THE PLANTER'S "FAMILY."
A quarter of a mile through the woods brought me to the cabin of the old
negress where Scip lodged. I rapped at the door, and was admitted by the
old woman. Scip, nearly asleep, was lying on a pile of blankets in the
corner.
"Are you mad?" I said to him. "The Colonel is frantic with rage, and
swears he will kill you. You must be off at once."
"No, no, massa; neber fear; I knows him. He'd keep his word, ef he loss
his life by it. I'm gwine afore sunrise; till den I'm safe."
"Der ye tink Massa Davy wud broke his word, sar?" said the old negress,
bridling up her bent form, and speaking in a tone in which indignation
mingled with wounded dignity; "p'raps gemmen do dat at de Norf--dey
neber does it har."
"Excuse me, Aunty; I know your master is a man of honor; but he's very
much excited, and very angry with Scip."
"No matter for dat, sar; Massa Davy neber done a mean ting sense he war
born."
"Massa K---- tinks a heap ob de Cunnel, Aunty; but he reckon he'm sort
o' crazy now; dat make him afeard," said Scip, in an apologetic tone.
"What ef he am crazy? You'se safe _har_," rejoined the old woman,
dropping her aged limbs into a chair, and rocking away with much the air
which ancient white ladies occasionally assume.
"Wont you ax Massa K---- to a cheer?" said Scip; "he hab ben bery kine
to me."
The negress then offered me a seat; but it was some minutes before I
rendered myself sufficiently agreeable to thaw out the icy dignity of
her manner. Meanwhile I glanced around the apartment.
Though the exterior of the cabin was like the others on the plantation,
the interior had a rude, grotesque elegance about it far in advance of
any negro hut I had ever seen. The logs were chinked with clay, and the
one window, though destitute of glass, and ornamented with the
inevitable board-shutter, had a green moreen curtain, which kept out the
wind and the rain. A worn but neat and well swept carpet partly covered
the floor, and on the low bed was spread a patch-work counter-pane.
Against the side of the room opposite the door stood an antique,
brass-handled bureau, and an old-fashioned table, covered with a faded
woollen cloth, occupied the centre of the apartment. In the corner near
the fire was a curiously-contrived sideboard, made of narrow strips of
yellow pine, tongued and grooved together, and oiled so as to bring out
the beautiful grain of the wood. On it were several broken and cracked
glasses, and an array of irregular crockery. The rocking chair, in which
the old negress passed the most of her time, was of mahogany, wadded and
covered with chintz, and the arm-seat I occupied, though old and patched
in many places, had evidently moved in good society.
The mistress of this second-hand furniture establishment was arrayed in
a mass of cast-off finery, whose gay colors were in striking contrast
with her jet-black skin and bent, decrepit form. Her gown, which was
very short, was of flaming red and yellow worsted stuff, and the
enormous turban that graced her head and hid all but a few tufts of her
frizzled, "pepper-and-salt" locks, was evidently a contribution from the
family stock of worn-out pillow-cases. She was very aged--upward of
seventy--and so thin that, had she not been endowed with speech and
motion, she might have passed for a bundle of whalebone thrown into
human shape, and covered with a coating of gutta-percha. It was evident
she had been a valued house-servant, whose few remaining years were
being soothed and solaced by the kind and indulgent care of a grateful
master.
Scip, I soon saw, was a favorite with the old negress, and the marked
respect he showed me quickly dispelled the angry feeling my doubts of
"Massa Davy" had excited, and opened her heart and her mouth at the same
moment. She was terribly garrulous; her tongue, as soon as it got under
way, ran on as if propelled by machinery and acquainted with the secret
of perpetual motion; but she was an interesting study. The
single-hearted attachment she showed for her master and his family gave
me a new insight into the practical working of "the peculiar
institution," and convinced me that even slavery, in some of its
aspects, is not so black as it is painted.
When we were seated, I said to Scip, "What induced you to lay hands on
the Colonel? It is death, you know, if he enforces the law."
"I knows dat, massa; I knows dat; but I had to do it. Dat Moye am de ole
debble, but de folks round har wud hab turned on de Cunnel, shore, ef
he'd killed him. Dey don't like de Cunnel; dey say he'm a stuck-up
seshener."
"The Colonel, then, has befriended you at some time?"
"No, no, sar; 'twarn't dat; dough I'se know'd him a long w'ile--eber
sense my ole massa fotched me from Habana--but 'twarn't dat."
"Then _why_ did you do it?"
The black hesitated a moment, and glanced at the old negress, then said:
"You see, massa, w'en I fuss come to Charles'n, a pore little ting, wid
no friend in all de worle, dis ole aunty war a mudder to me. She nussed
de Cunnel; he am jess like her own chile, and I know'd 'twud kill her ef
he got hissef enter trubble."
I noticed certain convulsive twitchings about the corners of the old
woman's mouth as she rose from her seat, threw her arms around Scip,
and, in words broken by sobs, faltered out:
"_You_ am my chile; I loves you better dan Massa Davy--better dan all de
worle."
The scene, had they not been black, would have been one for a painter.
"You were the Colonel's nurse, Aunty," I said, when she had regained her
composure. "Have you always lived with him?"
"Yas, sar, allers; I nussed him, and den de chil'ren--all ob 'em."
"_All_ the children? I thought the Colonel had but one--Miss Clara."
"Wal, he habn't, massa, only de boys."
"What boys? I never heard he had sons."
"Neber heerd of young Massa Davy, nor Massa Tommy! Haint you _seed_
Massa Tommy, sar?"
"Tommy! I was told he was Madam P----'s son."
"So he am; Massa Davy had _her_ long afore he had missus."
The truth flashed upon me; but could it be possible? Was I in South
Carolina or in Utah?
"Who _is_ Madam P----?" I asked.
The old woman hesitated a moment as if in doubt whether she had not said
too much; but Scip quietly replied:
"She'm jess what aunty am--_de Cunnel's slave!_"
"His _slave!_ it can't be possible; she is white!"
"No, massa; she am brack, and de Cunnel's slave!"
Not to weary the reader with a long repetition of negro-English, I will
tell in brief what I gleaned from an hour's conversation with the two
blacks.
Madam P---- was the daughter of Ex-Gov. ----, of Virginia, by a quarteron
woman. She was born a slave, but was acknowledged as her father's child,
and reared in his family with his legitimate children. When she was ten
years old her father died, and his estate proving insolvent, the land
and negroes were brought under the hammer. His daughter, never having
been manumitted, was inventoried and sold with the other property. The
Colonel, then just of age, and a young man of fortune, bought her and
took her to the residence of his mother in Charleston. A governess was
provided for her, and a year or two afterward she was taken to the North
to be educated. There she was frequently visited by the Colonel; and
when fifteen her condition became such that she was obliged to return
home. He conveyed her to the plantation, where her elder son, David, was
soon after born, "Aunt Lucy" officiating on the occasion. When the child
was two years old, leaving it in charge of the aged negress, she
accompanied the Colonel to Europe, where they remained for a year.
Subsequently she passed another year at a Northern seminary; and then,
returning to the homestead, was duly installed as its mistress, and had
ever since presided over its domestic affairs. She was kind and good to
the negroes, who were greatly attached to her, and much of the
Colonel's wealth was due to her excellent management of the plantation.
Six years after the birth of "young Massa Davy," the Colonel married his
present wife, that lady having full knowledge of his left-handed
connection with Madam P----, and consenting that the "bond-woman" should
remain on the plantation, as its mistress. The legitimate wife resided,
during most of the year, in Charleston, and when at the homestead took
little interest in domestic matters. On one of her visits to the
plantation, twelve years before, her daughter, Miss Clara, was born, and
within a week, under the same roof, Madam P---- presented the Colonel
with a son--the lad Thomas, of whom I have spoken. As the mother was
slave, the children were so also at birth, but _they_ had been
manumitted by their father. One of them was being educated in Germany;
and it was intended that both should spend their lives in that country,
the taint in their blood being an insuperable bar to their ever
acquiring social position at the South.
As she finished the story, the old woman said, "Massa Davy am bery kind
to the missus, sar, but he _love_ de ma'am; an' he can't help it, 'cause
she'm jess so good as de angels."[E]
In conversation with a well-known Southern gentleman, not long since, I
mentioned these two cases, and commented on them as a man educated with
New England ideas might be supposed to do. The gentleman admitted that
he knew of twenty such instances, and gravely defended the practice as
being infinitely more moral and respectable than the _more common
relation_ existing between masters and slaves.
I looked at my watch--it was nearly ten o'clock, and I rose to go. As I
did so the old negress said:
"Don't yer gwo, massa, 'fore you hab sum ob aunty's wine; you'm good
friends wid Scip, and I knows _you'se_ not too proud to drink wid brack
folks, ef you am from de Norf."
Being curious to know what quality of wine a plantation slave indulged
in, I accepted the invitation. She went to the side-board, and brought
out a cut-glass decanter, and three cracked tumblers, which she placed
on the table. Filling the glasses to the brim, she passed one to Scip,
and one to me, and, with the other in her hand, resumed her seat.
Wishing her a good many happy years, and Scip a pleasant journey home, I
emptied my glass. It was Scuppernong, and the pure juice of the grape!
"Aunty," I said, "this wine is as fine as I ever tasted."
"Oh, yas, massa, it am de raal stuff. I growed de grapes myseff."
"You grew them?"
"Yas, sar, an' Massa Davy make de wine. He do it ebery yar for de ole
nuss."
"The Colonel is very good. Do you raise any thing else?"
"Yas, I hab collards and taters, a little corn, and most ebery ting."
"But who does your work? _You_ certainly can't do it?"
"Oh, de ma'am looks arter dat, sar; she'm bery good to de ole aunty."
Shaking hands with both the negroes, I left the cabin, fully convinced
that all the happiness in this world is not found within plastered
apartments.
The door of the mansion was bolted and barred; but, rapping for
admission, I soon heard the Colonel's voice asking, "Who is there?"
Giving a satisfactory answer, I was admitted. Explaining that he
supposed I had retired to my room, he led the way to the library.
That apartment was much more elegantly furnished than the drawing-rooms.
Three of its sides were lined with books, and on the centre-table,
papers, pamphlets, and manuscripts were scattered in promiscuous
confusion. In an arm-chair near the fire, Madame P---- was seated,
reading. The Colonel's manner was as composed as if nothing had
disturbed the usual routine of the plantation; no trace of the recent
terrible excitement was visible; in fact, had I not been a witness to
the late tragedy, I should have thought it incredible that he, within
two hours, had been an actor in a scene which had cost a human being his
life.
"Where in creation have you been, my dear fellow?" he asked, as we took
our seats.
"At old Lucy's cabin, with Scip," I replied.
"Indeed. I supposed the darky had gone."
"No, he doesn't go till the morning."
"I told you he wouldn't, David," said Madame P----; "now, send for
him--make friends with him before he goes."
"No, Alice, it wont do. I bear him no ill-will, but it wont do. It would
be all over the plantation in an hour."
"No matter for that; our people would like you the better for it."
"No, no. I can't do it. I mean him no harm, but I can't do that."
"He told me _why_ he interfered between you and Moye," I remarked.
"Why did he?"
"He says old Lucy, years ago, was a mother to him; that she is greatly
attached to you, and it would kill her if any harm happened to you; and
that your neighbors bear you no good-will, and would have enforced the
law had you killed Moye."
"It is true, David; you would have had to answer for it."
"Nonsense! what influence could this North County scum have against
_me_?"
"Perhaps none. But that makes no difference; Scipio did right, and you
should tell him you forgive him."
The Colonel then rang a small bell, and a negro woman soon appeared.
"Sue," he said, "go to Aunt Lucy's, and ask Scip to come here. Bring him
in at the front door, and, mind, let no one know he comes."
The woman in a short time returned with Scip. There was not a trace of
fear or embarrassment in the negro's manner as he entered the room.
Making a respectful bow, he bade us "good evening."
"Good evening, Scip," said the Colonel, rising and giving the black his
hand; "let us be friends. Madam tells me I should forgive you, and I
do."
"Aunt Lucy say ma'am am an angel, sar, and it am tru--_it am tru_, sar,"
replied the negro with considerable feeling.
The lady rose, also, and took Scip's hand, saying, "_I_ not only forgive
you, but I _thank_ you for what you have done. I shall never forget it."
"You'se too good, ma'am; you'se too good to say dat," replied the darky,
the moisture coming to his eyes; "but I meant nuffin' wrong--I meant
nuffin' dis'specful to de Cunnel."
"I know you didn't, Scip; but we'll say no more about it;--good-by,"
said the Colonel.
Shaking hands with each one of us, the darky left the apartment.
One who does not know that the high-bred Southern gentleman considers
the black as far below him as the horse he drives, or the dog he kicks,
cannot realize the amazing sacrifice of pride which the Colonel made in
seeking a reconciliation with Scip. It was the cutting off of his right
hand. The circumstance showed the powerful influence held over him by
the octoroon woman. Strange that she, his slave, cast out from society
by her blood and her life, despised, no doubt, by all the world, save by
him and a few ignorant blacks, should thus control a proud, self-willed,
passionate man, and control him, too, only for good.
After the black had gone, I said to the Colonel, "I was much interested
in old Lucy. A few more such instances of cheerful and contented old
age, might lead me to think better of slavery."
"Such cases are not rare, sir. They show the paternal character of our
'institution.' We are _forced_ to care for our servants in their old
age."
"But have your other aged slaves the same comforts that Aunt Lucy has?"
"No; they don't need them. She has been accustomed to live in my house,
and to fare better than the plantation hands; she therefore requires
better treatment."
"Is not the support of that class a heavy tax upon you?"
"Yes, it _is_ heavy. We have, of course, to deduct it from the labor of
the able-bodied hands."
"What is the usual proportion of sick and infirm on your plantation?"
"Counting in the child-bearing women, I reckon about twenty per cent."
"And what does it cost you to support each hand?"
"Well, it costs _me_, for children and all, about seventy-five dollars a
year. In some places it costs less. _I_ have to buy all my provisions."
"What proportion of your slaves are able-bodied hands?"
"Somewhere about sixty per cent. I have, all told, old and young--men,
women, and children--two hundred and seventy. Out of that number I have
now equal to a hundred and fifty-four _full_ hands. You understand that
we classify them: some do only half tasks, some three-quarters. I have
_more_ than a hundred and fifty-four working-men and women, but they do
only that number of full tasks."
"What does the labor of a _full_ hand yield?"
"At the present price of turpentine, my calculation is about two hundred
dollars a year."
"Then your crop brings you about thirty-one thousand dollars, and the
support of your negroes costs you twenty thousand."
"Yes."
"If that's the case, my friend, let me advise you to sell your
plantation, free your niggers, and go North."
"Why so, my dear fellow?" asked the Colonel laughing.
"Because you'd make money by the operation."
"I never was good at arithmetic; go into the figures," he replied, still
laughing, while Madam P----, who had laid aside her book, listened very
attentively.
"Well, you have two hundred and seventy negroes, whom you value, we'll
say, with your mules, 'stills,' and movable property, at two hundred
thousand dollars; and twenty thousand acres of land, worth about three
dollars and a half an acre; all told, two hundred and seventy thousand
dollars. A hundred and fifty-four able-bodied hands produce you a yearly
profit of eleven thousand dollars, which, saying nothing about the cost
of keeping your live stock, the wear and tear of your mules and
machinery, and the yearly loss of your slaves by death, is only four per
cent. on your capital. Now, with only the price of your land, say
seventy thousand dollars, invested in safe stocks at the North, you
could realize eight per cent.--five thousand six hundred dollars--and
live at ease; and that, I judge, if you have many runaways, or many die
on your hands, is as much as you really _clear_ now. Besides, if you
should invest seventy thousand dollars in almost any legitimate business
at the North, and should add to it, _as you now do_, your _time_ and
_labor_, you would realize far more than you do at present from your
entire capital."
"I never looked at the matter in that light. But I have given you my
profits as they _now_ are; some years I make more; six years ago I made
twenty-five thousand dollars."
"Yes; and six years hence you may make nothing."
"That's true. But it would cost me more to live at the North."
"There you are mistaken. What do you pay for your corn, your pork, and
your hay, for instance?"
"Well, my corn I have to bring round by vessel from Washington (North
Carolina), and it costs me high when it gets here--about ten bits (a
dollar and twenty-five cents), I think."
"And in New York you could buy it now at sixty to seventy cents. What
does your hay cost?"
"Thirty-five dollars. I pay twenty for it in New York--the balance is
freight and hauling."
"Your pork costs you two or three dollars, I suppose, for freight and
hauling."
"Yes; about that."
"Then in those items you might save nearly a hundred per cent.; and they
are the principal articles you consume."
"Yes; there's no denying that. But another thing is just as certain: it
costs less to support one of my niggers than one of your laboring men."
"That may be true. But it only shows that our laborers fare better than
your slaves."
"I am not sure of that. I _am_ sure, however, that our slaves are more
contented than the run of laboring men at the North."
"That proves nothing. Your blacks have no hope, no chance to rise; and
they submit--though I judge not cheerfully--to an iron necessity. The
Northern laborer, if very poor, may be discontented; but discontent
urges him to effort, and leads to the bettering of his condition. I tell
you, my friend, slavery is an expensive luxury. You Southern nabobs
_will_ have it; and you have to _pay for it_."
"Well, we don't complain. But, seriously, my good fellow, I feel that I
am carrying out the design of the Almighty in holding my niggers. I
think he made the black to serve the white."
"_I_ think," I replied, "that whatever He designs works perfectly. Your
institution certainly does not. It keeps the producer, who, in every
society, is the really valuable citizen, in the lowest poverty, while it
allows those who do nothing to be 'clad in fine linen, and to fare
sumptuously every day.'"
"It does more than that, sir," said Madam P----, with animation; "it
brutalizes and degrades the _master_ and the _slave_; it separates
husband and wife, parent and child; it sacrifices virtuous women to the
lust of brutal men; and it shuts millions out from the knowledge of
their duty and their destiny. A good and just God could not have
designed it; and it _must_ come to an end."
If lightning had struck in the room I could not have been more startled
than I was by the abrupt utterance of such language in a planter's
house, in his very presence, and _by his slave_. The Colonel, however,
expressed no surprise and no disapprobation. It was evidently no new
thing to him.
"It is rare, madam," I said, "to hear such sentiments from a Southern
lady--one reared among slaves."
Before she could reply, the Colonel laughingly said:
"Bless you, Mr. K----, madam is an out-and-out abolitionist, worse by
fifty per cent. than Garrison or Wendell Phillips. If she were at the
North she would take to pantaloons, and 'stump' the entire free States;
wouldn't you, Alice?"
"I have no doubt of it," rejoined the lady, smiling. "But I fear I
should have poor success. I've tried for ten years to convert _you_, and
Mr. K---- can see the result."
It had grown late; and with my head full of working niggers and white
slave-women, I went to my apartment.
The next day was Sunday. It was near the close of December, yet the air
was as mild and the sun as warm as in our Northern October. It was
arranged at the breakfast-table that we all should attend service at
"the meeting-house," a church of the Methodist persuasion, located some
eight miles away; but as it wanted some hours of the time for religious
exercises to commence, I strolled out after breakfast, with the Colonel,
to inspect the stables of the plantation. "Massa Tommy" accompanied us,
without invitation; and in the Colonel's intercourse with him I observed
as much freedom and familiarity as he would have shown to an
acknowledged son. The youth's manners and conversation showed that great
attention had been given to his education and training, and made it
evident that the mother whose influence was forming his character,
whatever a false system of society had made her life, possessed some of
the best traits of her sex.
The stables, a collection of one-story framed buildings, about a hundred
rods from the house, were well lighted and ventilated, and contained all
"the modern improvements." They were better built, warmer, more
commodious, and in every way more comfortable than the shanties occupied
by the human cattle of the plantation. I remarked as much to the
Colonel, adding that one who did not know would infer that he valued his
horses more than his slaves.
"That may be true," he replied, laughing. "Two of my horses are worth
more than any eight of my slaves;" at the same time calling my attention
to two magnificent thorough-breds, one of which had made "2.32" on the
Charleston course. The establishment of a Southern gentleman is not
complete until it includes one or two of these useless appendages. I had
an argument with my host as to their value compared with that of the
steam-engine, in which I forced him to admit that the iron horse is the
better of the two, because it performs more work, eats less, has greater
speed, and is not liable to the spavin or the heaves; but he wound up by
saying, "After all, I go for the thorough-breds. You Yankees have but
one test of value--use."
A ramble through the negro-quarters, which followed our visit to the
stables, gave me some further glimpses of plantation life. Many of the
hands were still away in pursuit of Moye, but enough remained to make it
evident that Sunday is the happiest day in the darky calendar. Groups of
all ages and colors were gathered in front of several of the cabins,
some singing, some dancing, and others chatting quietly together, but
all enjoying themselves as heartily as so many young animals let loose
in a pasture. They saluted the Colonel and me respectfully, but each one
had a free, good-natured word for "Massa Tommy," who seemed an especial
favorite with them. The lad took their greetings in good part, but
preserved an easy, unconscious dignity of manner that plainly showed he
did not know that _he_ too was of their despised, degraded race.
The Colonel, in a rapid way, gave me the character and peculiarities of
nearly every one we met. The titles of some of them amused me greatly.
At every step we encountered individuals whose names have become
household words in every civilized country.[F] Julius Caesar, slightly
stouter than when he swam the Tiber, and somewhat tanned from long
exposure to a Southern sun, was seated on a wood-pile, quietly smoking a
pipe; while near him, Washington, divested of regimentals, and clad in a
modest suit of reddish-gray, his thin locks frosted by time, and his
fleshless visage showing great age, was gazing, in rapt admiration, at a
group of dancers in front of old Lucy's cabin.
In this group about thirty men and women were making the ground quake
and the woods ring with their unrestrained jollity. Marc Antony was
rattling away at the bones, Nero fiddling as if Rome were burning, and
Hannibal clawing at a banjo as if the fate of Carthage hung on its
strings. Napoleon, as young and as lean as when he mounted the bridge of
Lodi, with the battle-smoke still on his face, was moving his legs even
faster than in the Russian retreat; and Wesley was using his heels in a
way that showed _they_ didn't belong to the Methodist church. But the
central figures of the group were Cato and Victoria. The lady had a face
like a thunder-cloud, and a form that, if whitewashed, would have
outsold the "Greek Slave." She was built on springs, and "floated in the
dance" like a feather in a high wind. Cato's mouth was like an
alligator's, but when it opened, it issued notes that would draw the
specie even in this time of general suspension. As we approached he was
singing a song, but he paused on perceiving us, when the Colonel,
tossing a handful of coin among them, called out, "Go on, boys; let the
gentleman have some music; and you, Vic, show your heels like a beauty."
A general scramble followed, in which "Vic's" sense of decorum forbade
her to join, and she consequently got nothing. Seeing that, I tossed her
a silver piece, which she caught. Grinning her thanks, she shouted,
"Now, clar de track, you nigs; start de music. I'se gwine to gib de
gemman de breakdown."
And she did; and such a breakdown! "We w'ite folks," though it was no
new thing to the Colonel or Tommy, almost burst with laughter.
In a few minutes nearly every negro on the plantation, attracted by the
presence of the Colonel and myself, gathered around the performers; and
a shrill voice at my elbow called out, "Look har, ye lazy,
good-for-nuffin' niggers, carn't ye fotch a cheer for Massa Davy and de
strange gemman?"
"Is that you, Aunty?" said the Colonel. "How d'ye do?"
"Sort o' smart, Massa Davy; sort o' smart; how is ye?"
"Pretty well, Aunty; pretty well. Have a seat." And the Colonel helped
her to one of the chairs that were brought for us, with as much
tenderness as he would have shown to an aged white lady.
The "exercises," which had been suspended for a moment, recommenced, and
the old negress entered into them as heartily as the youngest present. A
song from Cato followed the dance, and then about twenty "gentleman and
lady" darkies joined, two at a time, in a half "walk-round" half
breakdown, which the Colonel told me was the original of the well-known
dance and song of Lucy Long. Other performances succeeded, and the whole
formed a scene impossible to describe. Such uproarious jollity, such
full and perfect enjoyment, I had never seen in humanity, black or
white. The little nigs, only four or five years old, would rush into the
ring and shuffle away at the breakdowns till I feared their short legs
would come off; while all the darkies joined in the songs, till the
branches of the old pines above shook as if they too had caught the
spirit of the music. In the midst of it, the Colonel said to me, in an
exultant tone:
"Well, my friend, what do you think of slavery _now_?"
"About the same that I thought yesterday. I see nothing to change my
views."
"Why, are not these people happy? Is not this perfect enjoyment?"
"Yes; just the same enjoyment that aunty's pigs are having; don't you
hear _them_ singing to the music? I'll wager they are the happier of the
two."
"No; you are wrong. The higher faculties of the darkies are being
brought out here."
"I don't know that," I replied. "Within the sound of their voices, two
of their fellows--victims to the inhumanity of slavery--are lying dead,
and yet they make _Sunday_ "hideous" with wild jollity, while Sam's fate
may be theirs to-morrow."
Spite of his genuine courtesy and high breeding, a shade of displeasure
passed over the Colonel's face as I made this remark. Rising to go, he
said, a little impatiently, "Ah, I see how it is; that d---- Garrison's
sentiments have impregnated even you. How can the North and the South
hold together when moderate men like you and me are so far apart?"
"But you," I rejoined, good-humoredly, "are not a moderate man. You and
Garrison are of the same stripe, both extremists. _You_ have mounted one
hobby, _he_ another; that is all the difference."
"I should be sorry," he replied, recovering his good nature, "to think
myself like Garrison. I consider him the ---- scoundrel unhung."
"No; I think he means well. But you are both fanatics, both 'bricks' of
the same material; we conservatives, like mortar, will hold you together
and yet keep you apart."
"I, for one, _won't_ be held. If I can't get out of this cursed Union in
any other way, I'll emigrate to Cuba."
I laughed, and just then, looking up, caught a glimpse of Jim, who
stood, hat in hand, waiting to speak to the Colonel, but not daring to
interrupt a white conversation.
"Hallo, Jim," I said; "have you got back?"
"Yas, sar," replied Jim, grinning all over as if he had some agreeable
thing to communicate.
"Where is Moye?" asked the Colonel.
"Kotched, massa; I'se got de padlocks on him."
"Kotched," echoed half a dozen darkies, who stood near enough to hear;
"Ole Moye is kotched," ran through the crowd, till the music ceased, and
a shout went up from two hundred black throats that made the old trees
tremble.
"Now gib him de lashes, Massa Davy," cried the old nurse. "Gib him what
he gabe pore Sam; but mine dat you keeps widin de law."
"Never fear, Aunty," said the Colonel; "I'll give him ----."
How the Colonel kept his word will be told in another chapter.
[Footnote E: Instances are frequent where Southern gentlemen form these
left-handed connections, and rear two sets of differently colored
children; but it is not often that the two families occupy the same
domicil. The only other case within my _personal_ knowledge was that of
the well-known President of the Bank of St. M----, at Columbus, Ga. That
gentleman, whose note ranked in Wall Street, when the writer was
acquainted with that locality, as "A No. 1," lived for fifteen years
with two "wives" under one roof. One, an accomplished white woman, and
the mother of several children--did the honors of his table, and moved
with him in "the best society;" the other--a beautiful quadroon, also
the mother of several children--filled the humbler office of nurse to
her own and the other's offspring.]
[Footnote F: Among the things of which slavery has deprived the black is a
_name_. A slave has no family designation. It may be for that reason
that a high-sounding appellation is usually selected for the single one
he is allowed to appropriate.]