Those who profess to know all about slavery will tell you that
the negro was a thousand times happier as a slave than he is as a
freeman. This may be true of some of the race; we do not enter into
the question. The field-hand was in general an entirely irresponsible
creature. He belonged to his master as thoroughly as the dogs and
horses did, and he was of infinitely less importance. He had his
daily task and his daily rations; he had also, if owned by a kind
master, his little amusements, chief of which were the dance and the
camp-meeting. Such a life would naturally not inspire one with any very
high ambition. Give the plantation negro his hoe-cake and his bit of
fat pork, his banjo, and the privilege of telling his experience to
an unlimited chorus of ‘Halleluiahs!’ and ‘Bress de Lords!’ and you
gave him perfect bliss. If the white man was his oppressor, he seldom
knew it. ‘De family’ were, except in rare cases, admired and revered.
And these poor creatures who did not own themselves, assumed and felt
an air of proud proprietorship when speaking of the glories of their
master’s state, and specially of each ‘young mas’r’ and ‘lily miss.’
‘Young mas’r’ was at once their tyrant and their darling. I have heard
a wedding ceremony wound up with, ‘Hark, from de tombs a doleful
sound!’ with all its concomitant tears and groans, because ‘Marse
Harry’ had so ordered.
This state of things by no means came to an end with the civil war.
Long after the slaves were freemen, and the broad acres had changed
owners, and ‘old mas’r’ had fallen in battle or died broken-hearted,
all that were left of the proud old name were still ‘de family’ to
those loving hearts. While the writer lived in one of the border towns
of Virginia, the mother of one of her maids appeared one day to ask for
largess. ‘We’se done goin’ to hab a party, Miss Anne,’ said she; ‘an’
some ob de ladies dey gibs me flour; an’ some, eggs; an’ some, sugar;
an’ ole missis she would a’ gib me a whole great big cake, but I up an’
tole her I had one.—It was a lie,’ she explained earnestly, fearing
I would think further gifts unnecessary; ‘but some o’ dem pore white
trash say de missis hain’t got nuff to eat.’ And Chloe fairly sobbed.