It was pitiable to walk round his farm in the morning, to see everywhere the last stages of decay,—poor, worn-out lands, broken-down fences, weedy fields, pastures without a blade of grass, leafless orchards, old buildings,—everything a wreck; and yet to know that he was wedded to the very institution which was reducing the country to a wilderness. He was not an owner of the estate, but a rentee. He paid one hundred and fifty dollars rental for three hundred acres of land, and yet confessed that he was growing poorer year by year. Tobacco, corn, and oats were the only crops. He could get no manure. He could make no hay. He kept two cows, but made no butter. The land was being exhausted, and he did not know what he should come to. All energy and life were gone; we saw only a family struggling against fate, and yet clinging with a death-grapple to the system that was precipitating their ruin.
"Why do you not go to Illinois?"
"O, sir, I am too old to move. Besides, this is home."
We pictured the boundless resources of the West, the fertile lands, the opportunities for bettering his condition, but our words fell upon an inert mind. As a last argument, we said: "You have a large family of daughters. In Illinois there are thousands of young men wanting wives, who will make good husbands. There are few young men here, but good homes await your daughters there."
There were blushes, smiles, and sparkling eyes from the "sacred nine." My fellow-correspondent of the Chicago Tribune then drew a florid picture of the West,—of the need of the State for such good-looking, virtuous ladies. His eloquence was persuasive. One of the daughters wanted to know how far it was to Illinois; but when informed that it was a thousand miles, her countenance fell. Bliss so far away was unattainable.
We passed a second night with our host, who, during our absence, sent one of the servants a dozen miles to obtain some butter, so courteous an entertainer was he. Yet he was struggling with poverty. He kept three slaves to wait upon his nine grown-up unmarried daughters, who were looking out upon a dark future. There was not a single gleam of light before them. They could not work, or, at the best, their work was of trifling account. What would become of them? That was the one question ever haunting the father.
"Why do you keep your slaves? they are a bill of cost to you every year," we said.
"I know it. They are lazy, shiftless, and they will steal, notwithstanding they have enough to eat and wear; but then I reckon I couldn't get along without them very well. Sam is an excellent groom, and Joe is a good ploughman. He can do anything if he has a mind to; but he is lazy, like all the rest. I reckon that I couldn't get along without him, though."
"Your sons can groom your horses and do your ploughing."
"Yes; but then they like to fish and hunt, you know; and you can't expect them to do the work of the servants."