The Project Gutenberg eBook, Plantation Reminiscences, by Letitia M. Burwell

Transcriber's Note:

The author's name on the cover and in the copyright notice seems to be a pseudonym. According to the catalog of the Library of Congress, the author was Letitia M. Burwell.

Plantation Reminiscences

Copyrighted in 1878 by Page Thacker.

[DEDICATION.]

Dedicated to my nieces, who will find in English and American publications such epithets applied to their ancestors as: “Cruel slave-owners;” “inhuman;” “Southern task masters;” “hard-hearted;” “dealers in human souls,” &c. From these they will naturally recoil with horror. My own life would have been embittered had I believed myself descended from such; 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 the praise they deserve awarded noble men and virtuous women who have passed away.

[PREFACE.]

For several years I have felt a desire to write these reminiscences, but did not conclude to do so until receiving, a few months ago, a letter from Mr. Martin F. Tupper—the English poet—in which he wrote: “Let me encourage you in the idea of writing ‘Plantation Reminiscences.’ It will be a good work; and it is time the world was learning the truth. I myself have learned it and shall not be slow in telling it to others.”

[PLANTATION REMINISCENCES.]

[CHAPTER I.]

That my birth place 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, house-keeping in the cabins, with negro children dancing, romping, singing, jumping, playing around the doors, 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, brick 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.

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, chesnuts, 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 inspire some literary thirst among the rising generation, who, 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 quick 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; up stairs and down stairs, 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, &c., that one had not the heart to refuse, although it would have been sometimes more agreeable to have been left alone.

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 which was considered 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,” cognomens of respect.

The atmosphere of our own home was 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 sweet meat, cake or candy.

I remember once, when my grand-mother scolded nurse Kitty, saying: “Kitty, the butler tells me you disturb the breakfast cream every morning, dipping out milk to wash your face,” I burst in tears, and thought it hard 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 by you, and 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, candy or sweet cakes.

The negroes made pocket money by selling their own vegetables, poultry, eggs, &c.—made 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 grand-mother were almost always talking over the wants of the negroes,—what medicine should be sent—who they should visit—who needed new shoes, clothes or blankets,—the principle object of their lives seeming to be 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 grand-mother 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; was very black and very portly, and her sceptre 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: “Haven’t I been, long before this here little master whar is was born, bakin’ the best light-bread and waffles and biscuit; and in my old master’s time managed my own affars!”

She was generally left to manage “her own affars,” and being a pattern of neatness and industry her fame went abroad from Botetourt, even unto the remotest ends of Mecklenburg county.

That this marvellous 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 will never forget,” to use her own words, “how I watched the road every day, hoping that mistress would come back, and when I saw the carriage I would run a mile, shouting and clapping my hands.”

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 liveliest demonstrations of pleasure.

[CHAPTER II.]

It was a long time before it dawned upon my mind there were places and people different from these. The plantations we visited seemed exactly like ours. The same hospitality everywhere, the same kindliness existing 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, haggard and thin.

“Good day, Mistess,” said he.

“Who are you?” asked my mother.

“My name is John,” he replied, “and I belonged to your husband’s uncle. He died a long time ago. Before he died he set me free and gave me a good piece of land near Petersburg, and some money and stock. But all—my money and land—all gone, and I was starving. So I come one hundred miles to beg you and master please let me live and die on your plantation. I don’t want to be free no longer. Please don’t let me be free.”

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 a plenty to eat.

Although there were already a number of 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 master’s times,” which he said were the “grandest of all.”

By way of apology for certain knotty excrescences on his feet, he used to say: “You see these here knots. Well, they come from my being a monstrous proud young nigger, and squeezin’ my feet in de tightest boots to drive my master’s carriage ’bout Petersburg. I nuver was so happy as when I was drivin’ my coach-an’-four, and crackin’ de postillion over de head wid my whip.”

These pleasant reminiscences were generally concluded with: “Ah! young Misses, you’ll nuver see sich times. No more postillions! No more coach-an’-four! And niggers drives now widout they 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 grand-father—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 staid with your grandpa ten years in Congress, and all the time he was Secretary for President Jefferson. He nuver give me a cross word, and I nuver saw your grandma the least out of temper neither, but once, and that was at a dinner party ‘we’ give in Washington, when the French Minister said something disrespectful about the United States.”

Often did he tell us: “The greatest pleasure I expect in heaven, is seeing my old master.” And sometimes, “I dream about my master and mistress when I am sleep, and talk with them and see them so plain it makes me so happy that I laugh out right loud.”

This man was true and honest—a good Christian. Important trusts had been confided to him. He frequently carried the carriage and horses to Washington and Baltimore—a journey of two weeks—and sometimes sent to carry a large sum 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, &c.

Although my grand-father’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 master was dead. A mighty wail went up from dis plantation, for we know’d we had loss 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 and four hundred black folks, but sence de British debt had to be paid over by his old master, and de Macklenbug 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 Macklenbug.” 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, 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 towards 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 father told us that his mother lived in a hole in the ground, and when the English people come to Africa she sold him for a string of beads. He said ‘’twas mighty hard for him, when he fus come to dis country, to wear clothes.’ Sometimes he would git so mad wid us chillun, my mammy would have to run and hide us to keep him from killin’ us. Den sometimes at night he would say: ‘He gwine sing he country,’ den he would dance and jump and howl and skeer us to death.”

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 grand-father’s gardener, quarrelled him to death in one year and survived to quarrel forty years longer with the other negroes. She had no children—not even a cat or dog could live with her. She had been offered her freedom, but refused to accept it. Several times 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 chest and surrounded by her goods and chattels, dressed in a high hat, 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.

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!”

“Old woman, 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 dead!” 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 long past generation.

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 grand-father among them—had a wine party, and towards 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 M——. 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, allowed their classic thoughts sometimes 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 and I at the other of the table, each propped 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 any one 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 twelve years; my father—the sole heir—having been off 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 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—spreading a dinner often 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 showing us some pictures, entitled “London Labor and London Poor,” 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 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 sympathise 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 neighbor’s plantations.

Their religious instruction, I found, had not been more neglected than among the lower classes in England, Ireland, France, Russia 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 afternoon. Besides, they had their own ministers among themselves, and had 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 preaching and teaching 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.

On one occasion an English gentleman—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 been in England, and will scarcely be believed when I tell it on my return.”

The same gentleman expressed astonishment at one of our neighbor’s 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,” &c. He told us he observed also 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,” &c.

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 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 chequered human life, even these sometimes turned out best for the negroes, when by this means they exchanged unpleasant for more 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 ostracised 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, burnt 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 master found out how Uncle Joe treated me he wouldn’t let me work no more 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, usually remaining 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” 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 speedily got them into their clean aprons, and ran to open gates, and remove parcels from carriages, and becoming generally excited. 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 tarletan 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 crepe lise 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 so graceful as the minuet. Such jumping around as you see would not have been considered ‘genteel’ in my day!”

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

As I consider these ladies models for our sex through all time, I enumerate some of their attractions:

Entire absence of pretense made them always agreeable. 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, ease and agreeability of 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 they—the beaux—never afterwards became reconciled to any higher order of music.

These model women also managed their household affairs admirably; and were uniformly kind, 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 exactly 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 cues, wide ruffled bosoms, short pants 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 snuff-boxes presented by some distinguished individual at some remote period.

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, a serious fault.

Among our various visitors, was a kinsman—of whom I often heard, but 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 door-sill, every now and then correcting or reminding with: “Now, master, dat warnt Col. Taylor’s horse dat won dat race dat day. You and me was thar.” Or, “Now, master you done forgot all ’bout dat. Dat was in de year 1779, and dis is de way it happened,” &c., 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.

The negroes often felt great pride in “their white people,” as they called their owners, and loved to brag about what “their white people” did and what “their 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 them’s my mistesses’ Sunday bonnets? Umph! you jes ought to see what they got up thar on top the stage in thar band box!” 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,” &c., 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, sweet meats, pickles and condiments. So that in the matter of good living, both in abundance and the manner of serving, a Virginia plantation could not be excelled.

The first speciality 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, whom, 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 ladies-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, 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—neither herself 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 never see sich a way for people to live! Folks goes to bed in Baltimore ’thout a single mouthful in thar house to eat. And they can’t get nothin’ neither ’thout they gits up soon in the mornin’ and goes to the market after it themselves. Rain, hail or shine, they got to go. ’Twouldn’t suit our white folks to live that way! And I wouldn’t live thar not for nothin’ in this world. In that fine three story house thar ain’t but bare two servants, an’ they has to do all the work. ’Twouldn’t suit me, an’ I wouldn’t live thar not for nothin’ in this whole creation. I would git that lonesome I couldn’t stan’ it. Bare two servants! and they calls themselves rich, too! And they cooks in the cellar. I know mistess couldn’t stand that—smellin’ everything out the kitchen all over the house. Umph! them folks don’t know nothin’ tall ’bout good livin’, with thar cold bread and thar 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.

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 can not discern the impress of a long past generation!” So we were indebted for our agreeable surroundings to the heroism and sacrifices of past generations, and not to venerate and eulogize them betrays the want of a truly noble soul. For what courage; what patience; what perseverence; 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 ineffient or disagreeable, but had to keep them through life. The only thing was to bear and forbear, and

——“be to their virtues very kind,
To their faults,” a great deal “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.

To the children of Israel God said: “I will give thee the heathen for an inheritance.” So He had given us “the heathen for an inheritance,” and however bitterly some of us deplored it—as we did—we should have remembered that nothing happens by chance; but that God disposes all events for some purpose of his own. We were instruments in His hand, and if we or our forefathers were chosen by Him to elevate a race in the scale of comfort and intelligence we should not deplore it, but pray that what we have done for them may be a lasting benefit and that God’s blessing may follow them in another condition of life.

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 into the bottom of the sea!” he replied.

Fortunately for the poor negro this sentiment had not prevailed 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 handfull of parched corn, the Colonel of a Virginia regiment, by accident got some coffee, a small portion of which was daily distributed to each man. 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 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 Johnson:

“This Figure which 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 Paint would then surpass
All that was ever writ in Brass.
But since he can not, 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.

The perusal of the Arabian Nights, when a small child, 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; her grandmother’s laces and 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 mantle-piece 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 considered 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 a “debut;” 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, thorough musician and perfect gentleman. He lived with us 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 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;” the land of water-pipes and dumb-waiters; the land of enterprise and money, and at the same time 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 their’s to the South.”

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

But the novelty having worn off after awhile, 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 also many “isms” 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 up-side-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 blood-hounds in Virginia to chase negroes! I told him, O, 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 blood-hound 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: ‘Blood-hounds 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 ‘helps.’”

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.”

The word servant is an honest Bible word, and distinctly defines a position. Noah did not say: “Cursed be Cain, a ‘help’ of ‘helps’ shall he be to his brethren.” Nor did Abraham call his eldest “servant,” although ruling over all he had, his “help.” Neither does the Commandment say thy “man-help” or thy “maid-help.”

The word “servant” seems, after the lapse of centuries, still applied with the same meaning by St. Paul, who does not say, “Master, give unto your ‘helps’ that which is equal;” or, “Let as many ‘helps’ as are under the yoke count their own masters worthy of all honor.”

The words “master and servant” thus lose their true significance.

Among other discoveries during this visit we found how much more talent it requires to entertain company in the country than 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 theater 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 could they not tell of mirth and song, eloquence and wit, whose flow made many an evening bright.

Well, as all delights must have an end, the time came for us to leave these “scenes enchanting.” Bidding adieu forever to the land of “modern appliances” and stale bread, we returned to the land flowing with “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[1] soldiers?

“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 expect 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[2] negroes, who with their freedom received from their master a large body 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 her’s and sent them to Liberia, but she told me the other day 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 “hedged about” and surrounded by walls of circumstances too thick and solid to be pulled down, and we said no more.

But some weeks after this conversation, we had a visit from a friend—“Mozis Addums”—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! They are not even called ‘homes’ there, but ‘house;’ where they turn into bed at midnight; eat stale-bread breakfasts; have brilliant parties—where several thousand 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 your marble door-fronts. 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 would 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—who indeed are beginning to possess her, instead of her possessing them.”

“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 travel from Maine to the Gulf without an 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 needing no ‘special protector.’”

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

“We would 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.

We were, in those days, not “whirled with glowing wheel over the iron track in a crowded car,” with dirty, shrieking children and repulsive-looking people—on their way to the small pox hospital, for all we knew. We were not jammed against rough, dreadful-looking people, eating dreadful smelling things, out of dreadful-looking baskets and satchels, and throwing the remains of dreadful 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 some shady forest at midday.

Our own venerable 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 high 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—considered himself 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 the road, 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”—like 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 an agreeable variety, and gave us an opportunity to enjoy fully the beautiful and picturesque scenery through which we were passing.

These 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 fac similes 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, shouted at the top of his voice: “Thar, now! I always knowed Miss Alice was a young ’oman of the most amiable courage!” and over this feat continued to chuckle 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 the servants who constituted part of the establishment.

One of the most charming 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. Nor in any department of life did she betray qualities other than these.

Without the least “variableness or shadow of turning,” her excellencies 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 with all who had the privilege of knowing her. And no wonder that all who enjoyed her charming hospitality were spell-bound, nor wished to leave the spot.

In addition to the qualities I have attempted to describe, this lady inherited from her father—General B.—an executive talent which enabled her to order and arrange perfectly her domestic affairs, 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; but shared alike by the homeless, the friendless, and many a weary heart found sympathy and shelter there.

Well! 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—an epicure of the first water—we often met there, whose sole occupation was visiting his friends, and only subjects of conversation the best viands and the best manner of cooking them! When asked whether he remembered certain agreeable 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 several weeks before, with saving eggs, butter, chickens, &c., 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; tarletan-smoothing; guests-arriving; servants-running; trunk-moving; girls laughing!

Imagine all this going on simultaneously 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 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 of high-toned 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 her 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 she awakened her sister, and told it.

Three successive nights the vision appeared, which so affected her spirits she determined not to marry. But after some months, persuaded by her family to think no more of the dream which continually haunted her, the marriage took 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 found every day 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 carried ever in his heart, the image of his fair bride and the quiet grave at Oaklands.

This gentleman still survives, and not long ago we heard him relate, in charming voice and style, the incidents of these travels.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

Another charming residence, not far from Oaklands, which attracted visitors from various quarters, was Buena Vista, where we passed many happy hours of childhood.

This residence—large and handsome—was situated on an eminence, overlooking pastures and sunny slopes, with forests, and mountain views in the distance.

The interior of the house accorded with the outside, every article being elegant and substantial.

The owner—a gentleman of polished manners, kind and generous disposition, a sincere Christian and zealous churchman—was honored and beloved by all who knew him.

His daughters—a band of lovely young girls—presided over his house, dispensing its hospitality with grace and dignity. Their mother’s death occurring when they were very young had given them household cares, which would have been considerable, but for the assistance of Uncle Billy, the butler—an all-important character presiding with imposing dignity over domestic affairs.

His jet black face was relieved by a head of grey hair with a small round bald centre piece; and the expression of his face was calm and serene, as he presided over the pantry, the table and the tea-waiters.

His mission on earth seemed to be keeping the brightest silver urns, sugar-dishes, cream-jugs and spoons; flavoring the best ice creams; buttering the hottest rolls, muffins and waffles; chopping the best salads; folding the whitest napkins; handing the best tea and cakes in the parlor in the evenings, and cooling the best wine for the decanters at dinner. Indeed he was so essentially a part of the establishment, that in recalling those old days at Buena Vista, the form of “Uncle Billy” comes silently back from the past and takes its old place about the parlors, the halls and the dining-room, making the picture complete.

And thus upon the canvas of every old home picture come to their accustomed places, the forms of dusky friends, who once shared our homes, our firesides, our affections—and who will share them, as in the past, never more.

Of all the Plantation Homes we loved and visited, the brightest, sweetest memories cluster around Grove Hill; a grand old place in the midst of scenery lovely and picturesque, to reach which, we made a journey across the Blue Ridge—those giant mountains from whose winding road and lofty heights we had glimpses of exquisite scenery in the valleys below.

Thus winding slowly around these mountain heights and peeping down from our old carriage windows we beheld nature in its wildest luxuriance. The deep solitude; the glowing sunlight over rock, forest and glen; the green valleys deep down beneath, diversified by alternate light and shadow—all together photographed on our hearts pictures never to fade.

Not all the towers, minarets, obelisks, palaces, gem-studded domes of “art and man’s device” can reach the soul like one of these sun-tinted pictures in their convex frames of rock and vines!

Arrived at Grove Hill, how enthusiastic the welcome from each member of the family assembled in the front porch to meet us! How joyous the laugh! How deliciously cool the wide halls, the spacious parlor, the dark polished walnut floors! How bright the flowers! How gay the spirits of all assembled there!

One was sure of meeting here agreeable society from Virginia, Baltimore, Florida, South Carolina and Kentucky, with whom the house was filled from May ’till November.

How delightfully passed the days, the weeks! What merry excursions; fishing parties; riding parties, to the Indian Spring, the Cave, the Natural Bridge! What pleasant music, and tableaux, and dancing in the evenings!

For the tableaux, we had only to open an old chest in the garret and help ourselves to rich embroidered, white and scarlet dresses, with other costumery worn by the grandmother of the family nearly a hundred years before, when her husband was in public life and she one of the queens of society.

What sprightly “conversazioni” in our rooms at night—young girls will become confidential and eloquent with each other at night, however reserved and quiet during the day!

Late in the night these “conversazioni” continued, with puns and laughter, until checked by a certain young gentleman—now a minister—who was wont to bring out his flute in the flower garden under our windows, and give himself up for an hour or more to the most sentimental and touching strains, thus breaking in upon sprightly remarks and repartees, some of which are remembered to this day, especially one which ran thus:

“Girls!” said one. “Would it not be charming if we could all take a trip together to Niagara?”

“Well, why could we not?” was the response.

“Oh!” replied another, “the idea of us poor Virginia girls taking a trip!”

“Indeed,” said one of the Grove Hill girls, “it would be impossible. For here are we on this immense estate, 4,000 acres, two large, handsome residences—and three hundred negroes—considered wealthy, and yet to save our lives could not raise money enough for a trip to New York!”

“Nor get a silk velvet cloak!” said her sister, laughing.

“Yes,” replied the other. “Girls! I have been longing and longing for a silk velvet cloak, but never could get the money to buy one. But last Sunday, at the village church, what should I see but one of the Joneses sweeping in with a long velvet cloak almost touching the floor! And you could set her father’s house in our back hall! But then she is so fortunate as to own no negroes.”

“What a happy girl she must be!” cried a chorus of voices. “No negroes to support! We could go to New York and Niagara, and have velvet cloaks too, if we only had no negroes to support! But all our money goes to provide for them as soon as the crops are sold!”

“Yes,” said one of the Grove Hill girls; “here is our large house without an article of modern furniture. The parlor curtains are one hundred years old. The old fashioned mirrors and recess tables one hundred years old, and we long in vain for money to buy something new.”

“Well!” said one of the sprightliest girls, “we can get up some of our old diamond rings or breastpins which some of us have inherited, and travel on appearances! We have no modern clothes, but the old rings will make us ‘look rich!’ And a party of poor, rich Virginians will attract the commiseration and consideration of the world when it is known that for generations we have not been able to leave our plantations!”

After these conversations we would fall asleep and sleep profoundly, until aroused next morning by an army of servants polishing the hall floors, waxing and rubbing them with a long-handle brush, weighted by an oven lid. This made the floor like a “sea of glass,” and dangerous to walk upon immediately after the polishing process, being especially disastrous to small children, who were continually slipping and falling before breakfast.

The lady presiding over this establishment possessed a cultivated mind, bright conversational powers and gentle temper, with a force of character which enabled her to direct judiciously the affairs of her household, as well as the training and education of her children.

She employed always an accomplished gentleman teacher, who added to the agreeability of her home circle.

She helped the boys with their Latin and the girls with their compositions. In her quiet way she governed, controlled, suggested everything; so that her presence was required everywhere at once.

While in the parlor entertaining her guests with bright, agreeable conversation, she was sure to be wanted by the cooks—there were six!—to “taste or flavor” something in the kitchen; or by the gardener to direct the planting of certain seeds or roots, and so with every department. Even the minister—there was always one living in her house—would call her out to consult over his text and sermon for the next Sunday, saying he could rely upon her judgment and discrimination.

Never thinking of herself, her heart overflowing with sympathy and interest for others, she entered into the pleasures of the young as well as the sorrows of the old.

If the boys came in from a fox or deer chase, their pleasure was incomplete until it had been described to her and enjoyed with her again.

The flower vases were never entirely beautiful until her hand had helped to arrange the flowers.