The negro: the southerner's problem

by Thomas Nelson Page

The Mammy was, perhaps, the most important of the servants, as she was also the closest intimate of the family. She was, indeed, an actual member of the household. She was usually selected in her youth to be the companion of the children by reason of her being the child of some favored servant and, as such, likely to possess sense, amiability, judgment, and the qualities which gave promise of character and efficiency. So she grew up in intercourse with the girls of the family, and when they married she became, in turn, the nurse and assistant to the old mammy, and then the mammy of her young mistress’s children, and, after, of their children.

She has never been adequately described. Chiefly, I fancy, because it was impossible to describe her as she was.

Who may picture a mother? We may dab and dab at it, but when we have done our best we know that we have stuck on a little paint, and the eternal verity stands forth like the eternal verity of the Holy Mother, outside our conception, only to be apprehended in our highest moments, and never to be truly pictured by pen or pencil.

So, no one can describe what the Mammy was, and only those can apprehend her who were rocked on her generous bosom, slept on her bed, fed at her table, were directed and controlled by her, watched by her unsleeping eye, and led by her precept in the way of truth, justice, and humanity.

She was far more than a servant. She was a member of the family in high standing and of unquestioned influence. She was her mistress’s coadjutress and her wise adviser, and where the children were concerned, she was next to her in authority.

My father’s mammy, old Krenda, was said to have been an African princess, and whether there was any other foundation for the idea than her commanding presence and character, I know not; but these were unquestionable. Her aphorisms have been handed down in the family since her time. Among them was one which has a smack of the old times and at least indicates that she had not visited some modern cities: “Good manners will cyah you whar money won’t.”

I remember my mammy well, though she died when I was a child. Her name was Lydia, and she was the daughter of old Betty, who had been my great-grandmother’s maid. Betty used to read to her mistress during the latter years of her life when she was blind. Lydia had been my mother’s mammy before she was mine and my brother’s, and she had the authority and prestige of having been such.

After forty-five years, I recall with mingled affection and awe my mammy’s dignity, force, and kindness; her snowy bed, where I was put to sleep in the little up-stairs room, sealed with pictures from the illustrated papers and with fashion-plates, in which her artistic feeling found its vent; I recall also the delicious “biscuit-bread” she made, which we thought better than that of all the cooks and bakers in the world. In one corner stood her tea-table, with her “tea-things,” her tea and white sugar.

I remember, too, the exercise of her authority, and recall, at least two “good whippings” that she gave me.

One curious recollection that remains is of a discussion between her and one of her young mistresses on the subject of slavery, in which the latter fell back on what is, possibly, one of the strongest arguments of the slave-holder, the Bible, and asserted that God had put each of them in their places. It may be left to the reader to say which had the better of the argument. The interest of the matter now is rather academic than practical.