CHAPTER II.
It was a long time before it dawned upon my mind that there were places and people different from these. The plantations we visited seemed exactly like ours. The same hospitality was everywhere; the same kindliness existed between the white family and the blacks.
Confined exclusively to plantation scenes, the most trifling incidents impressed themselves indelibly upon me.
One day, while my mother was in the yard attending to the planting of some shrubbery, we saw approaching an old, feeble negro man, leaning upon his stick. His clothes were nearly worn out, and he was haggard and thin.
"Good-day, mistess," said he.
"Who are you?" asked my mother.
"Mistess, you don't know John whar use to belonks to Mars Edwin Burl—Mars Edwin, yo' husban' uncle, whar die on de ocean crossin' to Europe for he health. An' 'fo' he start he make he will an' sot me free, an' gie me money an' lan' near Petersbu'g, an' good house, too. But, mistess, I marry one free mulatto 'oman, an' she ruin me; she one widow 'oman, an' she was'e all my money tell I aint got nothin', an' I don't want be free no mo'. Please, mistess, take me on yo' plantation, an' don't let me be free. I done walk hund'ed mile to git yer. You know Mars Edwin think Miss Betsy gwine marry him, so he lef' her his lan' an' black folks. But we niggers knowed she done promis' twelve mo' gen'men to marry 'em. But she take de propity an' put on long black veil make like she grievin', an' dat's how de folks all git scattered, an' I aint got nowhar to go 'ceptin' hit's yer."
"I DON'T WANT BE FREE NO MO."—Page 12.
I wondered what was meant by being "free," and supposed from his appearance it must be some very dreadful and unfortunate condition of humanity. My mother heard him very kindly, and directed him to the kitchen, where "Aunt Christian" would give him plenty to eat.
Although there were already many old negroes to be supported, who no longer considered themselves young enough to work, this old man was added to the number, and a cabin built for him. To the day of his death he expressed gratitude to my mother for taking care of him, and often entertained us with accounts of his "old marster times," which he said were the "grandes' of all."
By way of apology for certain knotty excrescences on his feet he used to say: "You see dese yer knots. Well, dey come fum my bein' a monsus proud young nigger, an' squeezin' my feet in de tightes' boots to drive my marster carriage 'bout Petersbu'g. I nuver was so happy as when I was drivin' my coach an' four, and crackin' de postilion over de head wid my whip."
These pleasant reminiscences were generally concluded with: "Ah! young misses, you'll, nuver see sich times. No more postilions! No more coach an' four! And niggers drives now widout white gloves. Ah! no, young misses, you'll nuver see nothin'! Nuver in your time."
With these melancholy predictions would he shake his head, and sigh that the days of glory had departed.
Each generation of blacks vied with the other in extolling the virtues of their particular mistress and master and "their times"; but, notwithstanding this mournful contrast between the past and present, their reminiscences had a certain charm. Often by their cabin firesides would we listen to the tales of the olden days about our forefathers, of whom they could tell much, having belonged to our family since the landing of the African fathers on the English slave ships, from which their ancestors had been bought by ours. Among these traditions none pleased us so much as that an unkind mistress or master had never been known among our ancestors, which we have always considered a cause for greater pride than the armorial bearings left on their tombstones.
We often listened with pleasure to the recollections of an old blind man—the former faithful attendant of our grandfather—whose mind was filled with vivid pictures of the past. He repeated verbatim conversations and speeches heard sixty years before—from Mr. Madison, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Clay, and other statesmen, his master's special friends.
"Yes," he used to say, "I stay wid your grandpa ten years in Congress, an' all de time he was secretary for President Jefferson. He nuver give me a cross word, an' I nuver saw your grandma de leas' out of temper nuther but once, an' dat was at a dinner party we give in Washington, when de French Minister said something disrespectful 'bout de United States."
Often did he tell us: "De greates' pleasure I 'spect in heaven is seein' my old marster." And sometimes: "I dreams 'bout my marster an' mistess when I'se asleep, an' talks wid 'em an' sees 'em so plain it makes me so happy I laughs out right loud."
This man was true and honest,—a good Christian. Important trusts had been confided to him. He frequently drove the carriage and horses to Washington and Baltimore,—a journey of two weeks,—and was sometimes sent to carry large sums of money to a distant county.
His wife, who had accompanied him in her youth to Washington, also entertained us with gossip about the people of that day, and could tell exactly the size and color of Mrs. Madison's slippers, how she was dressed on certain occasions, "what beautiful manners she had," how Mr. Jefferson received master and mistress when "we" drove up to Monticello, what room they occupied, etc.
Although my grandfather's death occurred thirty years before, the negroes still remembered it with sorrow; and one of them, speaking of it, said to me: "Ah, little mistess, 'twas a sorrowful day when de news come from Washington dat our good, kind marster was dead. A mighty wail went up from dis plantation, for we know'd we had los' our bes' friend."
The only negro on the place who did not evince an interest in the white family was a man ninety years old, who, forty years before, announced his intention of not working any longer,—although still strong and athletic,—because, he said, "the estate had done come down so he hadn't no heart to work no longer." He remembered, he said, "when thar was three an' four hund'ed black folks, but sence de British debt had to be paid over by his old marster, an' de Macklenbu'g estate had to be sold, he hadn't had no heart to do nothin' sence." And "he hadn't seen no real fine white folks—what he called real fine white folks—sence he come from Macklenbu'g." All his interest in life having expired with an anterior generation, we were in his eyes but a poor set, and he refused to have anything to do with us. Not being compelled to work, he passed his life principally in the woods, and wore a rabbit-skin cap and a leather apron. Having lost interest in and connection with the white family, he gradually relapsed into a state of barbarism, refusing toward the end of his life to sleep in his bed, preferring a hard bench in his cabin, upon which he died.
Another very old man remembered something of his father, who had come from Africa; and when we asked him to tell us what he remembered of his father's narrations, would say:
"My daddy tell we chillun how he mammy liv' in hole in de groun' in Afiky, an' when a Englishmun come to buy him, she sell him fur a string o' beads. An' 'twas monsus hard when he fus' come here to war close; ev'y chance he git he pull off he close an' go naked, kase folks don't war no close in he country. When daddy git mad wid we chillun, mammy hide us, kase he kill us. Sometime he say he gwine sing he country, an' den he dance an' jump an' howl tell he skeer we chillun to deaf."
They spoke always of their forefathers as the "outlandish people."
On some plantations it was a custom to buy the wife when a negro preferred to marry on another estate. And in this way we became possessed of a famous termagant, who had married our grandfather's gardener, quarreled him to death in one year, and survived to quarrel forty years longer with the other negroes. She allowed no children about her cabin—not even a cat or dog could live with her. She had been offered her freedom, but refused to accept it. Several times she had been given away—once to her son, a free man, and to others with whom she fancied she might live—but, like the bad penny, was always returned to us. She always returned in a cart, seated on top of her wooden chest and surrounded by her goods and chattels. She was dressed in a high hat with a long black plume standing straight up, gay cloth spencer, and short petticoat,—the costume of a hundred years ago. Although her return was a sore affliction to the plantation, my sister and myself found much amusement in witnessing it. The cold welcome she received seemed not to affect her spirits, but, re-establishing herself in her cabin, she quickly resumed the turbulent course of her career.
"SHE ALWAYS RETURNED IN A CART."—Page 18.
Finally one morning the news came that this woman, old Clara, was dead. Two women went to sweep her cabin and perform the last sad offices. They waited all day for the body to get cold. While sitting over the fire in the evening, one of them, happening to glance at a small mirror inserted in the wall near the bed, exclaimed: "Old Clara's laughing!" They went nearer, and there was a horrible grin on the face of the corpse! Old Clara sprang out of bed, exclaiming: "Git me some meat and bread. I'm most perish'd!"
"Ole 'oman, what you mean by foolin' us so?" asked the nurses.
"I jes' want see what you all gwine do wid my things when I was dade!" replied the old woman, whose "things" consisted of all sorts of old and curious spencers, hats, plumes, necklaces, caps, and dresses, collected during her various wanderings, and worn by a generation long past.
Among these old cabin legends we sometimes collected bits of romance, and were often told how, by the coquetry of a certain Richmond belle, we had lost a handsome fortune, which impressed me even then with the fatal consequences of coquetry.
This belle engaged herself to our great-uncle, a handsome and accomplished gentleman, who, to improve his health, went to Europe, but before embarking made his will, leaving her his estate and negroes. He died abroad, and the lady accepted his property, although she was known to have been engaged to twelve others at the same time! The story in Richmond ran that these twelve gentlemen—my grandfather among them—had a wine party, and toward the close of the evening some of them, becoming communicative, began taking each other out to tell a secret, when it was discovered they all had the same secret—each was engaged to Miss Betsy McC.... This lady's name is still seen on fly leaves of old books in our library,—books used during her reign by students at William and Mary College,—showing that the young gentlemen, even at that venerable institution, sometimes allowed their classic thoughts to wander.