciled in American homes. This must have been God's own plan for helping them, although a severe ordeal for our ancestors.

In God's own time and way the shackles have been removed from this people, who are now sufficiently civilized to take an independent position in the great family of man.

However we may differ in the opinion, there is no greater compliment to Southern slave-owners than the idea prevailing in many places that the negro is already sufficiently elevated to hold the highest positions in the gift of our government.

I once met in traveling an English gentleman who asked me: "How can you bear those miserable black negroes about your houses and about your persons? To me they are horribly repulsive, and I would not endure one about me."

"Neither would they have been my choice," I replied. "But God sent them to us. I was born to this inheritance and could not avert it. What would you English have done," I asked, "if God had sent them to you?"

"Thrown them to the bottom of the sea!" he replied.

Fortunately for the poor negro this sentiment did not prevail among us. I believe God endowed our people with qualities peculiarly adapted to taking charge of this race, and that no other nation could have kept them. Our people did not demand as much work as in other countries is required of servants, and I think had more affection for them than is elsewhere felt for menials.

In this connection I remember an incident during the war which deserves to be recorded as showing the affection entertained for negro dependents.

When our soldiers were nearly starved, and only allowed daily a small handful of parched corn, the colonel of a Virginia regiment[1] by accident got some coffee, a small portion of which was daily distributed to each soldier. In the regiment was a cousin of mine,—a young man endowed with the noblest attributes God can give,—who, although famishing and needing it, denied himself his portion every day that he might bring it to his black mammy. He made a small bag in which he deposited and carefully saved it.

When he arrived at home on furlough, his mother wept to see his tattered clothes, his shoeless feet, and his starved appearance.

Soon producing the little bag of coffee, with a cheerful smile, he said: "See what I've saved to bring black mammy!"

"Oh! my son," said his mother, "you have needed it yourself. Why did you not use it?"

"Well," he replied, "it has been so long since you all had any coffee, and I made out very well on water, when I thought how black mammy missed her coffee, and how glad she would be to get it."

CHAPTER VI.

The antiquity of the furniture in our homes can scarcely be described, every article appearing to have been purchased during the reign of George III., since which period no new fixtures or household utensils seemed to have been bought.

The books in our libraries had been brought from England almost two hundred years before. In our own library there were Hogarth's pictures, in old worm-eaten frames; and among the literary curiosities, one of the earliest editions of Shakespeare (1685) containing under the author's picture the lines by Ben Jonson:

"This Figure, that thou here seest put,

It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;

Wherein the Graver had a strife

With Nature to outdo the Life:

O, could he but have drawn his Wit

As well in Brass, as he has hit

His Face; the Print would then surpass

All that was ever writ in Brass.

But since he cannot, Reader, look

Not on his Picture, but his Book."

This was a reprint of the first edition of Shakespeare's works, collected by John Heminge and Henry Condell, two of his friends in the company of comedians.

When a small child, the perusal of the "Arabian Nights" possessed me with the idea that their dazzling pictures were to be realized when we emerged from plantation life into the outside world, and the disappointment at not finding Richmond paved with gems and gold like those cities in Eastern story is remembered to the present time.

Brought up amid antiquities, the Virginia girl disturbed herself not about modern fashions, appearing happy in her mother's old silks and satins made over. She rejoiced in her grandmother's laces and in her brooch of untold dimensions, with a weeping willow and tombstone on it,—a constant reminder of the past,—which had descended from some remote ancestor.

She slept in a high bedstead—the bed of her ancestors; washed her face on an old-fashioned, spindle-legged washstand; mounted a high chair to arrange her hair before the old-fashioned mirror on the high bureau; climbed to the top of a high mantelpiece to take down the old-fashioned high candlesticks; climbed a pair of steps to get into the high-swung, old-fashioned carriage; perched her feet upon the top of a high brass fender if she wanted to get them warm; and, in short, had to perform so many gymnastics that she felt convinced her ancestors must have been a race of giants, or they could not have required such tall and inaccessible furniture.

An occasional visit to Richmond or Petersburg sometimes animated her with a desire for some style of dress less antique than her own, although she had as much admiration and attention as if she had just received her wardrobe from Paris.

Her social outlook might have been regarded as limited and circumscribed, her parents being unwilling that her acquaintance should extend beyond the descendants of their own old friends.

She had never any occasion to make what the world calls her "début," the constant flow of company at her father's house having rendered her assistance necessary in entertaining guests as soon as she could converse and be companionable, so that her manners were early formed, and she remembered not the time when it was anything but very easy and agreeable to be in the society of ladies and gentlemen.

In due time we were provided—my sister and myself—with the best instructors—a lady all the way from Bordeaux to teach French, and a German professor for German and music. The latter opened to us a new world of music. He was a fine linguist, a thorough musician, and a gentleman. He lived with us for five years, and remained our sincere and truly valued friend through life.

After some years we were thought to have arrived at "sufficient age of discretion" for a trip to New York City.

Fancy our feelings on arriving in that world of modern people and modern things! Fancy two young girls suddenly transported from the time of George III. to the largest hotel on Broadway in 1855!

All was as strange to us then as we are now to the Chinese. Never had we seen white servants before, and on being attended by them at first we felt a sort of embarrassment, but soon found they were accustomed to less consideration and more hard work than were our negro servants at home.

Everything and everybody seemed in a mad whirl—the "march of material progress," they told us. It seemed to us more the "perpetual motion of progress." Everybody said that if old-fogy Virginia did not make haste to join this march, she would be left "a wreck behind."

We found ourselves in the "advanced age": in the land of water-pipes and dumb-waiters; the land of enterprise and money, and, at the same time, of an economy amounting to parsimony.

The manners of the people were strange to us, and different from ours. The ladies seemed to have gone ahead of the men in the "march of progress," their manner being more pronounced. They did not hesitate to push about through crowds and public places.

Still we were young; and, dazzled with the gloss and glitter, we wondered why old Virginia couldn't join this march of progress, and have dumb-waiters, and elevators, and water-pipes, and gas-fixtures, and baby-jumpers, and washing-machines.

We asked a gentleman who was with us why old Virginia had not all these, and he replied: "Because, while the people here have been busy working for themselves, old-fogy Virginia has been working for negroes. All the money Virginia makes is spent in feeding and clothing negroes. And," he continued, "these people in the North were shrewd enough years ago to sell all theirs to the South."

All was strange to us,—even the tablecloths on the tea and breakfast tables, instead of napkins under the plates, such as we had at home, and which always looked so pretty on the mahogany.

But the novelty having worn off after a while, we found out there was a good deal of imitation, after all, mixed up in everything. Things did not seem to have been "fixed up" to last as long as our old things at home, and we began to wonder if the "advanced age" really made the people any better, or more agreeable, or more hospitable, or more generous, or more brave, or more self-reliant, or more charitable, or more true, or more pious, than in "old-fogy Virginia."

There was one thing most curious to us in New York. No one seemed to do anything by himself or herself. No one had an individuality; all existed in "clubs" or "societies." They had many "isms" also, of which we had never heard, some of the people sitting up all night and going around all day talking about "manifestations," and "spirits," and "affinities," which they told us was "spiritualism."

All this impressed us slow, old-fashioned Virginians as a strangely upside-down, wrong-side-out condition of things.

Much of the conversation we heard was confined to asking questions of strangers, and discussing the best means of making money.

We were surprised, too, to hear of "plantation customs," said to exist among us, which were entirely new to us; and one of the magazines published in the city informed us that "dipping" was one of the characteristics of Southern women. What could the word "dipping" mean? we wondered, for we had never heard it before. Upon inquiry we found that it meant "rubbing the teeth with snuff on a small stick"—a truly disgusting habit which could not have prevailed in Virginia, or we would have had some tradition of it at least, our acquaintance extending over the State, and our ancestors having settled there two hundred years ago.

A young gentleman from Virginia, bright and overflowing with fun,—also visiting New York,—coming into the parlor one day, threw himself on a sofa in a violent fit of laughter.

"What is the matter?" we asked.

"I am laughing," he replied, "at the absurd questions these people can ask. What do you think? A man asked me just now if we didn't keep bloodhounds in Virginia to chase negroes! I told him: Oh, yes, every plantation keeps several dozen! And we often have a tender boiled negro infant for breakfast!"

"Oh, how could you have told such a story?" we said.

"Well," said he, "you know we never saw a bloodhound in Virginia, and I do not expect there is one in the State; but these people delight in believing everything horrible about us, and I thought I might as well gratify them with something marvelous. So the next book published up here will have, I've no doubt, a chapter headed: 'Bloodhounds in Virginia and boiled negroes for breakfast!'"

While we were purchasing some trifles to bring home to some of our servants, a lady who had entertained us most kindly at her house on Fifth Avenue, expressing surprise, said: "We never think of bringing home presents to our help."

This was the first time we had ever heard, instead of "servant," the word "help," which seemed then, and still seems, misapplied. The dictionaries define "help" to mean aid, assistance, remedy, while "servant" means one who attends another and acts at his command. When a man pays another to "help" him, it implies he is to do part of the work himself, and is dishonest if he leaves the whole to be performed by his "help."

Among other discoveries during this visit we found how much more talent it requires to entertain company in the country than in the city. In the latter the guests and family form no "social circle round the blazing hearth" at night, but disperse far and wide, to be entertained at the concert, the opera, the theatre, or club; while in the country one depends entirely upon native intellect and conversational talent.

And, oh! the memory of our own fireside circles! The exquisite women, the men of giant intellect, eloquence, and wit, at sundry times assembled there! Could our andirons but utter speech, what would they not tell of mirth and song, eloquence and wit, whose flow made many an evening bright!

As all delights must have an end, the time came for us to leave these metropolitan scenes, and, bidding adieu forever to the land of "modern appliances" and stale bread, we returned to the land of "old ham and corn cakes," and were soon surrounded by friends who came to hear the marvels we had to relate.

How monotonous, how dull, prosy, inconvenient, everything seemed after our plunge into modern life!

We told old Virginia about all the enterprise we had seen, and how she was left far behind everybody and everything, urging her to join at once the "march of material progress."

But the Mother of States persisted in sitting contentedly over her old-fashioned wood fire with brass andirons, and, while thus musing, these words fell slowly and distinctly from her lips:

"They call me 'old fogy,' and tell me I must get out of my old ruts and come into the 'advanced age.' But I don't care about their 'advanced age,' their water-pipes and elevators. Give me the right sort of men and women—God-loving, God-serving men and women. Men brave, courteous, true; women sensible, gentle, and retiring.

"Have not my plantation homes furnished warriors, statesmen, and orators, acknowledged great by the world? I make it a rule to 'keep on hand' men equal to emergencies. Had I not Washington, Patrick Henry, Light-Horse Harry Lee, and others, ready for the first Revolution? and if there comes another,—which God forbid!—have I not plenty more just like them?"

Here she laughed with delight as she called over their names: "Robert Lee, Jackson, Joe Johnstone, Stuart, Early, Floyd, Preston, the Breckinridges, Scott, and others like them, brave and true as steel. Ha! ha! I know of what stuff to make men! And if my old 'ruts and grooves' produce men like these, should they be abandoned? Can any 'advanced age' produce better?

"Then there are my soldiers of the Cross. Do I not yearly send out a faithful band to be a 'shining light,' and spread the Gospel North, South, East, West, even into foreign lands? Is not the only Christian paper in Athens, Greece, the result of the love and labor of one of my soldiers?[2]

"And can I not send out men of science, as well as warriors, statesmen, and orators? There is Maury on the seas, showing the world what a man of science can do. If my 'old-fogy' system has produced men like these, must it be abandoned?"

Here the old Mother of States settled herself back in her chair, a smile of satisfaction resting on her face, and she ceased to think of change.

Telling our mother of all the wonders and pleasures of New York, she said:

"You were so delighted I judge that you would like to sell out everything here and move there!"

"It would be delightful!" we exclaimed.

"But you would miss many pleasures you have in our present home."

"We would have no time to miss anything," said my sister, "in that whirl of excitement! But," she continued, "I believe one might as well try to move the Rocky Mountains to Fifth Avenue as an old Virginian! They have such a horror of selling out and moving."

"It is not so easy to sell out and move," replied our mother, "when you remember all the negroes we have to take care of and support."

"Yes, the negroes," we said, "are the weight continually pulling us down! Will the time ever come for us to be free of them?"

"They were placed here," replied our mother, "by God, for us to take care of, and it does not seem that we can change it. When we emancipate them, it does not better their condition. Those left free and with good farms given them by their masters soon sink into poverty and wretchedness, and become a nuisance to the community. We see how miserable are Mr. Randolph's[3] negroes, who with their freedom received from their master a large section of the best land in Prince Edward County. My own grandfather also emancipated a large number, having first had them taught lucrative trades that they might support themselves, and giving them money and land. But they were not prosperous or happy. We have also tried sending them to Liberia. You know my old friend Mrs. L. emancipated all hers and sent them to Liberia; but she told me the other day that she was convinced it had been no kindness to them, for she continually receives letters begging assistance, and yearly supplies them with clothes and money."

So it seemed our way was surrounded by walls of circumstances too thick and solid to be pulled down, and we said no more.

Some weeks after this conversation we had a visit from a friend—Dr. Bagby—who, having lived in New York, and hearing us express a wish to live there, said:

"What! exchange a home in old Virginia for one on Fifth Avenue? You don't know what you are talking about! It is not even called 'home' there, but 'house,' where they turn into bed at midnight, eat stale-bread breakfasts, have brilliant parties—where several hundred people meet who don't care anything about each other. They have no soul life, but shut themselves up in themselves, live for themselves, and never have any social enjoyment like ours."

"But," we said, "could not our friends come to see us there as well as anywhere else?"

"No, indeed!" he answered. "Your hearts would soon be as cold and dead as a marble door-front. You wouldn't want to see anybody, and nobody would want to see you."

"You are complimentary, certainly!"

"I know all about it; and"—he continued—"I know you could not find on Fifth Avenue such women as your mother and grandmother, who never think of themselves, but are constantly planning and providing for others, making their homes comfortable and pleasant, and attending to the wants and welfare of so many negroes. And that is what the women all over the South are doing, and what the New York women cannot comprehend. How can anybody know, except ourselves, the personal sacrifices of our women?"

"Well," said my sister, "you need not be so severe and eloquent because we thought we should like to live in New York! If we should sell all we possess, we could never afford to live there. Besides, you know our mother would as soon think of selling her children as her servants."

"But," he replied, "I can't help talking, for I hear our people abused, and called indolent and self-indulgent, when I know they have valor and endurance enough. And I believe so much 'material progress' leaves no leisure for the highest development of heart and mind. Where the whole energy of a people is applied to making money, the souls of men become dwarfed."

"We do not feel," we said, "like abusing Northern people, in whose thrift and enterprise we found much to admire; and especially the self-reliance of their women, enabling them to take care of themselves and to travel from Maine to the Gulf without escort, while we find it impossible to travel a day's journey without a special protector."

"That is just what I don't like," said he, "to see a woman in a crowd of strangers and needing no 'special protector.'"

"This dependence upon your sex," we replied, "keeps you so vain."

"We should lose our gallantry altogether," said he, "if we found you could get along without us."

CHAPTER VII.

After some months—ceasing to think and speak of New York—our lives glided back into the old channel, where the placid stream of life had many isles of simple pleasures.

In those days we were not whirled over the iron track in a crowded car, with dirty, shrieking children and repulsive-looking people. We were not jammed against rough people, eating ill-smelling things out of ill-looking baskets and satchels, and throwing the remains of pies and sausages over the cushioned seats.

Oh, no! our journeys were performed in venerable carriages, and our lunch was enjoyed by some cool, shady spring where we stopped in a shady forest at mid-day.

"LUNCH BY SOME COOL, SHADY SPRING."—Page 66.

Our own ancient carriage my sister styled "the old ship of Zion," saying it had carried many thousands, and was likely to carry many more. And our driver we called the "Ancient Mariner." He presided on his seat—a lofty perch—in a very high hat and with great dignity. Having been driving the same carriage for nearly forty years—no driver being thought safe who had not been on the carriage box at least twenty years,—he regarded himself as an oracle, and, in consequence of his years and experience, kept us in much awe,—my sister and myself never daring to ask him to quicken or retard his pace or change the direction of his course, however much we desired it. We will ever remember this thraldom, and how we often wished one of the younger negroes could be allowed to take his place; but my grandmother said "it would wound his feelings, and, besides, be very unsafe" for us.

At every steep hill or bad place in the road it was an established custom to stop the carriage, unfold the high steps, and "let us out,"—as in pictures of the animals coming down out of the ark! This custom had always prevailed in my mother's family, and there was a tradition that my great-grandfather's horses, being habituated to stop for this purpose, refused to pull up certain hills, even when the carriage was empty, until the driver had dismounted and slammed the door, after which they moved off without further hesitation.

This custom of walking at intervals made a pleasant variety, and gave us an opportunity to enjoy fully the beautiful and picturesque scenery through which we were passing.

Those were the days of leisure and pleasure for travelers; and when we remember the charming summer jaunts annually made in this way, we almost regret the steam horse, which takes us now to the same places in a few hours.

We had two dear friends, Mary and Alice, who with their old carriages and drivers—the facsimiles of our own—frequently accompanied us in these expeditions; and no generals ever exercised more entire command over their armies than did these three black coachmen over us. I smile now to think of their ever being called our "slaves."

Yet, although they had this domineering spirit, they felt at the same time a certain pride in us, too.

On one occasion, when we were traveling together, our friend Alice concluded to dismount from her carriage and ride a few miles with a gentleman of the party in a buggy. She had not gone far before the alarm was given that the buggy horse was running away, whereupon our black generalissimos instantly stopped the three carriages and anxiously watched the result. Old Uncle Edmund, Alice's coachman, stood up in his seat highly excited, and when his young mistress, with admirable presence of mind, seized the reins and stopped the horse, turning him into a by-road, he shouted at the top of his voice: "Dar, now! I always knowed Miss Alice was a young 'oman of de mos' amiable courage!"—and over this feat he continued to chuckle for the rest of the day.

The end of these pleasant journeys always brought us to some old plantation home, where we met a warm welcome not only from the white family, but from the servants who constituted part of the establishment.

One of the most charming places to which we made a yearly visit was Oaklands, a lovely spot embowered in vines and shade-trees.

The attractions of this home and family brought so many visitors every summer, it was necessary to erect cottages about the grounds, although the house itself was quite large. And as the yard was usually filled with persons strolling about, or reading, or playing chess under the trees, it had every appearance, on first approach, of a small watering-place. The mistress of this establishment was a woman of rare attraction, possessing all the gentleness of her sex, with attributes of greatness enough for a hero. Tall and handsome, she looked a queen as she stood on the portico receiving her guests, and, by the first words of greeting, from her warm, true heart, charmed even strangers.

Without the least "variableness or shadow of turning," her excellences were a perfect continuity, and her deeds of charity a blessing to all in need within her reach. No undertaking seemed too great for her, and no details—affecting the comfort of her home, family, friends, or servants—too small for her supervision.

The church, a few miles distant, the object of her care and love, received at her hands constant and valuable aid, and its minister generally formed one of her family circle.

No wonder, then, that the home of such a woman should have been a favorite resort for all who had the privilege of knowing her. And no wonder that all who enjoyed her charming hospitality were spellbound, and loath to leave the spot where it was extended.

In addition to the qualities I have attempted to describe, this lady inherited from her father, General Breckinridge, an executive talent which enabled her to order and arrange her domestic affairs perfectly; so that from the delicious viands upon her table to the highly polished oak of the floors, all gave evidence of her superior management and the admirable training of her servants.

Nor were the hospitalities of this establishment dispensed to the gay and great alone: they were shared alike by the homeless and the friendless, and many a weary heart found sympathy and shelter there.

Oaklands was famous for many things: its fine light-bread, its cinnamon cakes, its beat biscuit, its fricasseed chicken, its butter and cream, its wine-sauces, its plum-puddings, its fine horses, its beautiful meadows, its sloping green hills, and last, but not least, its refined and agreeable society collected from every part of our own State, and often from others.

For an epicure no better place could have been desired. And this reminds me of a retired army officer, a gourmet of the first water, whom we often met there. His sole occupation was visiting his friends, and his only subjects of conversation were the best viands and the best manner of cooking them! When asked whether he remembered certain people at a certain place, he would reply: "Yes, I dined there ten years ago, and the turkey was very badly cooked—not quite done enough!" the turkey evidently having made a more lasting impression than the people.

This gentleman lost an eye at the battle of Chapultepec, having been among the first of our gallant men who scaled the walls. But a young girl of his acquaintance always said she knew it was not bravery so much as "curiosity, which led him to go peeping over the walls, first man!" This was a heartless speech, but everybody repeated it and laughed, for the colonel was a man of considerable "curiosity."

Like all old homes, Oaklands had its bright as well as its sorrowful days, its weddings and its funerals. Many yet remember the gay wedding of one there whose charms brought suitors by the score and won hearts by the dozen. The brilliant career of this young lady, her conquests and wonderful fascinations, behold! are they not all written upon the hearts and memories of divers rejected suitors who still survive?

And, apropos of weddings, an old-fashioned Virginia wedding was an event to be remembered. The preparations usually commenced some time before, with saving eggs, butter, chickens, etc.; after which ensued the liveliest egg-beating, butter-creaming, raisin-stoning, sugar-pounding, cake-icing, salad-chopping, cocoanut-grating, lemon-squeezing, egg-frothing, wafer-making, pastry-baking, jelly-straining, paper-cutting, silver-cleaning, floor-rubbing, dress-making, hair-curling, lace-washing, ruffle-crimping, tarlatan-smoothing, trunk-moving,—guests arriving, servants running, girls laughing!

Imagine all this going on simultaneously for several successive days and nights, and you have an idea of "preparations" for an old-fashioned Virginia wedding.

The guests generally arrived in private carriages a day or two before, and stayed often for a week after the affair, being accompanied by quite an army of negro servants, who enjoyed the festivities as much as their masters and mistresses.

A great many years ago, after such a wedding as I describe, a dark shadow fell upon Oaklands.

The eldest daughter, young and beautiful, soon to marry a gentleman[4] of high character, charming manners, and large estate, one night, while the preparations were in progress for her nuptials, saw in a vision vivid pictures of what would befall her if she married. The vision showed her: a gay wedding, herself the bride; the marriage jaunt to her husband's home in a distant county; the incidents of the journey; her arrival at her new home; her sickness and death; the funeral procession back to Oaklands; the open grave; the bearers of her bier—those who a few weeks before had danced at the wedding; herself a corpse in her bridal dress; her newly turfed grave with a bird singing in the tree above.

This vision produced such an impression that she awakened her sister and told her of it.

For three successive nights the vision appeared, which so affected her spirits that she determined not to marry. But after some months, persuaded by her family to think no more of the dream which continually haunted her, she allowed the marriage to take place.

All was a realization of the vision: the wedding, the journey to her new home,—every incident, however small, had been presented before her in the dream.

As the bridal party approached the house of an old lady near Abingdon, who had made preparations for their entertainment, servants were hurrying to and fro in great excitement, and one was galloping off for a doctor, as the old lady had been suddenly seized with a violent illness. Even this was another picture in the ill-omened vision of the bride, who every day found something occurring to remind her of it, until in six months her own death made the last sad scene of her dream. And the funeral procession back to Oaklands, the persons officiating, the grave,—all proved a realization of her vision.

After this her husband, a man of true Christian character, sought in foreign lands to disperse the gloom overshadowing his life. But whether on the summit of Mount Blanc or the lava-crusted Vesuvius; among the classic hills of Rome or the palaces of France; in the art-galleries of Italy or the regions of the Holy Land,—he carries ever in his heart the image of his fair bride and the quiet grave at Oaklands.