MY mother’s love for Richmond was but second to that she felt for
husband and children. It was evident to us in after-years that her
longing to return to her early home wrought steadily, if silently, upon
my father’s mind and shaped his plans.
These plans were definitively made and announced to us by the early
autumn of 1844. Uncle Carus had removed to the city with his family
late in the summer. My sister and I were to be sent to a new school
just established in Richmond, and recommended to our parents by Moses
Hoge, who was now assistant pastor in the First Presbyterian Church,
and had full charge of a branch of the same, built farther up-town than
the Old First founded by Dr. John H. Rice. We girls were to live with
the Caruses that winter. In the spring the rest of the family would
follow, and, thenceforward, our home would be in Richmond.
A momentous change, and one that was to alter the complexion of all our
lives. Yet it was so gradually and quietly effected that we were not
conscious of so much as a jar in the machinery of our existence.
I heard my mother say, and more than once, in after-years, crowded with
incident and with cares of which we never dreamed in those eventless
months:
“I was never quite contented to live anywhere out of Richmond, yet I
often asked myself during the seven years we spent in Powhatan if they
were not the most care-free I should ever have. I know, now, that they
were.”
My father gave a fervent assent when he heard this. To him the
sojourn was prosperous throughout. Energy, integrity, public spirit,
intelligence, and, under the exterior chance acquaintances thought
stern, the truest heart that ever throbbed with love to God and love
to man, had won for him the esteem and friendship of the best men in
the county. Steadily he mounted, by the force of native worth, to the
magistrate’s bench, and was a recognized factor in local and in state
politics. He had established a flourishing Sunday-school in the “Fine
Creek neighborhood,” where none had ever existed until he made this the
nucleus of a church. He was the confidential adviser of the embarrassed
planter and the struggling mechanic, and lent a helping hand to both.
He was President of a debating society, in which he was, I think, the
only man who was not a college graduate.
His business had succeeded far beyond his expectations. Except that the
increase of means moved him to larger charities, there was no change
in our manner of life. We had always been above the pinch of penury,
living as well as our neighbors, and, so far as the younger members of
the family knew, as well as any reasonable people need desire to live.
We had our carriage and horses, my sister and I a riding-horse apiece,
abundance of delicacies for the table, and new clothes of excellent
quality whenever we wanted them.
The ambitions and glories of the world beyond our limited sphere
came to our ken as matter of entertainment, not as provocatives to
discontent.
Two nights before we left home for our city school, the Harvest
Home—“corn-shucking”—was held. It was always great fun to us younglings
to witness the “show.” With no premonition that I should never assist
at another similar function, I went into the kitchen late in the
afternoon, and, as had been my office ever since I was eight years old,
superintended the setting of the supper-table for our servants and
their expected guests. I was Mammy Ritta’s special pet, and she put in
a petition that I would stand by her now, in terms I could not have
resisted if I had been as averse to the task as I was glad to perform
it:
“Is you goin’ to be sech a town young lady that you won’t jes’ step out
and show us how to set de table, honey?” could have but one answer.
A boiled ham had the place of honor at one end of the board, built
out with loose planks to stretch from the yawning fireplace, bounding
the lower end of the big kitchen, to Mammy’s room at the other. My
mother had lent tablecloth and crockery to meet the demands of the
company. She had, of course, furnished the provisions loading the
planks. A shoulder balanced the ham, and side-dishes of sausage, chine,
spareribs, fried chicken, huge piles of corn and wheat bread, mince and
potato pies, and several varieties of preserves, would fill every spare
foot of cloth when the hot things were in place. Floral decorations
of feasts would not come into vogue for another decade and more, but
I threw the sable corps of workers into ecstasies of delighted wonder
by instructing Spotswood, Gilbert, and a stableman to tack branches of
pine and cedar along the smoke-browned rafters and stack them in the
corners.
“Mos’ as nice as bein’ in de woods!” ejaculated the laundress, with an
audible and long-drawn sniff, parodying, in unconscious anticipation,
Young John Chivery’s—“I feel as if I was in groves!”
It was nine o’clock before the ostensible business of the evening
began. Boards, covered with straw, were the base of the mighty pyramid
of corn in the open space between the kitchen-yard and the stables.
Straw was strewed about the heap to a distance of twenty or thirty
feet, and here the men of the party assembled, sitting flat on the
padded earth. The evening was bland and the moon was at the full. About
the doors of kitchen and laundry fluttered the dusky belles who had
accompanied the shuckers, and who would sit down to supper with them.
Their presence was the inspiration of certain “topical songs,” as we
would name them—sometimes saucy, oftener flattering. As dear Doctor
Primrose hath it, “There was not much wit, but there was a great deal
of laughter, and that did nearly as well.”
This was what Mea and I whispered to each other in our outlook at the
window of our room that gave directly upon the lively scene. We had sat
in the same place for seven successive corn-shuckings, as we reminded
ourselves, sighing reminiscently.
The top of the heap of corn was taken by the biggest man present and
the best singer. From his eminence he tossed down the hooded ears to
the waiting hands that caught them as they hurtled through the air,
and stripped them in a twinkling. As he tossed, he sang, the others
catching up the chorus with a will. Hands and voices kept perfect time.
One famous corn-shuckers’ song was encored vociferously. It ran, in
part, thus:
“My cow Maria
She fell in de fire.
_Chorus_
“Go de corn! Go de corn!
“I tell my man Dick
To pull ’er out quick.
(Go de corn!)
“And Dick he said,
‘Dis cow done dade!’
(Go de corn!)”
(Being of an economic turn of mind, the owner of deceased Maria
proceeded to make disposition of her several members:)
“I made her hide over
For a wagon-cover.
(Go de corn!)
“I cut her hoof up
For a drinkin’ cup.
(Go de corn!)
“Her tail I strip’
Fur a wagon-whip.
(Go de corn!)
“Her ribs hol’ op
Dat wagon top.
(Go de corn!)”
And so on until, as Mea murmured, under cover of the uproarious “Go
de corn!” repeated over and over and over, with growing might of
lung—“Maria was worth twice as much dead as alive.”
We had had our first nap when the chatter of the supper-party, saying
their farewells to hosts and companions, awoke us. We tumbled out of
bed and flew to the window. The moon was as bright as day, the dark
figures bustling between us and the heaps of shucks and the mounds
of corn, gleaming like gold in the moonlight, reminded us of nimble
ants scampering about their hills. The supper had evidently been
eminently satisfactory. We could smell hot coffee and sausage still.
Fine phrases, impossible to any but a negro’s brain and tongue, flew
fast and gayly. The girls giggled and gurgled in palpable imitation of
damsels of fairer skins and higher degree.
Hampton—the spruce carriage-driver (as coachmen were named then) of Mr.
Spencer D., Effie’s father—bowed himself almost double right under our
window in worshipful obeisance to a bright mulatto in a blazing red
frock.
“Is all de ladies ockerpied wid gentlemen?” he called, perfunctorily,
over his shoulder. And, ingratiatingly direct to the coy belle who
pretended not to see his approach, “Miss Archer! is you ockerpied?”
Miss Archer tittered and writhed coquettishly.
“Well, Mr. D.! I can’t jes’ say that I is!”
“Then, jes’ hook on hyar, won’t you?” crooking a persuasive elbow.