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AMONG THE PINES.
* * * * *
A NEW WORK, Descriptive of Southern Social Life,
BY THE AUTHOR OF AMONG THE PINES,
Is now in course of publication in THE "CONTINENTAL MONTHLY,"
PUBLISHED BY J. R. GILMORE, 532 Broadway, NEW YORK.
* * * * *
AMONG THE PINES:
or, South in Secession Time.
by
EDMUND KIRKE.
Tenth Thousand.
New York: J. R. Gilmore, 532 Broadway.
Charles T. Evans.
1862.
Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1862,
by J. R. Gilmore,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
M'crea & Miller, Stereotypers. C. A. Alvord, Printer
TO
RICHARD B. KIMBALL,
THE ACCOMPLISHED AUTHOR, THE POLISHED GENTLEMAN,
AND
MY OLD AND EVER-VALUED FRIEND,
THESE SKETCHES ARE DEDICATED
BY THE
AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.--ON THE ROAD.--Arrival at Georgetown.--The Village
Inn.--Nocturnal Adventures.--My African Driver.--His Strange
History.--Genuine Negro Songs.--Arrival at Bucksville. 10
CHAPTER II.--WAYSIDE HOSPITALITY.--A Strange Meeting.--A Well
Ordered Plantation.--A Thunder-storm.--A New Guest.--The Hidden
Springs or Secession Exposed.--On the Way Again.--Intelligence
of the Negro.--Renconter with a Secessionist. 30
CHAPTER III.--CROSSING THE RUNS.--The Black Declines His
Freedom.--His Reasons for so Doing.--A "native"
Abolitionist.--Swimming the Run.--Black Spirits and
White.--Shelter. 55
CHAPTER IV.--POOR WHITES.--The Mills House.--South Carolina
Clay-Eaters.--Political Discussion.--President Lincoln a
Negro.--"Three in a Bed and one in the Middle."--$250 reward.--A
Secret League. 69
CHAPTER V.--ON THE PLANTATION.--The Planter's Dwelling.--His
House-Keeper.--The Process of Turpentine Making.--Loss to Carolina
by Secession.--The Dying Boy.--The Story of Jim.--A Northern Man
with Southern Principles.--Sam Murdered.--Pursuit of the Overseer. 94
CHAPTER VI.--THE PLANTER'S FAMILY.--The old Nurse.--Her Story.--A
White Slave-Woman's Opinion of Slavery.--The Stables.--The
Negro-Quarters.--Sunday Exercises.--The Taking of Moye. 127
CHAPTER VII.--PLANTATION DISCIPLINE.--The "Ole Cabin."--The Mode of
Negro Punishment.--The "Thumb-Screw."--A Ministering Angel.--A Negro
Trial.--A Rebellion.--A Turpentine Dealer.--A Boston Dray on its
Travels. 150
CHAPTER VIII.--THE NEGRO HUNTER.--Young Democrats.--Political
Discussion.--Startling Statistics.--A Freed Negro. 169
CHAPTER IX.--THE COUNTRY CHURCH.--Its Description.--The
"Corn-Cracker."--The News.--Strange Disclosure. 180
CHAPTER X.--THE NEGRO FUNERAL.--The Burial Ground.--A Negro
Sermon.--The Appearance of Juley.--The Colonel's
Heartlessness.--The Octoroon's Explanation of it.--The Escape
of Moye. 196
CHAPTER XI.--THE PURSUIT.--The Start.--"Carolina Race-Horses."--A
Race.--We Lose the Trail.--A Tornado.--A Narrow Escape.-- 207
CHAPTER XII.--THE YANKEE SCHOOLMISTRESS.--Our New
Apparel.--"Kissing Goes by Favor."--Schools at the South. 222
CHAPTER XIII.--THE RAILWAY STATION.--The Village.--A Drunken
Yankee.--A Narrow Escape.--Andy Jones.--A Light-Wood Fire.--The
Colonel's Departure. 227
CHAPTER XIV.--THE BARBACUE.--The Camp-Ground.--The
Stump-Speaker.--A Stump Speech.--Almost a Fight.--The
Manner of Roasting the Ox. 239
CHAPTER XV.--THE RETURN.--Arrival at the Plantation.--Disappearance
of Juley and her child.--The Old Preacher's Story.--Scene Between
the Master and the Slave. 253
CHAPTER XVI.--"ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE."--Attempted Whipping of
Jim.--Appearance of the "Corn-Cracker."--"Drowned.--Drowned." 260
CHAPTER XVII.--THE SMALL PLANTER.--His House.--His
Wife.--His Negroes.--A Juvenile Darky.--Lazarus in "Ab'ram's
Buzzum."--White and Black Labor Compared.--The Mysteries
of "Rosum" manufacture. 277
CHAPTER XVIII.--THE BURIAL OF JULE.--"He Tempers the Wind to the
Shorn Lamb."--The Funeral. 295
CHAPTER XIX.--HOMEWARD BOUND.--Colonel A---- Again.--Parting with
Scipio.--Why this Book was Written. 298
CHAPTER XX.--CONCLUSION.--The Author's Explanations.--Last
News from Moye and Scipio.--Affecting Letter from
Andy Jones.--The End. 303
CHAPTER I.
ON THE ROAD.
Some winters ago I passed several weeks at Tallahassee, Florida, and
while there made the acquaintance of Colonel J----, a South Carolina
planter. Accident, some little time later, threw us together again at
Charleston, when I was gratified to learn that he would be my _compagnon
du voyage_ as far north as New York.
He was accompanied by his body-servant, "Jim," a fine specimen of the
genus darky, about thirty years of age, and born and reared in his
master's family. As far as possible we made the journey by day, stopping
at some convenient resting-place by night; on which occasions the
Colonel, Jim, and myself would occupy the same or adjoining apartments,
"we white folks" sleeping on four posts, while the more democratic negro
spread his blanket on the floor. Thrown together thus intimately, it
was but natural that we should learn much of each other.
The "Colonel" was a highly cultivated and intelligent gentleman, and
during this journey a friendship sprung up between us--afterward kept
alive by a regular correspondence--which led him, with his wife and
daughter, and the man Jim, to my house on his next visit at the North,
one year later. I then promised--if I should ever again travel in South
Carolina--to visit him on his plantation in the extreme north-eastern
part of the state.
In December last, about the time of the passage of the ordinance of
secession, I had occasion to visit Charleston, and, previous to setting
out, dispatched a letter to the Colonel with the information that I was
ready to be led of him "into the wilderness." On arriving at the
head-quarters of secession, I found a missive awaiting me, in which my
friend cordially renewed his previous tender of hospitality, gave me
particular directions how to proceed, and stated that his "man Jim"
would meet me with a carriage at Georgetown, and convey me thence,
seventy miles, to "the plantation."
Having performed the business which led me to Charleston, I set out for
the rendezvous five days before the date fixed for the meeting,
intending to occupy the intervening time in an exploration of the
ancient town and its surroundings.
The little steamer Nina (a cross between a full-grown nautilus and a
half-grown tub), which a few weeks later was enrolled as the first
man-of-war of the Confederate navy, then performed the carrying trade
between the two principal cities of South Carolina. On her, together
with sundry boxes and bales, and certain human merchandise, I embarked
at Charleston, and on a delicious morning, late in December, landed at
Georgetown.
As the embryo war-steamer rounded up to the long, low, rickety dock,
lumbered breast-high with cotton, turpentine, and rosin, not a white
face was to be seen. A few half-clad, shiftless-looking negroes,
lounging idly about, were the only portion of the population in waiting
to witness our landing.
"Are all the people dead?" I inquired of one of them, thinking it
strange that an event so important as the arrival of the Charleston
packet should excite no greater interest in so quiet a town. "Not dead,
massa," replied the black, with a knowing chuckle, "but dey'm gettin'
ready for a fun'ral." "What funeral?" I asked. "Why, dey'm gwine to
shoot all de boblition darkies at de Norf, and hab a brack burying; he!
he!" and the sable gentleman expanded the opening in his countenance to
an enormous extent, doubtless at the brilliancy of his wit.
I asked him to take my portmanteau, and conduct me to the best hotel. He
readily assented, "Yas, yas, massa, I show you whar de _big-bugs_ stop;"
but at once turning to another darky standing near, he accosted him
with, "Here, Jim, you lazy nigga, tote de gemman's tings."
"Why don't you take them yourself?" I asked; "you will then get all the
pay." "No, no, massa; dat nigga and me in partenship; he do de work, and
I keeps de change," was the grinning reply, and it admirably illustrates
a peculiarity I have observed to be universal with the negro. When left
to his own direction, he invariably "goes into partenship" with some one
poorer than himself, and no matter how trivial the task, shirks all the
labor he can.
The silent darky and my portmanteau in the van, and the garrulous old
negro guarding my flank, I wended my way through the principal street to
the hotel. On the route I resumed the conversation:
"So, uncle, you say the people here are getting ready for a black
burying?"
"Yas, massa, gwine to bury all dem mis'able free niggas at de Norf."
"Why? What will you do that for?"
"Why for, massa! you ax why for!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"I don't know," I rejoined; "I'm a stranger here."
"Well, you see, massa, dem boblition niggas up dar hab gone and 'lected
a ole darky, dey call Uncle Abe; and Old Abe he'se gwine to come down
Souf, and cut de decent niggas' troats. He'll hab a good time--_he
will_! My young massa's captin ob de sogers, and he'll cotch de ole
coon, and string him up so high de crows won't scent him; yas, he
will;" and again the old darky's face opened till it looked like the
entrance to the Mammoth Cave. He, evidently, had read the Southern
papers.
Depositing my luggage at the hotel, which I found on a side street--a
dilapidated, unpainted wooden building, with a female landlord--I
started out to explore the town, till the hour for dinner. Retracing my
steps in the direction of the steamboat landing, I found the streets
nearly deserted, although it was the hour when the business of the day
is usually transacted. Soon I discovered the cause. The militia of the
place were out on parade. Preceded by a colored band, playing national
airs--in doleful keeping with the occasion--and followed by a motley
collection of negroes of all sexes and ages, the company was entering
the principal thoroughfare. As it passed me, I could judge of the
prowess of the redoubtable captain, who, according to Pompey, will hang
the President "so high de crows won't scent him." He was a
harmless-looking young man, with long, spindle legs, admirably adapted
to running. Though not formidable in other respects, there _was_ a
certain martial air about an enormous sabre which hung at his side, and
occasionally got entangled in his nether integuments, and a fiery,
warlike look to the heavy tuft of reddish hair which sprouted in
bristling defiance from his upper lip.
The company numbered about seventy, some with uniforms and some without,
and bearing all sorts of arms, from the old flint-lock musket to the
modern revolving rifle. They were, however, sturdy fellows, and looked
as if they might do service at "the imminent deadly breach." Their full
ranks taken from a population of less than five hundred whites, told
unmistakably the intense war feeling of the community.
Georgetown is one of the oldest towns in South Carolina, and it has a
decidedly _finished_ appearance. Not a single building, I was informed,
had been erected there in five years. Turpentine is one of the chief
productions of the district; yet the cost of white lead and chrome
yellow has made paint a scarce commodity, and the houses, consequently,
all wear a dingy, decayed look. Though situated on a magnificent bay, a
little below the confluence of three noble rivers, which drain a country
of surpassing richness, and though the centre of the finest rice-growing
district in the world, the town is dead. Every thing about it wears an
air of dilapidation. The few white men you meet in its streets, or see
lounging lazily around its stores and warehouses, appear to lack all
purpose and energy. Long contact with the negro seems to have given them
his shiftless, aimless character.
The ordinance of secession passed the legislature shortly prior to my
arrival, and, as might be expected, the political situation was the
all-engrossing topic of thought and conversation. In the estimation of
the whites a glorious future was about to open on the little state.
Whether she stood alone, or supported by the other slave states, she
would assume a high rank among the nations of the earth; her cotton and
rice would draw trade and wealth from every land, and when she spoke,
creation would tremble. Such overweening state pride in _such_ a
people--shiftless, indolent, and enervated as they are--strikes a
stranger as in the last degree ludicrous; but when they tell you, in the
presence of the black, whose strong brawny arm and sinewy frame show
that in him lies the real strength of the state, that this great empire
is to be built on the shoulders of the slave, your smile of incredulity
gives way to an expression of pity, and you are tempted to ask if those
sinewy machines may not THINK, and some day rise, and topple down the
mighty fabric which is to be reared on their backs!
Among the "peculiar institutions" of the South are its inns. I do not
refer to the pinchbeck, imitation St. Nicholas establishments, which
flourish in the larger cities, but to those home-made affairs, noted for
hog and hominy, corn-cake and waffles, which crop out here and there in
the smaller towns, the natural growth of Southern life and institutions.
A model of this class is the one at Georgetown. Hog, hominy, and
corn-cake for breakfast; waffles, hog, and hominy for dinner; and hog,
hominy, and corn-cake for supper--and such corn-cake, baked in the ashes
of the hearth, a plentiful supply of the grayish condiment still
clinging to it!--is its never-varying bill of fare. I endured this fare
for a day, _how_, has ever since been a mystery to me, but when night
came my experiences were indescribable. Retiring early, to get the rest
needed to fit me for a long ride on the morrow, I soon realized that
"there is no rest for the wicked," none, at least, for sinners at the
South. Scarcely had my head touched the pillow when I was besieged by an
army of red-coated secessionists, who set upon me without mercy. I
withstood the assault manfully, till "bleeding at every pore," and then
slowly and sorrowfully beat a retreat. Ten thousand to one is greater
odds than the gallant Anderson encountered at Sumter. Yet I determined
not to fully abandon the field. Placing three chairs in a row, I mounted
upon them, and in that seemingly impregnable position hurled defiance at
the enemy, in the words of Scott (slightly altered to suit the
occasion):
"Come one, come all, these chairs shall fly
From their firm base as soon as I."
My exultation, however, was of short duration. The persistent foe,
scaling my intrenchments, soon returned to the assault with redoubled
vigor, and in utter despair I finally fled. Groping my way through the
hall, and out of the street-door, I departed. The Sable Brother--alias
the Son of Ham--alias the Image of GOD carved in Ebony--alias the
Oppressed Type--alias the Contraband--alias the Irrepressible
Nigger--alias the Chattel--alias the Darky--alias the Cullud Pusson--had
informed me that I should find the Big Bugs at that hotel. I had found
them.
Staying longer in such a place was out of the question, and I determined
to make my way to the up-country without longer waiting for Jim. With
the first streak of day I sallied out to find the means of locomotion.
The ancient town boasts no public conveyance, except a one-horse gig
that carries the mail in tri-weekly trips to Charleston. That vehicle,
originally used by some New England doctor, in the early part of the
past century, had but one seat, and besides, was not going the way I
intended to take, so I was forced to seek a conveyance at a
livery-stable. At the only livery establishment in the place, kept by a
"cullud pusson," who, though a slave, owns a stud of horses that might,
among a people more _movingly_ inclined, yield a respectable income, I
found what I wanted--a light Newark buggy, and a spanking gray. Provided
with these, and a darky driver, who was to accompany me to my
destination, and return alone, I started. A trip of seventy miles is
something of an undertaking in that region, and quite a crowd gathered
around to witness our departure, not a soul of whom, I will wager, will
ever hear the rumble of a stage-coach, or the whistle of a steam-car, in
those sandy, deserted streets.
We soon left the village, and struck a broad avenue, lined on either
side by fine old trees, and extending in an air-line for several miles.
The road is skirted by broad rice-fields, and these are dotted here and
there by large antiquated houses, and little collections of negro huts.
It was Christmas week; no hands were busy in the fields, and every thing
wore the aspect of Sunday. We had ridden a few miles when suddenly the
road sunk into a deep, broad stream, called, as the driver told me, the
Black River. No appliance for crossing being at hand, or in sight, I was
about concluding that some modern Moses accommodated travellers by
passing them over its bed dry-shod, when a flat-boat shot out from the
jungle on the opposite bank, and pulled toward us. It was built of
two-inch plank, and manned by two infirm darkies, with frosted wool, who
seemed to need all their strength to sit upright. In that leaky craft,
kept afloat by incessant baling, we succeeded, at the end of an hour, in
crossing the river. And this, be it understood, is travelling in one of
the richest districts of South Carolina!
We soon left the region of the rice-fields, and plunged into dense
forests of the long-leafed pine, where for miles not a house, or any
other evidence of human occupation, is to be seen. Nothing could well be
more dreary than a ride through such a region, and to while away the
tedium of the journey I opened a conversation with the driver, who up to
that time had maintained a respectful silence.
He was a genuine native African, and a most original and interesting
specimen of his race. His thin, close-cut lips, straight nose and
European features contrasted strangely with a skin of ebon blackness,
and the quiet, simple dignity of his manner betokened superior
intelligence. His story was a strange one. When a boy, he was with his
mother, kidnapped by a hostile tribe, and sold to the traders at Cape
Lopez, on the western coast of Africa. There, in the slave-pen, the
mother died, and he, a child of seven years, was sent in the slave-ship
to Cuba. At Havana, when sixteen, he attracted the notice of a gentleman
residing in Charleston, who bought him and took him to "the States." He
lived as house-servant in the family of this gentleman till 1855, when
his master died, leaving him a legacy to a daughter. This lady, a kind,
indulgent mistress, had since allowed him to "hire his time," and he
then carried on an "independent business," as porter, and doer of all
work around the wharves and streets of Georgetown. He thus gained a
comfortable living, besides paying to his mistress one hundred and fifty
dollars yearly for the privilege of earning his own support. In every
way he was a remarkable negro, and my three days' acquaintance with him
banished from my mind all doubt as to the capacity of the black for
freedom, and all question as to the disposition of the slave to strike
off his chains when the favorable moment arrives. From him I learned
that the blacks, though pretending ignorance, are fully acquainted with
the questions at issue in the pending contest. He expressed the opinion,
that war would come in consequence of the stand South Carolina had
taken; and when I said to him: "But if it comes you will be no better
off. It will end in a compromise, and leave you where you are." He
answered: "No, massa, 't wont do dat. De Souf will fight hard, and de
Norf will get de blood up, and come down har, and do 'way wid de _cause_
ob all de trubble--and dat am de nigga."
"But," I said, "perhaps the South will drive the North back; as you say,
they will fight hard."
"Dat dey will, massa, dey'm de fightin' sort, but dey can't whip de
Norf, 'cause you see dey'll fight wid only one hand. When dey fight de
Norf wid de right hand, dey'll hev to hold de nigga wid de leff."
"But," I replied, "the blacks wont rise; most of you have kind masters
and fare well."
"Dat's true, massa, but dat an't freedom, and de black lub freedom as
much as de white. De same blessed LORD made dem both, and HE made dem
all 'like, 'cep de skin. De blacks hab strong hands, and when de day
come you'll see dey hab heads, too!"
Much other conversation, showing him possessed of a high degree of
intelligence, passed between us. In answer to my question if he had a
family, he said: "No, sar. My blood shall neber be slaves! Ole massa
flog me and threaten to kill me 'cause I wouldn't take to de wimmin; but
I tole him to kill, dat 't would be more his loss dan mine."
I asked if the negroes generally felt as he did, and he told me that
many did; that nearly all would fight for their freedom if they had the
opportunity, though some preferred slavery because they were sure of
being cared for when old and infirm, not considering that if their
labor, while they were strong, made their masters rich, the same labor
would afford _them_ provision against old age. He told me that there are
in the _district_ of Georgetown twenty thousand blacks, and not more
than two thousand whites, and "Suppose," he added, "dat one-quarter ob
dese niggas rise--de rest keep still--whar den would de white folks be?"
"Of course," I replied, "they would be taken at a disadvantage; but it
would not be long before aid came from Charleston, and you would be
overpowered."
"No, massa, de chivarly, as you call dem, would be 'way in Virginny, and
'fore dey hard of it Massa Seward would hab troops 'nough in Georgetown
to chaw up de hull state in less dan no time."
"But you have no leaders," I said, "no one to direct the movement. Your
race is not a match for the white in generalship, and without generals,
whatever your numbers, you would fare hardly."
To this he replied, an elevated enthusiasm lighting up his face, "De
LORD, massa, made generals ob Gideon and David, and de brack man know as
much 'bout war as dey did; p'raps," he added, with a quiet humor, "de
brack aint equal to de white. I knows most ob de great men, like
Washington and John and James and Paul, and dem ole fellers war white,
but dar war Two Sand (Tousaint L'Overture), de Brack Douglass, and de
Nigga Demus (Nicodemus), dey war brack."
The argument was unanswerable, and I said nothing. If the day which sees
the rising of the Southern blacks comes to this generation, that negro
will be among the leaders. He sang to me several of the songs current
among the negroes of the district, and though of little poetic value,
they interested me, as indicating the feelings of the slaves. The blacks
are a musical race, and the readiness with which many of them improvise
words and melody is wonderful; but I had met none who possessed the
readiness of my new acquaintance. Several of the tunes he repeated
several times, and each time with a new accompaniment of words. I will
try to render the sentiment of a few of these songs into as good negro
dialect as I am master of, but I cannot hope to repeat the precise
words, or to convey the indescribable humor and pathos which my darky
friend threw into them, and which made our long, solitary ride through
those dreary pine-barrens pass rapidly and pleasantly away. The first
referred to an old darky who was transplanted from the cotton-fields of
"ole Virginny" to the rice-swamps of Carolina, and who did not like the
change, but found consolation in the fact that rice is not grown on "the
other side of Jordan."
"Come listen, all you darkies, come listen to my song,
It am about ole Massa, who use me bery wrong.
In de cole, frosty mornin', it an't so bery nice,
Wid de water to de middle to hoe among de rice;
When I neber hab forgotten
How I used to hoe de cotton,
How I used to hoe de cotton,
On de ole Virginny shore;
But I'll neber hoe de cotton,
Oh! neber hoe de cotton
Any more.
"If I feel de drefful hunger, he tink it am a vice,
And he gib me for my dinner a little broken rice,
A little broken rice and a bery little fat--
And he grumble like de debil if I eat too much of dat;
When I neber hab forgotten, etc.
"He tore me from my DINAH; I tought my heart would burst--
He made me lub anoder when my lub was wid de first,
He sole my picaninnies becase he got dar price,
And shut me in de marsh-field to hoe among de rice;
When I neber had forgotten, etc.
"And all de day I hoe dar, in all de heat and rain,
And as I hoe away dar, my heart go back again,
Back to de little cabin dat stood among de corn,
And to de ole plantation where she and I war born!
Oh! I wish I had forgotten, etc.
"Den DINAH am beside me, de chil'ren on my knee,
And dough I am a slave dar, it 'pears to me I'm free,
Till I wake up from my dreaming, and wife and chil'ren gone,
I hoe away and weep dar, and weep dar all alone!
Oh! I wish I had forgotten, etc.
"But soon a day am comin, a day I long to see,
When dis darky in de cole ground, foreber will be free,
When wife and chil'ren wid me, I'll sing in Paradise,
How HE, de blessed JESUS, hab bought me wid a price.
How de LORD hab not forgotten
How well I hoed de cotton,
How well I hoed de cotton
On de ole Virginny shore;
Dar I'll neber hoe de cotton,
Oh! neber hoe de cotton
Any more."
The politics of the following are not exactly those of the rulers at
Washington, but we all may come to this complexion at last:
"Hark! darkies, hark! it am de drum
Dat calls ole Massa 'way from hum,
Wid powder-pouch and loaded gun,
To drive ole ABE from Washington;
Oh! Massa's gwine to Washington,
So clar de way to Washington--
Oh! wont dis darky hab sum fun
When Massa's gwine to Washington!
"Dis darky know what Massa do;
He take him long to brack him shoe,
To brack him shoe and tote him gun,
When he am 'way to Washington.
Oh! Massa's gwine to Washington,
So clar de way to Washington,
Oh! long afore de mornin' sun
Ole Massa's gwine to Washington!
"Ole Massa say ole ABE will eat
De niggas all excep' de feet--
De feet, may be, will cut and run,
When Massa gets to Washington,
When Massa gets to Washington;
So clar de way to Washington--
Oh! wont dis darky cut and run
When Massa gets to Washington!
"Dis nigga know ole ABE will save
His brudder man, de darky slave,
And dat he'll let him cut and run
When Massa gets to Washington,
When Massa gets to Washington;
So clar de way to Washington,
Ole ABE will let the darkies run
When Massa gets to Washington."
The next is in a similar vein:
"A storm am brewin' in de Souf,
A storm am brewin' now,
Oh! hearken den and shut your mouf,
And I will tell you how:
And I will tell you how, ole boy,
De storm of fire will pour,
And make de darkies dance for joy,
As dey neber danced afore:
So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And I will tell you how.
"De darkies at de Norf am ris,
And dey am comin' down--
Am comin' down, I know dey is,
To do de white folks brown!
Dey'll turn ole Massa out to grass,
And set de niggas free,
And when dat day am come to pass
We'll all be dar to see!
So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breafh,
And do de white folks brown!
"Den all de week will be as gay
As am de Chris'mas time;
We'll dance all night and all de day,
And make de banjo chime--
And make de banjo chime, I tink,
And pass de time away,
Wid 'nuf to eat and 'nuf to drink,
And not a bit to pay!
So shut your mouf as dose as deafh.
And all you niggas hole your breaf,
And make de banjo chime.
"Oh! make de banjo chime, you nigs,
And sound de tamborin,
And shuffle now de merry jigs,
For Massa's 'gwine in'--
For Massa's 'gwine in,' I know,
And won't he hab de shakes,
When Yankee darkies show him how
Dey cotch de rattle-snakes![A]
So shut your mouf as close as deafh,
And all you niggas hole your breaf,
For Massa's 'gwine in'--
For Massa's 'gwine in,' I know,
And won't he hab de shakes
When Yankee darkies show him how
Dey cotch de rattle-snakes!"
The reader must not conclude that my darky acquaintance is an average
specimen of his class. Far from it. Such instances of intelligence are
very rare, and are never found except in the cities. There, constant
intercourse with the white renders the black shrewd and intelligent, but
on the plantations, the case is different. And besides, my musical
friend, as I have said, is a native African. Fifteen years of
observation have convinced me that the imported negro, after being
brought in contact with the white, is far more intelligent than the
ordinary Southern-born black. Slavery cramps the intellect and dwarfs
the nature of a man, and where the dwarfing process has gone on, in
father and son, for two centuries, it must surely be the case--as surely
as that the qualities of the parent are transmitted to the child--that
the later generations are below the first. This deterioration in the
better nature of the slave is the saddest result of slavery. His moral
and intellectual degradation, which is essential to its very existence,
constitutes the true argument against it. It feeds the body but starves
the soul. It blinds the reason, and shuts the mind to truth. It degrades
and brutalizes the whole being, and does it purposely. In that lies its
strength, and in that, too, lurks the weakness which will one day topple
it down with a crash that will shake the Continent. Let us hope the
direful upheaving, which is now felt throughout the Union, is the
earthquake that will bury it forever.
The sun was wheeling below the trees which skirted the western horizon,
when we halted in the main road, abreast of one of those by-paths, which
every traveller at the South recognizes as leading to a planter's
house. Turning our horse's head, we pursued this path for a short
distance, when emerging from the pine-forest, over whose sandy barrens
we had ridden all the day, a broad plantation lay spread out before us.
On one side was a row of perhaps forty small but neat cabins; and on the
other, at the distance of about a third of a mile, a huge building,
which, from the piles of timber near it, I saw was a lumber-mill. Before
us was a smooth causeway, extending on for a quarter of a mile, and
shaded by large live-oaks and pines, whose moss fell in graceful drapery
from the gnarled branches. This led to the mansion of the proprietor, a
large, antique structure, exhibiting the dingy appearance which all
houses near the lowlands of the South derive from the climate, but with
a generous, hospitable air about its wide doors and bulky windows, that
seemed to invite the traveller to the rest and shelter within. I had
stopped my horse, and was absorbed in contemplation of a scene as
beautiful as it was new to me, when an old negro approached, and
touching his hat, said: "Massa send his complimens to de gemman, and
happy to hab him pass de night at Bucksville."
"Bucks_ville_!" I exclaimed, "and where is the village?"
"Dis am it, massa; and it am eight mile and a hard road to de 'Boro"
(meaning Conwayboro, a one-horse village at which I had designed to
spend the night). "Will de gemman please ride up to de piazza?"
continued the old negro.
"Yes, uncle, and thank you," and in a moment I had received the cordial
welcome of the host, an elderly gentleman, whose easy and polished
manners reminded me of the times of our grandfathers in glorious New
England. A few minutes put me on a footing of friendly familiarity with
him and his family, and I soon found myself in a circle of daughters and
grandchildren, and as much at home as if I had been a long-expected
guest.
[Footnote A: The emblem of South Carolina.]