OLD FRIENDS
In order to introduce a pleasant chapter of my life, I must take a
slight retrospective glance. Mrs. Ann[e] Garland, the mistress from whom
I purchased my freedom in St. Louis, had five daughters, all lovely,
attractive girls. I used to take pride in dressing the two eldest, Miss
Mary and Miss Carrie, for parties. Though the family labored under
pecuniary embarrassment, I worked for these two young girls, and they
were always able to present a good appearance in society. They were much
admired, and both made the best matches of the season. Miss Mary married
Dr. Pappan, and Miss Carrie, Dr. John Farrow. I loved them both
tenderly, and they were warmly attached to me. Both are now dead, and
when the death-film was gathering in the eyes, each called for me and
asked to die in my arms. Miss Carrie did not long survive her sister,
and I wept many tears over the death-beds of the two lovely flowers that
had blossomed so sweetly beneath my eyes. Each breathed her last in the
arms that had sheltered them so often in the bright rosy period of life.
My mother took care of my son, and Miss Nannie Garland, the fourth
daughter, when a wee thing, became my especial charge. She slept in my
bed, and I watched over her as if she had been my own child. She called
me Yiddie, and I could not have loved her more tenderly had she been the
sister of my unfortunate boy. She was about twelve years old when I
purchased my freedom, and resigned my charge to other hands. After Mr.
Garland's death, the widow moved to Vicksburg, Mississippi, and I lost
sight of the family for a few years. My mother accompanied them to
Vicksburg, where she died. I made two visits to Vicksburg as a free
woman, the object of my second visit being to look after the few
effects left by my mother. As I did not visit my mother's grave at the
time, the Garlands were much surprised, but I offered no explanation.
The reason is not difficult to understand. My mother was buried in a
public ground, and the marks of her grave, as I learned, were so obscure
that the spot could not be readily designated. To look upon a grave, and
not feel certain whose ashes repose beneath the sod, is painful, and the
doubt which mystifies you, weakens the force, if not the purity, of the
love-offering from the heart. Memory preserved a sunny picture of my
mother's face, and I did not wish to weave sombre threads--threads
suggestive of a deserted grave-yard--into it, and thus impair its
beauty. After spending a few weeks with the family, I returned to St.
Louis, and then came North. The war broke out, and I lost all trace of
the Garlands. Often, during my residence in Washington, I recalled the
past, and wondered what had become of those who claimed my first duty
and my first love. When I would mention their names and express interest
in their welfare, my Northern friends would roll up their eyes in
surprise.
"Why, Lizzie, how can you have a kind thought for those who inflicted a
terrible wrong upon you by keeping you in bondage?" they would ask.
"You forget the past is dear to every one, for to the past belongs that
golden period, the days of childhood. The past is a mirror that reflects
the chief incidents of my life. To surrender it is to surrender the
greatest part of my existence--early impressions, friends, and the
graves of my father, my mother, and my son. These people are associated
with everything that memory holds dear, and so long as memory proves
faithful, it is but natural that I should sigh to see them once more."
"But they have forgotten you. They are too selfish to give a single
thought to you, now that you no longer are their slave."
"Perhaps so, but I cannot believe it. You do not know the Southern
people as well as I do--how warm is the attachment between master and
slave."
My Northern friends could not understand the feeling, therefore
explanation was next to useless. They would listen with impatience, and
remark at the close, with a shrug of the shoulders, "You have some
strange notions, Lizzie."
In the fall of 1865 a lady called on me at my apartments in Washington.
Her face looked familiar, but I could not place her. When I entered the
room, she came towards me eagerly:
"You are surprised to see me, I know. I am just from Lynchburg, and when
I left cousin Ann[e] I promised to call and see you if I came to
Washington. I am here, you see, according to promise."
I was more bewildered than ever.
"Cousin Ann[e]! Pardon me--"
"Oh, I see you do not recognize me. I am Mrs. General Longstreet, but
you knew me when a girl as Bettie Garland."
"Bettie Garland! And is this indeed you? I am so glad to see you. Where
does Miss Ann[e] live now?" I always called my last mistress, Miss
Ann[e].
"Ah! I thought you could not forget old friends. Cousin Ann[e] is living
in Lynchburg. All the family are in Virginia. They moved to the old
State during the war. Fannie is dead. Nannie has grown into a woman and
is married to General Meem. Hugh was killed in the war, and now only
Spot, Maggie, and Nannie are left."
"Fannie, dead! and poor Hugh! You bring sad news as well as pleasant.
And so my little pet is married? I can hardly believe it; she was only a
child when I saw her last."
"Yes, Nannie is married to a noble man. General Meem belongs to one of
the best families in Virginia. They are now living at Rude's Hill, up
beyond Winchester, in the Shenandoah Valley. All of them want to see you
very badly."
"I should be delighted to go to them. Miss Bettie, I can hardly realize
that you are the wife of General Longstreet; and just think, you are now
sitting in the very chair and the very room where Mrs. Lincoln has often
sat!"
She laughed: "The change is a great one, Lizzie; we little dream to-day
what to-morrow will bring forth. Well, we must take a philosophical view
of life. After fighting so long against the Yankees, General Longstreet
is now in Washington, sueing for pardon, and we propose to live in
peace with the United States again."
I had many questions to ask her about old friends, and the time passed
rapidly. She greeted me with the frankness that she had always extended
to me, and I was transported to days of the long-ago. Her stay in
Washington was brief, as the General arranged his business, and they
left the capital the next day.
Mrs. Longstreet gave me the Garlands' address, and I wrote to them,
expressing the hope that I would be able to see them before long. In
reply came letters full of tender sympathy and affection. In the winter
of 1865, Miss Nannie wrote to me that she had the best husband in the
world; that they designed going to housekeeping in the spring, and that
they would be glad to have me make them a visit in July, 1866. She sent
me a pressing invitation. "You must come to me, dear Lizzie," she wrote.
"We are now living at Rude's Hill. I am dying to see you. Ma, Maggie,
Spot, and Minnie, sister Mary's child, are with me, and you only are
needed to make the circle complete. Come; I will not take no for an
answer."
I was anxious to go myself, and when I received the urgent invitation I
concluded to go at once, and I wrote them to expect me in August. On the
10th of August I left Washington for Virginia, taking the train for
Harper's Ferry. The journey was attended with several disappointments.
We arrived at Harper's Ferry in the night, and being asleep at the time,
I was carried to the station beyond, where I had to wait and take the
return train. After returning to Harper's Ferry, where I changed cars
for Winchester, I missed the train, and was detained another day. From
Winchester the only way to reach Rude's Hill was by a line of stages. We
commenced the weary drive in the evening, and rode all night. A young
gentleman in the stage said that he knew General Meem well, and that he
would tell me when we reached the place. Relying upon him, I went to
sleep, and it appears that the polite young gentleman followed my
example. About four o'clock in the morning one of the passengers shook
me, and asked:
"Aunty, don't you want to get out at Rude's Hill?"
I started up, rubbing my eyes. "Yes. Are we there?"
"More than there. We have passed it."
"Passed it!"
"Yes. It is six miles back. You should not sleep so soundly, Aunty."
"Why _did_ you not tell me sooner? I am _so_ anxious to be there."
"Fact is, I forgot it. Never mind. Get out at this village, and you can
find conveyance back."
The village, New Market, was in a dilapidated condition; everything
about it spoke plainly of the sad destruction of war. Getting out of the
stage I went into a house, by courtesy named a hotel, where I obtained a
cup of coffee.
"Is there no conveyance from here to Rude's Hill?" I asked.
"Yes; the stage returns this evening," answered the landlord.
"This evening! I want to go as soon as possible. I should die if I had
to stay all day in this lonely place."
A colored man behind the bar, seeing how earnest I was, came forward,
and informed me that he would drive me over to General Meem's place in
an hour. This was joyful news, and I urged him to get ready to start as
soon as possible.
While standing in the door of the hotel, impatiently waiting for my
colored friend to drive round with his little wagon, a fat old lady
waddled across the street and greeted me.
"Ain't you Lizzie?"
"Yes," I answered, surprised that she should know my name.
"I thought so. They have been expecting you at Rude's Hill every day for
two weeks, and they do but little but talk about you. Mrs. Meem was in
town yesterday, and she said that she expected you this week certain.
They will be mighty glad to see you. Why, will you believe it! they
actually have kept a light burning in the front window every night for
ten nights, in order that you might not go by the place should you
arrive in the night."
"Thank you. It is pleasant to know that I am expected. I fell asleep in
the stage, and failed to see the light, so am here instead of at Rude's
Hill."
Just then the colored man drove up with the wagon, and I got in with
him, and was soon on the road to General Meem's country-seat.
As we drove up to Rude's Hill, I observed a young man standing in the
yard, and believing it to be Spot, whom I had not seen for eight years,
I beckoned to him. With an exclamation of joy, he came running towards
me. His movements attracted the attention of the family, and in a minute
the door was crowded with anxious, inquiring faces. "It is Lizzie! It is
Lizzie!" was the happy cry from all parties. In my eagerness to get to
them, I stepped from the wagon to the top of the stile, intending to
make a triumphant leap into the yard; but, alas! my exultation was
brief. My hoop-skirt caught on one of the posts, and I fell sprawling
into the yard. Spot reached me first and picked me up, only to put me
into the arms of Miss Nannie, her sister Maggie, and Mrs. Garland. Could
my friends of the North have seen that meeting, they would never have
doubted again that the mistress had any affection for her former slave.
I was carried to the house in triumph. In the parlor I was divested of
my things, and placed in an easy-chair before a bright fire. The
servants looked on in amazement.
"Lizzie, you are not changed a bit. You look as young as when you left
us in St. Louis, years ago," and Mrs. Meem, my foster child, kissed me
again.
"Here, Lizzie, this is Minnie, Minnie Pappan, sister Mary's child.
Hasn't she grown?" and Miss Maggie led a tall, queenly lady up to me.
"Minnie! Poor dear Miss Mary's child! I can hardly believe it. She was
only a baby when I saw her last. It makes me feel old to see how large
she has grown. Miss Minnie, you are larger than--your mother was--your
dear mother whom I held in my arms when she died;" and I brushed a tear
from each of my eyes.
"Have you had your breakfast, Lizzie?" asked Mrs. Garland.
"No, she has not," exclaimed her children in a chorus. "I will get her
breakfast for her," and Nannie, Maggie, and Minnie started for the
kitchen.
"It is not necessary that all should go," said Mrs. Garland. "Here is
the cook, she will get breakfast ready."
But the three did not heed her. All rushed to the kitchen, and soon
brought me a nice hot breakfast.
While I was eating, the cook remarked: "I declar, I nebber did see
people carry on so. Wonder if I should go off and stay two or three
years, if all ob you wud hug and kiss me so when I cum back?"
After I had finished my breakfast, General Meem came in. He greeted me
warmly. "Lizzie, I am very glad to see you. I feel that you are an old
acquaintance, I have heard so much of you through my wife, her sister,
and her mother. Welcome to Rude's Hill."
I was much pleased with his appearance, and closer acquaintance proved
him to be a model gentleman.
Rude's Hill, during the war, was once occupied by General Stonewall
Jackson for his head-quarters, which gave more than ordinary interest to
the place. The location was delightful, but the marks of war could be
seen everywhere on the plantation. General Meem was engaged in planting,
and he employed a large number of servants to assist him in his work.
About a mile from Rude's Hill was Mount Airy, the elegant country-seat
of the General's brother. The two families visited each other a great
deal, and as both entertained plenty of company, the Autumn months
passed pleasantly. I was comfortably quartered at Rude's Hill, and was
shown every attention. We sewed together, talking of old times, and
every day either drove out, or rode on horseback. The room in which I
sat in the daytime was the room that General Jackson always slept in,
and people came from far and near to look at it. General Jackson was the
ideal soldier of the Southern people, and they worshipped him as an
idol. Every visitor would tear a splinter from the walls or windows of
the room, to take away and treasure as a priceless relic.
It did not take me long to discover that I was an object of great
curiosity in the neighborhood. My association with Mrs. Lincoln, and my
attachment for the Garlands, whose slave I had once been, clothed me
with romantic interest.
Colonel Harry Gilmore, well known as a partisan leader in Maryland and
Virginia during the war, was a frequent visitor at Mount Airy and Rude's
Hill. One day I accompanied a party to a tournament, and General Meem
laughed pleasantly over the change that had come to me in so short a
time.
"Why, Lizzie, you are riding with Colonel Gilmore. Just think of the
change from Lincoln to Gilmore! It sounds like a dream. But then the
change is an evidence of the peaceful feeling of this country; a change,
I trust, that augurs brighter days for us all."
I had many long talks with Mrs. Garland, in one of which I asked what
had become of the only sister of my mother, formerly maid to Mrs. G's
mother.
"She is dead, Lizzie. Has been dead for some years. A maid in the old
time meant something different from what we understand by a maid at the
present time. Your aunt used to scrub the floor and milk a cow now and
then, as well as attend to the orders of my mother. My mother was severe
with her slaves in some respects, but then her heart was full of
kindness. She had your aunt punished one day, and not liking her
sorrowful look, she made two extravagant promises in order to effect a
reconciliation, both of which were accepted. On condition that her maid
would look cheerful, and be good and friendly with her, the mistress
told her she might go to church the following Sunday, and that she would
give her a silk dress to wear on the occasion. Now my mother had but one
silk dress in the world, silk not being so plenty in those days as it is
now, and yet she gave this dress to her maid to make friends with her.
Two weeks afterward mother was sent for to spend the day at a neighbor's
house, and on inspecting her wardrobe, discovered that she had no dress
fit to wear in company. She had but one alternative, and that was to
appeal to the generosity of your aunt Charlotte. Charlotte was summoned,
and enlightened in regard to the situation; the maid proffered to loan
the silk dress to her mistress for the occasion, and the mistress was
only too glad to accept. She made her appearance at the social
gathering, duly arrayed in the silk that her maid had worn to church on
the preceding Sunday."
We laughed over the incident, when Mrs. Garland said: "Lizzie, during
the entire war I used to think of you every day, and have longed to see
you so much. When we heard you were with Mrs. Lincoln, the people used
to tell me that I was foolish to think of ever seeing you again--that
your head must be completely turned. But I knew your heart, and could
not believe that you would forget us. I always argued that you would
come and see us some day."
"You judged me rightly, Miss Ann[e]. How could I forget you whom I had
grown up with from infancy. Northern people used to tell me that you
would forget me, but I told them I knew better, and hoped on."
"Ah! love is too strong to be blown away like gossamer threads. The
chain is strong enough to bind life even to the world beyond the grave.
Do you always feel kindly towards me, Lizzie?"
"To tell you candidly, Miss Ann[e], I have but one unkind thought, and
that is, that you did not give me the advantages of a good education.
What I have learned has been the study of after years."
"You are right. I did not look at things then as I do now. I have always
regretted that you were not educated when a girl. But you have not
suffered much on this score, since you get along in the world better
than we who enjoyed every educational advantage in childhood."
I remained five weeks at Rude's Hill, and they were five of the most
delightful weeks of my life. I designed going direct to Richmond, but
the cholera was reported to be raging in that city, so I took the train
for Baltimore. In Baltimore I stopped with Mrs. Annette Jordan. Mrs.
Garland had given me a letter to Mrs. Douglas Gordon, who introduced me
to several Baltimore ladies, among others Mrs. Doctor Thomas, who said
to me, with tears in her eyes: "Lizzie, you deserve to meet with success
for having been so kind to our friends in the days of the past. I wish
there were more women in the world like you. I will always do what
little I can to promote your welfare."
After remaining in Baltimore a few days, I came to the conclusion that I
could do better in Washington; so I returned to the capital, and
reopened my business.
In the spring of 1867, Miss Maggie Garland paid a visit to Baltimore.
Before leaving Virginia she said to some of her friends in Lynchburg
that she designed going by Washington to see Lizzie. Her friends
ridiculed the idea, but she persisted:
"I love Lizzie next to mother. She has been a mother to us all. Half the
pleasure of my visit is that I will be able to see her."
She wrote me a letter, saying that she designed visiting me, asking if
it would be agreeable. I replied, "Yes, come by all means. I shall be so
glad to see you."
She came and stayed at my rooms, and expressed surprise to find me so
comfortably fixed.
I can not do better than conclude this chapter with two letters from my
dear young friends, the first from Mrs. General Meem, and the second
from Miss Maggie Garland. These letters show the goodness of their
hearts and the frankness of their natures. I trust that they will not
object to the publicity that I give them:
"RUDE'S HILL, Sept. 14, 1867.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I am nearly ashamed of myself for
neglecting to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and the
very acceptable box of patterns, some weeks ago; but you will
pardon my remissness, I know, for you can imagine what a busy
time I've had all summer, with a house full of company most
of the time, and with very inefficient servants, and in some
departments _none at all_; so I have had to be at times
dining-room servant, house-maid, and the last and most
difficult, dairy-maid. But I have turned that department over
to our gardener, who, though as green at the business as
myself, seems willing to learn, and has been doing the
milking all summer. These are a _few_ of the reasons why I
have not written to you before, for I hope you will always
believe that you occupy a large place in my memory and
affection, whether I write to you or not; and such a poor
correspondent as yourself ought not to complain. Mother, Mag,
Uncle John, and Spot are still with us; the former will pass
the winter with me, but the others all talk of leaving before
long. The approach of winter always scatters our guests, and
we have to spend the long, dreary winters alone. But we are
to have the railroad to Mt. Jackson by Christmas, perhaps
sooner; and then, if we can raise the wind, we can spend a
portion of the winter in the city, and I hope you will find
time to come up and _spend the day_ with me, as we will be
near neighbors. I so seldom indulge in the pleasant task of
writing letters that I scarcely know what will interest my
correspondent, but I flatter myself that _you_ will be glad
to hear anything and everything about us all, so I'll begin
with the children. Hugh has improved a great deal, and is
acknowledged to be the smartest child and the finest looking
in the State; he talks as plainly as I do, and just as
understandingly as a child of ten years old; his nurse often
says we need not set our hearts on that child, he is too
smart ever to be raised; but I trust his _badness_ will save
him, for he is terribly spoilt, as such interesting children
are bound to be. Miss Eliza, no longer called _Jane_, is
getting to be a little 'star girl,' as her Papa calls her;
she is just learning to walk, and says a good many words
quite plainly. You would never take her for the same little
_cry-baby_ of last summer, and she is a little beauty too--as
white as the driven snow, with the most beautiful blue eyes,
and long, dark lashes you ever saw. She will set _somebody_
crazy if she grows up to be as lovely as she now promises to
be. My dear good husband has been, like myself, run to death
this summer; but it agrees with him, and I never saw him
looking better. He has fallen off a little, which is a great
improvement, I think. He often speaks of you, and wonders if
you were sufficiently pleased with your visit last summer to
repeat it. I hope so, for we will always be glad to welcome
you to Rude's Hill, whenever you have time to come; provided,
of course, you have the wish also. Spot expects to hang out
his shingle in St. Louis next winter. His health is greatly
improved, though he is still very thin, and very, very much
like dear father. Mag has promised to teach a little cousin
of ours, who lives in Nelson County, until February, and will
leave here in two weeks to commence her labors. I hate to see
her leave, but she is bent on it, and our winters are so
unattractive that I do not like to insist on her shutting
herself up all winter with three old people. She will have
very pleasant society at Cousin Buller's, and will perhaps
spend the rest of the winter with Aunt Pris, if Uncle
Armistead remains in Binghampton, New York, as he talks of
doing. Do write to me before you get too busy with your fall
and winter work; I am so anxious to hear all your plans, and
about your stay in New York. By the by, I will have to
direct this to Washington, as I do not know your New York
address. I suppose your friends will forward it. If you are
going to remain any length of time in New York, send me your
address, and I will write again. * * I have somehow made out
a long letter, though there is not much in it, and I hope you
will do the same before long. _All_ send love.
"Yours affectionately,
"N. R. G. MEEM.
"My pen and ink are both so wretched that I fear you will
find some difficulty in making out this scratch; but _put on
your specks_, and what you can't read, just guess at. I
enclose a very poor likeness of Hugh taken last spring; don't
show it to anybody, for I assure you there is scarcely the
faintest resemblance to him now in it.
"N. R. G. M."
I give only a few extracts from the pleasant letter from Miss Maggie
Garland. The reader will observe that she signs herself "Your child,
Mag," an expression of love warmly appreciated by me:
"SEDDES, Dec. 17, 1867.
"So many months have passed, my dear Lizzie, since I was
cheered by a sight of your welcome handwriting, that I must
find out what is the matter, and see if I can't persuade you
to write me a few lines. Whatever comes, 'weal or woe,' you
know I shall always love you, and I have no idea of letting
you forget me; so just make up your mind to write me a nice
long letter, and tell me what you are doing with yourself
this cold weather. I am buried in the wilds of Amherst, and
the cold, chilling blasts of December come whistling around,
and tell us plainly that the reign of the snow-king has begun
in good earnest. Since October I have been teaching for my
cousin, Mr. Claiborne, and although I am very happy, and
every one is so kind to me, I shall not be sorry when the day
comes when I shall shut up school-books forever. None of
'Miss Ann[e]'s' children were cut out for 'school-marms,'
were they, Yiddie? I am sure I was only made to ride in my
carriage, and play on the piano. Don't you think so? * * *
You must write me where you are, so I can stop and see you on
my way North; for you know, dear Lizzie, no one can take your
place in my heart. I expect to spend the Christmas holidays
in Lynchburg. It will be very gay there, and I will be glad
enough to take a good dance. This is a short letter to send
you after such a long silence, but 'tis too cold to write.
Let me hear from you very soon.
"Your child MAG.
"Please write, for I long to hear from you."