Our host, Fields, was especially delightful. He gave reminiscences of his stay with Tennyson on the Isle of Wight—among others, of taking a walk with him one dark evening when, suddenly, the great poet fell on his knees, and seeming to burrow in the grass called out gutturally and gruffly: "Man, get down on your marrow-bones; here are violets." Fields also gave reminiscences of Charles Sumner, showing the great senator's utter lack of any sense of humor, and among them a story of his summoning his office-boy to his presence on the eve of the Fourth of July and addressing him on this wise: "Patrick, to-morrow is the natal day of our Republic; it is a day for public rejoicing, a time of patriotic festivity. You need not come to the office; go out and rejoice with our fellow-citizens that your lot is cast in so happy a country. Here are fifty cents; I advise you to pass the day at the cemetery of Mount Auburn."
Very interesting to me were sundry excursions in the Southern States, the first as far back as 1864. After attending the Baltimore Convention which renominated Mr. Lincoln, and paying my respects to him at Washington, as stated in my political reminiscences, I went somewhat later to Richmond. Libby Prison had a sad interest for me, as for many at that time, and on all sides was seen the havoc of war; but perhaps the most curious feature of my stay was a visit to the house which had served as the White House of the Confederacy—the dwelling of Jefferson Davis, for, just as I entered the door I met one of the arch antislavery men of New England, Dr. Leonard Bacon of New Haven. Both of us were happy at the outcome of the war, but it was with a very solemn sort of joy that we thus met in such a place. I seemed to hear, as so often in the South of that day, and, indeed, in the North also, that fearful prophecy of Thomas Jefferson—when speaking of slavery in the Southern States—beginning with the words, "I tremble when I remember that God is just." Halting at Gettysburg on my return northward, I found marks of the terrible contest of the previous year still vivid. For miles, in all directions, on the roads and through the fields, were fragments of shell, of cannon, of harness, of clothing, and equipments of every sort. The trees, especially those near the great centers of the struggle, where the cemetery now is, were gashed and torn in trunk and branches, and here and there were to be seen fragments of human bodies which, having been too hastily buried, had been washed out by the rains.
About ten years later,—February, 1875,—being much worn with labor and care at the university, I made a short stay in the more Southern States, my first stop being at Washington, where I passed an interesting evening at the Executive Mansion with President Grant, who was as simple and cordial in manner as ever. The next day I left Washington for Richmond and the far South, and on the morning following was aroused at one of the way-stations by hearing negroes singing in a neighboring car. They were happy at the prospect of breakfast, but a curious preliminary was that each came out upon the platform, and, taking a currycomb which was hung up for the purpose, curried himself, much as an ostler administers that treatment to a horse—every negro grasping in his turn the large wooden handle and pulling the iron teeth through his plentiful wool.
Stopping next at Columbia in South Carolina, I saw flagrant examples of carpet-bag rule; but of those in the State-house I have already spoken. Here was a focus of Southern feeling; and at the State University, which was charmingly situated, and altogether a most fitting home for scholars and thinkers, I was taken into the library where formerly stood the bust of Francis Lieber, once a professor in the institution. Never had the South a wiser or better friend. In after years I knew, loved, and respected him. No man with a deeper knowledge of free institutions, or with greater love for them, has ever lived in our country; but when the news came to his old university, where he had been so greatly admired, that he was true to the Union, his marble bust was torn from its place, dishonored, and destroyed. There could be no better illustration of Bishop Butler's idea of "a possible insanity of States."
On Sunday, having been taken by one of the professors in the university to a Protestant Episcopal church for colored people, of which he was rector, I was surprised at the light color and real beauty of many of the women present: nowhere, save in Jamaica, had I seen people of mixed races so attractive. In Charleston there were on all sides ruins, due not only to the Civil War, but to the more recent fire and earthquake. It all seemed as if the vengeance of Heaven had been wrought upon the city. My sympathies were deeply enlisted; I felt no anger over the past, no exultation. I was taken to a home for Confederate orphans and to another for widows, and in both were pointed out to me members of families, now hopelessly destitute, who before the war lived in luxury. In no city, at home or abroad, have I ever seen a line of stately mansions which seemed more fitting abodes for wealth and culture than those upon the esplanade at Charleston; in the days gone by a noble hospitality had centered there, but all was now silent and distressed.
On the 4th of March we arrived in Florida and found it fascinating. Never before had I been farther south upon the mainland of the United States than Charleston, and never had I seen anything of this region, save when the frigate bearing the Santo Domingo Commission touched at Key West. Among the most characteristic things at Jacksonville was a large church belonging to the negro Baptists, who were evidently the leading sect. The church was large, but unfinished, and a main feature of every service was passing the hat for contributions. The services were singular indeed. There was one old negro pastor who, though he could read little if at all, had schooled himself to look into the Bible while reciting parts of chapters, and to keep his eyes upon the pages of his hymnal while repeating the hymns; and a very weighty function was the reading of notices of every sort of social gathering, especial prominence being given to meetings of fire-engine companies. The number of Northern visitors was very large, and it was evident that the negro managers of the congregation felt the importance of keeping on good terms with all of them without regard to party; for, on one occasion, as the pastor was giving these notices, slowly deciphering them, with the aid of a younger minister, and reading them mechanically, he began as follows: "Dere will be a meetin' of de Republikins of dis ward"—and instantly a number of the brethren started to their feet, and put up their hands with a long "Hu-u-u-sh!" The preacher was greatly embarrassed and passed on immediately to "There will be a meeting of No. 2 Fire Company," etc., etc. Most hearty of all was the singing, in which the whole congregation joined loudly and with voices clear and silvery. After the services were over there came regularly what was called the "sperritual part." Some one of the more gifted singers—of whom, perhaps, the most satisfactory was a young colored man in a black velvet coat and a brilliant red tie—came forward, stood before the pulpit, and began a long solo—as a rule, with scores of verses. One was on the creation, another on the flood, each verse paraphrasing the scriptural account; and the refrain, in which the whole congregation joined, was as follows:
"Ole Pharaoh he got law-s-t—
Got law-s-t, got law-s-t—
Ole Pharaoh he got drownded
In the Re-e-e-e-d Sea."
But soon came a song which amazed me. It was totally different in character from any of the others, and was called "The Seven Glories of Mary." One of the verses ran as follows:
"An' de berry next glory dat Mary she had,
It was de glory of sebben—
It was dat her Son Jesus he tolled de bells of hebben;"
and then, as at the end of each verse, came from the whole congregation the refrain: