THE DEPARTED GLORIES OF THE SOUTH LAND
My memories would be incomplete were I to fail to include in them a
description of plantation life that may be taken as a type of the
beautiful homes of the South in that long ago before the Civil War. From
Maryland to Louisiana there had reigned, since colonial times, an
undisturbed, peaceful, prosperous democracy, based upon an institution
beneficial alike to master and servant. It was implanted in the South by
the English settlers, approved by the English rulers, and fostered by
thrifty merchants of New England, glad to traffic in black men so long
as there were black men upon the African coasts who might be had in
exchange for a barrel of rum. Generations living under these conditions
had evolved a domestic discipline in Southern homes which was of an
ideal order. Nothing resembling it had existed in modern times. To
paraphrase the nursery rhyme, the planter was in his counting-house
counting out his money; his wife was in the parlour eating bread and
honey; the man servant was by his master’s side, the maid with her
mistress, the meat-cook at his spit and the bread-cook at the marble
block where the delicious beaten biscuit were made in plenty. The
laundress was in the laundry (Chinamen then in China), and in the
nursery lived, ever at her post, the sable sentinel of cribs and
cradles, the skilful manufacturer of possets and potions. None but a
Southerner to the manner born can appreciate or imagine the tie that
bound us of that old-time South to our dear black mammy, in whose
capacious lap the little ones confided to her care cuddled in innocent
slumber.
Fruitful vineyards and gardens furnished our luxuries, and talent and
faithful public service were the criterion of social standing. Of those
bygone days, Mr. E. Spann Hammond[31] recently wrote, “To me it seems as
if I had been in two worlds, and two existences, the old and the new,
and to those knowing only the latter, the old will appear almost like
mythology and romance, so thorough has been the upheaval and
obliteration of the methods and surroundings of the past.”
Yes! the old glories have passed away, but even those who destroyed
them, looking back to that time and that Southern civilisation,
recognise to-day how enviable were our solidarity as a people, our
prosperity and the moral qualities that are characteristic of the South.
“I have learned not only to respect, but to love the great qualities
which belong to my fellow-citizens of the Southern States,” said Senator
Hoar, recently. “Their love of home, their chivalrous respect for women,
their courage, their delicate sense of honour, their constancy, which
can abide by an appearance or a purpose or an interest for their States
through adversity, and through prosperity, through years and through
generations, are things by which the more mercurial people of the North
may take a lesson. And there is another thing,” he added, “the low
temptation of money has not found any place in our Southern politics.”
[Illustration:
SENATOR JAMES H. HAMMOND
of South Carolina
]
It was my good fortune during the late autumn and winter of 1864 to be
invited to take refuge in a spacious and representative plantation home
in South Carolina, where the conditions that obtained were so typically
those of the Southern home that I could choose no better example for
description, were I to scan here the numberless instances of a similar
character, known to me before those unquiet days. “Redcliffe,” the home
of Senator Hammond, is still a point of interest to travellers, and a
beautiful feature of the landscape in which it is set. It is built upon
a high knoll on Beech Island, South Carolina, and is visible to the
naked eye at a distance of thirty-five miles. It lies within view of
Sand Hill, where the famous Madame Le Vert spent her declining years,
and is pointed out to the visitor by the residents of Augusta, Georgia,
and the smaller towns about, as an object of local admiration and pride.
In the decades preceding the war it was owned by Governor, afterward
Senator, James H. Hammond, a wealthy man in his own right, whose
possessions were greatly increased by his marriage to Miss Catherine
Fitzsimmons. Miss Fitzsimmons was a daughter of one of South Carolina’s
richest citizens, and brought to Governor Hammond a splendid dowry. Her
sister became the wife of Colonel Wade Hampton, who had been on General
Jackson’s staff at the battle of New Orleans, and whose son, General and
Senator Wade Hampton, served in the same Congress with Senator Hammond.
While in Washington, the latter, distinguished alike for his reserve and
scholarliness, became known as the “Napoleon of the Senate.” He was no
lover of public life, however, and the senatorial office was literally
thrust upon him. Especially as the strenuousness in Congress increased,
his desire deepened to remain among his people and to develop what was,
in fact, one of the most productive plantations in South Carolina. The
estate of “Redcliffe” was stocked with the finest of Southdowns, with
sleek, blooded kine, and horses, and a full flock of Angora goats. The
prolific “Redcliffe” vineyards yielded unusual varieties of grapes,
planted and cared for by white labourers. Four hundred slaves or more
were owned by Senator Hammond, but these were set to less
skill-demanding duties. For the planting of this vineyard, forty acres
of land, sub-soiled to a depth of three feet, were set apart, and the
clear, straw-coloured wine for which the Senator’s cellar was famous
came from his own wine-presses.
On the plantation was a large grist-mill, from which every human
creature in that vast family was fed. It was a big, heavy timbered
building, grey even then with age, and run by water. Here the corn was
crushed between the upper and the nether mill-stones, and so skilful was
the miller that each could have his hominy ground as coarse or as fine
as his fancy dictated, and all the sweetness of the corn left in it
besides. The miller could neither read nor write, but he needed no aid
to his memory. For years he had known whose mealbag it was that had the
red patch in the corner. He knew each different knot as well as he knew
the negros’ faces, and if any of the bags presented had holes in it the
miller would surely make its owner wait till the last.
Lower down on the same water-course was the sawmill, which had turned
out all the lumber used in the building of “Redcliffe.” On one occasion
it happened that this mill, needing some repairs, a great difficulty was
encountered in the adjustment of the mud-sills, upon which the solidity
of the whole superstructure depended. The obstacles to be removed were
great, and it cost much time and money to overcome them. While Mr.
Hammond was Senator, and in the official chamber was grappling with the
problem of labour and capital, his experience with the mud-sills was
opportunely recalled, and his application of that name to certain of the
labouring classes at once added to his reputation for ready wit.
On the “Redcliffe” plantation the blacksmith was to be found at his
forge, the wheelwright in his shop, and the stock-minder guarding the
welfare of his charges. Measured by the standard that a man has not
lived in vain who makes two blades of grass to grow where but one grew
before, Senator Hammond might have been crowned King of agricultural
enterprise, for his highest producing corn-lands before he rescued them
had been impassible swamp-lands. Drained and put under cultivation,
their yield was enormous, no less than eighty bushels of corn being the
average quantity to the acre. There was scarcely a corner of the old
“stake-and-rider fences” in which Mr. Hammond did not cause to be
planted a peach or apple or other fruit tree.
Our cousin Miss Comer, who late in the fifties married the son of
Senator Hammond, and made her home at “Redcliffe,” though accustomed to
affluent plantation life, was at once impressed by the splendid system
that directed the colony of slaves at Beech Island. Each marriage and
birth and death that took place among them was registered with great
exactness. The Senator’s business ability was remarkable. He knew his
every possession to the most minute particular. The Hammond slaves
formed an exclusive colony, which was conducted with all the strictness
of a little republic. They were a happy, orderly, cleanly, and care-free
lot, and Mr. Hammond was wont to say that if the doctrine of
transmigration of souls was true, he would like to have his soul come
back and inhabit one of his “darkies.”
I have said they were an exclusive colony. My pretty little cousin
realised this upon her arrival at “Glen Loula,” a charming residence
named for her, and set apart for the young couple by the owner of
“Redcliffe.”
“The Hammond negro, as I have found him,” she wrote, “has a decided
personal vanity, and nothing will offend him more than to have you
forget his name. For a long time after coming I felt I was not exactly
admitted by the different servants as ‘one ob de fambly.’ In fact, it
was plain I was on trial, being ‘weighed in the balance!’ How I wished I
knew all about diplomacy! I never saw a more august appearance than
Daddy ‘Henry,’ an old African, who remembers the slave ship on which he
was brought over, his foreign name, and, perhaps, many things which he
never tells about. He cleans the silver, polishes the floors and windows
and the brasses in the fireplaces, and, besides this, claims the boys’
guns as his by some divine right.
“In order to hasten an expression of their good-will, I thought one day
of making a Sterling exchange with the aid of some Washington finery;
and, with a black silk dress to one servant and a morning-robe to
another, I have pulled through famously, even with Marm Jane, the cook,
who is supreme in her kitchen. I have heard her turn my husband out. But
the silk dress brought me a _carte blanche_. ‘Come on, Missy, jes w’en
you feels like it!’ is the way she greets me now.
“I cannot help seeing the wise arrangement of every part of this
extensive plantation, especially for the negroes. The house of the
overseer is in the midst of a grove of live oaks, and in each street are
a certain number of cabins, each in the midst of a little garden with
space in which to raise chickens. The hospital is well arranged, and
there is a separate house where the children, especially the babies, are
left to be fed and cared for while their mothers are at work.
“My poor memory for faces would be my undoing but for Paul, who always
tells me as we come upon any of the negroes, ‘Now this is Jethro! Be
sure to call him distinctly.’ I fall in with this righteous deception
and it works like a charm. They admire what they think wit, and
especially love to memorise some easy little rhyme. Every one makes the
same atrocious wish to me:
‘God blass you, ma Missie. I wishes you joy
An’ every year a gal or a boy.’
“I thought I would die when I heard it first, but I’ve gotten over it
now. Senator Hammond gives a barbecue to the slaves every Fourth of July
and Christmas, and the dances of the negroes are very amusing. There is
a tall black man, called Robin, on this plantation, who has originated a
dance which he calls the turkey-buzzard dance. He holds his hands under
his coat-tails, which he flirts out as he jumps, first to one side, and
then to the other, and looks exactly like the ugly bird he imitates.”
In the uncertain days of the war, Huntsville being unapproachable, and
we having no fixed abode in the intervals between Congressional sessions
at Richmond, Senator Clay and I made several enjoyable visits to the
sheltered home of Mr. Hammond, even while battles raged and every heart
was burdened with apprehension. The hospitality of the owner of
“Redcliffe” was well known. It was his custom in those uncertain days,
whether guests were known to be coming or not, to send his carriage
daily to Augusta to meet the afternoon train, and the unexpected or
chance arrival who might be seeking a conference or a refuge at
“Redcliffe”; and once a year, like a great feudal landlord, he gave a
fête or grand dinner to all the country people about, at which he always
contrived to have some distinguished guest present. Senator Clay and I
had the good fortune to be visiting Mr. Hammond on such an occasion,
when every neighbour, poor or rich, for miles about was present. They
made a memorable picture; for the majority were stiff and prim and of
the quaint, simple, religious class often to be found in back districts.
They seemed ill at ease, if not consciously out of place, in Senator
Hammond’s parlours, filled as those great rooms were with evidences of a
cosmopolitan culture, with paintings and statuary, bronze and marble
groups.[32]
In their efforts to entertain their guests, our host and hostess’s
ingenuity had been tested to its utmost, when suddenly Senator Hammond’s
eye twinkled, and he turned to Senator Clay.
“I remember once seeing you dance at our home in Washington, Mr. Clay,”
he began, and then proceeded to recall an amusing evening, where,
strictly _en famille_, Senator Butler, of South Carolina, together with
Secretary and Mrs. Cobb, Senator Clay and myself, had dined, finishing
up the hours together by singing our favourite ballads. Upon my playing
a merry tune, Secretary Cobb, rotund and jolly, suddenly seized my
husband, slender and sedate, and together they whirled madly about the
room to the music of the piano, and the great amusement of dear old
Senator Butler, who laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
When Mr. Hammond at “Redcliffe” proposed that Mr. Clay repeat his
terpsichorean success for the pleasure of the Beach Islanders there
gathered, my husband at first (emulating the distinguished artist
wherever he is encountered) demurred. He “could not dance without
music,” he said.
“Well,” said our host, “Mrs. Clay can play!”
“But I need a partner!” my husband persisted. At last, however, he
yielded to Senator Hammond’s persuasion and danced an impromptu Highland
fling, abandoning himself completely to the fun of the moment. As the
music went on and his spirit of frolic rose, the faces of some of the
spectators around us grew longer and longer, and, I am sure, those good
people felt themselves to be a little nearer to the burning pit than
they had ever been before. Their prim glances at my husband’s capers
increased the natural sedateness of our hostess, who, seeing the
expressions of alarm, plainly was relieved when at last the terrible
Bacchanalian outburst was over! I felt sure it would be a difficult task
to try to convince my husband’s audience that his own religious feelings
and convictions were of the deepest and most spiritual quality.
For his black dependents, Senator Hammond had built several churches;
the favourite one, called St. Catherine’s (named for Mrs. Hammond),
being nearest the “Redcliffe” residence and most frequently visited by
the family. Once a month a white preacher came, and all the slaves
gathered to listen to the monthly sermon. Senator Hammond’s views for
the civilising of the negroes led him to forbid the presence of exciting
negro preachers, for the religion of the black man, left to himself, is
generally a mixture of hysteria and superstition. The conversion of the
negroes under their own spiritual guides was a blood-curdling process in
those days, for they screamed to Heaven as if the Indians with their
tomahawks were after them, or danced, twisting their bodies in most
remarkable manner.[33] As their emotion increased, as they “got
feelin’,” and the moment of conversion approached, as a rule they fell
all in a heap, though in thus “coming through” the wenches were
altogether likely to fall into the arms of the best-looking young
brother who happened to be near. By reason of Senator Hammond’s wise
discipline, such religious excesses were impossible at “Redcliffe,” and
I can recall no church service at once more thrilling and reverential
than that I attended, with Senator Clay, at quaint St. Catherine’s on
the “Redcliffe” plantation shortly before my husband’s departure for
Canada.
The negroes, clean, thrifty, strong, all dressed in their best, vied
with each other in their deference to Mars’ Paul’s guests, as we entered
the church. They listened quietly to the sermon as the service
proceeded.
It was a solemn and impressive scene. There was the little company of
white people, the flower of centuries of civilisation, among hundreds of
blacks, but yesterday in the age of the world, wandering in savagery,
now peaceful, contented, respectful and comprehending the worship of
God. Within a day’s ride, cannon roared, and a hunter, laying his ear to
the ground, might have heard the tread of armies, bent upon the blotting
out of just such scenes as these. Only God might record our thoughts
that morning, as the preacher alluded in prayer and sermon to the issues
of the times. At the close of the morning, the hymn “There is rest for
the weary” was given out, and when the slaves about us had wailed out
the lines
“On the other side of Jordan
· · · · ·
Where the tree of life is blooming
There is rest for you!”
my husband, at the signal for prayer, fell upon his knees, relieving his
pent-up feelings in tears which he could not restrain. My own
commingling emotions were indescribably strange and sad. Would
abolitionists, I thought, could they look upon that scene, fail to admit
the blessings American “slavery” had brought to the savage black men,
thus, within a few generations at most, become at home in a condition of
civilisation.
There were many fine voices on the plantation at “Redcliffe,” and as
they followed their leader down the row “chopping out” cotton, or, when
later they worked in gangs at picking it, it was their custom, seeming
to act from instinct in the matter, to sing. One voice usually began the
song, then another would join him, and then another, until dozens of
voices blended in weird and melodious harmonies that floated from the
distant cotton fields to the house of the master, and the music of the
unseen choristers, a natural and rhythmic song, was of a kind we shall
not hear again in these later practical times. Sometimes, one by one,
all would drop out of the song, until only the leader’s high voice was
heard; then, gradually, they would join in again, and often, when all
seemed finished, a challenge would come from some distant gang, and a
fuller and freer antiphonal song would be heard, answering from field to
field.
When I remember that throng of well-fed, plump and happy coloured
people, and compare it with the ragged and destitute communities common
among the freedmen of to-day, the contrast is a sad one. “What’s de
reason?” asked an old darky of me during Reconstruction days, “dat de
Yankees caint make linsey-wolsey like ole Mistis did in de ole time? ’N
dose days one par breeches las me mos a year! I could cut trees, roll
logs, burn bresh-heaps an’ cut briers an’ I couldn’t wear dem breeches
out! Now when I buys dis shoddy stuff de Yankees done bro’t an’ sets
down on de lawg ter eat ma grub, bress Gawd! when I gits up, I leaves de
seat O’ my breeches on de lawg! I done got down on my knees an’ prayed
for God ter send me linsey-wolsey clothes so I won’t have rheumatiz an’
aint none come. Where’s dat mule an’ forty acres? When is dey a comin’,
dat’s what I wants ter know!”