of contagion, assuring me when I asked him if he was too big to have
whooping cough that it was a privilege of youth and diminutiveness. We
built pine bark yachts and sailboats and steamers and sailed them on the
lakes we made by damming up the waves that dashed highest on the shore.
The waves of our lakes washed the coasts of every country on the map and
our stately ships brought back to us rich cargoes from all the countries
of the world. We built forts and garrisoned them with men as brave as
those who fell with Leonidas in the great battle of which my soldier
told me as we worked. Upon the sea-wall he placed a flag that fluttered
defiance to the enemy-ocean as the waves dashed up to our embattled
ramparts and rolled back defeated. It was my first introduction to the
Star-Spangled Banner and the red and white stripes and star-gemmed sky
impressed me as very beautiful. In those days the Stars and Stripes were
rarely seen in the Southern States and the flag of Virginia was the only
emblem of sovereignty that I had known. My soldier told me the story of
the battle-born flag and the eagle that perched upon it amid the smoke
of the conflict, the thunder of guns and the lightning of swords.
When I was wearied with the toil incident to our extensive commercial
operations and the labors and anxieties of battle we sat upon the sand
and he sang to me, playing the accompaniments on his guitar. When I hear
those old songs to-day they come to me with the far faint odor of the
breezes that swept across the ocean in that long gone time and I hear
again the golden notes of that melodious voice mingled with the soft
music floating out from the touch of his fingers.
Three years later I saw my soldier again. He had just received his
commission as captain and was recruiting his company at Fortress Monroe
before sailing for the unknown West. The first real sorrow came to me
when I watched the _St. Louis_, the United States transport, go out to
sea with my soldier on board. From her prow floated a flag like that
which had waved over the fort we built on the sands in that time when
life had lost all its troubles and the sunshine of the heart filled
earth and sea and sky with radiance. I felt then as I had not before
realized that this was my soldier's flag to which his life was given and
to my view the stars in it shone with a new glory.
The _St. Louis_ was bound for Puget Sound where was the new station,
Fort Bellingham, which I thought must be farther than the end of the
world. Not one ship of our whole great fleet in the olden days had
sailed for Puget Sound.
V
A KEEPSAKE FOR THE ANGELS
When we went home Uncle Charles came to the wharf to meet us. He was
dressed in the clothes left to him by my grandfather's will and,
dangling from his watch-chain, glaring at us in bold relief against his
black velvet vest, a set of artificial teeth grinned in ghastly manner
from their gold settings. In those days artificial teeth were not
common, and when Mr. Durkee, a dentist from Connecticut, came into our
neighborhood and hung out his sign, all of a certain class who could
raise money enough had their teeth taken out and replaced by false ones.
That year when my grandmother asked Uncle Charles what he would like for
a Christmas present he chose "a p'ar of dem sto' teef," explaining that
his were "moughty nigh wo' out, chawin' 'backer en a gnashin' de mules
of a week days en de sinners of a Sundays."
My grandmother reasoned with him on the folly of making the exchange
but he had set his heart upon it and she, with her habit of spoiling her
servants by indulging them, permitted him to be measured and fitted for
his "sto' teef," of which he was so proud that he wore them more for
ornament than use, displaying them at all special functions.
As Uncle Charles drove us home he had many confidences to make to my
grandmother. The most important was about little Sara Elizabeth.
"Dem blin' en deef chu'ch visitors of we-alls--I don' mean no disrespect
to dar reflictions--but dey's spilin' dat li'l Sara 'Lizbef. You knows,
dey 'lowed dat gal to play on de spinet of a Sunday mornin's?--En dance
chunes, at dat? En dat ain't all; dey 'sputes so wif deyse'fs over her
dat it's scan'lous, en dar ain't no gittin' along wid 'em."
Little Sara, the bone of contention between the two, as Uncle Charles
said, proved in a fair way to be spoiled. On my return she looked upon
me as an intruder, but when she was made to feel that her rights were
not to be infringed upon she welcomed me into the old companionship. I
took great comfort in her, but often (though I kept the secret in my
heart) the unguarded words of my mammy, "dat chile bleeged fer ter die
anyhow," occurred to me and made me sorry and afraid, yet I knew not
why, for I had no idea of death.
One night I was awakened by the sound of voices and, peeping from under
the covers, saw the bald head of our old family physician, Dr. Finney,
and the anxious face of my grandmother, who was holding the big brass
nursery candlestick. I caught the word "croup." Then their voices were
lowered to a whisper as they looked toward my bed. They went out and
closed the door and I lay awake a long time thinking, wondering who or
what was "croup."
Next morning I awakened long after my usual hour and was told that I
must be very quiet for my grandmother had a headache. While my mammy was
dressing me she sighed and looked mysteriously wise, and between the
fastening of my buttons and the curling of my hair repeated over and
over again, "Lord a massy on us! We're here to-day but gone to-morrow!"
As I was tiptoeing down the hall my grandmother called me. She was
sitting in her wrapper before a corn-cob fire. Taking me upon her lap
and rocking me she tenderly stroked my hair. Mammy, shaking her head,
leaned against the mantel and moaned and groaned. I turned away and
looked into the crackling fire till presently the beautiful pictures in
the burning coals made me break the solemn silence, and I said:
"Look, grandmother! See! A ship of coals loaded with falling stars and
Jack-er-my-lanterns--Oh, and see! There is a city of gold! See that old
castle tumbling down. See the silver cloud going so fast to the city and
white flowers and sunshine all falling down and----"
"Yes, I see, my darling," replied my grandmother, pressing me closely to
her.
"I knowed dat chile was gwine to be pestered seein' sperits, but,
Mistis, dar p'intedly ain't no occasion of yo 'couragin' her in it lak
you is," objected my mammy, throwing on an armful of fresh cobs and
destroying my golden glory pictures.
"Now, go along, darling, and eat your breakfast," said my grandmother,
"and then you may tell Ole-Granny-Aggie that she may let you go into the
weaving room and give you the old cards and some of the waste wool to
card, and if you are very good she may let you run the shuttle awhile.
Tell her she need not 'toker' off her stent to-day, but just take care
of you."
I stopped for a minute and looking up at her said, "And little Sara,
too, please, marm?" She shook her head and shivered; then mammy took me
away.
It was always enchanting to watch Ole-Granny-Aggie weave, but to be
allowed to sit at the loom and slide the shuttle through with my own
hands was a special rapture. Yet this day I did not enjoy it, for I felt
that something unusual had happened and associated it with my little
friend.
The next morning mammy got out my new silk reins and hitched up Mary
Frances and Arabella, my "match of blacks," for me to drive, and as we
returned after a long race I saw an old gentleman with bent back
carrying a beautiful white box into the house.
"Oh, how pretty! What is it for?" I asked my grandmother.
"A little jewel casket, my darling, to hold a keepsake that I am going
to send to the angels. There, there; run along now and play."
I went into the garden where our own little bed of white violets was in
full bloom, and suddenly remembering with a pang that my little Sara had
wanted to gather them all and that I would let her have only what I saw
fit she should have, I said, "She shall have every one now," and
gathering my apron almost full I ran into the house.
The door of the room which had been closed to me for two days had been
accidentally left ajar and, hearing my grandmother's voice, I ran in.
She and poor Miss Sophia and "Miss Mary" and several of the neighbors
and servants were standing around that little white casket resting on a
table in the center of the room.
"Is the keepsake in it?" I asked.
My grandmother lifted me up and there, sweetly sleeping, was my little
Sara Elizabeth. I whispered my wish to put the violets into her lap so
that she could see them the first thing when she awakened and know that
I was sorry and had brought her both our shares. My grandmother held me
while I gently, and with no word, lest I should awaken her, put my
violets into her arms so as to "s'prise her when she waked." Then I
whispered to my grandmother as she carried me away, "Do angels want
little children for keepsakes?"
VI
AFRICAN ROYALTY
One of the enchantments of my childhood was the old cabin in the vale at
the entrance to the grounds of the mansion house at Holiday's Point,
where the gate-keeper, Uncle Bosun Keeling, and his wife, Aunt Charity,
lived. I used to run down the cypress-bordered path to the old lodge to
hear him tell "dem Bible-tales" and to see Aunt Charity's shining black
face surmounted by her flaming red "haid-hankcher," a combination
artistic and beautiful. She would take me on her lap and tell the old
legends that had come down through generations of dusky story-tellers.
"Yas, honey," she would say, telling me one of the five versions of the
origin of her race, "we was all niggers once. Dar wa'n't no white folks
at all, 'twel one day de Lord was tekin' a interview of His wu'ks to see
ef dey was good, when He tuk notus dat we-all didn't 'preciate what He'd
done for us, so He mekt up His mind to come down to de earf en test our
lub en gratichude en faif in His holy word en 'vide de sheeps fum de
goats. He put on His patum leather boots en beaver hat en tuck His
gold-headed cane en come 'long down de golden stairs en th'oo de golden
gate, down de golden lane to whar de road forked to come to de ye'th.
"'Twas de springtime of de yeah en de whole face of de ye'th was a
bloomin' en a buddin'. De paschers was all green en bescattered wid
buttercups en clover blossoms en de cattles on a t'ousan' plains was a
grazin' on 'em. De birds was all a singin' chunes, de roses a buddin' en
de violets en Johnny-quils en hyercinfs a bloomin', de trees was all
white-washed en kivered wid leaves, de grape-wines was a perfumin' up de
air, en de orchards was pink en white en green all over. De hens was all
a cacklin', en de chickens en ducks en goslin's all a hatchin'. All de
ole sheeps had li'l lambs en some of 'em had two, en all de cows was
givin' three gallons to de pail.
"De Lord was s'prized hisse'f at de glorification of His handywu'k. He
bowed His haid in humble somilichude, en was jest gwine to pray, when He
heard sump'n go kerchunk-kerchunk. He drapped His eyes en, lo! dar was a
mud-tuckle mekin' for a pond of muddy water. He looked at de tuckle en
He looked at de pond. Den He tuk some yeast powders en flung 'em in de
pond. Dat 'sturbed de waters, en dey riz en bubbled, riz en bubbled,
'twel dey was as cl'ar as cryslum. Den He blessed de pond en named it de
Pool of 'Thesda.
"He went 'long den to de co'tehouse, for 'twuz co'te day en He knowed
dem niggers was gwine to be dar ef dey could git dar. En dey was, sho'
'nough. 'Co'se de niggers didn' know de Lord was dar, en ef dey had He
was inwisible en dey couldn't see 'Im nohow. But de Lord could see dem,
dough, en dey was behavin' scan'lous. Some of 'em was magestricks en
constubles en auctioneers; some was swiggin' cider en drams en 'simmon
beer. Some was racin' hosses en fightin' chickens or playin' games or
whittlin' sticks or swoppin' knives or eatin' hoss-cakes en
watermillions. Some was 'sputin' en quarlin' en foughtin' en some was
sittin' on dar ham-bones gossickin' 'bout one nuther.
"De Lord's heart suttin'ly was troubled. He spuk out in a loud woice en
tole 'em to go to de Pool of 'Thesda en bave darse'fs. Now dem niggers
knowed ebby inch of dat groun' en dey knowed dar wan't no Pool of
'Thesda dar; but dem dat lubbed en serbed de Lord en feared His holy
name didn' queschify 'bout de pool. Dey went as fars' as dey could en
baved darse'fs en dey come out jest as white as ef dey had been libin'
in town all dar libes en wearin' sun-bonnets. Dar lub en faif had washed
away dar brack skins en mekt 'em white as de blood of de lamb.
"When dey went back to de co'tehouse de yuthers wanted to git obedient
den, too, so dey tuck off en run to de pon'. De supples' en de swif'es
dey got dar firs' en come out mos' as white as dat firs' passel, sep'n
dar eyes en dar hyar en dar eye-brows stayed brack.
"De Chinesers en Injuns en Italyuns en yuther furriners dey sticked dar
haids in firs' en unkinked dar hyar, en dey come out 'twix' a brindle en
a brown. But dem dar lazy niggers dat didn' lub de Lord stayed at de
co'tehouse drinkin' drams en projickin' en cussin' en cyarin' on 'twel
'twas jamby sundown, den dey jest amble darse'fs, sa'nterin' 'long lak
dey had de whole day befo' 'em--a singin' chunes en a chawin' terbacker
en smokin' dar pipes, en when dey reached de pon' dar wan' no pon' dar.
It had all dried up.
"Dey suttinly was one s'prized passel of niggers, for dey'd allus called
demse'fs de rambunkshunners en dey couldn't b'lieve dar eyes. Ebby now
en den dey come 'cross a li'l moisch place yer en a li'l moisch place
dar en dey'd run en pat it wid de palms of dar han's en de soles of dar
foots, en dat's all de white dar is 'bout a nigger fum dat day to
dis--jest de palms of dar han's en de soles of dar foots."
When Aunt Charity would tell these old legends Uncle Bosun would sit
spell bound as if it were the first time he had ever heard them and when
she would finish he would shake his head with pride and say:
"My ole woman she sho' kin talk lak a readin' book, en she ain't one er
dem kin' dat licks de 'lasses offn yo' bread en den calls you nigger.
Needer do she bek de bread en give you de crus', nor eat de meat en give
you de hus'. She gives you de white meat ebby time. En she never follows
de jay-bird's trade, needer, a carryin' news, en dress--she allus
dresses sincerely."
He was a very pious old man, cherishing extreme reverence for the works
of God, with small respect for the innovations of man. When Doctor
Durkee, the "tooth doctor," appeared in the neighborhood Uncle Bosun's
rigid principles arose in opposition. He looked with both scorn and fear
upon the glistening teeth that were the pride of Uncle Charles's
heart--and plead with him "not to 'courage dat ole doctor in de
imitation of de Lord's handy wu'ks, fer he was a back-slider en a
robber, en den ag'in don't de Lord say, 'Dou shalt not mek any graven
image or lakness of anyt'ing dat is in de heaven above or dat is in de
earf beneaf or dat is in de water under de earf,' en dat means yo' teef
jest de same as ef de good Lord had specified teef en said, 'Charles
'Rastus Thessalonians, yo' teef is a graven image,' en ain't yo' teef
under de earf beneaf?"
"No," said Uncle Charles, "He wouldn' say dat kase my teefs is in my
mouf."
This frivolous reasoning was contemptuously set aside by the logical
mind of Uncle Bosun, and later when Dr. Durkee committed various thefts
and took his departure in undignified haste, my father asked the
gate-keeper how he knew that the doctor was a rascal.
"Lor, Marse Dae," he said, "I lives so close to de things dat God made
in de woods en on de water dat I kin scent de bad fum de good ev'y
time."
Uncle Bosun claimed royal blood, having descended from Uncle Jack, the
son of a king, who was brought over from Africa in the last slaveship
that deposited its cargo at Old Osborne on the James River. We loved to
hear him tell of his royal ancestor.
"Yes, chillun," he would say, "yo' Uncle Jack, my ancestor, was hired
out to de oldes' college in de United States, William en Mary, named
atter Marse William en Miss Mary from London who give 'em de groun' to
build de college on, en de town what 'twas built in was de capital in
dem days en was de oldes' corporal town in ole Virginny. De firs'
newspaper, too, was printed dar. Yo' Uncle Jack had charge of all de
books at de college en dey says ev'y time he'd dus' de books dat Marse
Robert Dinsmore give to de college he'd stop en read de adbertisement
writ on 'em, 'Ubi Libertas Ibi Patria,' en say to hisse'f, 'I wonder why
on earf Marse Robert Dinsmore want to separate dat po' couple for, when
he was rich en could a bought Libi en Pat bofe hisse'f 'stead a orderin'
de yuther man to buy Libi en sayin' he was gwine to buy Pat.'"
Uncle Bosun told us how the preachers of all denominations, though they
were half-starved in those days, had joined together and bought Uncle
Jack from his owners and given him his freedom. He was not only good but
brave and always spoke his mind without fear, telling the negroes when
they would shout at revival meetings that it was scandalous for them to
make so much fuss about such a calm and serious thing as religion, that
they put him in mind of the little brooks after a rain, soon full, then
noisy, roaring and rushing, then just as soon empty again. He asked them
to try to be more dignified with their religion and more like the
great, broad, deep river, for he said he had noticed that the more
ignorant folks were, the more shallow their religion was, and the more
noise they made over it, just like the dry and no account leaves, he
said, that always make more noise when the wind blows through them than
the green ones do.
A rich man, Mr. Haxall, owner of Haxall's mills--the mills that made the
only flour in the United States in those days that could be carried
across the ocean without spoiling--had, like many gentlemen of that
time, a habit of profanity. One day when he was swearing Uncle Jack
asked if he wouldn't please, being a rich and mighty man, set an example
to the world and quit swearing. Mr. Haxall replied:
"Jack, old man, what for? I'm very well satisfied with myself as I am. I
don't know what more I want than I have. In fact, as far as I can see,
Jack, I'm just as well off as any of you Christians."
"Jest so, Marser, jest so wid de horgs," said Uncle Jack. "You know,
suh, I's often stood en watched 'em rootin' 'mongst de leaves in de
woods en findin' as many acorns as dey could pos'bly eat en stuff en I
ain't never yet seed one of dem horgs look up to de tree fum whar de
acorns drapped."
Mr. Haxall, leaning on his cane, walked up and down the floor and then
stopped in front of Uncle Jack and said:
"Well, old man, what you say is all true and after this I am going to
look up to the tree."
VII
OUR FIRST CURRENCY
Among my childish recollections is an intricate combination of
great-grandfathers, white mulberries, gold dollars, a lone eye, guinea
eggs, pipes, and bloody massacres, all centering around a visit from my
own great-grandfather, Dr. John Phillips, and his friend, Judge John Y.
Mason.
"Somebody's comin' down de lane en it's ole Marser, kase I knows him by
his high-top gig en his star-face critter," called out a little colored
boy, George Washington Cæsar Napoleon Bonaparte, whose keen eyes had
caught sight of an approaching gig. "Dar's anudder gemman alongside of
him en anudder li'l boy settin' in de foots of de gig."
By the time the visitors were at the gate, heralded by the barking dogs
and the little colored children calling "H-y-e-r comes ole Marser,
h-y-e-r comes ole Marser!" the whole family had assembled on the veranda
to welcome the guests.
The first to alight was a graceful, courtly old man with the bearing of
a soldier--my great-grandfather. The artificial eye which had taken the
place of one of those provided by Nature was a badge of heroism,
reminiscent of the war of 1812. After affectionate greetings from
children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, servants and dogs, he held
out his hands to his companion and assisted him to alight.
"This," he said, "is my young friend, Judge John Y. Mason, whom you
know."
From my great-grandfather's point of view, Judge Mason may have been
youthful, but from mine he was of great age, less venerable than his
friend and companion only because he lacked the distinguishing title of
patriarchal relationship, and looked out upon the world, like ordinary
people, through two eyes.
"And this," he said, jumping the little boy out, "is my still younger
friend, Ned Drewry, whose family you know."
Then began the unpacking of the gig-box, which we eagerly watched. I
remember being especially interested in a bucket of white mulberries and
a basket of guinea eggs.
Later, as a reward for reciting "Little Drops of Water," I received a
shiny gold dollar, one of the first minted.
When I hear the lament of to-day, that there is no money in poetry, I
recall my early lesson to the contrary. My first effort having been so
successful I gave "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" as a voluntary, in the
mercenary hope that the twinkles, like the drops, might be transmuted
into gold. After curtseying to my great-grandfather my thanks for the
dollar I ran across the room and, looking inquiringly at Judge Mason,
asked:
"Are you anybody's great-grandfather? No, 'course you couldn't be,
'cause you've got two eyes."
As my own great-grandfather was the only relation of that rank whom I
had ever seen, it had been borne in upon my mind that a single eye was
the distinguishing characteristic of great-grandfathers.
Judge Mason's manner of smoking next attracted my attention. I had never
seen a pipe used except by the negroes on the plantation.
"Did you run off and play with the little colored children and not mind
your black mammy and learn bad habits when you were a little boy is the
reason you smoke pipes now?"
"No," he replied. "I never learned any bad habits from the negroes. They
have very few bad habits. All the bad habits I have ever learned were
from white people."
Knocking the ashes out of his pipe he said:
"My child, when great-grandfathers were little babies this--" taking
out his tobacco-bag and filling his pipe from it--"was the only real
money in this country and was of greater value than the kind which you
now hold in your little hand."
Then he went on to tell me in words that a child could understand that
money debts were not even recoverable. Tobacco debts only were valid,
and to sell bad tobacco or pay a debt with it was a crime, precisely as
it is now to sell or pay counterfeit money. Tobacco was the currency,
and an excess was as injurious as an over-issue of bank paper,
depreciating on the market and causing everything to rise in price.
Great care was taken to burn bad tobacco, and it was as important to the
uniformity of the currency in those days as is now the exclusion of
counterfeits. All the viewings, censorships, inspections and regulations
of the amount of tobacco to be cultivated by each planter, the quality
to be gathered from each plant, the rules prescribed, were as important
as the laws of the mint are now.
Judge Mason's tobacco-bag was the next subject of my inquiry.
"'Tisn't cloth-cloth. Is it tobacco-cloth?" I asked. "Did people have
tobacco-cloth as well as tobacco-money in those days?"
"No; this is rattlesnake skin. The snake was killed by Charles Lewis,
who lived a long time ago in my county, Augusta. The Indians caught him,
tied his hands behind him and made him walk two hundred miles. As they
were going along a high precipice he broke the cords and jumped down.
The Indians followed and he escaped by springing over a fallen tree,
landing among the tall weeds. His pursuers did not see him fall and they
jumped over both the tree and the man and ran on as fast as they could.
Lying there he heard the hissing of a snake and opening his eyes saw a
large rattlesnake almost touching him. It moved its rattles and twice
they rested upon his ear and neck. He was so numbed with fright that he
could not move, luckily for him, for if he had moved a muscle or
breathed the snake would have bitten him. Its eyes glared into his and
it seemed to think he was dead, and so wriggled away. He picked up a
stone and hit it upon the head, killing it, and carried home the rattles
and skin and this bag was made from a piece of that skin."
The mother of this Charles Lewis was the beautiful daughter of the Laird
of Loch Lyn, and to his father, John Lewis, was accredited the
introduction of red clover. The white or wild clover was of indigenous
growth and abounded in great plenty, but the red clover was not known
until the blood of the red man, shed by the Lewises and their followers,
suddenly dyed the trefoil to its sanguinary hue. The Indians fully
believed this legend and superstitiously held the red clover sacred. The
superstition spread among the settlers and for a long time the milk of a
cow that had eaten the blood-stained blossom was believed to be tainted
with blood.