A FANTASIA.
In Paris, a famous city in France,
That lies by the banks of the sluggish Seine,
Where you and I may never have been,
But which we know all about in advance;—
A place of wild and wicked romance,
A place where they gamble, and fiddle and dance,
And the slowest coach has always a chance
To get put over the road, I ween,
Where women are naughty, and men are gay,
And the suicides number a dozen a day,
And one of the gallant jeunesse dorée
Will spend the night at prodigious play,
And in the morning go out and slay
His bosom friend with a rapier keen,
Because he loses and cannot pay,—
Lived a nice young man named Didier.
This nice young man had run aground,
As such young men are apt to do;
His creditors swore and his mistress frowned,
His breeches pockets held ne'er a sou,
His boots were getting out at the toes,
His hat was seedy, and so were his clothes,
And, as he wandered the city around,
He could not think of a single friend
Slow to dun and prompt to lend,
Whose purse he thought he could venture to sound;
In such extremities friends are few;
At least I think so, friend, don't you?
At length, on the brink of a grim despair,
He happened to think of a quaint old fellow,
A comical customer, rusty and slow,
But who used to be an elegant beau,
In dress and manner quite comme il faut;
And who, because he happened to know
How to play on the violoncello,
Which he'd learned for fun long time ago,
Before his finances got so low,
Had obtained a place in an orchestra choir,
And played that beautiful instrument there;
And to him monsieur determined to go;
And so,
Up to the top of a rickety stair,
To a little attic cold and bare,
He stumbled, and found the artist there.
He told his tale; how his former pride
Was crushed and humbled into the dust;
He swore he had thought of suicide,
But the charcoal venders wouldn't trust;
He had no profession or trade or art,
Money or food, and perish he must;
And then like a blacksmith's forge he sighed,
A sigh that touched the fiddler's heart.
'Cheer up, mon cher, and never mind;
You're the very man I was trying to find.
You know at the grand Theatre Français
The leading violoncello I play,
And my salary is two francs a day.
There's a vacant place; if you are inclined
To take the same, you'll find 'twill pay.'
Didier looked up in a vast amaze:
'Why, I can't do so, you very well know,
For I never fiddled in my born days.'
'Qu'a cela ne tienne,' his friend replied,
'Don't be too certain,—you never have tried;
You ought to give your abilities scope;
There is an anxiety most of us feel,
We may be out of time or tune,
Leave off too late, or begin too soon,
May pitch too sharp, or perhaps too flat;
So here is a cake of excellent soap,
The old, original, pure Castile,
Just rosin your bow with that.'
He took his seat in an orchestra chair,
'Twould have made you stare
Had you been there
To see his knowing and confident air,
And to hear the considerate manager say,
'There is nobody like young Didier;
So nice and exact, so quite au fait,
With a style so thoroughly recherché,
Some other concern may get him away,
So I think I shall have to double his pay!'
In clover the youth continues to graze,
And still in the orchestra he plays;
He's the man who never was known to make
The smallest shadow of a mistake,
And there's only one drawback on his praise,—
He is too modest by fifty per cent
For such a master of the art,
For the story went he would never consent
To play a solo part.
There's a moral, my juvenile friend, in this,
And you need not stumble and grope;
Just look for it sharp, and you can't go amiss;
You will find, there is nothing like soap!
Don't suffer yourself to be cast down
If capricious luck should happen to frown,
Go through with the motions, and if you're acute
None will ever suspect that your fiddle is mute;
But be sure and do as the rest of us do,
And don't flourish your stick till you get your cue.
Thus, let prosperity ebb or flow,
Still bate no jot of hope,
You may draw the longest kind of a bow
If 'tis only rosined with soap!
THE GRAVEYARD AT PRINCETON.
Reader, have you ever visited the pleasant village of Princeton, New Jersey, renowned alike in the annals of the country and of the church? While traveling from New York to Philadelphia by the New Jersey Railroad, you have doubtless obtained a glimpse of it, for it is 'a city set on a hill, which can not be hid,' and from the 'station,' a mile or two distant, its spires and belfries, gleaming from amid its thick embowering trees, present an interesting and picturesque appearance.
Passing onward from the station, the first notable object that meets the eye of the traveler is the Theological Seminary, a large, plain building of stone, the head-quarters in America of that branch of the Christian Church of whose stern, unflinching orthodoxy John Knox was at once the type and exponent. Near it stands its Library, an elegant Gothic structure erected through the munificence of James Lenox, of New York, and containing many works of great value. The street on which these buildings stand is appropriately named Mercer Street, for beyond them, at a short distance, lies the battle-field of Princeton, and the spot where the gallant Hugh Mercer fell. That spot was formerly marked by a large tree, but a few years ago the hallowed landmark was cut down and removed by heartless barbarians. The house to which the wounded hero was carried, where the 'two Quaker ladies waited on him' so assiduously, still stands, and on the floor of the room in which he died are certain marks, of doubtful origin, said to be blood-stains from his death-wound. Over the now peaceful battle-field, reddened with nothing more terrible than the ruddy clover-heads, a tall flag-staff, surmounted by a gilded eagle, uprears the glorious stars and stripes, and attests the loyalty of the people of Princeton.
About midway of the long, shady street of which Princeton chiefly consists, stands the crowning glory of the place, the venerable College of New Jersey. The college proper is a long, four-story edifice of stone, its center adorned with a tower and belfry, conspicuous from afar. At either side of it are clustered other buildings, embracing its halls, recitation rooms, and chapel.
It stands a little distance back from the street, between it and which lies the 'Campus,' a beautiful grassy slope of vivid green, surrounded with an iron fence, laid out with neat gravel walks, and shaded by noble and magnificent trees of more than a century's growth. Nothing can be more beautiful in summer time than this shady lawn. Here, at all hours of the day, students may be seen reading alone, or conversing in groups, seated on the benches placed at intervals among the trees, or stretched at full length on the fragrant grass, kicking their heels gymnastically in the air, or sauntering with arms interlocked along the gravel walks, singing, perhaps, some college song, such as
'Gaudeamus igitur,
Juvenes dum sumus,'
or others less classical and more uproarious.
Here, too, those known to their class-mates as the 'hard fellows,' are wont to prowl in the darkened hours, making night hideous with terrific voices, or stealing in darkness and silence to play some trick on the 'Profs.' or 'Tutes.'
From the gates of the Campus, every afternoon at the hour of five, or after prayers, the whole troop of students, to the number of three hundred, issue, for the purpose of taking their evening walk. Down the street they march, by twos and threes, chatting, laughing, telling college stories, or rehearsing the gossip of the day, into the extreme lower end of the long street, a locality known as Orthodox Corner, where they turn and march back in the same order. As they proceed, their ranks are gradually swelled by a couple of hundreds of 'Seminary' students (distinguishable by their more mature appearance, their heavier beards, and their 'stove-pipe hats'), and their walk enlivened by the sight of numerous ladies, who, by a remarkable coincidence, have also chosen the hour between five and six as the most fashionable for promenading, the dames of course usually going up the street as the students are going down, and down as, the students are going up, in order to afford them opportunities to exercise their graces in bowing to those whom they know, and staring at those whom they do not. For one brief hour, the quiet street presents the appearance of a crowded city, the pedestrians jostling each other as they pass and repass; but soon as the hour of six arrives, all is still again, for youths and maidens are alike engaged in discussing that meal for which their long walk has served as a whet.
But it was of the dead, not the living, that I was about to speak. Nearly opposite the college Campus we find Witherspoon Street, named after that brave and good man who was president of the college in the days of the Revolution, and one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Following this street a short distance, we come to the city of the dead. It is situated on an eminence, commanding a fine view of the surrounding country, embracing the village of Kingston, the distant spires of Trenton, and the blue range of hills beyond which roll the dark waters of the Atlantic. In natural advantages it can not compare with some of our modern cemeteries, but the historic interest which attaches to it more than compensates for the lack of picturesque effect.
The first spot to which the visitor is directed, is the inclosure containing the graves of the presidents of Princeton College. They are all of the old-fashioned style of 'table tombs,' now so seldom constructed; a flat slab, stretched on four walls of solid masonry, covering the whole grave. It was on such a tombstone that, in the old Greyfriars churchyard in Edinburgh, the solemn League and Covenant, from which resulted events so important to Scotland, was signed. No 'storied urn or animated bust' records the virtues of these venerable men,—not even marble in its simplest form has been used to mark their resting-place. The slabs are of coarse, grey stone, with long inscriptions in Latin occupying their entire surface. Many of them, especially that of the pious and renowned Jonathan Edwards, who left his New England home only to find a grave in New Jersey, having died a month after his removal to Princeton, have been most shamefully mutilated by relic-hunters and curiosity-mongers; innumerable pieces having been chipped off the edges of the slabs, until even the inscriptions have been encroached upon. To prevent, if possible, further mutilation, the following unique and elaborate, but eloquent notice, enclosed in an iron frame, has been placed over the graves of these reverend fathers. It was written by Professor, now Dr. Giger, of the college.
Keep your sacrilegious hands off these venerable stones! Parian marble, wrought with consummate skill, could not replace them. Connected with these homely monuments are historical associations that ought not to be forgotten. The scarcity of better materials, the rudeness of monumental sculpture, the poverty of the country, the early struggles and pecuniary embarrassments of the colony, at the period when these monuments were erected, as well as the self-denial and hardships and labors of the distinguished men who gave fame and usefulness to Nassau Hall, are indicated by these rough stones. Nothing modern, nothing polished or magnificent, could suggest the early history of New Jersey. Spare what remains of these broken memorials. Thoughtless young man! why do you break and deface these old monuments? A few fragments carried in your pocket, or placed in your cabinet, will not impart to you the activity and energy of Burr, or the profound and logical intellect of Edwards, or the eloquence of Davies, or the piety and triumphant death of Finley, or the poetical wisdom, the power of governing and inspiring youth, the love of knowledge, and the stern, unflinching patriotism of Witherspoon. If you admire and reverence the character of these great and good men, read their works imitate their example; and forbear, we beseech you, to add to the shameful mutilation of the frail memorials intended to protect their bones from insult.
But there is a strange and startling incongruity observable in this enclosure. At the foot of the grave where rest the remains of the venerable Aaron Burr, first president of the College of New Jersey, stands a tall white marble monument of modern form and appearance, so utterly out of keeping with the rest of the tombs, that the visitor at once turns to it, and is none the less startled to find that it marks the last resting-place of that other Aaron Burr, the traitor, the duellist, the libertine, whose remains, brought hither in the night, were surreptitiously buried at the feet of his venerated father, and this monument placed over them, years afterwards, in the same manner. And for his father's sake, there they were suffered to remain. 'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well,' in the midst of these old grey stones, and surrounded by the honored dead. The monument bears no record, except his name, the dates of his birth and death, and the statement that he was Vice-President of the United States from 1801 to 1805. It is as if it said,—
'No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.'
Not a quarter of a mile from where his dust thus reposes, there sleeps, in a neglected grave in a small grove of trees behind the college, one of his hapless victims, a young lady of Philadelphia, who died, as the mouldering headstone, half sunken in the turf, informs us, 'at the early age of twenty-two.'
The next point of interest is the spot where seven or eight elegant shafts of white marble, erected by their class-mates, mark the graves of students who have died during their collegiate course. They are all remarkable for the beauty and chaste simplicity of their design, and the appropriateness of their inscriptions. No historic interest attaches to them; no well-earned fame gilds them with a halo of glory; but a feeling touching and sad creeps over the heart as we read on the tomb the name of each sleeper's distant home, and think of the poor young man dying in the midst of strangers, while doubtless
'There was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.'
Passing on, we reach the graves of the three Alexanders, father and two sons, whose writings are dear to so many Christian hearts. Side by side they repose, under three slabs of pure white marble, inscribed with appropriate epitaphs. That of the father, Archibald Alexander, for fifty years professor in the Theological Seminary, is a simple, unadorned record of his personal history; that of the younger brother, Joseph Addison, who was a man of immense learning, able to read, write, and converse in sixteen languages, tells us that 'his great talents and vast learning were entirely devoted to the exposition and elucidation of the Word of God;' but to New Yorkers that of the elder brother, Dr. James W. Alexander, is fraught with the greatest interest, from his having so lately occupied a prominent place among the first divines and scholars of our country. It runs thus:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
JAMES WADDEL ALEXANDER.
A man of God, thoroughly furnished unto all good works; a learned, elegant, and accomplished scholar; a faithful, affectionate, and beloved pastor; an able, eloquent, and successful preacher; professor of mathematics in the College of New Jersey; professor of ecclesiastical history in Princeton Theological Seminary; pastor of the Presbyterian Church, corner of Fifth Avenue and Nineteenth Street, New York.
Throughout his life and labors, he illustrated those gifts and graces that exalt humanity and adorn the church of God.
Scattered about the graveyard are many monuments, attractive and interesting from their artistic beauty alone. One of the most chaste and elegant designs I have ever seen is the tomb erected by a gentleman of Philadelphia, to the memory of his wife, son, and daughter, who perished in the burning of the 'Henry Clay' on the Hudson River. It is in the form of a casket, of white marble, beautifully carved and of graceful form, elevated on a pedestal of polished stone, of a blueish tint. On one end of the casket are inscribed the words
WIFE
DAUGHTER
SON
on the other end,
MOTHER
SISTER
BROTHER
while one side bears the appropriate text of Scripture:—
When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee;
and the other the comforting words:—
For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.
Under a drooping cypress tree, half hidden amid its dark green foliage, is a monument of white marble, in the form of a Greek cross, low but massive, on which there is no epitaph or inscription whatever; but on the little foot-stone beyond it are the simple words:—
Genevieve.
Died 1851,
Aged 18.
Numerous 'broken rosebuds' mark the graves of children, and the device is so often repeated as to become tiresome; but on one handsome monument is carved a wreath of flowers, from which a rose has apparently dropped, and fallen on the pedestal,—a beautiful illustration of the loss the family circle had sustained in the death of her who rests below. Another child-grave, the tombstone a small upright slab surmounted by a wreath of flowers, bears the touching inscription:—
Our only Son,
John Agur E——.
Aged 2 years.
Many graves here, as elsewhere, are adorned with examples of 'graveyard poetry;' but most of it is of that humble character which is illustrated by the following:—
'Farewell, beloved wife: I must go
And leave you in this world of woe.
A few short years, then we shall meet
Together at our Saviour's feet.'
One more epitaph, before we leave this interesting and time-honored place of graves. It is from a plain horizontal slab, not far from the entrance; and is, to our thinking, one of the most beautiful and touching monumental inscriptions ever penned.
Sarah B——,
Wife of the Rev. C—— K——.
A humble worshiper of Christ, she lived in love and died in faith. Truthful woman, delightful companion, ardent friend, devoted wife, self-sacrificing mother, we lay you gently here, our best beloved, to gather strength and beauty for the coming of the Lord.
AMONG THE PINES.
Some winters ago I passed several weeks at Tallahassee, Florida, and while there made the acquaintance of Colonel J——, a South Carolina planter. Accident, some little time later, threw us together again at Charleston, when I was gratified to learn that he would be my compagnon du voyâge as far north as New York.
He was accompanied by his body-servant, 'Jim,' a fine specimen of the genus darky, about thirty years of age, born and reared in his master's family. As far as possible we made the journey by day, stopping at some convenient resting-place by night; on which occasions the Colonel, Jim, and myself would occupy the same or adjoining apartments, 'we white folks' sleeping on four posts, while the more democratic negro spread his blanket on the floor. Thrown together thus intimately, it was but natural that we should learn much of each other.
The 'Colonel' was a highly cultivated and intelligent gentleman, and during this journey a friendship sprung up between us,—afterward kept alive by a regular correspondence,—which led him, with his wife and daughter, and the man Jim, to my house on his next visit at the North, one year later. I then promised,—if I should ever again travel in South Carolina,—to visit him on his plantation in the extreme north-eastern part of the State.
In December last, a short time prior to the passage of the ordinance of secession, I had occasion to again visit Charleston, and, previous to setting out, dispatched a letter to the Colonel with the information that I was then ready to be led of him 'into the wilderness.' On arriving at the head-quarters of Secession, I found a missive awaiting me, in which he cordially renewed his previous tender of hospitality, gave me particular directions how to proceed, and stated that his 'man Jim' would meet me with a carriage at Georgetown, and convey me thence, seventy miles, to 'the plantation.'
Having performed the business which led me to Charleston, I set out for the rendezvous five days before the date fixed for the meeting, intending to occupy the intervening time in an exploration of the ancient town and its surroundings. Having passed the half of one day and the whole of one night in that delectable place,—during which night I was set on and nearly annihilated, while lying defenceless in my bed, by a myriad of Carolina big-bugs,—I found it so intolerably dull that, to escape a siege of 'the blues,' I hired a horse and a negro driver at a livery-stable, and started off for the plantation.
I make this preliminary statement to give the reader a satisfactory reason for taking him over wretched roads, at so inclement a season, with no companion but an ebony Jehu, into the very heart of Secessiondom.
My companion was a very intelligent native African, of the name of Scipio, who 'hired his time' of his mistress, and obtained his living by doing odd jobs around the streets and wharves of Georgetown. Portions of the country through which we passed were almost as wild as the forests of Oregon, and in some places the feeling against the North and Northern travelers ran very high. I had some strange encounters with swollen streams and roaring secessionists, in which my negro driver was of great service to me; and the knowledge I thus gained of him led me for the first time to the opinion, that real elevation and nobility of character may exist under an ebony skin.
Our first day on the road was clear, sunshiny, and of delicious temperature—one of those days so peculiar to the Southern winter, when the blood bounds through every vein as if thrilled by electricity, and a man of lively temperament can scarcely restrain his legs from dancing a breakdown. Night found us thirty miles on our way, and under the roof of a hospitable planter. A storm came on with the going down of the sun, and lasted during the following day; but, desiring to arrive at my destination before the servant should set out to meet me, I decided to push on in the rain.
Our second day's travel was attended with sundry interruptions and adventures, and night overtook us in the midst of a forest, uncertain where we were, and half dead from exposure to the storm; but after several hours of hard riding, we found ourselves, drenched to the skin and benumbed with the cold, before the door of a one-story log cabin, tenanted by a family of
POOR WHITES.
The rain was falling in torrents, and the night was as 'dark as the darkest corner of the dark place below.' We were in the midst of what seemed an endless forest of turpentine pines, and had seen no human habitation for hours. Not knowing where the road might lead us, and feeling totally unable to proceed, we determined to ask shelter at the shanty for the night.
In answer to our summons a wretched-looking, half-clad, dirt-bedraggled woman thrust her head from the door-way, with the inquiry, 'Who are ye?'
'We'm only massa and me, and de hoss, and we'm half dead wid de cold,' said Scipio; 'can't we cum in out ob de rain?'
'Wal, strangers,' replied the woman, eying us as closely as the darkness would permit, 'you'll find mighty poor fixins har, but I reckon ye can come in.'
Entering the house, we saw, by the light of a blazing pile of pine knots, which roared and crackled on the hearth, that it contained only a single apartment, about twenty feet square. In front of the fire-place, which occupied the better half of one side of the room, the floor was of the bare earth, littered over with pine chips, dead cinders, live coals, broken pots, and a lazy spaniel dog. Opposite to this, at the other end of the room, were two low beds, which looked as if they had been 'slept in forever, and never made up.' Against the wall, between the beds and the fire-place, stood a small pine table, and on it was a large wooden bowl, from whose mouth protruded the handles of several unwashed pewter spoons. On the right of the fire was a razeed rocking-chair, evidently the peculiar property of the mistress of the mansion, and three blocks of pine log, sawn off smoothly, and made to serve for seats. Over against these towered a high-backed settle, something like that on which
'sot Huldy all alone,
When Zeke peeked thru the winder;'
and on it, her head resting partly on her arm, partly on the end of the settle, one small, bare foot pressing the ground, the other, with the part of the person which is supposed to require stockings, extended in a horizontal direction,—reclined, not Huldy, but her Southern cousin, who, I will wager, was decidedly the prettier and dirtier of the two. Our entrance did not seem to disconcert her in the least, for she lay there as unmoved as a marble statue, her large black eyes riveted on my face as if seeing some nondescript animal for the first time. I stood for a moment transfixed with admiration. In a somewhat extensive observation of her sex, in both hemispheres, I had never witnessed such a form, such eyes, such faultless features, and such wavy, black, luxuriant hair. A glance at her dress,—a soiled, greasy, grayish linsey-woolsey gown, apparently her only garment,—and a second look at her face, which, on closer inspection, had precisely the hue of a tallow candle, recalled me to myself, and allowed me to complete the survey of the premises.
The house was built of unhewn logs, separated by wide interstices, through which the cold air came, in decidedly fresh if not health-giving currents, while a large rent in the roof, that let in the rain, gave the inmates an excellent opportunity for indulging in a shower-bath, of which they seemed greatly in need. The chimney, which had intruded a couple of feet into the room, as if to keep out of the cold, and threatened momentarily to tumble down, was of sticks, built up in clay, while the windows were of thick, unplaned boards.
Two pretty girls, one of perhaps ten and the other of fourteen years, evidently sisters of the unadorned beauty, the middle-aged woman who had admitted us, and the dog,—the only male member of the household,—composed the family. I had seen negro cabins, but these people were whites, and these whites were South Carolinians. Who will say that the days of chivalry are over, when such counterparts of the feudal serfs still exist?
After I had seated myself by the fire, and the driver had gone out to stow the horse away under the tumble-down shed at the back of the house, the elder woman said to me,—
'Reckon yer wet. Ben in the rain?'
'Yes, madam, we've been out most of the day, and got in the river below here.'
'Did ye? Ye mean the "run." I reckon it's right deep now.'
'Yes, the horse had to swim for it,' I replied.
'Ye orter strip and put on dry cloes to onst.'
'Thank you, madam, I will.'
Going to my portmanteau, which the darky had placed near the door, I found it dripping with wet, and opening it, discovered that every article in it had undergone the rite of total immersion.
'Everything is thoroughly soaked, madam. I shall have to dry myself by your fire. Can you get me a cup of tea?'
'Right sorry, stranger, but I can't. Hain't a morsel to eat or drink in the house.'
Remembering that our excellent hostess of the night before had insisted on filling our wagon-box with a quantity of 'chicken fixins,' to serve us in an emergency, and that my brandy flask was in my India-rubber coat, I sent Scipio out for them.
Our stores disclosed boiled chicken, bacon, sandwiches, sweet potatoes, short cake, corn bread, buttered waffles, and 'common doin's' too numerous to mention, enough to last a family of one for a fortnight, but all completely saturated with water. Wet or dry, however, the provisions were a godsend to the half-starved family, and their hearts seemed to open to me with amazing rapidity. The dog got up and wagged his tail, and even the marble-like beauty arose from her reclining posture and invited me to a seat with her on the bench.
The kettle was soon steaming over the fire, and the boiling water, mixed with a little brandy, served as a capital substitute for tea. After the chicken was re-cooked, and the other edibles 'warmed up,' the little pine table was brought out, and I learned—what I had before suspected—that the big wooden bowl and the half dozen pewter spoons were the only 'crockery' the family possessed.
I declined the proffered seat at the table, the cooking utensils being anything but inviting, and contented myself with the brandy and water; but, forgetting for a moment his color, I motioned to the darky—who was as wet and jaded, and much more hungry than I was—to take the place offered to me. The negro did not seem inclined to do so, but the woman, observing my gesture, yelled out, her eyes flashing with anger,—
'No, sar! No darkies eats with us. Hope ye don't reckon yerself no better than a good-for-nothin, no-account nigger!'
'I beg your pardon, madam; I intended no offense. Scipio has served me very faithfully for two days, and is very tired and hungry. I forgot myself.'
This mollified the lady, and she replied,—
'Niggers is good enuff in thar place, but warn't meant to 'sociate with white folks.'
There may have been some ground for a distinction in that case; there certainly was a difference between the specimens of the two races then before me; but, not being one of the chivalry, it struck me that the odds were on the side of the black man. The whites were shiftless, ragged, and starving; the black well clad, cleanly, energetic, and as much above the others in intellect as Jupiter is above a church steeple. To be sure, color was against him, and he was, after all, a servant in the land of chivalry and of servant-owners. Of course the woman was right, after all.
She soon resumed the conversation, with this remark:—
'Reckon yer a stranger in these parts; whar d'ye come from?'
'From New York, madam.'
'New York! whar's that?'
'It's a city at the North.'
'Oh! yas; I've heern tell on it; that's whar the Cunnel sells his turpentine. Quite a place, ain't it?'
'Yes, quite a place. Something larger than all South Carolina.'
'What d'ye say? Larger nor South Carolina! Kinder reckon tain't, is't?'
'Du tell! Tain't so large as Charles'n, is't?'
'Yes, twenty times larger than Charleston.'
'Lord o'massy! How does all the folks live thar?'
'Live quite as well as they do here.'
'Ye don't have no niggers thar, does ye?'
'Yes, but none that are slaves.'
'Have Ablisherners thar, don't ye? Them people that go agin the South?'
'Yes, some of them.'
'What do they go agin the South for?'
'They go for freeing the slaves. Some of them think a black man as good as a white one.'
'Quar, that; yer an Ablisherner, ain't ye?'
'No, I'm an old-fashioned Whig.'
'What's that? Never heerd on them afore.'
'An old-fashioned Whig, madam, is a man whose political principles are perfect, and who is as perfect as his principles.'
That was a 'stumper' for the poor woman, who evidently did not understand one half of the sentence.
'Right sort of folks, them,' she said, in a half inquiring tone.
'Yes, but they're all dead now.'
'Dead?'
'Yes, dead, beyond the hope of resurrection.'
'I've heern all the dead war to be resurrected. Didn't ye say ye war one on 'em? Ye ain't dead yet,' said the woman, chuckling at having cornered me.
'But I'm more than half dead just now.'
'Ah,' replied the woman, still laughing, 'yer a chicken.'
'A chicken! what's that?'
'A thing that goes on tu legs, and karkles,' was the ready reply.
'Ah, my dear madam, you can out-talk me.'
'Yes, I reckon I kin outrun ye, tu. Ye ain't over rugged.' Then, after a pause, she added,—'What d'ye 'lect that darky Linkum for President for?'
'I didn't elect him. I voted for Douglass. But Lincoln is not a darky.'
'He's a mullater, then; I've heern he war,' she replied.
'No, he's not a mulatto; he's a rail-splitter.'
'Rail-splitter? Then he's a nigger, shore.'
'No, madam; white men at the North split rails.'
'An' white wimmin tu, p'raps,' said the woman, with a contemptuous toss of the head.
'No, they don't,' I replied,' but white women work there.'
'White wimmin work thar!' chimed in the hitherto speechless beauty, showing a set of teeth of the exact color of her skin,—yaller. 'What du the' du?'
'Some of them attend in stores, some set type, some teach school, and some work in factories.'
'Du tell! Dress nice, and make money?'
'Yes,' I replied, 'they make money, and dress like fine ladies; in fact, are fine ladies. I know one young woman, of about your age, that had to get her own education, who earns a thousand dollars a year by teaching, and I've heard of many factory-girls who support their parents, and lay up a great deal of money, by working in the mills.'
'Wal!' replied the young woman, with a contemptuous curl of her matchless upper lip; 'schule-marms ain't fine ladies; fine ladies don't work; only niggers does that har. I reckon I'd ruther be 'spectable than work for a livin'.'
I could but think how magnificently the lips of some of our glorious Yankee girls would have curled had they heard that remark, and seen the poor girl that made it, with her torn, worn, greasy dress; her bare, dirty legs and feet, and her arms, neck, and face so thickly encrusted with a layer of clayey mud that there was danger of hydrophobia if she went near a wash-tub. Restraining my involuntary disgust, I replied,—
'We at the North think work is respectable. We do not look down on a man or a woman for earning their daily bread. We all work.'
'Yas, and that's the why ye'r all sech cowards,' said the old woman.
'Cowards!' I said; 'who tells you that?'
'My old man; he says one on our boys can lick five of your Yankee men.'
'Perhaps so. Is your husband away from home?'
'Yes, him and our Cal. ar down to Charles'n.'
'Cal. is your son, is he?'
'Yes, he's my oldest, and a likely lad he ar tu—He's twenty-one, and his name ar John Calhoun Mills. He's gone a troopin' it with his fader.'
'What, both gone and left you ladies here alone?'
'Yes, the Cunnel sed every man orter go, and they warn't to be ahind the rest. The Cunnel—Cunnel J.—looks arter us while they is away.'
'But I should think the Colonel looked after you poorly—giving you nothing to eat.'
'Oh! it's ben sech a storm to-day, the gals couldn't go for the vittles, though tain't a great way. We'r on his plantation; this house is his'n.'
This last was agreeable news, and it occurred to me that if we were so near the Colonel's we might push on, and get there that night, in spite of the storm; so I said,—
'Indeed; I'm going to the Colonel's. How far is his house from here?'
'A right smart six mile; it's at the Cross-roads. Ye know the Cunnel, du ye?'
'Oh, yes, I know him well. If his house is not more than six miles off, I think we had better go on to-night. What do you say, Scip?'
'I reckon we'd better gwo, massa,' replied the darky, who had spread my traveling-shawl in the chimney-corner, and was seated on it, drying his clothes.
'Ye'd better not,' said the woman; 'ye better stay har; thar's a right smart run twixt har and the Cunnel's, and tain't safe to cross arter dark.'
'If that is so we'd better stay, Scip; don't you think so?' I said to the darky.
'Jess as you like, massa. We got tru wid de oder one, and I reckon tain't no woss nor dat.'
'The bridge ar carried away, and ye'll have to swim shore,' said the woman. 'Ye'd better stay.'
'Thank you, madam, I think we will,' I replied, after a moment's thought; 'our horse has swum one of your creeks to-night, and I dare not try another.'
I had taken off my coat, and had been standing, during the greater part of this conversation, in my shirt-sleeves before the fire, turning round occasionally to facilitate the drying process, and taking every now and then a sip from the gourd containing our brandy and water; aided in the latter exercise by the old woman and the eldest girl, who indulged quite as freely as I did.
'Mighty good brandy that,' at last said the woman. 'Ye like brandy, don't ye?'
'Not very much, madam. I take it to-night because I've been exposed to the storm, and it stimulates the circulation. But Scip, here, don't like spirits. He'll get the rheumatism because he don't.'
'Don't like dem sort of sperits, massa; but rumatics neber trubble me.'
'But I've got it mighty bad,' said the woman, 'and I take 'em whenever I kin get 'em.'
I rather thought she did, but I 'reckoned' her principal beverage was whisky.
'You have the rheumatism, madam, because your house is so open; a draught of air is always unhealthy.'
'I allers reckoned 'twar healthy,' she replied. 'Ye Yankee folks have quar notions.'
I looked at my watch, and found it was nearly ten o'clock, and, feeling very tired, said to the hostess,—
'Where do you mean we shall sleep?'
'Ye can take that ar bed,' pointing to the one nearest the wall, 'the darky can sleep har;' motioning to the settle on which she was seated.
'But where will you and your daughters sleep? I don't wish to turn you out of your beds.'
'Oh! don't ye keer for us; we kin all bunk together; dun it afore. Like to turn in now?'
'Yes, thank you, I would;' and without more ceremony I adjourned to the further part of the room, and commenced disrobing. Doffing my boots, waistcoat, and cravat, and placing my watch and purse under the pillow, I gave a moment's thought to what a certain not very old lady, whom I had left at home, might say when she heard of my lodging with a grass-widow and three young girls, and sprung into bed. There I removed my undermentionables, which were still too damp to sleep in, and in about two minutes and thirty seconds sunk into oblivion.
A few streaks of grayish light were beginning to creep through the crevices in the logs, when a movement at the foot of the bed awakened me, and glancing downward I beheld the youngest girl emerging from under the clothes at my feet. She had slept there, 'cross-wise,' all night. A stir in the adjoining bed soon warned me that the other feminines were preparing to follow her example; so, turning my face to the wall, I feigned to be asleep. Their toilet was soon made, and they then quietly left Scip and myself in full possession of the premises.
The darky rose as soon as they were gone, and, coming to me, said,—
'Massa, we'd better be gwine. I'se got your cloes all dry, and you can rig up and breakfust at de Cunnel's.'
The storm had cleared away, and the sun was struggling to get through the distant pines, when Scipio brought the horse to the door, and we prepared to start. Turning to the old woman, I said,
'I feel greatly obliged to you, madam, for the shelter you have given us, and would like to make you some recompense for your trouble. Please to tell me what I shall pay you.'
'Wal, stranger, we don't gin'rally take in lodgers, but seein' as how as thar ar tu on ye, and ye've had a good night on it, I don't keer if ye pay me tu dollars.'
That struck me as 'rather steep' for 'common doin's,' particularly as we had furnished the food and 'the drinks;' yet, saying nothing, I handed her a two-dollar bank note. She took it, and held it up curiously to the sun, then in a moment handed it back, saying, 'I don't know nothin' 'bout that ar sort of money; hain't you got no silver?'
I fumbled in my pocket a moment, and found a quarter-eagle, which I gave her.
'I hain't got nary a fip o' change,' she said, as she took it.
'Oh! never mind the change, madam; I shall want to stop and look at you when I return,' I replied, good-humoredly.
'Ha! ha! yer a chicken,' said the woman, at the same time giving me a gentle poke in the ribs. Fearing she might, in the exuberance of her joy at the sight of the money, proceed to some more decided demonstration of affection, I hastily stepped into the wagon, bade her good-by, and was off.
We were still among the pines, which towered gigantically all around us, but were no longer alone. Every tree was scarified for turpentine, and the forest was alive with negro men and women gathering the 'last dipping,' or clearing away the stumps and underbrush preparatory to the spring work. It was Christmas week; but, as I afterwards learned, the Colonel's negroes were accustomed to doing 'half tasks' at that season, being paid for their labor as if they were free. They stopped their work as we rode by, and stared at us with a sort of stupid, half-frightened curiosity, very much like the look of a cow when a railway train is passing. It needed but little observation to conclude that their status was but one step above the level of the brutes.
As we rode along I said to the driver, 'Scipio, what did you think of our lodgings?'
'Mighty pore, massa. Niggas lib better'n dat.'
'Yes,' I replied, 'but these folks despise you blacks; they seem to be both poor and proud.'
'Yas, massa, dey'm pore 'cause dey won't work, and dey'm proud 'cause dey'r white. Dey won't work 'cause dey see de darky slaves doin' it, and tink it am beneaf white folks to do as de darkies do. Dis habin' slaves keeps dis hull country pore.'
'Who told you that?' I asked, astonished at hearing a remark showing so much reflection from a negro.
'Nobody, massa, I see it myseff.'
'Are there many of these poor whites around Georgetown?'
'Not many 'round Georgetown, sar, but great many in de up-country har, and dey'm all 'like—pore and no account; none ob 'em kin read, and dey all eat clay.'
'Eat clay!' I said; 'what do you mean by that?'
'Didn't you see, massa, how yaller all dem wimmin war? Dat's 'cause dey eat clay. De little children begin 'fore dey can walk, and dey eat it till dey die; dey chaw it like 'backer. It makes all dar stumacs big, like as you seed 'em, and spiles dar 'gestion. It am mighty onhealfy.'
'Can it be possible that human beings do such things! The brutes wouldn't do that.'
'No, massa, but dey do it; dey'm pore trash. Dat's what de big folks call 'em, and it am true; dey'm long way lower down dan de darkies.'
By this time we had arrived at the run. We found the bridge carried away, as the woman had told us; but its abutments were still standing, and over these planks had been laid, which afforded a safe crossing for foot-passengers. To reach these planks, however, it was necessary to wade into the stream for full fifty yards, the 'run' having overflowed its banks for that distance on either side of the bridge. The water was evidently receding, but, as we could not well wait, like the man in the fable, for it all to run by, we alighted, and counseled as to the best mode of making the passage.
Scipio proposed that he should wade in to the first abutment, ascertain the depth of the stream, and then, if it was not found too deep for the horse to ford to that point, we would drive that far, get out, and walk to the end of the planking, leading the horse, and then again mount the wagon at the further end of the bridge. We were sure the horse would have to swim in the middle of the current, and perhaps for a considerable distance beyond; but, having witnessed his proficiency in aquatic performances, we had no doubt of his getting safely across.
The darky's plan was decided on, and divesting himself of his trowsers, he waded into the 'run' to take the soundings.
While he was in the water my attention was attracted to a printed paper, posted on one of the pines near the roadside. Going up to it, I read as follows:—