learn the politics of the university. "In the selection of our Law
Professor, we must be rigorously attentive to his political principles.
You will recollect that, before the Revolution, Coke-Littleton was the
universal elementary book of law students; and a sounder whig never
wrote, nor of profounder learning in the orthodox doctrines of the
British constitution, or in what were called English liberties. You
remember, also, that our lawyers were then all whigs. But when his
black-letter text, and uncouth but cunning learning got out of fashion,
and the honeyed Mansfieldism of Blackstone became the student's
hornbook, from that moment that profession (the nursery of our Congress)
began to slide into toryism, and nearly all the young brood of lawyers
are now of that hue. They suppose themselves, indeed, to be whigs,
because they no longer know what whigism or republicanism means. It is
in our seminary that that vestal flame is to be kept alive; it is thence
to spread anew over our own and the sister states." On inquiry I found
that, out of the 206 students, seven held the principles of the
democratic party. There seemed to be little or none of the federalism of
the North, but a strong attachment to Calhoun on the part of the
majority in the establishment. The evil influences of slavery have
entered in to taint the work of the great champion of freedom. The
political attachments of this once democratic institution are to the
leader who, in order to uphold slavery, would, to judge him by himself,
establish a Lacedæmonian government throughout the South; making every
white man a soldier, in order to preserve a false idea of honour, and to
obviate danger from the oppressed servile class. To observing eyes it
appears plain that the hour is approaching when these young men must,
like all other American men, choose their part, and enter decisively
into struggle to maintain or overthrow the first principles of freedom.
It will then be seen whether "the vestal flame" has been kept alive, or
whether the name of him who cherished it has been honoured with mere
lip-worship, while the labours of his latter years have been despised
and undone. The eyes of the world will be fixed on Jefferson's
University during the impending conflict between slaveholders and
freemen.
To return to our Sunday afternoon. It was known that we should soon
arrive at the University with our letters of introduction, and a truly
hospitable welcome was prepared for us. We called first at Professor
Patterson's, where we found ourselves, in half an hour, as much at home
as if we had been acquainted for months. We were obliged to decline
taking up our abode there at once, but promised to return the next
morning, and remain for as long a time as we could spare. Professor
Tucker, long known in England, and at present more extensively so
through his very acceptable Life of Jefferson, was recovering from an
illness which confined him to his room, and sent to ask me to visit him
there. I was glad that he was well enough to see me, and that I had thus
the benefit of a good deal of his lively, sensible, and earnest
conversation.
A great disappointment awaited our rising on the Monday morning. On the
Sunday afternoon the sun had been so hot that we threw off our shawls.
The next morning we looked out upon a snowstorm. There was, from the
beginning, no hope of our getting to Monticello. Jefferson's house upon
the mountain was actually in sight, and there was no possibility of our
reaching it, and we were obliged to satisfy ourselves with the traces we
found of him about the University. Professor Patterson's carriage came
for us early, and we passed a morning of the liveliest gossip with the
ladies and children of the family, while the professors were engaged in
their duties. The frankness of the whole society was particularly
winning, and so was the cordiality among themselves; a degree of mutual
good understanding which is seldom found in the small society of a
college, village-like in its seclusion and leisure, with added
temptations to jealousy and censoriousness. The ladies of Professor
Patterson's family gave me a spirited and amiable description of their
arrival as strangers at the University, and of the zeal and kind
consideration with which they were welcomed and aided on every hand. Two
facts struck me in the course of our feminine talk on the subject of
housekeeping; that chickens are there to be had for a dollar a dozen,
plump fowls ready for the fire; and that Mrs. Patterson's coachman, a
slave, could read. These ladies, seeing apparently only domestic slaves
kindly treated like their own, spoke lightly on the great subject,
asking me if I did not think the slaves were happy; but their husbands
used a very different tone, observing, with gloom, that it was a dark
question every way.
Four of the professors and two or three students, fine, well-mannered
young men, joined us at dinner, and many ladies and others of the
professors in the evening. I was amused and gratified by the interest
shown in the living authors of England, especially the ladies. Every
particular that I could tell about Mrs. Somerville and Mrs. Marcet was
eagerly listened to. The Herschel family, Mr. Malthus, and many more,
were fully and affectionately discussed. The great treat of the evening
to me was a long conversation with Professor Hamilton on the German
language and literature, and on the mutual criticism of the Germans and
the English. He offered a comparison of the genius of the Greek and
German languages, which, for want of sufficient learning, I do not
pretend to appreciate, but which impressed me strongly with admiration
of his powers of conversation.
One of the ladies took an opportunity of asking me privately to request
leave to attend a lecture with the Natural Philosophy class in the
morning. Ladies are excluded by rule; but she thought that the rule
might for once be infringed without injury in the case of foreign
ladies. The professor kindly made no difficulty, and my prompter highly
enjoyed her single opportunity.
We breakfasted before eight, and went immediately to survey the large
building, the Rotunda. First we saw the library, a well-chosen
collection of books, the list of which was made out by Jefferson. The
students read in the Rotunda, and take out books by order. In the
gallery above the books, the mineralogical collection, belonging to
Professor Patterson, is arranged, and open to observation. Higher up
still is a whispering gallery. The lecture to which we were admitted was
on Heat. It was clear, fluent, and entertaining. The young men appeared
to be good listeners; some wrote down almost all they heard, and many
asked questions of the professor at the conclusion of the lecture.
Mr. Tucker begged us to go to his chamber to luncheon, as he was still
unable to venture out of it. We had a delightful hour there. The sick
gentleman's room was crowded with guests, all busy with question and
remark, our time being short, and the quantity we had to say, like old
friends in a brief meeting, being inexhaustible. A serious request was
made to us that we would stay a month, giving up a portion of our
southern journey in exchange for the good offices of the University. We
could not possibly do this; but there can be no doubt of what our
enjoyment would have been during a whole month of intimate intercourse
with such stirring people as this graceful, kindly little society is
composed of. Having said all that so many tongues could, in an hour's
time, about the Theory of Rent, Colonel Thompson, and Mr. Malthus; the
value of public censure and eulogy; Mrs. Somerville again, Philadelphia
ale, American politics, and a hundred other things, we were obliged to
go. Keepsakes of the ladies' work were put into our hands, and packets
of sandwiches into the carriage; and a party escorted us to our inn, bad
as the weather was. Letters of introduction were hastily prepared and
sent after us, and during our whole visit nothing was omitted which
could concern our comfort or enhance our pleasure. As I cast my last
look from the window of the stage towards the University, it was with
less regret than pleasurable astonishment at my own experience of the
speed with which it is possible for foreign minds to communicate, and
lasting regard to be established.
COUNTRY LIFE IN THE SOUTH.
"For Nature here
Wantoned as in her prime, and played at will
Her virgin fancies."
MILTON.
"These views of the degradation of the Southern States receive a
melancholy and impressive confirmation from the general aspect and
condition of the country, viewed in contrast with its former
prosperity. With natural advantages more bountiful than were ever
dispensed by a kind Providence to any other people upon the surface
of the globe, there is, from the mountains to the seacoast, one
unbroken scene of cheerless stagnation and premature
decay."--_Southern Review_, vol. ii., p. 513.
There was no end to the kind cautions given me against travelling
through the Southern States, not only on account of my opinions on
slavery, but because of the badness of the roads and the poverty of the
wayside accommodations. There was so much of this, that my companion and
I held a consultation one day, in our room at Washington, spreading out
the map, and surveying the vast extent of country we proposed to
traverse before meeting my relatives at New-Orleans. We found that
neither was afraid, and afterward that there was no cause for fear,
except to persons who are annoyed by irregularity and the absence of
comfort. The evil prognostications went on multiplying as we advanced;
but we learned to consider them as mere voices on the mountain of our
enterprise, which must not deter us from accomplishing it. We had
friends to visit at Charleston and Columbia, South Carolina; Augusta,
Georgia; Montgomery, Alabama; and Mobile. At Richmond we were cautioned
about the journey into South Carolina; at Charleston we were met with
dreadful reports of travelling in Georgia; in Georgia people spoke of
the horrors of Alabama, and so on; and, after all, nothing could well be
easier than the whole undertaking. I do not remember a single difficulty
that occurred all the way. There was much fatigue, of course. In going
down from Richmond to Charleston with a party of friends, we were nine
days on the road, and had only three nights' rest. Throughout the
journey we were obliged to accommodate ourselves to the stage hours,
setting off sometimes in the evening, sometimes at midnight; or, of all
uncomfortable seasons, at two or three in the morning. On a journey of
many days, we had to inform ourselves of the longest time that the stage
would stop at a supping or breakfasting place, so that we might manage
to snatch an hour's sleep. While the meal was preparing, it was my wont
to lie down and doze, in spite of hunger; if I could find a bed or sofa,
it was well; if not, I could wrap myself in my cloak, and make a pillow
on the floor of my carpet-bag. I found that a sleep somewhat longer than
this, when I could go to bed for two hours, was more fatiguing than
refreshing. The being waked up at two, when I had lain down at midnight,
was the greatest discomfort I experienced. But little sleep can be
obtained in the stage from the badness of the roads. It was only when
quite wearied out that I could forget myself for an hour or two amid the
joltings and rollings of the vehicle. In Alabama, some of the passengers
in the stage were Southern gentlemen coming from New-York, in comparison
with whose fatigues ours were nothing. I think they had then travelled
eleven days and nights with very short intervals of rest, and the
badness of the roads at the end of a severe winter had obliged them to
walk a good deal. They looked dreadfully haggard and nervous, and we
heard afterward that one of them had become incessantly convulsed in the
face after we had left them. It is not necessary, of course, to proceed
without stopping in such a way as this; but it is necessary to be
patient of fatigue to travel in the South at all.
Yet I was very fond of these long journeys. The traveller (if he be not
an abolitionist) is perfectly secure of good treatment, and fatigue and
indifferent fare are the only evils which need be anticipated. The toils
of society in the cities were so great to me that I generally felt my
spirits rise when our packing began; and, the sorrow of parting with
kind hosts once over, the prospect of a journey of many days was a very
cheerful one. The novelty and the beauty of the scenery seemed
inexhaustible; and the delightful American stages, open or closed all
round at the will of the traveller, allow of everything being seen.
The American can conceive of nothing more dismal than a pine-barren on a
rainy day; but the profound tranquillity made it beautiful to me, whose
rainy days have been almost all spent in cities, amid the rumbling of
hackney-coaches, the clink of pattens, the gurgle of spouts, and the
flitting by of umbrellas. It is very different in the pine-barrens. The
sandy soil absorbs the rain, so that there is no mud; the pines stand
meekly drooping, as if waiting to be fed; the drip is noiseless; and the
brooks and pools are seen bubbling clear, or quietly filling, while not
a wing cleaves the air, each bird nestling in the covert of its domestic
tree. When the rain ceases towards evening, the whole region undergoes a
change. If a parting ray from the west pierces the woods, the stems look
lilach in the moist light; the vines glitter before they shake off their
last drops; the redbird startles the eye; the butterflies come abroad in
clouds; the frogs grow noisy, and all nature wakens up fresh as from her
siesta. The planter may be seen on his pacing white horse in a glade of
the wood, or superintending the negroes who are repairing the fence of
his estate. One black holds the large dibble, with which the holes for
the stakes are made; others are warming their hands at the fire which
blazes on the ground; many hands to do slovenly work. While any light is
left, the driver is apt to shorten his road by cutting across a knoll
instead of winding round it; and then the wheels are noiseless on the
turf; the branches crash as the vehicle is forced between the trees; and
the wood-pigeons, frightened from their roost, flutter abroad.
When the sun has gone down all is still within the stage; the passengers
grow drowsy unless hunger keeps them awake. Each one nods upon his
neighbour's shoulder, till a red light, gradually illuminating all the
faces, and every moment growing brighter, rouses the dullest. Each tells
somebody else that we are coming to a fire in the woods. First there are
lines of little yellow flames on each side the path; the blazing up of
twigs too dry to have been made incombustible by the morning's rain.
Then there is a pond of red fire on either hand, and pillars of light
rising from it; tall burning stems, throwing out jets of flame on all
sides, or emitting a flood of sparks when touched by the night breeze.
The succeeding darkness is intense. The horses seem to feel it, for they
slacken to a footpace, and the grazing of a wheel against a pinestem, or
the zigzag motion of the vehicle, intimates that the driver's eyes have
been dazzled. Presently the horses set off again, and the passengers
sink once more into silence. They are next roused by the discordant horn
of the driver, sending out as many distinct blasts as there are
passengers, each blast more of a screech than the last, and the final
flourish causing a shout of laughter in the coach; laughter animated a
little, perhaps, by the prospect of supper. Right or left soon appears
the loghouse, its open shutters and door giving token that a large fire
is blazing within. The gentlemen hand out the ladies at the door, and
then stand yawning and stretching, or draw to the fire while they can,
before the ladies take possession of the best places. The hostess, who
is busy cooking, points to a lamp, with which the ladies light
themselves to her chamber, to put up their hair under their bonnets for
the night. Little impish blacks peep and grin from behind the stove or
shine in the heat of the chimney-corner. If any one of them has ever
received a compliment on his dexterity, he serves with most ostentatious
bustle, his eyes wide open, his row of white teeth all in sight, and his
little body twisting about with every affectation of activity. An
observer may see some fun going on behind the mistress's back; a whisk
of a carving-knife across a companion's throat, or a flourish of two
plates like cymbals over the head.
At last supper is ready; the broiled venison, the ham collops and eggs,
and apple-sauce; the infusion which is called tea or coffee; and the
reeking corn-bread. Before the clatter of knives has ceased, the stage,
with its fresh horses, is at the door; the ladies snatch a final warming
while the driver finishes his protracted meal, their eyes being now at
liberty to study the apartment, looking round for some other object than
the old story, the six presidents who smile from the walls of almost
every loghouse in America, and the great map of the United States, with
a thumbmark, amounting to an erasure, on the spot of the very territory
where this particular loghouse happens to be. If we wanted to consult a
map in a hurry in such places as these, we never had to hunt out our
present situation. There was always the worn spot to serve as the centre
to our investigations. The passengers, however wearily they might have
descended from the stage, are pretty sure to enter it again with a
spring; warm and satisfied, with a joke on their tongues, and a good
supper to sleep or muse upon.
The sleep seldom lasts long, however. You are sure to come to a creek,
where nobody has ever erected a bridge, or where a freshet has carried
one away, and no measures have been taken to rebuild it. With drowsy
groans, the passengers rouse themselves, and get out at the driver's
bidding under the cold stars or the drifting clouds. The ladies slip on
their India-rubber shoes, for their first step may be into soft mud.
They stand upon a bank if there be one, in order not to be run over in
the dark; while the scow shows by the reflection of the light at her bow
where the river is. When she touches the bank the driver calls to
everybody to keep out of the way, cracks his whip, and drives his
lumbering carriage down the bank and into the scow; the passengers
follow; the scow is unchained, and the whole load is pushed across the
stream, or pulled, if it happens to be a rope-ferry. When the expected
shock tells you that you have arrived at the other side, the driver
again cracks his whip, and the horses scramble. If they should refuse to
mount the steep bank, and back a step upon the passengers instead, every
one would infallibly be driven into the river. A delicate coaxing is
therefore employed; and I imagine the animals must be aware what a
ticklish thing any freak of theirs would be in such a situation, for I
never knew them decline mounting the bank without a single back step.
If the teambolt or other fastening of equal consequence should happen to
break, there is a chance of two hours' rest or so. Something snaps; the
vehicle stops, the gentlemen get out; the ladies gaze from the windows,
while somebody half-dressed comes out with a lantern from any dwelling
that may be in sight, and goes back again for hammer and nail, or, at
worst, a piece of cord, and you proceed at a slow footpace to the
nearest hotel. There the slaves, roused from the floor, where they are
lying like dogs, go winking about, putting fresh logs on the smouldering
fire, and lighting a lamp or two. After repeated inquiries on the part
of the ladies, who feel the first minutes of their two hours slipping
away without any promise of rest, a female slave at last appears,
staring as if she had never seen anybody before. The ladies have already
taken out nightcap, soap, and towel from their carpet-bags. They motion
the woman up stairs, and follow her. They find the water-jug, if there
be one, empty, of course. With infinite coaxing they get the attendant
to fill it. Long after they are undressed it comes, clear or "sort o'
muddy," as may be. If there are no sheets or yellow ones, the ladies
spread their dressing-gowns over the bed, and use their cloaks for a
covering. As soon as they have lain down, a draught begins to blow in
the strangest way on the top of their heads. They examine, and find a
broken window behind the bed. They wrap up their heads and lie down
again. As soon as they are fairly dreaming that they are at home, and
need not get up till they please, the horn startles them; they raise
their heads, see a light under the door, and the black woman looks in to
drawl out that they must please to make haste. It seems like a week
since they lay down; but they are not rested, and turn away sick and
dizzy from the flickering light.
In the morning you wonder where your fatigue is gone. As the day steals
through the forest, kindling up beauty as it goes, the traveller's whole
being is refreshed. The young aloes under the fallen trunks glitter with
dew; the gray moss, dangling from the trees, waves in the breath of the
morning. The busy little chameleons run along the fences, and the
squirrel erects his brush as you pass. While the crescent moon and the
morning star glittered low down in the sky, you had longed to stay the
sun beneath the horizon; but, now that he is come, fresh vigour and
enjoyment seem to be shed down with his rays.
At such an hour you often come up with a family departing from the spot
where they had "camped out" for the night. I never had the pleasure of
camping out, but I know exactly what it must be like, for I have seen
establishments of this sort in every stage of the process, from the
searching out a spot blessed with a running stream, a shelter to
windward, a dry soil, and plenty of fuel, to the piling the wagon with
the pots, pans, and children previous to starting at dawn. There is a
striking air of cheer about the family when beginning their new day;
leaving behind the desolation they have made; the scorched turf, the
scattered brushwood, chips, and meat-bones, and setting forth in renewed
strength in the fresh morning. I owe to these people many a picture such
as will never meet my eye in the galleries of art.
Our stationary rural life in the South was various and pleasant enough;
all shaded with the presence of slavery, but without any other drawback.
There is something in the make-shift, irregular mode of life which
exists where there are slaves, that is amusing when the cause is
forgotten.
The waking in the morning is accomplished by two or three black women
staring at you from the bedposts. Then it is five minutes' work to get
them out of the room. Perhaps, before you are half dressed, you are
summoned to breakfast. You look at your watch, and listen whether it has
stopped, for it seems not to be seven o'clock yet. You hasten, however,
and find your hostess making the coffee. The young people drop in when
the meal is half done, and then it is discovered that breakfast has been
served an hour too early, because the clock has stopped, and the cook
has ordered affairs according to her own conjectures. Everybody laughs,
and nothing ensues. After breakfast a farmer in homespun--blue trousers
and an orange-brown coat, or all over gray--comes to speak with your
host. A drunken white has shot one of his negroes, and he fears no
punishment can be obtained, because there were no witnesses of the deed
but blacks. A consultation is held whether the affair shall go into
court; and, before the farmer departs, he is offered cake and liqueur.
Your hostess, meantime, has given her orders, and is now engaged in a
back room, or out in the piazza behind the house, cutting out clothes
for her slaves; very laborious work in warm weather. There may be a
pretence of lessons among the young people, and something more than
pretence if they happen to have a tutor or governess; but the
probability is that their occupations are as various as their tempers.
Rosa cannot be found; she is lying on the bed in her own room reading a
novel; Clara is weeping for her canary, which has flown away while she
was playing with it; Alfred is trying to ascertain how soon we may all
go out to ride; and the little ones are lounging about the court, with
their arms round the necks of blacks of their own size. You sit down to
the piano or to read, and one slave or another enters every half hour to
ask what is o'clock. Your hostess comes in at length, and you sit down
to work with her; she gratifies your curiosity about her "people,"
telling you how soon they burn out their shoes at the toes, and wear out
their winter woollens, and tear up their summer cottons; and how
impossible it is to get black women to learn to cut out clothes without
waste; and how she never inquires when and where the whipping is done,
as it is the overseer's business, and not hers. She has not been seated
many minutes when she is called away, and returns saying how babyish
these people are, that they will not take medicine unless she gives it
to them; and how careless of each other, so that she has been obliged to
stand by and see Diana put clean linen upon her infant, and to compel
Bet to get her sick husband some breakfast.