Funding from the Library of Congress/Ameritech National Digital
Library Competition
supported the electronic publication of this title.
Text scanned (OCR) by
Teresa Church
Text encoded by
Kathleen Feeney and Natalia Smith
First edition, 1997.
ca. 300K
Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
1997.
Call number 917.5 D442o (Library Service Center, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)
The electronic edition
is a part of the UNC-CH
digitization project, Documenting the American
South.
Any hyphens occurring in
line breaks have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been
joined to the preceding line.
All quotation marks and
ampersand have been transcribed as
entity references.
All double right and left
quotation marks are encoded as " and "
respectively.
All single right and left
quotation marks are encoded as ' and ' respectively.
Indentation in lines has
not been preserved.
Running titles have not
been preserved.
Spell-check and
verification made against printed text using Author/Editor (SoftQuad) and
Microsoft Word spell check programs.
Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition,
1998
BY
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY
N. B. DE SAUSSURE
THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK
THE following reminiscences are published at the request of many friends who, after reading the manuscript, have urged that the recollections be given more permanent form and a wider circulation.
N. B. DESAUSSURE.
MY DEAR GRANDDAUGHTER DOROTHY:
Grandmother is growing to be an old lady, and as you are still too young to remember all she has told you of her own and your mother's people, she is going to write down her recollections that you may thus gain a true knowledge of the old plantation days, now forever gone, from one whose life was spent amid those scenes.
The South as I knew it has disappeared; the New South has risen from its ashes, filled with the energetic spirit of a new age. You can only know the New South, but there is a generation, now passing away, which holds in loving memory the South as it used to be.
Those memories are a legacy to the new generation from the old, and it behooves the old to hand them down to the new.
"The days that are no more" come crowding around me, insistent that I interpret them as I knew them; there are the happy plantation days, the recollection of which causes my heart to throb again with youthful pleasure, and near them are the days, the dreadful days, of war and fire and famine. I shrink as the memory of these draws near.
The spirit of those early days is what I chiefly desire to leave with you; the bare facts are history, but just as the days come back to my recollection I will write about them, and necessarily the record will be fitful memories woven together but imperfectly.
My father, your great-grandfather, was a direct descendant on his mother's side of Landgrave Smith, first Colonial Governor of
South Carolina, his mother being Landgrave Smith's granddaughter; his grandfather was Pierre Robert, a Huguenot minister who emigrated to America, after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, and led the Huguenot colony to South Carolina.
My father was born in 1791 in the old homestead situated forty miles up the river from Savannah. He had twelve children, and I was one of the younger members of his large family. His early life was similar to the life of any present-day boy, with school days and holidays. During the holidays he enjoyed the excellent hunting and fishing which our large plantation afforded and which gave him great skill in those sports; later in life he brought up his own sons to enjoy them with him. He used to tell us, to our great entertainment, many incidents of his childhood days. When a little boy he
used to drive through the country with his grandmother in a coach and four.
After he left South Carolina College he made a trip through the North on horseback, as this was before the time of railroads. It took him a month to reach Pennsylvania and New York State, and as it was in the year of 1812, he happened to ride out of Baltimore as the British rode in.
We children were always delighted when father told us of his many adventures, and the strange sights he saw during his travels. One episode always greatly shocked us, which was that of his seeing men in the public bakeries in Pennsylvania mixing bread dough with their bare feet.
After father returned home he married a cousin, Miss Robert. He had one son by this marriage, at whose birth the young mother died. This son returning from a Northern
college on the first steamboat ever run between Charleston and New York, was drowned; for the vessel foundered and was lost off the coast of North Carolina.
Father's second wife was a descendant of the Mays of Virginia, who were descendants of the Earl of Stafford's younger brother. This lady was my own dear mother and your great-grandmother.
I must now tell you something about her grandmother, for my mother inherited much of her wonderful character from this stalwart Revolutionary character. My great-grandmother's eldest son, at nineteen, was a captain in the Revolutionary War, and she was left alone, a widow on her plantation. When the British made a raid on her home, carrying off everything, she remained undaunted, and, mounting a horse, rode in hot haste to where the army was stationed, and asked to see the
general in command. Her persistence gained admittance. She stated her case and the condition in which the British soldiers had left her home, and pleaded her cause with so much eloquence that the general ordered the spoils returned to her.
Dearest child, in the intrepid spirit of this ancestor you will find the keynote to the brave spirit of the women of the South.
This old lady, who was your great-great-great- grandmother, lived to be a hundred and six years old; her skin was like parchment and very wrinkled; she died at last from an accident. I have heard my mother say that she was a remarkable character, never idle, and her mind perfectly clear until the day of her death. At her advanced age she knitted socks for my eldest brother, a baby then, thus always finding something useful to employ her mind and her hands.
Her son, my mother's father, was one of the most generous and benevolent of men, a pioneer of Methodism in that section of the country. He had a room in his house called "the minister's room." The ministers who went from place to place preaching were called circuit riders. These ministers always stayed at his house, hence "the minister's room" was very seldom vacant, and some ministers lived with him always.
Once there was a great scarcity of corn caused by a drought. Grandfather came to the rescue of the neighborhood. He sent a raft down to Savannah, which was the nearest town, and had brought back, at his expense, two thousand bushels of corn. He then sent out word to the poor of the surrounding country to come to him for what corn they needed, making each applicant give him a note for what he received. When he
had thus provided for the immediate wants of the people, he generously tore up the notes; for he had only taken them to prevent fraud.
You will naturally wish me to tell you something of my mother, your great-grandmother. She was born on March 25, 1801, and was educated at the Moravian School in North Carolina, which is still in existence. I saw a very interesting description of this school in the Tribune of March, 1904.
Mother was well educated in all branches taught during her girlhood. Even after she was seventy-five years old she could repeat every rule of grammar and she always wrote with ease and correctness. This shows that what was taught in those days was taught with thoroughness, even if the studies were few and simple compared to the intricate and manifold ones of the present day. Mother was a woman of remarkable sweetness of
disposition and intelligence, and had great executive ability, which latter quality was dispensable in the mistress of a large household of children and servants. She gave unceasing care and attention to her children, and personally supervised every detail of their education. Besides these duties, the negroes of the plantation, their food and clothing, care of their infants and the sick, all came under her control.
My father and mother inherited most of their negroes, and there was an attachment existing between master and mistress and their slaves which one who had never borne such a relation could never understand.
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" has set the standard in the North, and it seems useless for those who owned and loved the negroes to say there was any other method used in their management than that of strictest severity;
but let me tell you that in one of my rare visits South to my own people, the old-time darkies, our former slaves, walked twenty miles to see "Miss Nancy" and her little daughter, and the latter, your dear mother, would often be surprised, when taken impulsively in their big black arms, and hugged and kissed and cried over "for ol' times' sake."
When I would inquire into their welfare and present condition I heard but one refrain, "I'd never known what it was to suffer till freedom came, and we lost our master." Yes, Dorothy dear, a lot of children unprepared to enjoy the Emancipation Proclamation were suddenly confronted with life's problems.
I have beside me a letter from a friend, now in South Africa. She says in part: "I am sure you, too, would have thought much
on the many problems presented by this black people. It is perfectly appalling when one thinks that they are really human beings! Human beings without any humanity, and not the slightest suggestion that there is any vital spark on which to begin work, for apparently they have no affection for anybody or anything, and it is an insult to a good dog to compare them to animals."
Such, my dear child, is the African in his native country at the present day, the twentieth century, and such was the imported African before he was Christianized and humanized by the people of the South. In order to show you that I am not prejudiced in favor of the Southerners' treatment of their slaves I will insert a letter from Dr. Edward Lathrop, whose daughter was an old schoolmate of mine at Miss Bonney's in Philadelphia.
JULY 23, 1903.
MY DEAR MRS. DE SAUSSURE:
I will proceed to answer your inquiries. You know I am Southern born and raised. I am a Georgian, and although never a slaveholder I was nursed by a negro woman to whom I was most fondly attached, and who, I believe, loved me as she would her own son. I have had the opportunity to mingle freely with slaveholders of different characters and dispositions, and while I regard slavery as such an enormous evil and am heartily glad that it has been abolished in this country, I am bound in candor to say that my observation, during all these years of my residence in Georgia and South Carolina, thoroughly convinced me that in the majority of cases slaves were more kindly treated and brought into more intimate and kindly relations to white families than they are now, though
free. This, of course, is not given as an apology for slavery, but it is a simple statement of facts. I might refer, for example, to what I witnessed and felt, while a guest, on more than one occasion, in the house of your honored father and mother. Your father seemed to me to be as watchful of the interests, both temporal and spiritual, of his slaves as of his own immediate white family. It was, to my mind, a beautiful illustration of patriarchal slavery, as it existed in the days of Abraham. Of course there were exceptions to this treatment of slaves by their owners, but, as a rule, so far as my observation extended, your father's methods were universally approved, while the cruel slaveholder was indignantly condemned and repudiated.
You may remember that I was for three years the associate of Rev. Dr. Fuller, then
pastor of the Baptist Church in Beaufort S. C.
Beaufort District (now county) was probably the largest slaveholding district in the State.
Most that I have stated above, as to the kindly treatment of slaves was emphatically true of Beaufort. The Baptist Church, in addition to its white membership, embraced about two thousand slaves. These slaves, as church members, enjoyed equal privileges with the whites. Dr. Fuller or myself preached to them every Sunday. The Lord's Supper was administered to them and to the whites impartially and at the same time. And any grievance that they complained of, among themselves, was as patiently listened to and adjusted as was the case with the white members. In a word, all that could be done for them, in their circumstances, was
promptly and cheerfully done. I could add much more of the same tenor to what I have written, but I will not weary you with a long discourse.
Affectionately yours,
To
this let me add this editorial from the
New York Sun of February 1, 1907, bearing
on the question.
"We see no
occasion for the astonishment
that has been aroused in this part of the country
by the eloquent and touching tribute to
the negro's virtues by Mr. Joel Chandler
Harris, of Georgia. It is by no means the
first time he has spoken to the same effect, nor
is he the only Southerner of his class who has
proclaimed similar opinions. It ought to be
perfectly well known to the entire country
that the better class of whites dwell in peace
and kindness and good will with their colored
fellow-creatures, and that practically
all of the so-called race conflicts' are the
product of an ancient hate dating back far
beyond the Civil War and involving, now as
always hitherto, no one of whom either race
is at all proud.
"This is a flagrant truth which Northern
people have had the opportunity of assimilating
any time during the past forty years.
The emancipation of the slaves, effected in
reality after the surrender of Lee, Johnson
and Kirby Smith, made no change in the
purely personal relations between the freedmen
and their former masters. Not even the
abominable episode of reconstruction availed
to eradicate the affectionate entente of the
classes and turn them against each other to
the evil ends of animosity and vengeance.
The old slaveholders knew that their quondam
servants and dependents were innocent
of vicious purpose. The latter understood
full well that when in need of help and sympathy
and pitying ministrations the former
offered them their only sure refuge and relief.
No actor in this mournful tragedy has forgotten
anything. No political or social transmutation
has changed anything so far as these
two are concerned. The quarrels and the
violent and bloody clashes of which so much
is made in our newspapers, whether through
honest ignorance or malign intent, are far
outside of the philosophy of any important
element of the Southern population.
"Joel Chandler Harris tells the simple truth
when he says that the negroes of the South
are moving onward, accumulating property,
making themselves useful citizens and cementing
the hallowed ties of respect and confidence
between the classes which represent the
South's righteousness and civilization. In
this section we concern ourselves too much
with the insignificant minority. We accept
the testimony of the 'educated' few on the
negro side - educated to little more than a
fruitless smattering of vanity and conceit -
and we much too easily imagine that the
Southern 'cracker' stands for the ideas and
illustrates the methods of the whites. No
falser or more misleading hypothesis could
be presented. The negro who typifies violence
and barbarism is one in ten thousand.
The white man who employs the shotgun and
the torch is quite as unimportant. We shower
our solicitudes on the pestiferous exception
and overlook the wholesome rule.
"Uncle Remus knows what he is talking
about - knows it to its deepest depth."
The day was always begun with family
prayers, for my father's religious principles
were his staff in life, and he derived much
strength from them. His devotion to Christ
was unusual, and I never knew him to doubt
for an instant that he himself was a child of
God. Having a most affectionate disposition,
he loved his wife and children intensely,
and lived in and for them. Fortunately, the
love he gave them was fully returned, and I
doubt if there was ever a more devoted and
united family.
At sunset it was a sacred custom of his to
go into a room in a wing of the house, removed
from all noise, and kneel in prayer.
Every child and grandchild would follow him
to the quiet room, and as we knelt by his side,
he would commend us to God's loving care,
and rise from his knees to kiss each one of us,
sons and daughters alike. No matter what
our occupation or pleasures were, we would
hasten home that we might not miss this sunset
prayer, for then all differences that had
grown up between us in the day would be
healed, and we felt ourselves drawn into one
united family again. My brothers and sisters,
old men and women now, can never
speak of that sacred hour without tears.
I will here copy a letter received not long
ago from a dear friend, Miss Morse, for
years one of the faculty of Vassar College,
that you may see how our home life affected
"strangers within our gates."
In asking me to give
you my recollections
of that cultivated consecrated home
where I spent a delightful half year, you
have given me a privilege. I love to recall
that period, so unique in my experience.
Your father had arranged for my journey.
A son came from Princeton to go with
me to the steamer, and at Savannah his factor
placed me in your father's boat, going up
the river by night, to his plantation home.
This was my first acquaintance with negroes.
At first I was afraid, being the only
white person on board, but as I remembered
that it was your father's plan, I knew it must
be safe, and gave myself up to the enjoyment
of the scene. A happier set of beings than
the negroes on board it would be hard to find.
The night was dark, but on deck they gathered
in groups about their bright fires, roasting
corn and singing their quaint and wonderfully
sweet plantation songs.
At daybreak we reached your father's
landing, where you were waiting for me in
the carriage, and when we drove up to the
beautiful home, there were your parents at
the door, ready to give me a truly Southern
welcome.
Breakfast was served, and as your father
asked the blessing, he prayed most earnestly
that old Maum Mary might be found that
day; every day the prayer was repeated, till
he felt she could not be living, and then it
was changed to a request that they might find
her body to give it burial. She was an old
negress, who had lost her mind, and, fearing
she might stray away and get lost, your
father had placed her daughter-in-law, a
bright young negress, in the house with her,
to care for her and specially to watch, lest in
her mental weakness she might stray away;
what he feared happened, for the
daughter-in-law proved less tender and faithful
than the master, and the old woman escaped.
When all hope of finding her alive was
gone, the prayer of the master was that they
might find her body and give it burial, but
even this was not granted him.
It was a revelation to me of the tender care
that old patriarch gave to his slaves, no wonder
that they loved him.
You used to ask me, almost daily, to go
with you to see some feeble old woman, who
might be lonely and would be looking for you
to come and see her, and I could hardly help
shrinking as you would allow yourself to be
gathered into her arms, and the petting
would be mutual.
If a negro was sick, your father would
always send him food from his own table,
which was received with great pleasure.
At the time I was there your mother had
become too feeble to continue her daily
rounds among the sick and feeble, taking
medicine, looking after bandages on broken
limbs, etc., but an older daughter had taken
her place to some extent.
I enjoyed very much the prayer-meeting
evenings of the negroes. The Methodists
had one evening and the Baptists another.
They always held them in a building especially
made for that purpose, and the singing,
as it came through our open windows, was
very sweet. Your father had to limit the
time or they would have continued the services
all night.
On Sunday they attended the same
churches as the family, the galleries being
reserved for them. I might have added in
telling of their prayer meeting, that when we
were present they always prayed for "Ole
Massa and Missus," and the various
members of the family, including the "young
Missus from the North."
The little negro children would leave their
play to gather around me as they saw me
walking about the grounds.
As I recall a day in that home, so filled
with love and peace, I think of the morning
and evening prayers where the dear old patriarch
seemed to be talking to a friend whom
he trusted and loved.
Every morning his horse was brought to the
door for him to ride over the plantation.
His daughter Nannie never failed to be there
to help him on with his coat, and at his return
to take off his wraps, bring him his dressing-gown,
and cover him as he lay down to rest.
In fact, from morning till night she
seemed always to have him in her thoughts,
to anticipate every wish, and give him most
devoted attention. I am sure it must always
be a sweet memory to her that she never
overlooked a possible opportunity of adding
to his happiness. Few fathers receive
such devoted attention from their
children.
Do you remember how I used to enjoy the
blaze of the pine knots in the fireplace in
your room at night, and how, as they burned
out, you would say to Susan, your maid,
"Now throw on another knot for Miss
Morse?" And do you remember how I
used to ride about alone on your pet
horse?
Oh, what a happy winter that was! The
whole atmosphere was one of love - love
between parents and children, and love that
overflowed till it seemed to me that every negro
on the place must feel the effects of it.
Certainly every sick or aged one received
tenderest care.
I remember your mother, in telling me of
her heavy duties in caring for so large a family,
mentioned an instance in which she had to
go every day to dress a broken arm of a negro
child, because the mother was too indolent
to attend to it.
On Sundays your mother and her daughters
used to go around to the negroes' houses
to read the Bible, and teach the children
Bible verses.
I hope that the reading
of these memories
will recall to you something of the sweetness
of that dear home, consecrated by your parents'
prayers.
Lovingly,
This has been a long
digression from the
one day in my mother's life I promised to
depict for you, but those early scenes come
into my mind so fast that the letter from my
dear friend telling of them seemed most appropriately
to come into the story just at that
point. But to return - after breakfast it
was customary for the head nurse to report
any cases of sickness on the plantation to
my mother. Mother's medicine chest was
brought out and together they consulted
about the condition of each patient. If anyone
were very ill, a man was sent to call in
a physician who lived several miles away.
My mother then hastened to the negro quarters,
and if the invalids could be removed
they were brought to the sick house - a large,
long building fitted with cots - where they
could be better cared for.
One of my earliest recollections was to
follow mother with my brothers and sisters,
each child carrying a plate filled with food
from the table for the convalescents, and, although
at this day contagious diseases are so
carefully avoided, I can remember going
fearlessly in and out of the cabins, carrying
dainty dishes to many little ones who were
suffering with what they then called putrid
sore throat. It was really diphtheria, and,
strange to say, not one of our family took the
disease, though there were forty cases on the
plantation. They were taken to the pine
land, so that the good air might aid their recovery.
After attending the sick, mother's next
duty was to give out the daily provisions.
She made a pretty picture in her quaint gown
carrying a basket of keys on her arm. The
Bible verse, "She looketh well to the ways
of her household, and eateth not the bread of
idleness," could well have been written of
her. With twenty-five house and garden
servants and the many little children to be
looked after, this daily provisioning took a
great deal of time, and thought.
The house servants had their own kitchen
and cook. The negro children were under
the care of a woman in a building apart, in
fact, it was like a modern day nursery, where
the working mothers could leave their children
in safety. The older children about the
place helped in the care of the little ones.
Mothers with babies were only required to
do light work, such as raking leaves, spinning,
or sewing, that they might be ready
and in condition to nurse their babies.
I can remember going to this nursery with
mother frequently, for she always wanted to
know that the children's food was properly
prepared. They had vegetable soups with
corn meal "dodgers" or dumplings, of
which they were very fond. Sometimes corn
bread in place of these, and as much hominy
and sweet potatoes as they wanted.
Father had hundreds of cattle, cows,
sheep, and hogs. We milked sixty cows on
the plantation, and all the milk which had
been set and skimmed was given to the
negroes who came to the dairy to carry it to
their homes in great tubs, and the little ones
trotted along carrying their "piggins,"
which was the name for their small wooden
buckets. The milk which had turned to
clabber, "bonny crabber" as the Scotch call
it, was considered a most delightful dish in
our hot climate. It is so refreshing when
cold that you often see me eating it now for
tea.
Mother's vegetable gardens were then visited.
These gardens were noted; they were
so unusual in their beautiful arrangement
that all strangers who came to the neighborhood
were brought to see them. The walks
were graveled and rolled, and myriads of
bright flowers formed borders for the beds.
The poultry yards required supervision
and care and were kept in perfect order.
There were many acres, so-called "runs,"
planted in rye and other grains, for the use
of the poultry, where they roved at will with
some one to follow and bring them back to
the yards at night, to be locked up. I often
used to hear mother say "five hundred chickens,
one hundred geese, one hundred turkeys,
and one hundred ducks, were necessary to be
kept on hand for table use."
Another care of hers was to provide clothing
for all the negroes, of whom there were over
five hundred. To accomplish this, seamstresses
were at work all the year round; three
in the house and five or six in the negro
quarters. These made the men's and women's
clothing. All the cutting was done under
mother's supervision; and during the
early part of the war, all the spinning and
weaving of cloth, and even of blankets, was
done on the plantation. At one time I remember
seeing two thousand yards of cloth ready
to make up into clothes. Fifteen years
after the war, on my visit South, I saw the
negro women still wearing some of the
dresses which were woven at that time. The
cloth went by the name of "homespun." I
am giving you a rather minute account, because
cause I want you, my darling, to gain as intimate
a knowledge as possible of that life which has
forever passed away.
I remember seeing my mother come into
the house from her morning rounds, tired,
but cheered with the consciousness that no
duty had been neglected.
You will wonder how she found any time
to give to her children; but we were busy in
school all those hours. We had a schoolhouse
on the plantation where we went after
breakfast with our governess. In those days,
as teachers were not paid well for their services,
it was difficult to find refined and cultured
people to fill the position. Knowing
this, father paid the highest salaries and thus
secured the best talent there was to be had for
us. One of our teachers afterwards opened
a school in Philadelphia, and another held an
important position at Vassar College.
Besides a governess, we also had a music
teacher, so we were expected to devote many
hours to practicing music, and thus we were
employed while mother was busy housekeeping.
The governesses were always astonished at
the wonderful energy and ability shown by my
mother in managing her household. I have heard
them say that if Northern people could only
view a Southern woman's daily life, how
impressed they would be.
As soon as the girls in our family were old
enough they were sent North to school to finish
their education, and the boys were sent to
Northern colleges.
I went for a time to a boarding school near
Columbia, at the early age of twelve, and at
fifteen went North with my sister, your great-aunt
Catherine Robert. Father objected to my
leaving home again, as he
wanted me near him, but mother said education
was all important, and the personal sacrifice
had to be made. In my seventeenth
year, I again went North with three brothers
and a sister, thus making five of us studying
at Princeton and at Philadelphia.
My parents were left alone, and out of
their brood of twelve not one remained in the
home nest, as six elder ones had married, and
one other was dead. Father said he missed
us so terribly that he felt as if he could not
live without one of us with him. I returned,
therefore, and remained with my parents until
I was married. This long residence at home
will account for my knowledge of everything
concerning the dear father and mother, who
were so devoted to their children.
Right here, speaking of my boarding-school
days at Columbia, I must tell you
about my pet deer. It is another digression,
dear child, but I would like you to know
about the pet I thought so much of, and who
so dearly loved me.
Our plantation was, and still is, famed
for game of all kinds, particularly deer. For
many miles there were hunting grounds, now
owned by Northern men, who have learned
how full of game that section of South Carolina
is.
As a child I was especially fond of pets,
and knowing this, my friends often gave me
birds, or animals, to which I was very devoted.
One day there came to me in this way
a young fawn, which had been caught by
negroes. So young was this gentle little
creature that I had to feed it from a bottle. I
spent most of my time with it out of doors,
and it became very much attached to me.
My mother was always very particular about
the complexion of her children, as most
Southern little girls are apt to become much
freckled by the hot sun. So we were all
obliged to wear sunbonnets, and I can see
this little deer now running along beside me,
with the sunbonnet I should have been wearing
tied on its head.
As the fawn grew older it still remained
so gentle that it would go into the house with
me and follow me upstairs and lie down by
the bed. As the autumn approached and
the evenings grew cold, it would come into
the house and lie down before the open fire
just as a dog would do. Our dogs never
disturbed it by day, but we were afraid to trust
them at night, so Willie, for that was my
pet's name, was always locked up in a little
house we had for her. When she was three
months old I went to boarding school, and
was gone nine months. It nearly broke my
heart to leave Willie, but my father, and in
fact, everyone promised to take good care
of her, and let nothing happen to her. Regularly
I heard from her through them until near
the time for my return, when the home
letter ceased to speak of her.
I looked forward to my home-coming with
great delight, and my first question when I
arrived was concerning Willie. It was then I
learned that she had gone to the swamps
and had frequently been seen with other deer.
Occasionally she had revisited her adopted
home, so they told me, coming in and out
past the dogs, not seeming to be at all afraid
of them. My father suggested that I should
go with him into the fields where she had
been most frequently seen feeding with a
number of deer, and see if we could obtain a
glimpse of her.
Mounted on our favorite horses, we started
off and rode through the open country. We
had gone but a couple of miles when my
father pointed in the distance to a group of
his negroes, who were working in a field,
saying that Willie was likely to be found
near them, for he had seen her, at intervals,
feeding with other deer in that vicinity. He
noticed then that she would leave her companions,
and approach the negroes, but would
not allow them to touch her. We stopped
our horses and looked around over the lovely
country. Suddenly my father exclaimed,
"Look, Nannie, look!" pointing toward
the west. Standing before the setting sun,
their graceful forms clearly outlined, were
five or six deer.
We approached cautiously, not wishing to
frighten them. At last I dismounted and as
I ventured nearer, I saw the deer lift up their
startled heads, and heard the faint tinkle of
Willie's bell; for I had placed a heavy leather
strap with a bell around her neck, to protect
her against the hunters, as no one would
knowingly kill a pet deer.
Father cried out to me,"Call her by name,
as you used to do." I called, "Willie, Willie."
At the sound of my voice the beautiful
little creature lifted her head and stood still
and listened, while the other deer fled;
then evidently impelled by recollection, she
bounded toward me. I wish I could picture
the scene to you, Dorothy, and do justice to
it. If anyone has ever seen a deer in full
motion, he could never forget it. She came
bounding toward me over the high furrows,
her feet scarcely touching the ground. I ran
forward to meet her, and threw my arms
around her neck. The joy she manifested
amazed my father. She rubbed her face all
over my face and neck, and tried to show me
in every way her delight in being with me
again. I remained in the field petting her
until nearly dark, when my father urged the
necessity of our returning home. I bade her
farewell for I had no thought that she would
follow me, but after mounting my horse, she
trotted along by my side just as a dog would
do. At the entrance to our place was a high
fence with eleven bars. As my father opened
the gate for me to pass through, he quickly
shut it against Willie, saying he wanted to
see what she would do with such a barrier
between us. Nothing daunted she immediately
bounded over the fence, which was a
remarkable jump for any animal, and followed
us up to the house. When I dismounted
she followed me into the yard, passing fearlessly
among the hunting dogs.
She remained at home with me as long as
my vacation lasted, and became as docile and
gentle as she was before, not making any
effort to return to her wild life. After my
vacation was over and I returned to school,
she went back to the woods and spent the
winter there. In the spring on my return, I
was frequently told by the hunters that
they had seen her with her fawns. She
was known throughout the entire section,
and being belled all could avoid shooting
her.
One day I was driving to church and saw
her on the edge of the deep woods with her
two beautiful fawns. I ordered the driver
to stop quickly, and jumped out of the
carriage, running toward her and calling her
by her name. She stood as if she remembered
my voice, but her fawns fled in terror
and she went bounding after them. That
was the last time I ever saw her for she died
of black tongue. A hunter found her in the
woods, unstrapped her bell and brought it to
me, and I kept it for years, until in the war
it was lost with everything else.
But to return to the plantation life. This
life has been written of by many authors,
and "Southern hospitality" is proverbial, so
you will not be surprised at my description
of our way of living. English people who
visited us said it was like the English country
life. We kept "open house"; everybody
was welcome, and our many horses were at
the disposal of the guest. My father's stables
held thirty horses, many of them work
animals, of course, but among them were fine
saddle horses, always ready for the use of our
friends.
Often our stables were emptied of their
occupants to make room for "company
horses," that is, those brought by our friends
when they came to visit us.
Near our house there was a two-story building
built for the accommodation of gentlemen,
strangers. As there were no inns in our
country, and plantations were miles apart,
some provision had to be made for the
entertainment of travelers, who were never
turned away. We often had delightful house
parties and hunting parties, but our chief
enjoyment was riding through the wild and
beautiful country. We also went on fishing
excursions, and on picnics. We thought
nothing of driving ten miles to dine at a
neighbor's house.
Gentlemen visiting, brought their valets
and dogs for hunting, and young ladies came
with their own maids. It was a delightful
open-hearted, open-handed way of living, my
child, but it was brought to an abrupt end, as
you will hear.
Fortunately my mother had a fine housekeeper
who relieved her of the care of the
culinary department. This housekeeper was
famed as a cook, and her table is still remembered
by everyone who sat around it.
Perhaps it would be interesting just here to
explain how we came to have so competent
a person in the house. During my father's
early married life preparations were made to
build a church in the neighborhood, (Robertville)
called after the family. A contractor
was engaged from the North to build the
church. He brought workmen with him,
and among them was a carpenter belonging
to a better class of Irish than was usually
found in such a trade. He brought his wife
and three children with him, and during the
summer contracted a violent fever. Father
always thought it his duty to visit all the sick
in the neighborhood; therefore, he saw him
frequently, caring for his needs. When the
poor man found that he could not live, he
asked my father to provide for his wife and
children, which my father consented to do.
He kept his promise, and after the husband's
death, took the three little ones home with
their mother, and made them comfortable in
one of the many outbuildings always found
on a Southern plantation. In a few weeks
the mother gave birth to a little girl and died,
leaving the four little orphans in my father's
care. Father wished to adopt them all, but
my mother, with her usual good judgment,
said she was willing to have the care of them,
but would not consent to adopting them, as
she did not think it well to have children of
another nationality brought up as our sisters
and brothers.
Eventually three of these little people were
adopted by those who had no children, and
one remained with us. This little girl, Margian
Kane, was sent to school, but when old
enough to go into higher studies refused
further schooling, to learn the art of housekeeping
from my mother. She died only two
years ago, living to be eighty-four years old.
Our family took care of her until her death.
She was devoted to my father, and always
remembered him with gratitude.
I love to linger over those happy, free-from-care
days when our hospitable door, always
open, brought so many interesting people
among us, but I must push on to graver
matters.
I devoted much of my time to music,
especially to the harp which was my favorite
instrument. Although I had several masters
in music during the years I was at home, I
often went to Charleston to take extra lessons.
While in Charleston I met your grandfather,
Henry William De Saussure, who was a
descendant of the Huguenot family of that
name, and a grandson of Chancellor Henry
William De Saussure.
We were married at home
in 1859. I
have been fortunate in procuring a copy of
the wedding article which appeared in the
Charleston paper, the Mercury, 1859, which
is still on file in the library there. The copy
is as follows:
"On the 4th inst. at Robertville church,
Beaufort District, by the Rev. J. M. Bostick,
Dr. H. W. De Saussure, Jr., to Miss Nannie
W., daughter of B. R. Bostick, Esq.
The Daylight Scene. The
Marriage Ceremony.
"The bright stars
had not all disappeared
on the morning of the 4th inst., when the
sexton of the Robertville church commenced
opening the same. The early hour,
the studied neatness of his dress, and his
hurried manner, all indicated that something
unusual was about to occur. He had not yet
completed his work, when carriages and buggies
in quick succession were rapidly driven
up to the church from various directions.
The sun had just risen in unusual splendor
as if more fully to witness the vows that were
appointed to be taken at his appearing, and
the company scarcely collected, when your
fortunate townsman -- led to the altar Miss
--. By the altar was seated a young man,
who like themselves, had just entered the
threshold of life. His countenance, however,
would induce the belief that he was
accustomed to serious reflection. And one
from his appearance pronounced him a minister.
He rises, his voice falters not, but
betokens a deep and heartfelt emotion, and
how could it be otherwise, for he is joining
in holy wedlock his sister, the playmate of his
childhood hours - the object in later years
of his tender solicitude and prayers. And
really did it seem that he would have given
worlds to insure for that couple the happiness
he so devoutly implored of Heaven.
"But the marriage ceremony is ended,
congratulations of friends over; and again
start out a number of the happy company
with the bride and groom.
"The village is left but a short distance,
when our road gradually descended into a
wood too damp for cultivation, but so fertile
as to grow huge live oak trees, which formed
with their boughs, well-nigh a continuous
arch over us, from which, in most beautiful
clusters almost, but not quite in one's reach,
hung the wild grapes of our forest, and as
the young and merry people would unsuccessfully
snatch at these beautiful bunches as they
rapidly passed, we were reminded of
how swiftly they would pass through life,
and at how many pleasures they would vainly
grasp. The fifth mile is accomplished and
we are on the banks of the Savannah. We
had hardly time to admire the beautiful
stream, when turning to the right, imagine
our surprise at seeing a beautifully spread
table. Curiosity soon carried us to the spot,
and our astonishment was only increased when
we saw the preparations that had been made.
"We soon learned that a lady who had
once graced the society of Washington, and
afterwards by her intelligence and accomplished
manners, had delighted the society of
Columbia, had sent on fishermen and cooks,
and had spread this repast in honor of the
new married couple, which no one would have
dreamed could have been got up at such a
place.
"But the breakfast is over; the dew sparkling
in the grass at our feet; the happy chirp
of the birds as they, too, make their morning
meal on the berries and insects around us,
together with the mocking birds seated in the
tree above our table and seemingly conscious
of their powers, have come to pay their sweet
tribute to the bride, all constrain us to linger.
That sister too, next to the bride in years,
she feels it wrong, but yet she cannot be willing
to relinquish her sister to her newly made
brother. Well does she remember, how on
repeated occasions, that soft voice has comforted
her, and she cannot trust herself to say
adieu. And little Frank has lifted his blue
eyes to his mother as if to inquire, 'Will that
man take away my aunty?' That look has
reached his mother's heart, it is too full to
explain; and she stoops to kiss away the tears
from his cheeks. That brother, he is much her
senior in years, he is no stranger to life's
conflicts, see how his heart trembles when he
says 'God bless you Nannie.'
"But the iron horse tarries on his way for
none, the railroad is to be reached by such an
hour and into the waiting boat step the bride
and groom, the young minister and his
mother. Scarcely had the boat left the shore
when the oft-repeated charge is reiterated by
that venerable mother to her children on
shore, 'My children, take good care of your
father.'
"It has not been with her one short morning
of married life. Forty years ago she
stood at the altar with her husband, and with
him has she shared life's sorrows and joys;
and for him with woman's constancy her
heart still beats truest. But adieu, young and
happy couple. That your boat, as it crosses
the waters of life, may guide you as smoothly
as it now does across the beautiful waters of
the Savannah, is the sincere wish of V....
August 10, 1859."
My husband was a physician and as we
were obliged, on account of his profession, to
live in a central place, my father built us a
lovely home in Robertville, which we occupied
about three months before the war began.
We moved there on December 21, 1860.
Your precious mother was born March 1,
1861.
It was a turbulent time; the feeling ran
high between the North and the South, and
we heard rumors of war, but it seemed too
far away to invade our peaceful country.
When your mother was five weeks old we
took her to Charleston to show her to your
grandfather's parents - an important visit,
as she was the first grand-baby in the family
and they were eager to see her.
It was an all-day journey with a drive of
twenty miles to the railway. We reached
Charleston about eight o'clock in the evening.
My father-in-law met us, and after a warm
greeting to the little stranger and ourselves,
said, "You are just in time to see the fight
at Fort Sumter, for it begins to-night." I
was terrified and begged to be taken home,
but there was no train until morning and,
therefore, we had to remain.
That night I was too frightened to sleep.
Toward morning, about four o'clock, the first
gun was fired, and it seemed to me as if it
were in my room. I sprang up, as I suppose
everyone else did in the city. I hurriedly
dressed myself and went down to cousin
Louis De Saussure's house, which is still
standing on the corner of South and East
Battery.
From its numerous piazzas, which commanded
a fine view of the harbor, we watched
every gun fired from the two forts, Moultrie
and Sumter. The house was crowded with
excited mothers and wives, who had sons and
husbands in the fight, and every hour added
to their distress and excitement, as reports,
which afterwards proved false, were brought
to them of wounded dear ones. It was a day
I can never forget.
That night we returned to Grandfather
De Saussure's and when morning came we
spent another most anxious day following
an anxious night, but when Fort Sumter took
fire and the white flag was raised, our spirits
rose over the Southern victory, to confidence
and hope.
We little realized the long years of struggle
that were to follow ending in defeat, and
ruined homes and country. Later on I was
in Charleston several times when it was under
shot and shell and heard the explosions of
the shells as they shrieked over our houses.
Those were sad and exciting times, the awful
memories of which are still active with me.
After a visit of several weeks, we returned
to our home in Robertville, and my husband
continued his practice, but his restlessness
and anxiety to join the army was so great that
I ceased to dissuade him. Physicians were
needed at home, but he thought the older
men should serve there, and the younger go
to the front. He joined the Charleston Light
Dragoons, and became surgeon of Major
Trenholm's brigade. When this brigade was
was transferred to Virginia, he was, on account
of his health, detailed to look after the
hospitals on the coast.
But before we left our home, the fort
below our country town, Beaufort, was taken,
and the Northern fleet sailed in while the
inhabitants were asleep. This fight at Port
Royal was the second battle of the war.
When the tidings of the invasions of their
town was brought to them, the people, thinking
the town would be shelled, fled in their
carriages, many of them not waiting to dress
themselves, so great was their fright. This
long procession of carriages and wagons
passed through our village about dusk, the
occupants not knowing what to do or where
to go. Every house was thrown open to
them and these first refugees remained in
the neighborhood during the war. They
were taken care of, until in turn we had to
flee before Sherman's army.
When Dr. De Saussure went into service
I returned to my father's home and lived
there until Sherman drove us out. I made
many visits to my husband while he was in
camp. I would load a wagon with provisions,
and take my trusted butler, who was a
good cook and equal to any emergency, and
so we would arrive on the scene of action.
We lived in a cabin of two rooms not
more than twelve by fifteen feet, for whenever
my husband was stationed at any special
hospital he would tell the convalescent patients
that if they would put up a little log
cabin he would send for me. The officers
would have their tents stationed around our
little cabin and we had some pleasant times,
though many anxious ones, for we never
knew when we would be obliged to flee.
Thus I experienced the pleasures and terrors
of camp life. Your great-aunt Agnes, whom
you met at the South as an old lady, was then
a young lady visiting us. She was a beautiful
girl with a voice like a bird. She was
a great favorite with the officers and married
Colonel Colcock, who was acting brigadier
general of the coast. The time for her
wedding was appointed and invitations
sent out for a country wedding. The day
came, and hour after hour we heard heavy
cannonading. We knew a battle was being
fought near us, but could learn no particulars.
Evening came, and the wedding guests assembled,
but no groom arrived. There was great
uneasiness among the guests, and I persuaded
Agnes to change her gown and come
downstairs to see if her presence would not
cheer the party. Although filled with anxiety
herself, she followed my persuasion and behaved
most admirably, but we had the wedding
feast served as soon as possible, and
the guests quickly departed. Everyone was
anxious, and at two o'clock in the morning
we heard the galloping of horses beneath the
windows and a soldier called to us that he
had some dispatches for us.
It proved as we thought; there had been
fighting all day and Colonel Colcock was not
wounded, but would come as soon as possible.
Two days afterwards he appeared in the
morning and brought a minister with him.
He and Agnes were married at once, and he
took his bride away with him; not to the
camp, but to a place where she would be more
comfortable, and he could sometimes see her.
Their bridal trip was spent within fortifications
along the coast.
Those were days of constant excitement
and unrest, as you can well imagine. Husbands
and sons were all away, giving their
lives in defense of their "hearth fires." The
trusted negroes were our only protection and
they took every care of us.
I well remember a scene that occurred about
this time of the war. My youngest brother
was a prisoner near Old Point Comfort,
and finally received his liberty through
the kindness of a fellow Southern soldier.
They had been in prison six months together
suffering all the hardships of prison life during
war. Many times starvation stared them
in the face, and upon some of the prisoners
the death penalty was inflicted when the
men playing together would accidentally slip
over the so-called "death line." My brother
was only about nineteen and the Benjamin
of our family. The soldier with him had
consumption and could live only a short time.
He came to my brother and said he was going
to be released because they knew he would
soon die. He then offered to change clothes
with my brother and take his place and name,
thus letting my brother go free while he remained
in prison.
I heard one day cries of joy and great
excitement among the negroes; hurrying to
the back piazza I saw about fifty darkies,
men and women crowded together bearing
my brother on their shoulders, "Massa
Luther, Massa's youngest boy, God bless
him, God bless him," they shouted.
You can imagine the scene. We hastened
down to join in the jubilation, but father and
mother could scarcely get near their son, as
the servants had taken complete possession
of him.
When they finally made way for the master
and mistress, my parents found that my
brother's condition was such that he could
not come into the house; he was covered with
vermin. He was taken to an outhouse where
he bathed, and his clothing was burned. Then
he told us of his many adventures and his
hard time in prison, where he would indeed
have starved had it not been for kind friends
at the North, who sent him money which
enabled him to buy food, and he told us of
the great sacrifice the Southern soldier had
made for him. My father immediately forwarded
a check for a thousand dollars to the
poor family whose husband and father never
returned to them.
Another war incident in our family was
that connected with a brother's son. At the
early age of fifteen, he ran away to go into
the Southern army. His mother could not
make him return, so she called a young colored
man, who was a devoted servant of the
family, to her and said to him, "John, go
with your young master, and whatever happens
to him, bring him back to me, wounded
or dead, bring him back to me."
This young man's bravery made him
known throughout the regiment. He was
finally wounded, and died in North Carolina
in a hospital, John never leaving him. After
his death, John put him in a pine coffin roughly
knocked together and started home with
him. In the month of August the devoted
servant reached his mistress, having been
two weeks on the way. He would tell his
story and beg for help to take his young
master home, according to his promise to his
mistress.
In spite of many misrepresentations by
those who can never comprehend the tender
attachment existing in those days between
master and slave, I want you to have a clear
idea of it, and I want you to know that
the Southerner understood, and understands
to this day, the negro's character better than
the Northerner, and is in the main kinder to,
and more forbearing with him. There were
countless incidents during the war of love
and loyalty shown by the negroes to their
former owners, which you will read of in the
many stories written now by those who know
the truth.
The year 1864, in the month of December,
found me still in the old homestead.
Sherman had passed on the Georgia side
of the river, to Savannah, which was taken.
We wondered what would be his next move,
but never for an instant thought he would
retrace his steps, and go through South Carolina.
The Southern troops which had guarded
Savannah retreated to our neighborhood, and
we cared for them for several weeks. There
were at least five thousand troops on our
plantation of nine thousand acres. Barbecues
of whole beeves, hogs, and sheep were
ordered for them. The officers were fed in
the house, there being sometimes two hundred
a day. The soldiers had their meals
in camp.
All planters in South Carolina were restricted
by law in planting cotton. Only three
acres were allowed to the negro worker, thus
causing a large amount of corn and other
such grain to be raised, because the Confederate
Government wanted this to provide for
the Southern army.
Thousands of bushels of corn could not
be housed, but were harvested and left in
pens in the fields. Father had ten thousand
bushels of corn on our plantation.
We did not sell cotton during the war. For
money we had no use, as everything was
grown or manufactured on the plantation.
We had a steam mill for sawing lumber, and
mills for grinding corn and wheat. Sugar
was made in quantities for negroes, but there
was no way of refining it.
Everything was bountiful and we lacked
nothing, but coffee and tea. Every known
and unknown substitute was used for these
drinks, but none were satisfactory; otherwise
we never lived with greater abundance.
Our swamps yielded us all game bountifully,
venison, wild turkeys, partridges, and
reed birds. It was a rich country and could
feed an army.
I met and conversed with many of the chief
officers, and consulted them about the
advisability of sending my father, who was then
seventy years of age, away from his home.
The officers urged us to do so, as they feared
the Northern army would invade our State
and township. So very reluctantly father and
mother left their loved home, which they
were destined never to see again. They went
to live with a married daughter, who had a
home in an adjoining county. Some of their
negroes pleaded to go with them, and about
fifty followed with wagons filled with their
effects.
It was a wise provision that father was
spared the sight of the destruction of his
house and property, and possibly personal
violence from the hands of the Northern
soldiers, for during the raid, my uncle, an old
man who was reputed to be wealthy was
asked by the soldiers where he had buried
his gold; and twice was he hung by them and
cut down when unconscious, because he would
not confess its hiding place. My child, he
had no gold, his wealth lay in his land and
negroes.
Shortly after father and mother's departure,
one morning, early, the remaining negroes
came running to the house in a state
of wild excitement, and said that Sherman's
army was crossing the Savannah River at the
next landing below my father's. I was picking
oranges when the news came. Green
oranges, blossoms, and ripe fruit all hung
together on the tree. It was a favorite tree
grown to an unusual size by the care given
it, as it was always protected in winter. I
have only to close my eyes at any time and
see plainly the beautiful tree in all its glory
of fruit and flower. We had picked from
it that day a thousand oranges, the most
luscious fruit, but they were left for Sherman's
army to devour, for we were thrown into
a panic by the news the negroes brought
us, and hastily got into our carriages and fled.
The negroes followed us in wagons, and we
left our lovely home as if we had gone for a
drive.
Our flight has always reminded me of Jacob's
going down into Egypt, a caravan of
people, for as we fled we first took with us
our dear father and mother, then as the panic
spread, one married daughter with all her
children joined us, and then another, until
we finally numbered about forty persons
journeying northward. In order that you
may understand how our numbers increased
so rapidly, I must tell you that father gave
each of his children at marriage a plantation
with negroes and a house. These homes
were in an adjoining county, that of Barnwell,
and as we passed through this county different
members of the family would join us.
On the second day of our journey your
mother was taken with a sore throat and high
fever, and as we had no bed to lay her on
we took turns in holding her in our arms.
Thus we traveled to the upper part of the
State fleeing from the army of invaders at
whose hands we expected no mercy of any
kind.
An old school friend of mine, Georgiana
Dargan, daughter of the Chancellor of South
Carolina, had written me repeatedly during
the war to come to her. She had never married
and lived in a large Southern colonial
mansion situated on a beautiful estate. We,
in our need, thought of her and pushed on,
hoping she could receive us all. We were
not disappointed, the house was thrown
open to us and we received a warm welcome.
It was a strange fate that Sherman followed
us in our flight passing through Columbia
and within ten miles of us. His scouts
came in and stole all our horses, except a
few which we had time to hide in the swamps.
The soldiers ordered many of the negroes,
choosing the best young men, to mount the
horses and go with them. All of them returned
to us that night; they had broken
away from camp, but were on foot. But let
me tell you here, Sherman's army burned
Columbia. He denied it, but we know he
did it for my husband's sister, Mrs. Thomas
Clarkson, who lived there, was ill, and the
soldiers lifted her out of bed and laid her
in the street while the torch was put to her
home. Then, too, only three years ago, the
burning of Columbia was admitted to me by
a Northern general, General Howard. These
were his words: "Sherman did not burn
Columbia, but I am sorry to say his troops
did." They got hold of liquor and so became
mercilessly destructive. Sherman may not
have given the order, but he was undoubtedly
responsible for the plunder and destruction
engaged in by those under his command. The
people of Columbia were left without shelter
or food, "Only women and children to wage
war against," as a venerable judge, Judge
William De Saussure, an uncle of Dr. De
Saussure, told Sherman in pleading for clemency.
We were about fifty miles above Columbia,
and as the army passed us they went on to
Cheraw, a town lying on the northern border
of South Carolina, forty miles above us.
There your great-grandfather De Saussure,
who was an old man, had fled from his
home in Charleston with his five daughters.
In a few days news was brought us that
Cheraw had been burned, and everybody was
starving.
I was naturally eager to go to the assistance
of my husband's people, and I went to
one of my sisters-in-law asking her if she
would be willing to accompany me to Cheraw,
a drive of forty miles. She said she would
go with me. Joe, my butler, to whom I was
very much attached, agreed to drive us. We
borrowed a pair of mules and started in the
early morning with corn meal and bacon and
flour for my husband's people. We had
driven only a few miles when we came to the
road passed over by Sherman only four days
before. Such sights as we beheld along that
road; dead horses, disemboweled cattle, dead
dogs, and as it was in spring they were all
decomposed because of our hot climate. At
every turn of the road we expected to meet
outriders from the Northern army. It was
a day of great fatigue and fear. Our mule
were lazy and would not move out of a walk.
Joe mounted one of them, and strove in vain
to urge them on faster.
The day seemed endless to us, but the
hours wore on, and the sun was just setting
as we crawled up a final hill, when we were
startled by seeing a number of men on horseback
approaching, who we were sure were
soldiers. My heart sank, for I expected our
carriage would be confiscated as well as the
mules, and we left to spend the night unprotected
in the woods.
As the horsemen drew nearer, I saw to my
joy that there was a mixture of blue and gray
uniforms. (he men were evidently of our
army, for Southerners often wore at this
stage of the war any kind of clothing they
could get hold of to cover them.) One of the
officers rode up to us, and to my great
surprise and delight, I found he was Major
Colcock, whom I well knew, as he was a
brother of Colonel Colcock, sister Agnes's
husband.
Our surprise was mutual. He exclaimed,
"Why Mrs. De Saussure, what are you doing
here?" I replied, "Trying to reach Cheraw to
take provisions in to the aid of my husband's
father and sisters."
"To Cheraw," he exclaimed, "a most
difficult journey, madam; the roads are in
a dreadful condition and the little flat boat
that crosses the river is in such demand I
doubt if you can get it."
"I will not turn back, Major Colcock," I
replied. "I must go on." So we parted,
he going his way and I mine.
After two hours of weary travel, we
reached the river and were fortunate in finding
the boat could carry us over the river.
We crossed and reached the town of Cheraw
at ten o'clock at night. A scene of desolation
greeted my eyes the next morning; all the
public buildings had been burned, houses
alone were standing amid desolate surroundings
The De Saussure family and others
had been living on scorched rice and corn,
scraped from the ashes. Officers as well
as soldiers had gone into houses and taken
all food that could be found and burned it
in the yards of the various houses; leaving
the women and children to starve. My beautiful
harp, which after cutting the strings,
I had sent to Cheraw for safety in care of
Mr. De Saussure, had narrowly escaped being
taken by some officers. They asked to
have the box opened for them, but Mr. De
Saussure told them the harp was out of order,
so they passed it by. My harp was safe, but
your great-aunt Agnes was not so fortunate
with her piano. It was a gift from her father
when she left school, and a beautiful Steinway.
When she married Colonel Colcock, he
said to her: "Ship your piano to Charleston;
it will be safer there than in the country."
Colonel Colcock was from Charleston
and had relatives to whom he wrote asking
them to care for the piano, when it arrived.
It reached Charleston just about the time the
city fell into the hands of the enemy. Colonel
Colcock's uncle went down to the station
to get it, when he learned that an officer had
taken it and shipped it off to the North.
Twenty years after the
war, this notice
published in the News and Courier of
Charleston was sent me from different parts
of the South:
To the editor of the
News and Courier:
Will you insert the following in your paper, as
it will be of benefit to one of South Carolina's ladies:
If Miss Nannie Bostick will communicate
with Captain James B. Rife, Middletown,
Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, she will
learn something to her advantage.
I have in my possession a music book which
was captured or stolen by some one during
the war, and I would like to return it to her
if she still lives. By so doing you will greatly
oblige,
Yours very truly, JAS. B. RIFE,
MIDDLETOWN,
DAUPHIN COUNTY, PA.,
On reading it I was of course, much excited
and wrote immediately to the gentleman
in Meadsville, telling him I was the
person he was looking for. I waited three
weeks most anxiously, and then received a
letter from his sister saying that for years
her brother had been trying to find me, and
that he had something to tell me which was
communicated to him by a dying soldier.
The sister further wrote that her brother had
advertised in New York and Southern papers
before, and the cause of his doing so again
was that a young niece visiting them, in looking
over some old books had come across a
music book with my name on it. She went
with it into his room, and said, "Uncle, who
is Miss Nannie W. Bostick?"
He sprang from his chair
exclaiming, "What
do you know about her?"
When he learned that she
knew nothing
and had merely seen my name on the old
music book, he said, "I will try once more
to find her," and sent off the notice to the
News and Courier of Charleston.
As fate would have it the
next day, on his
way to Harrisburg to make arrangements for
a Cleveland procession, his horse took fright
from a trolley car, and in the accident he
was instantly killed.
The music book was returned to me by his
sister, but whatever the secret was that he
had carried so many years, it died with him,
for no one else knew it.
After his death his sister asked me to visit
her. She said my name was so often on her
brother's lips, and she only knew he wanted
to communicate something of importance,
but what it was he had never told her. He
was a prominent man in the army. She sent
me his photograph and the notice of his
death.
You can imagine this incident brought back
many memories. What could have been the
dying soldier's communication that Captain
Rife wished so much to tell me, and which
he never intrusted to any other member of
his family? And where had this very heavy,
old music book, in his possession, been found?
My sisters, when I met them, talked the matter
over with me, and Agnes said: "I remember
putting a lot of books, among them
some of yours, with my piano to pack it tightly."
When it was shipped North the book
was found with the piano, as I have since
ascertained.
We wondered that the music book had
ever come back to me, its rightful owner,
but since I have lived at the North, even
family Bibles, which were taken from the
old homes, have been returned to me.
Looting was the order of the day during
the Civil War, and wanton destruction followed.
I once went South with old Captain
Berry, who for twenty years had charge of
a steamer plying between Charleston and
New York. Your mamma and myself were
the only ladies on board, as the time was in
July when the tide of travel was northward.
The officers of the steamer were exceedingly
kind to us, and told us many interesting stories
of their seafaring lives.
Captain Berry told me of a trip he made
from New Orleans to New York, when General
Ben Butler was there in command. A
division of the army was being transferred
and Captain Berry said that besides soldiers
the vessel was laden with all kinds of handsome
furniture, with pictures, pianos, and
trunks filled with women's clothing, from a
lady's bonnet to slippers. That division of
the army which Captain Berry was bringing
North belonged to one of the generals under
Butler's command.
The vessel was laden, the last soldier had
stepped aboard, when just before the gangplank
was lowered, a jet-black pony was hurried
aboard, a perfect beauty. Then a lady
was seen rapidly riding along the wharf; she
quickly jumped from her horse, and went
inquiring for the general; when he was
pointed out to her she stepped up to him
and said: "General ----, you have taken my
husband's last gift to his little boy, the pony;
I have come to ask you to return him to me."
The general turned a deaf ear to her request,
and as he did so, she drew her whip across
his face with a stinging lash. Had he lifted
his finger to her in return, Captain Berry
said, the soldiers would have shot him dead.
During that trip North in the silence of
the night, the soldiers went down into the
hold of the vessel, opened every box, cut
strings on pianos, ruined pictures and other
things with ashes and water, then nailed up
every box carefully and put it in place again.
This was done by the Northern soldiers on
board who knew of and resented the wrong
done to the people of New Orleans. The
poor little pony never reached his destination,
for he was found dead the next morning; a
mysterious death, but the soldiers knew,
and had had a hand in his taking off. Thus
they avenged the lady to whom their sympathy
had gone out.
Captain Berry was a Northern man, but
his frequent visits to Charleston had thrown
him into intimate relations with the Southern
people and he admired them greatly.
We spent six months, from December,
1864, until June, 1865, at Darlington, our
place of retreat. It was a hard winter; food
was scarce, and little but the coarsest kind
could be bought.
By spring we had grown hopeless, and well
I remember that while walking in the garden
some one called out to me, "The war is over,
Lee has surrendered." My feelings were
tumultuous; joy and sorrow strove with each
other. Joy in the hope of having my husband
band and the brothers and friends who were
left, return to me, but oh, such sorrow over
our defeat!
In the course of time, the men of our family
returned with the exception of your great-uncle
Edward, my brother, who had gone
through the war, but was finally killed in the
last two weeks of fighting around Petersburg,
Va.
As one after another of the family came
back to us, worn out and dispirited, our
thoughts turned to the dear old home on the
Savannah River, and we longed to go back.
Before yielding to our desires, it was considered
wise for the men of the family to go
first and investigate. They found only ashes
and ruin everywhere in our neighborhood,
and father's place, except a few negro cabins,
was burned to the ground. There were
thirty buildings destroyed.
The steam mill, blacksmith's shop, carpenter's
shop, barns, and house - nothing was
left standing except chimney and brick walls
to mark the place of our once prosperous,
happy home. There was but one fence
paling to indicate the site of our little village.
The church, too, was burned, and now negro
cabins are standing where it once graced
the landscape. Our beautiful lawns were
plowed up and planted in potatoes and
corn by the negroes, who were told we would
never return.
Sherman left a track of fire for three hundred
miles through the State. When you
hear the war song "Marching through
Georgia," which stirs the hearts of the
Northerner, think of the scenes of desolation
and heartbreak the song recalls to the Southerner.
When I left my own home in Robertville,
I took the daguerreotypes of my old schoolmates,
Northern girls, of whom I was fond,
and opening the clasps I stood them all in a
row on the mantel, hoping that should some
commander find among them the face of a
relative, he would spare the house for the
sake of friendship. It was a vain hope, for
my lovely house was destroyed with all the
others. However, a soldier, brother of one
of the girls, did find among the pictures the
likeness of his sister and he wrote me after
the war about thus seeing amid the roar of
battle the likeness of his angel sister, for she
was then dead.
You will often hear of the "reconstruction
period," the period when the situation had
to be faced by the beaten Southerner, and
everything had to be managed on a new and
strange basis. That period in my life had
now come, for we all resolved to return home
and do the best we could with what we had
left.
Father had loaned the Confederate Government
fifty horses and mules; twenty-five were
returned to him, good, bad, and indifferent.
We took the journey home by the
aid of these animals, and our carriage was
drawn by one large "raw-boned" horse
helped by a little pony. We camped out at
night, and drove all day. Sometimes we
were able to get shelter for our parents. It
was very rough traveling; the roads were destroyed,
and trees had been cut down blocking
the way. We finally reached the only
house left standing near our former home, at
eleven o'clock at night, after ten days of
travel. This house was far off from all plantations,
situated in a pine forest. It was used
by our family for a summer retreat. It had
large airy rooms; one measuring twenty-five
feet, and one fifty feet. In this house, bereft
of all its furniture, our family gathered. We
found our negroes scattered and completely
demoralized.
Starvation seemed imminent. The men of
our family went to work to cut timber, to be
shipped to Savannah on rafts. In the meantime,
before we could expect any monetary
return from this industry, what else could we
do to better our condition? was the question
we asked one another.
One of my brother's former negroes came
to me and said, "I think you could make
money by baking pies and bread for the colored
Northern troops."
Those soldiers were quartered on my
father's plantation. My dear, war was nothing
compared to the horrors of that reconstruction
period. For six months we never
went to bed without bidding one another
good-by, not expecting to be alive the next
morning. We sold our jewelry, all that was
left, to the soldiers, and they would come to
the house, march around it with bayonets
drawn, and curse us with the vilest oaths.
We would gather the little ones around us,
bar the door, and wait, for we knew not what.
When you are old enough, Dorothy, dear,
read "The Leopard's Spots," which gives
a better description of what we endured, than
I ever can write.
However, we needed money to buy food
with. I, therefore, set to work making
bread, and any number of green-apple pies.
Tom, a negro, built us a clay oven and we
secured a negro's service for the baking; I
got up at four o'clock in the morning, and by
ten o'clock Tom was off with the pony and
wagon, to sell articles for us. We had
enough to live on, but no meat except bacon.
By request of every white person the Government
removed the colored troops six months after
the war, and sent white troops in their place.
Poor grandpa would sit all day with
bowed head and say over and over, "My
poor daughters, my poor daughters." We
tried to appear brave and cheerful and would
say in reply, "Why we can manage; do not
trouble about us." But father's heart was
broken and though he appeared well, he
instinctively felt that his days were numbered
and asked to have our former pastor called.
When the minister came, we and some
neighbors gathered together in a little supply
store that was "thrown up" after the war,
and there we stood, or sat on the counters,
during service. It was a touching scene.
Your mother was a little girl of five years,
and she feeling the sadness of it all, wept
through the whole service. Father gathered
her in his arms and tenderly wiped her tears
away.
As service closed an old church member
and father advanced to shake hands with
each other saying simultaneously: "We shall
drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until
we drink in our Father's Kingdom."
It seemed in the nature of a prediction, for
three days afterwards father passed peacefully
away, without apparent illness.
Mother lived until her eighty-seventh year,
weary, sad years for her. She lived with her
children, but none were able to make her
comfortable. Poverty reigned everywhere,
and still exists in that once luxurious country.
We thanked God that father had not to
endure, for long, the sight of our want and
distress. Before he died, however, we left the
large house in which we first took refuge, and
started housekeeping separately in outhouses
or cabins in the pinelands, which were formerly
used for storerooms, kitchens, laundries, etc.
We fitted up one of these cabins as comfortably
as we could for father's and mother's
use, and in another little house situated
about three and a half miles from them, I
lived a while with your mamma and Dr. De
Saussure. In this little house we had to
endure great hardships for many years, and
led the most desolate lives.
Your precious mother was our only comfort;
she was always happy. She had few
books, no school, and as my husband was an
invalid, he was often too ill to see her, or to
be left alone. She would study her lessons
and sit outside the door of his darkened
room, and when I could leave him she would
recite to me what she had learned.
Another time we lived in a little cabin, part of
which was curtained off for the accommodation
of a sister of Dr. De Saussure's and her baby.
Our kitchen stove was under an open shed
built against the side of the house. Heavy
rain would flow over the dirt floor, and remain
standing several inches deep.
At this time your mother's one delight was
her pony Brownie. She would drive the cows
up from the swamps, and Brownie soon
learned to give them a bite on their backs
when they stopped to graze.
"Jeff Davis" was also a great pet; he was
a young calf we never allowed to leave the
yard for fear the negroes would take him.
Poor Jeff was sacrificed for food, but your
mother's heart was broken for her pet, and
she could not be induced to taste any portion
of the meat.
Before I undertook to make pies and bread
for the colored troops, and when we were
very hard pressed, as I said before, I went
and spent a night with my parents. My
adopted sister, the housekeeper of whom I
told you, called me out of the house and taking
me some distance away so we could not
be heard by them, said: "We have but a pint
of corn meal in the house, and if I cook that
for our supper I have nothing to give father
and mother for breakfast." We cried together,
and wondered what we could do.
One of our negro men from the plantation
approached me and said, "Miss Nancy"
(they called me by that name, and the grandchildren
of our old negroes still use it), "the steamboat
has just landed at the dock, and
there are lots of boxes for you." Amazed, I
exclaimed, "Why, who has sent me anything?"
I looked then upon all Northern
friends as enemies. I had not heard from
any of them in years; the war had separated
us. I told the man to take a cart and hasten
to the dock. He returned laden. Still in
amaze I had the boxes opened, wherein we
found all sorts of provisions: hams, sugar,
tea, coffee, crackers, etc., etc., and better than
all a letter from a gentleman, who wrote
that he had read in the papers of the
great distress of Southern people; he
knew nothing of my condition, but judged of
it by what he read of the pitiful state of
others, and he wished me to draw whatever
amount we needed from his agent in Savannah
to relieve our necessities. To me the
heavens had opened and from them came
these gifts. I saw in this relief when we most
needed help the kind care of our heavenly
Father, who had put into the heart of this
generous man to come to our assistance. We
drew enough money to enable us to buy food
and to begin work on our own place. With
the account of my acquaintance with this gentleman
my story will close.
He was an Englishman, who had settled
with his family in the Bahamas. When I
met him I was in my sixteenth year, and was
on my way to school in Philadelphia. Agnes
and three brothers were with me, one brother
going to Princeton to finish his theological
course, one to Lawrenceville to school, and
the third to Colgate University.
On the steamer was this gentleman, taking
his son to Philadelphia to school. My eldest
brother became acquainted with him, and introduced
him to me. It took much longer in
those days to make the trip, the journey comprising
three and a half to four days.
Agnes and I saw a great deal of the father,
and the son was with my brother most of the
time, so that when we reached Philadelphia,
we felt well acquainted. Mr. Saunders, for
that was the name of our new friend, said to
my brother upon landing: "I shall be in Philadelphia
a fortnight, or until my son becomes
acquainted in the city. If you will allow
me, I will be pleased to take your sisters
driving with us, and show them the places
of interest." Many pleasant drives we had
together, and grew better acquainted each
day.
At the end of his visit he came to bid us
farewell, and said to me: "Miss Nannie, I
have a request to make of you, will you grant
it?" I replied, "If I can, I will gladly."
He had often spoken of his elder son who was
studying at Oxford, England, and he continued:
"In two years my son will graduate,
I want you to promise me that you will wait
until you see him before engaging yourself to
anyone." I laughingly promised him to wait
the two years.
When I was seventeen years old I returned
home. I had been there perhaps three years,
when I went on a brief visit to a friend who
lived about twenty miles away from us. My
visit ended, I returned home, and as I drove
up to the door, my young brother ran out to
meet me and said, "Guess who is here to see
you," and when I failed in guessing he said,
"Mr. Saunders's son."
I then met the young gentleman, a handsome,
fine young man, who brought letters of
introduction from leading men in his own
home, and one from his father, who wrote
that he had not forgotten my promise to him,
but that he had been delayed in fulfilling his
desire in having us meet by his son's failing
to find me.
He had lost the address of my home, and
thinking Charleston the nearest town, his son
was sent there to inquire for us. The next
winter he sent him to Savannah to find me,
and from there the young man was directed
to my father's home.
Mr. Saunders wrote that it had been his
dearest wish to have me for his daughter, and
he had talked so much to his son about me
that he was quite willing to fall in with his
father's wishes in the matter.
In the meantime I had met your grandfather,
and had decided that I would marry
him, or no one. My father was bitterly opposed
to my marrying at all, as he did not
want to part with me, and therefore, I was
waiting until he gave his consent.
We made Mr. Saunders's visit as pleasant
as possible, and I told him at once of my affection
for your grandfather, as I did not
wish to deceive him.
The young man spent some weeks with us,
and upon his return home I received another
letter from his father saying he could not
give up his cherished hope of having me for
a daughter, and as his son had fallen in love
with me, he hoped I would reconsider my decision.
At the same time his son wrote of his
attachment, offering himself to me. But it
was useless to urge me, and though I felt
grateful to be looked upon with so much affection
I declined the offer.
This was the beginning of a very remarkable
friendship which sprang up between the father
and myself.
Upon receipt of the letter expressing myself
as steadfast to Dr. De Saussure, he wrote
in reply asking that he might consider himself
as a father, and to me and your mother, who
always called him grandfather, he was like
a father.
During the latter part of the war, I wrote to
him asking if he would receive cotton
through the blockade and arrange to send us
in return many necessary things. We were
without shoes, and were wearing clothes
made from our gay silk dresses carded up and
spun with cotton, thus woven into cloth by
our own people. We then had an abundance
of food, but other things were not to be
bought. In reply he said: "Do not send
your cotton, you will run a double risk; I will send
you all you need, for I have more than
enough for my family and yours."
Never dreaming we would ever be in a position
where we could not repay Mr. Saunders,
I wrote to him and sent a list of
needed articles, pieces of linen, merino, and
silk, and stockings and shoes for us all. He
sent us two thousand dollars worth of goods
in gold value, thus generously supplying
every child and grandchild in our family with
clothes.
Alas for us, the war ended disastrously,
and forgetting all he had previously done for
me and mine, he now sent money and provisions
to aid us, which help arrived in our
darkest hour.
I am glad to tell you that these debts were
paid, though it took us years to do it.
Until Mr. Saunders's death, we corresponded
regularly, and fifteen years after the
war he came to see me at Vassar College, for
after your grandfather's death, I came North
with your darling mother who was fifteen
years of age, and went first to Philadelphia,
placing her in the same school where I had
been educated, with the same principals still
in charge, the Misses Bonney and Dillaye. I
kept house in Philadelphia in a quiet way in
two rooms, and had been there two years
when I learned that the gentleman whom
your grandfather had left in charge of my affairs
had speculated and lost every cent I had
in the world.
Immediately I tried to find some work by
which I could support your mother and myself,
and through one of my former teachers,
Miss Morse, who was then assistant to Dr.
Raymond of Vassar College, I was offered
the position of assistant principal. There I
remained for five years. While at Vassar
your mother took up a special course at the
College and graduated from the Art Department.
One day my dear old friend Mr. Saunders
was announced. The last time we met, I was
fifteen and he forty-five years old. This
latter meeting took place twenty-five years
later. It was a sad meeting for both of us.
He had lost most of his property, and was
comparatively poor. He took me in his arms
and said; "My child, if I were able to take
care of you and your daughter you would not
be here one minute, for I would take you
home with me and take care of you both."
The last letter I received from him said: "I
am nearly home and when I get there I shall
watch for your coming."
BEAUFORT, S. C., January 8,1906.
MY DEAR AUNT NANNIE:
I fear you have by this
time lost all hope
of hearing from me, but I have not forgotten
my promise. I am afraid, however, you
will be very much disappointed, as I have so
little information to give about family history,
and that little is very scrappy. Our
branch of the family have been criminally
careless about preserving records.
While I have not what we lawyers would
consider strict evidence of the fact, still I am
quite satisfied from circumstances and inferences,
which I shall not undertake in this letter
to detail, that our family and the Northern
family of Bostick were one and the same.
Our American progenitor landed in Plymouth,
Mass., sometime about the middle of
the seventeenth century, coming from Chester
County, England, and being probably
a political refugee. His wife also came
with him from England. In England
the family history was both ancient and distinguished,
the founder landing on English
soil with William the Conqueror, in whose
service he was of distinguished rank, both
military and social. In England he became
one of the barons of the realm. The title
remained for centuries in the family, and may
be still in existence, and has been adorned by
many distinguished representatives in the
English wars especially. The original stock
in Massachusetts seems to have migrated,
mine northward and some gradually drifting
southward. The intermediate links I cannot
supply, but finally these brothers settled, two
in Carolina, the youngest being our great-grandfather
Richard, and one in Georgia. In
Jones's history of Georgia mention is made
of Captain Littlebury Bostick, a wealthy rice
planter near Savannah. He, I think, was the
brother, or son of the brother who settled in
Georgia. Richard was the youngest of the
three. The other brother, John, bought a
large landed estate near Columbia on which
he lived and died quite an old man. During
his life he maintained the style and reputation
of a man of great wealth, but at his death it
was found that his affairs were financially involved.
He never married, but was known
as a cultured man of decidedly literary tastes,
and was a leading figure in the social life of
his section. His most intimate friend was
General Hampton, father of the Confederate
general of same name.
Richard settled in old Blackswamp, where
he married three times, the last two wives being
sisters, both Roberts. The last, first married
Singleton, and at his death our ancestor.
By the last marriage there were no children;
by the second marriage to Miss Robert,
we are descended through your father
Benjamin Robert Bostick; by the first marriage
the other Blackswamp Bosticks are descended.
I have not a copy of the Bostick coat of
arms, but the motto is "Always ready to
serve," bestowed, or adopted, I presume, in
recognition of their martial spirit exhibited
on many great battlefields. The Robert family,
of whom your grandmother was a member,
settled in Sumter. The progenitor, Rev.
Pierre Robert, led a colony of Huguenot
refugees from France. Many other Huguenot
families in the State claim descent on maternal
lines from him. He seems to have been
a man of wealth and ancient lineage. I have
a copy of the French coat of arms.
Your mother, who was a Maner, came of
no less distinguished line. They were of
Welsh descent, and probably more remotely
of Norman French descent, as the progenitor
was Lord de Maner.
Grandma's mother was a May from an old
Dutch family. The original May came to
Charleston, and founded the first large importing
house (tea chiefly) in copartnership
with the famous Dutchman, Admiral Gillon.
I presume you know, of course, that your
great-grandfather, William Maner, and his
brother Samuel were both captains in the famous
Marion Brigade in the Revolution.
Your grandfather was a captain at eighteen
years of age.
I may mention also, that grandma's
mother, who was a May, was on her maternal
side a daughter of an English Colonel Stafford.
The English Staffords are also of ancient
stock, I believe.
I am afraid the foregoing very meager account
of the family connections will give you
very little that you do not know already.
While I have stated the main features of the
family history, as I know them, the statement
is very general. If you desire more of detail
with reference to any individual or any
part of the family history, I may be able to
give you a little more, and will take pleasure
in answering any inquiries on this line. I
have had to write this very hastily.
With love from us all, I remain,
Affectionately,
Return to Menu Page for Old Plantation Days ... by Nancy Bostick De Return to First-Person Narratives of the American South, Beginnings to
1920 Home Page Return to Documenting the American South Home Page
EDWARD LATHROP.
"UNCLE REMUS ON THE NEGRO
Page 24
Page 25
Page 26
Page 27
Page 28
Page 29
Page 30
Page 31
Page 32
Page 33
Page 34
Page 35
Page 36
Your "MORSIE."
Page 37
Page 38
Page 39
Page 40
Page 41
Page 42
Page 43
Page 44
Page 45
Page 46
Page 47
Page 48
Page 49
Page 50
Page 51
Page 52
Page 53
Page 54
Page 55
Page 56
Page 57
For THE MERCURY
THE WEDDING
BREAKFAST
The Surprise. The Parting.
Page 58
Page 59
Page 60
Page 61
Page 62
Page 63
Page 64
Page 65
Page 66
Page 67
Page 68
Page 69
Page 70
Page 71
Page 72
Page 73
Page 74
Page 75
Page 76
Page 77
Page 78
Page 79
Page 80
Page 81
Page 82
Page 83
Page 84
Page 85
Page 86
Page 87
Page 88
Page 89NOTICE
A RELIC OF THE WAR
Miss Nannie Bostick's Music Book in the
Hands of a Federal Soldier.
Late Capt. U. S. A.
January 26, 1889.
Page 90
Page 91
Page 92
Page 93
Page 94
Page 95
Page 96
Page 97
Page 98
Page 99
Page 100
Page 101
Page 102
Page 103
Page 104
Page 105
Page 106
Page 107
Page 108
Page 109
Page 110
Page 111
Page 112
Page 113
Page 114
Page 115
Page 116
Page 117
Page 118ADDENDUM
Page 119
Page 120
Page 121
Page 122
Page 123
A. McIVER BOSTICK.