For his black dependents, Senator Hammond had built several churches; the favourite one, called St. Catherine’s (named for Mrs. Hammond), being nearest the “Redcliffe” residence and most frequently visited by the family. Once a month a white preacher came, and all the slaves gathered to listen to the monthly sermon. Senator Hammond’s views for the civilising of the negroes led him to forbid the presence of exciting negro preachers, for the religion of the black man, left to himself, is generally a mixture of hysteria and superstition. The conversion of the negroes under their own spiritual guides was a blood-curdling process in those days, for they screamed to Heaven as if the Indians with their tomahawks were after them, or danced, twisting their bodies in most remarkable manner.[[33]] As their emotion increased, as they “got feelin’,” and the moment of conversion approached, as a rule they fell all in a heap, though in thus “coming through” the wenches were altogether likely to fall into the arms of the best-looking young brother who happened to be near. By reason of Senator Hammond’s wise discipline, such religious excesses were impossible at “Redcliffe,” and I can recall no church service at once more thrilling and reverential than that I attended, with Senator Clay, at quaint St. Catherine’s on the “Redcliffe” plantation shortly before my husband’s departure for Canada.
The negroes, clean, thrifty, strong, all dressed in their best, vied with each other in their deference to Mars’ Paul’s guests, as we entered the church. They listened quietly to the sermon as the service proceeded.
It was a solemn and impressive scene. There was the little company of white people, the flower of centuries of civilisation, among hundreds of blacks, but yesterday in the age of the world, wandering in savagery, now peaceful, contented, respectful and comprehending the worship of God. Within a day’s ride, cannon roared, and a hunter, laying his ear to the ground, might have heard the tread of armies, bent upon the blotting out of just such scenes as these. Only God might record our thoughts that morning, as the preacher alluded in prayer and sermon to the issues of the times. At the close of the morning, the hymn “There is rest for the weary” was given out, and when the slaves about us had wailed out the lines
“On the other side of Jordan
Where the tree of life is blooming
There is rest for you!”
my husband, at the signal for prayer, fell upon his knees, relieving his pent-up feelings in tears which he could not restrain. My own commingling emotions were indescribably strange and sad. Would abolitionists, I thought, could they look upon that scene, fail to admit the blessings American “slavery” had brought to the savage black men, thus, within a few generations at most, become at home in a condition of civilisation.
There were many fine voices on the plantation at “Redcliffe,” and as they followed their leader down the row “chopping out” cotton, or, when later they worked in gangs at picking it, it was their custom, seeming to act from instinct in the matter, to sing. One voice usually began the song, then another would join him, and then another, until dozens of voices blended in weird and melodious harmonies that floated from the distant cotton fields to the house of the master, and the music of the unseen choristers, a natural and rhythmic song, was of a kind we shall not hear again in these later practical times. Sometimes, one by one, all would drop out of the song, until only the leader’s high voice was heard; then, gradually, they would join in again, and often, when all seemed finished, a challenge would come from some distant gang, and a fuller and freer antiphonal song would be heard, answering from field to field.
When I remember that throng of well-fed, plump and happy coloured people, and compare it with the ragged and destitute communities common among the freedmen of to-day, the contrast is a sad one. “What’s de reason?” asked an old darky of me during Reconstruction days, “dat de Yankees caint make linsey-wolsey like ole Mistis did in de ole time? ’N dose days one par breeches las me mos a year! I could cut trees, roll logs, burn bresh-heaps an’ cut briers an’ I couldn’t wear dem breeches out! Now when I buys dis shoddy stuff de Yankees done bro’t an’ sets down on de lawg ter eat ma grub, bress Gawd! when I gits up, I leaves de seat O’ my breeches on de lawg! I done got down on my knees an’ prayed for God ter send me linsey-wolsey clothes so I won’t have rheumatiz an’ aint none come. Where’s dat mule an’ forty acres? When is dey a comin’, dat’s what I wants ter know!”