Now that the “Old South” has passed away as utterly as the ancient
kingdoms of Babylon and Assyria, before the very memory of her shall
have faded from the earth, it may not be without interest to thoughtful
readers to endeavor to trace the cause which produced the striking
dissimilarity between her civilization and that of the Northern States
of the Union. That such dissimilarity existed is beyond dispute; it only
remains, therefore, to attempt to explain it. Beginning National life,
as did the thirteen original colonies, under the same general
conditions; with the heritage of a common origin, a common language, and
a common faith, what influence was it which, within the term of a
hundred years, was potent enough to effect so great a change in the
habits, the manners, and the character of the people of the two
sections?
Was the institution of Slavery mainly responsible for this result? I
believe that it was.
While due allowance must be made for climatic and other local
conditions, the institution of slavery, in its direct and indirect
effects upon the Southern people, appears to be by far the most
important factor in the equation.
Let us briefly consider the subject. On the colonial history of the
Southern States, it is unnecessary to dwell. Suffice it to say, that
while thoroughly imbued with the spirit of independence and taking a
leading part in the struggle of 1776, in this course the South was
actuated by a desire to assert its abstract rights, and to stand loyally
by its sister colonies of the North, rather than by any personal
grievance, or feeling of animosity towards the Mother Country.
Between the Southern States themselves, there were strongly marked
differences, each possessing its own distinctly individual character.
But in essentials, the family likeness between them was strong enough to
make any one member of the group a typical representative of the whole,
so far as the outside world was concerned. Bound indissolubly together
by that common bond,—the institution of slavery,—in politics they were
equally united. From those early days when the American Government was
in its formative stage, down to the period of the Civil War in 1861, the
South stood always a solid unit for republican principles as imbodied in
the Constitution of the United States, and exemplified in the cardinal
Southern doctrine of “States’ Rights.”
The term “democracy” as applied to the South is a total misnomer, and
its application furnishes one of the many curious anomalies to be found
in American political history. But this history is too tangled a skein
to be unravelled here. Enough to say that the Old South was never a
democracy, properly so called; on the contrary, it was an oligarchy of
the most pronounced and exclusive type, its population being sharply
divided into two classes, patrician and plebeian—the governing and the
governed. Nay more, although nominally the entire white population
belonged in the first category (and was therefore eligible for public
office), practically the franchise was confined to the educated and
property-holding class alone, the “poor whites” of the South being too
numerically weak and insignificant to be an appreciable power in
politics.
Thus it came about that, from first to last, in this fundamental
particular the South differed from every other section of the Republic;
and this difference was the direct result of the Institution of Slavery.
Secondly: The economic conditions existing at the South were totally
unlike those in other parts of the country. The Old South was,
emphatically, a community of agriculturists; and of all modes of making
a livelihood agriculture is the one least liable to violent fluctuations
and sudden collapse. It is true that in the South wealth never rolled up
into the millions, and, judged by present standards, bank accounts were
by no means imposing in round numbers; but all the real advantages and
immunities that wealth can give were enjoyed by the Southern people who,
as a class, were in possession of an assured income sufficient not only
for the supply of their necessities, but for the gratification of their
tastes as well. And in those days there was a solidity and a stability
about men’s financial affairs which effectually removed from them the
pressure of anxiety for the future, and protected them from that
feverish, harassing mental strain only too well-known elsewhere.
And here again, we come face to face with that basal fact—“the
institution”—on which rested the whole industrial system of the South.
Again: The intimate relation necessarily existing between economic and
social conditions would lead us to infer that conservatism was the great
law of Southern society. And in truth, permanence and continuity were
its most marked characteristics. The fluctuations and vicissitudes which
formed so striking a feature of Northern social life were practically
unknown at the South. From generation to generation, men occupied the
same habitations, pursued the same callings and held the same place in
the community; and, as a rule, the father’s social status determined
that of the son, and the son’s son after him. Thus was created and
preserved a social atmosphere only attainable under these peculiar
conditions; and the effect of such a social environment upon the whole
tone of the people may readily be conceived.
In the South, for example, the spirit of commercialism was noticeably
absent. Wealth was not there regarded as the “be all” and the “end all”
of existence—the standard by which to measure the sum of human
achievement. Nor was a money value affixed to the thousand and one
little services passing current in the community. These were regarded
simply as small social courtesies due from neighbor to neighbor, and
were freely rendered and as freely accepted, without a thought of
pecuniary obligation on either side.
An equally distinguishing characteristic of Southern society was the
position universally accorded to woman. Southern chivalry has frequently
been made a target for ridicule, as a “survival” from the Dark Ages; but
the elevating and refining influence it exercised upon the public tone
was assuredly a most salutary one. And although, in the light of later
developments, it must be conceded that the old Southern idea of woman’s
helplessness and absolute dependence upon man for support and
protection, savored somewhat of Quixotism, the spirit of knight-errantry
fostered thereby was a wholesome one, in that it acted both as an
incentive to exertion and as an antidote to selfishness. Even the “code
of the duello,” while of course indefensible in principle, had something
to be urged in its favor for, beyond doubt, it exerted a restraining
influence over a hot-blooded people and made for order in the land.
I have said that as a political entity the South consisted of two
classes—the governing and the governed. In its social structure,
however, it was far more complex. Tier above tier rose the social
pyramid, ever narrowing as it neared the apex, on which delectable
elevation rested those favored mortals “born in the purple,” placidly
secure in their social preeminence. Society, that inevitable product of
civilization, is, all the world over, composed of orders and degrees,
but whereas at the North these several gradations merged almost
imperceptibly one into another, at the South they were divided by very
sharply drawn lines of demarcation. The tradesman, the artisan, the
mechanic stood quite apart from the professional classes and the
landed-proprietors. In every age and in every clime talent will assert
itself and rise to the top; and to this rule the South was no exception.
But comparatively speaking, south of Mason and Dixon’s line there were
to be found few “self-made” men, and those few were almost without
exception, men intellectually gifted, who had climbed the social ladder
by the rounds of fame rather than of fortune.
This, however, is a digression; our present purpose being, not to
uncover, fold by fold, the inner intricacies of Southern society, but to
present a broad and inclusive view of that society as a whole, and as
contrasted with the society of other sections. Perhaps this may best be
done by treating the subject somewhat in detail.
In a recent criticism of a Western poet the reviewer remarked that
whatever the poet’s shortcomings might be, his descriptions of homely
rural life must strike a responsive chord in the hearts of his readers
all over the country, carrying them back to scenes and phases of life
with which in youth they were familiar. Now, as a matter of fact, not a
single one of these allusions could awaken an answering echo in a
Southern breast! Descriptions of farm life with its round of labors
performed by the fanner’s own hands, might be interesting reading enough
to the Southerner, but the interest would be that of novelty not of
familiarity. For never in the days of his youth had he himself “driven
the plough,” or joined as a worker in the jocund mirth of a “harvest
home.” Neither would he recognize in the portraiture of the “village
worthies” the companions of his own youth; and rustic wit and rustic
manners were equally apart from his personal experiences.
Not by any means that the lot of the Southern planter was always easier
than that of the Northern farmer. Hard work most generally fell to his
share. Early to rise and late to rest, he toiled as arduously and as
unremittingly as his Northern brother, but the toil was of a different
sort. It consisted not in literally putting his own shoulder to the
wheel, but in training, directing, and supervising the labors of others,
and often (hardest and most harassing work of all) in contriving how to
supply the wants of his numerous dependants. Supreme autocrat within his
own domain, the very consciousness of his power created in him a sense
of responsibility, which produced a strength and gravity of character
and a certain dignity of bearing. Born to control, from his cradle the
Southern land owner was trained to regard himself as the natural
protector, provider, and friend of the weak and the helpless. Thus,
while the environment of the Northern farmer was calculated to make him
think first of his own personal needs and his duty to himself, that of
the Southern planter as naturally impressed upon him the duty he owed to
those by whom he was surrounded.
Such was his work. His pleasures consisted chiefly in
field-sports—hunting, fishing, riding, boating—he was usually a keen
sportsman and a capital rider and sometimes, though not so frequently, a
great reader as well.
If for the most part not scholars, however, Southern men could at least
generally lay claim to a collegiate education. And whether it was due to
vague recollections of classic lore, and lingering memories of Alma
Mater, or to the tone of the home atmosphere by which they were
surrounded (which is, after all, the truly effective educating
influence), certain it is that, as a rule, their manners were polished
and their modes of expression those of the “classes,” not of the
“masses.”
The Southern matron was noted for her administrative rather than for her
executive ability. Not that, generally speaking, her days were passed in
idleness; on the contrary, her life was usually a full and beneficent
one, including not only her domestic avocations—among which may be
mentioned the now well-nigh forgotten accomplishments of cookery and
fine needlework—but the many good offices of a Lady Bountiful which she
graciously dispensed among her numerous dependants; plantation life
affording ample scope for her activities in this direction. But the
menial drudgery of a household did not devolve upon its mistress; and,
in consequence, she had at her command an abundant portion of that
leisure which—while not a _sine qua non_ as regards strictly
intellectual acquirement—is undoubtedly essential to the cultivation of
the mental graces. Truth to say, as a class, Southern women were more
distinguished for their soft femininity and finished refinement of
manner than for their erudition. By which I am far from implying that
they ignored grammar; much less that—in common with their male
relatives—they used the negro-dialect. As a matter of fact indeed, by no
people was purer _dictionary_ English spoken, than by the upper-class in
the Old South.
In its whole internal arrangement and frictionless daily routine the
homelife of the South much more nearly resembled that of the English
gentry, than that of the dwellers in the Northern States of the Union.
Thanks to “the institution,” the household machine was too complex a
mechanism ever to be thrown completely out of gear, the direful domestic
problems so often confronting the Northern housewife being at the South
entirely unknown. And as conditions, homely and trivial in themselves,
sometimes exert an influence on things seemingly beyond their sphere, it
may be that that large hearted, free-handed hospitality for which the
Old South was famed, was in part at least, the result of this feeling of
stability about the domestic foundations.